#a professional and delightful guy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hoshigray · 7 months ago

Note

Are you able to right a gojo fic? He pulls you aside after a meeting to a spicy makeout with you that leads to more than just a make out:,)

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: "more than a make out" indeed, lmao

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Gojo x afab/fem! reader - explicit reader; minors DNI - canon divergence; you're gojo's partner who works in Tokyo jujutsu tech with him - kissing; making out - fingering (f! receiving) - clitoral play (swiping and pinching) - breast sucking - deep impact position - praising - pet names (angel, baby, cutie, princess, sweetie) - cameos: Ijichi and Yaga - Gojo is a touch-starved fool, bless him lol.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.1k

“Y/n~~!”

“…! Oh, Gojo!”

“Ahh, it’s Gojo-sensei!”

Being the strongest sorcerer in the modern world is a hassle, no matter how much Gojo loves to shake it off as if it’s not. Not that he doesn’t mind it — no, no. If anything, he prides himself in it. It fills his ego, knowing that a scarce few could be compatible with his power. He’s a dependable light for the jujutsu world, sorcerers of the nation thankful that he's not on the wrong side.

But alas, being the best has its taxing side, especially taking in tedious missions across the land and attending mandatory meetings with the entire jujutsu faculty body — not to mention being a teacher. The white-haired sorcerer was a busy man — no other way to explain it. However, the worst thing about it all was that there would be times when he’d have less time to spend with a certain someone who had him in the palm of their hands. And if he keeps being away from them, he might – no, will – malfunction.

You were Gojo’s partner, his sweet baby that he cherished more than anything. You were a faculty member of Tokyo Jujutsu High, making things a little easier for the two of you to meet and elope (professionally). Nevertheless, those moments seem to frequent less and less with how many meetings have Gojo backed up this past week. The poor guy can’t even remember the last time he heard your sweet voice (which is a lie since you call every morning and night; he makes sure you do).

Although, today would be different. Once this meeting with the Kyoto officials ended, he made a straight beeline out of the room to find you. And to his cheerful chuckle, he skips in your direction when he sees you conversing with Yuuji in the hallway. The salmon-haired teen greets his teacher with a high-five and a bow from you.

Yuuji hears Megumi call for him from outside, so the boy dismisses himself with a goodbye and wanders off, leaving you and Gojo to yourselves.

“Hello, Y/n~,” the man says your name with a happy tune, his lanky figure swaying to be close to you.

“Good noon, Gojo,” you greet him again with a modest smile as the tall man walks to you. “How was your meeting? Did the officials give you a tough ti—Mmmph!?”Your boyfriend surprises you with a kiss, taking in your perplexed moan with his pillowy lips. One peck comes after another while Gojo’s hands sneak to your waist. You quickly push him away, but his hold keeps you close to his figure. “G–Gojo, what are you doing!?” You express your concern in confusion, covering your lips with a hand.

“Mmm? What do you mean? I’m greeting my princess with a kiss,” the blindfolded man says so matter-of-factly, beaming his delighted demeanor that nearly blinds you. “I miss you!”

“I miss you, too, but you can’t just—“ He tilts his head as you try to explain. You chew your lip with cheeks boosting in warmth, averting your glance away from his charming face that’s inching closer and closer to yours. His eyes are masked by the black cloth around his face; however, you can still sense the intensity of his gaze. “N-Not in public, Gojo...”

He plays the whining card, bringing you in for a tight hug that could restrain your breathing. “Ehhh, but I haven’t seen or touched you in days! See, we’ve been apart for so long that you’re going back to referring to me by my last name!”

“I always call you by your family name when in the school, no??”

“Yeah, but that’s only for when people are around, not just the two of us!” His complaints are genuine, swaying around with you in his arms. You roll your eyes, listening to him yap more. “Come on, Y/n; it’s been such a hectic week for me, missions after missions, meetings after meetings. Any more than this, and I just might combust — especially when I don’t have time to see my angel.”

You hear him make fake crying noises to your shoulder, reminding yourself how much your tall, strong boyfriend can be such a whiny puppy if he’s away from you for too long. But you can’t kid yourself; you missed spending time with him just as much as he did. “I know; I wanna see you more often, too. Don’t you worry, okay? This week is almost over, so keep pushing through like the tough man you are…Hehe, my strong Satoru.”

The snow-haired sorcerer springs up with a childish smile at the use of his name, his dimples present with the shine of his teeth. “If that’s what must happen, can your strong Satoru ask for another kiss to make his hell a little bearable?”

You give him a look at his request, but his anticipation doesn’t falter. With a sigh, you smile and whisper, “Just a kiss, Satoru?”

He chuckles lightly, drawing his mouth close to yours. “Yes, princess.”

His soft lips land on yours. There’s no restraint as you welcome him, your hands coming around to cup his cheeks before breaking the kiss. “One more,” he says before your nose is brushed away from his. You comply and place another gentler peck, and the man sneaks a hand from your waist to the back of your head. You withdraw your lips again, but Gojo utters another “One more…” Your stomach does flips knowing what game he’s trying to play. Another kiss is received, and his leg sneaks in between yours.

You mewl, finding yourself stuck in this predicament. He’s now in control, using this opportunity to deepen the kiss and make it more passionate, sucking your bottom lip and running his tongue for more access. You have no choice but to accept him, whimpering at the tongue intruding into your oral cavity while his leg moves further and further.

Your hands come to his shoulders, gripping his jacket as the Gojo furthers himself into the kiss. The hand behind your head keeps you steady, keeping him focused on your mouth, where he sucks on your tongue in a way that leaves you breathless — like, actually. After he quits the kiss, you two are gasping for air so hard, and your lips are wet because of him.

“Hahhh, ’Toru, stop,” you wipe spit from your mouth. “We can’t be doing this here…”

Your complaint falls on deaf ears, the sorcerer placing chaste kisses on your cheek. “Hmmm, why not?”

“Mmm..Someone, your students, we’d be caught here…”

Gojo smirks; it’ll never stop being adorable how bashful you are around him, particularly when he expresses his undying affection for you in public. But he will respect your wishes, and the idea that pops into his head makes him giggle.

Before you can process anything, Gojo picks you up with your legs held up and a hand on your back. You squeak at the unexpected action, grabbing a hold of his neck to balance yourself. Your mouth opens to express your bewilderment. Yet one moment, you two are in a hallway of the school; then you’re transported to a familiar room with a bed the next — your bedroom.

You blink in perplexity as Gojo throws you on top of your bed, stammering to find the right words. “Satoru, I wish you’d stop teleporting without letting me know! And don’t you have another meeting to get to!? Why are we in my apart—“ You don’t finish that sentence; you stop yourself once Gojo crawled up on the bed to you. Suddenly, you feel too small to utter a word.

“Sorry, baby,” No, he wasn’t. Not with that childish grin posted on his face. He brings his face to yours, placing more smacks on your lips. “But you’re the one who said we shouldn’t be doing this on school grounds. Heh, you act so cute when you’re shy…”

“No, Satoru, we can’t—Mmmm,” silencing you with kisses was such a vile card, knowing you’d be whimpering under him just from him twirling his tongue with yours. “Mmph..Mmah…! You’re scheduled for…another meet—“

“Shhh, don’t worry; I can be late for a few minutes,” another lie. If Gojo’s late to another meeting, Principal Yaga will put the younger man in a chokehold again. “I’ll make this quick, I promise. So, just let me enjoy you…”

Sucking your tongue is all it takes for you to give up on trying to persuade him out of what he’s doing. Gojo takes off and throws his jacket to the bedroom floor to let his black fitted tee breathe, and his hands initiate unbuttoning your blouse. He then slithers it down to the bottom of your long pencil skirt to pull up, greeting your undergarments with his digits. You jerk at the contact of his middle finger that presses on the damp spot of your panties, earning a faint, salacious laugh from Gojo.

“Awww, did my baby get wet just from kissing earlier?” He rubs the underwear further, soaking the spot more with your fluids. Your thighs tremble, “Did you miss me that much?”

“Sato—Oooh!” He sinks his finger deeper into your entrance; the material barrier is so wet from your essence seeping through. “Your finger...Mmm.”

“What is it, cutie?” He whispers to your ear, and you have to bite down on your lip to suppress a moan. “You want my fingers?” You nod sheepishly, amusing the snow-haired man. “Now, Y/n, you know I want to hear you tell me what you want. Use your words, princess.”

You gulp to satiate your dry throat. “Yess, Satoruu, I want your fingers. Please, let me cum on your fingers…”

“That’s my angel,” he praises before straightening himself between your sheer pantyhose-covered legs. After sliding your damp panties off, he brings a leg to his shoulder and finally slides his blindfold off his face, his hair losing its spiky position and falling with gravity. Cerulean eyes catch a glimpse of your wet cunt in his sights, biting his lip. “Made such a pretty mess all for me, huh.”

His hand returns to your now bare chasm, sliding his ring and middle finger between your soaking folds. You hum to the touch, gripping on your blouse to use as reins. After a few seconds, he inserts the middle digit inside, immediately going to work after he pulls a gasp from your surprised body.

Slow motions sneak up on you, scraping your velvet texture with the blunt fingertip. His slender digit pushed and pulled from inside you, making sure you took him to the knuckle. He swirls it around, evoking shaky screams from him, scratching your inner walls so diligently. And your eyebrows furrow once the movement quickens.

“Hooohh, ohhh!” You threw your head back to the pillows. “Ahhnn, faster, go faster…”

“Hmm? You want me to go faster?” He teases with a perched brow. He does as asked, but with a catch; he sneaks his ring finger inside with your slick as lube. You shriek, two fingers now ravaging your insides and pleasing you with faster shifts. “Like this?” Did you even have to answer that; were you gripping the sheets and hips moving on their own not enough?

“Oooo, fuahhh, fuuckk, ‘Toru, nooo, y’re making me…Hoohh!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he kisses your calf before placing his lips on your ankle to lick playfully. “Just let me make you feel all good.”

Fuck did Gojo miss this; it’s been more than a week since he’s had his hands on your body like this. The constant meetings have almost made him forget the warmth and plush of your frame. He needed this, like, BAD. He’s barely containing himself now; the image of your slit taking his fingers so well is bubbling his excitement, and the tent of his pants that shields a boner grows painfully hornier.

You were bound to cum on his fingers in no time, howling with an arched back when he does the ‘come hither’ motion and scrapes your inner walls. They contract around his digits as your legs tremble with the surge of your orgasm. Gojo loves the sight and stirs the fingers to tease your keen nerves more. “Good job, sweetie,” he kisses your ankle again while slowly removing his fingers from you, inserting them inside his mouth to lather his tongue with your juices. He almost caves in just from the taste.

But a sudden buzz in the pocket of his pants alerts him. He brings out his phone ringing with a call and presses the green button before pressing the device to his ear. “Yo, Ijichi.”

“Ah, thank goodness you picked up. Where are you; the meeting starts in a few minutes.”

“Mmm, I’m at Y/n’s,” even if you’re in a tiny daze, your face morphed into an expression of shock at his nonchalant honesty. “I’m only here to grab something real quick, and then I’ll head back to the school.”

“Are you sure…?”

He laughs, “Now, Ijichi, are you calling me a liar?”

That was precisely what he was — a whole liar.

“—Taahh, ahhhn, Sa’oruuuuu! Yer hitting shoo deep in—Saaahh!!”

It’s been a solid fifteen minutes after that call with Ijichi, and Gojo is still in the confines of your bedroom. He was very much late; of course, he was. Why would he not be? He finally has this chance to have you to himself, so he’s indulging it however long he wishes.

Gojo ripped you out of your clothes to meet with his clothing on the floor, leaving you bare and nude for him aside from your pantyhose. You’re lying on your side with one leg up on Gojo’s shoulder while the other is between his, and his cock now pushing to and fro inside your chasm that was filled with his come.

His thrusts were sharp and rough, the curve of his dick jabbing areas in your vagina you never thought would be stimulated. Jesus, his length was dangerous, having you babbling incoherent words to the air and reaching so deep inside that you quaked under him. Your brain is stuck in a haze, especially since this is the second time he’s fucking inside you and made you cum a total of three times!

“Ohhmy, Gohhhd! Sato—Ohhhh…!!” He grasps around your leg to plunge himself further and faster, the work of his pelvis having you see stars.

“Hsshhh, God, you feel so fucking good, baby,” he coos sweetly, juxtaposing with the erratic pace of his hips that move your figure with every rut. Azure orbs take in the display before him; your naked body submitted to him to alleviate his week-long stress and please the both of you. Strands of his silverfish-white hair are drenched from the sweat built on his forehead. “—Hmmgh! Shit…keep clamping onto me like that.”

You chew on your lip, sneaking a hand down on your clitoris to whisk your fingers around it. Oh, it feels so good, playing with yourself as your boyfriend massages your insides. “Mmaaah, s’ good...”

“Hmm, what’s that?” His hips now go slow; the stretch his curve causes when entering inside has your toes curl. “What feels good?” He then snaps his pelvis to startle you.

“—Mmmph!! You! Y’u feel so good, ‘Toruuu..!”

“Heh, you feel amazing yourself, Y/n,” returning to an erratic rhythm, Gojo pumps his cock til the base kisses your squelching folds. His balls smack onto you after every push. He then curves downward for his face to be closer for you to hear him, “Hmmnn, you gonna be good and come again, right?”

You nod cursorily, your eyes shut to enhance the feeling of you rubbing on your bud. “Yesshh, I’m so close, I wanna cum…Want you to fill me u—Uuuhhn!!”

“Jesus, you look so fucking hot,” he grins before bringing his mouth to your nipple, his tongue dancing around the tip to harden. “Let’s cum together, okay, cutie?”

He sucks in your nipple as his thrusts go grim, and severe hits to your cunt result in you wailing far from your control. The tip of his cock picks at your silky walls so euphorically that you hum his name. A hand comes to your chest to keep you steady and synced with him, and he keeps rutting into you even when his body shudders as his load is exerted inside your tight slit. And you’re not far from him either; your orgasm seconds away from his hits you hard, and you quiver in the shocks coursing through your body.

As you two rock slowly through your crescendos, your essence mixes with his seed, and your sweaty bodies heave and pant for the third time this session. Gojo releases your nipple from his mouth after withdrawing his dick from inside, and his jizz seeps out of your frame. “Phew, man, how I needed that.”

You respond despite your brain feeling a bit all over the place. “Are you happy now?”

He laughs while kissing your cheek. “Thank you, princess!”

“You’re welcome, Toru,” you shook your head with a meek smile. “But you really should get going; I don’t want you getting in trouble with—“

KNOCK!! KNOCK!! KNOCK!!

An abrupt sound comes from the front door, confusing the both of you as the knock comes from out of nowhere. Nonetheless, you get up and wipe yourself quickly before putting your clothes back on. Gojo does the same as you walk out of the bedroom to see who’s at your door. And once you open the door, your heart meets your stomach.

“Y/n,” it was Yaga, the principal adorning his usual attire and sunglasses.

“Principal Yaga,” you greeted the older man with a hurried bow. “Wh–What can I do for you—“

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

Your lips flatten at the question, using the silence to speak for itself as you move out of the way for the principal to enter. Yaga apologizes for the intrusion before marching into your apartment and presumably going after the person still in your bedroom, who lets out an exclaimed shout of pain from what you can assume was from a punch to the head from his old teacher.

The former instructor strolls back to the front door where you remained; Gojo is dragged on the floor behind him. “Sorry again for the inconvenience,” Yaga puts his shoes back on before exiting your home. You observe the men leave with a heavy sigh, waving goodbye to your snow-haired sorcerer as he’s pulled across the hall like a toddler.

“See ya, sweetie,” he cries out to you without regard to the neighbors hearing him, putting his blindfold back on. “I miss you already!”

requests/thirsts are open hehe~ 🧸

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mysindividual · 11 days ago

Text

Unknowingly, a yellow hyacinth | Aaron Hotchner

MASTERLIST

requested

pairing: Aaron Hotch x fem liaison reader

summary: When Hotch finds out you’ve been receiving flowers at work, an unexpected twinge of jealousy bubbles up, prompting him to snap at you for the first time. But when he catches you with the charming guy behind those flowers, he can’t help but let his irritation fly, determined to crash the moment and reclaim his territory. Flowers, apologies, and unspoken feelings swirl in the dimly lit office, and as the elevator doors close, one thing is clear: in this office, stakes are high, banter is sharp, and those flowers might be just the beginning of your troubles.

warnings: some angst and a little more of jealousy, hotch fighting his feelings for you, boss x subordinate

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story!

The tension in the atmosphere had thickened to an almost tangible weight in recent days, an oppressive silence that hung over the office like a storm cloud. Everyone sensed it, you felt it strongly enough to avoid the bullpen as much as possible.

It was a simmering fury that bubbled beneath the surface—fury aimed not just at Hotch, but at yourself, too. You had found yourself ensnared in a predicament that felt increasingly inescapable.

Yet alongside this anger, there lingered a peculiar, unsettling sensation gnawing at your insides. Was it simply the sting of disappointment at witnessing your boss’s disapproval for the first time, and for the stupidest reason, or was there something deeper at play?

When Aaron glanced through the blinds of his office window, which framed the bullpen like a living portrait, his eyes instinctively landed on you. His gaze followed as you stepped into the bullpen, focused on navigating the familiar space, your heels echoing softly on the floor. The sleek ponytail of your hair was swaying rhythmically with each confident step as you made your way towards Emily’s table, a bouquet in your hands.

You wore a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into a black leather pencil skirt, Aaron noticed— a combination that was both professional and undeniably striking.

His gaze fell on the delicate collar framing your neck and a rush of admiration mixed with something more primal surged within him, fighting to keep his focus.

Unbeknownst to you, Aaron’s gaze lingered, and an involuntary gulp caught in his throat—unaware of the effect you had on him; a reaction to the undeniable presence you exuded.

When Hotch had entered your office earlier that morning with the expectation of seeing you, he was met with an unexpected sight that sent his mind reeling. Lately, he had noticed the influx of flowers adorning your workspace—each bouquet seemingly more extravagant than the last.

The first bouquet, the third, the seventh… and yet he had remained silent, a spectator to your blossoming attention. However, upon entering your office and discovering that, he needed to take action.

Surprised, although not for the same reason Emily might have been, or you, or any other woman, but because those bouquets of flowers were scattered across every available surface—a riot of colors on your desk, the sofa, the cabinet, the floor. Even the damn floor.

It was a sight that would have delighted anyone else, but for him, it sparked something else entirely.

He stopped in his tracks, his gaze darting around the room, landing on the largest bouquet of roses. A surge of urgency propelled him forward, and he reached out, fingers brushing the delicate petals. But just as quickly, this moral compass deep within him compelled him to retract his hand, leaving the note unread among the blossoms. Why did he do that?

There was restlessness fluttering inside him — his heart quivered, his thoughts stirred, his hand clenched into a fist. All this unconsciously, without his knowledge and even less without his permission.

Frustrated, he exited the office, anger directed inwards rather than towards you. He was so consumed by his own turmoil that he failed to notice Derek humming a casual tune as he passed by. Those stolen glances, late-night conversations, and shared moments in silence—did they mean nothing to you? Why was he acting like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away?

Now, as he watched you out of his window, you just presented Emily with one of the many bouquets, placing it gently on her worktable. The moment was met with surprise; a rosy blush crept across Emily’s cheeks as she leaned down to inhale the fragrance of the blooms, the only touch of color on her otherwise sparse desk. It was a simple gesture, yet it ignited a warm laugh that bubbled from her lips, a testament to the joy that flowers could bring.

Women very simple creatures sometimes. You gave them flowers and their whole day was made. They were more than just a gift; they conveyed a sense of thoughtfulness from the sender — someone showing them they cared.

As Aaron contemplated this, a nagging feeling tightened in his chest, the thought of you receiving those haphazardly arranged bouquets gnawing at him. What did it feel like to be the recipient of such attention? He shut his eyes, frustration mingling with confusion. Without thinking any further, he left his office in a hurry, propelled by emotions he couldn’t quite grasp, desperate to confront the swirling thoughts that haunted him.

Firstly, he called out your name with a brusqueness that cut through the chatter, and then he commanded you into his office with a tone that brooked no argument. The collective shift of gazes from your colleagues was palpable, each person’s curiosity piqued by the sudden tension. Emily, noticing your bewilderment, shrugged her shoulders. Derek let out a playful whistle, adding to the atmosphere of uncertainty. You excused yourself, the weight of unspoken questions heavy in the air as you made your way towards Hotch’s office.

“Yes?” You closed the door behind you, stepping cautiously into the space that felt suddenly charged. He stood behind his chair— indirectly telling you there was no need for you to sit either.

Aaron scrutinized you, his gaze piercing, as if trying to unveil layers hidden beneath your calm facade. The intensity in his eyes sparked an unsettling fire within you. His stern expression left little doubt that you were about to receive a lecture.

When he finally spoke, his voice was unyielding. “This is a workplace.”

You glanced sideways, replying through a hesitant smile. “Yes.” You weren’t sure what this was about. Looking back at him, you confirmed. “I know that.”

You couldn’t remember if Hotch ever called you out on something. There was a reason everyone referred to you as his soft spot, and you were very well aware of that.

“I’ve started to doubt it.“ he replied, his gaze drifting momentarily to his desk, eyebrows knitting together in frustration before snapping back to you. It was clear that this situation was unfamiliar territory for him, too.

“Excuse me?” Your eyes narrowed, challenging his assertion.

“I’m talking about your office.”

“Why? It’s just some flowers, Hotch.” Your defensiveness edged your words, a forced casualness clashing with the discomfort bubbling beneath the surface.

“It’s not just some flowers. It’s a whole flower boutique.”

You huffed, exasperation creeping in. “Why are you acting like this?”

His brows furrowed even further, his head tilting slightly as if he were trying to comprehend your question. “Acting like what?”

“Frustrated. Over some damn flowers.”

“I’m your superior.” He snapped, imbuing the air with an undeniable authority, but even as the words left his mouth, he felt a stab of regret. It hurt you, he could see that, and the realization left him unsettled. Did he truly believe that hierarchy justified his reaction? Or was he simply hiding behind his title to mask his deeper feelings? The very idea made him feel foolish.

Aaron stood still behind his chair, but inside, a storm of conflicting emotions raged. He couldn’t comprehend why he was so worked up over something as trivial as flowers. It was an irrational reaction, and yet, every time he tried to dismiss it, another wave of frustration washed over him.

There was a flicker of something deeper in him—a protective instinct perhaps, or something more complex. He could feel it pulsing under the surface, but he didn’t have the clarity to name it.

You stood there, disappointment washing over your features, and he felt an unexpected pang of guilt. Why did he care so much? As your boss, he was supposed to keep the team aligned. He was supposed to be your boss, an ally, not the one causing this rift between you. Instead, he found himself obsessing over the sight of your office flooded with blooms, the vibrant colors contrasting starkly with the serious nature of their work. He was acutely aware of how the team was watching, how the tension between you both had become the elephant in the room. It was like a charged magnetism, drawing attention and whispers, and he hated that it felt like a distraction from their mission. But the emotion tangled within him, leaving him more confused than ever. It was new territory for him, and he was unsure how to navigate the storm brewing between professional duty and the undeniable connection he felt towards you.

The silence stretched between you, charged with unspoken words and unresolved feelings, the tension in the air thickening with every heartbeat.

A sudden rush of something unnameable surged through you at his dismissiveness. Adding a quick but firm “Sir,” you turned on your heel and left his office, a swirl of emotions churning within you.

Once you were gone, he maintained a calm facade until the door clicked shut behind you. With a heavy sigh, he released the tension that had coiled in his chest.

In the sleek, metal elevator of the FBI office building, you stood beside Nathaniel, a charming colleague, exchanging playful banter as the elevator smoothly ascended. His laughter filled the small space, and you found yourself leaning in closer, sharing a joke that had him chuckling, completely at ease. The way he smiled—that kind expression always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.

Just as the banter reached a peak, the elevator doors dinged and slid open to reveal your boss— Aaron, standing there, hands in his pockets, he was all sharp suits and commanding presence, but now—now his expression a mix of surprise and something deeper.

He cleared his throat, his gaze switching between you and your companion.

“Morning, everyone,” he managed, his voice tight.

The men exchanged wary glances but the shifting emotions in Aaron’s eyes made it hard for you to decipher what he was feeling. You could sense a shift in the air as he stepped inside — it was thick, charged with an unspoken tension that hung between the two of you like a taut wire, ready to snap. You managed to greet him back, but his eyes remained fixed on you and Nathan, an unmistakable frown creeping onto his face. Aaron’s lips pressed together a little tighter.

The elevator continued its journey, but the mood had changed. Hotch stood close to the elevator doors, his back to you, shifting uncomfortably as he sensed the playful energy behind him. As he heard a soft and familiar chuckle escape you, his jaw tightened, and his knuckles whitened inside his pockets. It was apsurd, he knew he had no right to feel possessive over you. Unfortunately, you didn’t belong to him. Yet, he couldn’t shake the deep-rooted urge. He felt immobilised, tormented by the sight that you were looking at another man with such fondness, and not someone else… Not him.

Turning around, he glanced between you and the man, who remained blissfully unaware of the storm brewing within Aaron. “How are you feeling today?” he asked, his tone softer than usual, directed at you but layered with an undercurrent of curiosity.

“I’m good…” you replied, darting your gaze between the two men, unsure of where this was heading. “Why d—”

“I saw you throw all the flowers from your office in the trash yesterday.” His tone was deliberately casual, but you sensed the underlying challenge. He feigned ignorance, yet he knew very well that Nathan was the one who had sent you those flowers. How he found out didn’t matter; what mattered was that he knew you were oblivious to the fact.

Your heart raced, warmth flooding your cheeks as you shifted your gaze between Aaron and Nathan, acutely aware of the latter’s confused expression. This was not the best moment for your boss to bring it up, especially not in front of the sender. “Hotch, you said—” you began, desperate to defend yourself.

“I didn’t say you should throw them away.” He stared into your eyes, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m surprised you wouldn’t want something so nice.” The way he phrased it felt like a direct jab, and you couldn’t shake the feeling he was relishing the moment.

Nathan glanced between you and Aaron, his brows furrowing. “Wait, you didn’t like them?” he asked, genuine concern creeping into his voice.

Aaron’s eyebrows raised expectantly as he studied you, waiting for you to answer. Caught between the two men, you felt the heat of embarrassment rise in your cheeks. Aaron turned to the elevator’s display as the digits changed, muttering, “Alas.” He glanced down at his watch just as the elevator dinged. “Just in time.”

You turned to Nathan, wanting to explain, but Hotch stepped outside, turning around to address you. “I need you.”

You raised your brows, waiting. He added, “In the conference room.”

When you stood frozen in place, his expression hardened, voice leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, murmuring an apology to the other man as you stepped forward. Hotch strode towards the bullpen, a faint smile playing on his lips, and you followed, your thoughts swirling with the unsettling desire to wrap your hands around his neck. To say you wanted to choke him would be an understatement.

After a long day spent wrapping up a challenging case, you returned to the office, welcomed by the familiar hum of the building. The lighting in your workspace was soft and muted, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls, creating a cozy yet intimate atmosphere. As you stepped inside, the air felt still, almost charged with anticipation.

Your gaze landed on your desk, where a stunning potted plant awaited you. Its lush green leaves unfurled like delicate hands reaching for the light, creating a vibrant contrast against the muted backdrop of your office. A smile crept onto your face, and you assumed it was the same sender again, delighting in the thought of his thoughtfulness. The sweet, earthy aroma enveloped you as you leaned closer, savoring the moment.

Nestled beside the pot was a card. You picked it up, turning it over to find a message penned in a well-known handwriting.

I’m sorry.

Your heart raced, and a smile instantly spread across your face.

Just as you admired the plant, a sharp rap echoed through the room. Two knocks. You turned to find Hotch standing at the doorway. The low light accentuated the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight furrow in his brow.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside. He scanned the room, as if searching for the right words that wouldn’t come off wrong or selfish. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day.” His gaze dropped to his hands, fiddling with his phone as shadows flickered across his face. “I was out of line. I may have not handled myself like a Unit Chief should.”

When he met your eyes, the corner of his lips turned down, revealing a hint of vulnerability. The soft glow illuminated the intensity in his dark eyes.

You tilted your head, intrigued by your boss’ almost shy demeanor. Your eyes softened as you offered him a warm smile, genuinely appreciative of his sincerity. “Thank you, Hotch. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded, shifting his gaze to the plant behind your back. “And the gift…it’s from me.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, your playful smile unwavering. “Don’t say?” You turned around to take the pot in your hands.

“I thought you deserved something better. And I promise, it’s just this one plant. I know how you feel about your office turning into a flower shop.” He replied, a hint of humour laced in his tone.

You knew he was talking about the way you had discarded of the flowers — how you put them in a big black trash bag and threw them in the containers behind the building. Just the thought that he might have spied on you, seeing you do it, danced on top of your heart.

Leaning down, you inhaled the fresh scent of the leaves, their vibrant green appearing even more vivid in the dim light. “Well, let’s hope it is just this one plant.” You said, trying to sound serious before looking at Hotch over the top of your plant, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “As much as I might not like it, my boss despise it.”

There was a glint of mirth dancing inside your eyes. “This is not a botanical garden after all, is it?”

Aaron watched you for a moment before his stoic facade cracked. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he glanced down at his hands before meeting your gaze again, trying to return some seriousness to his expression. “Exactly. I can only handle so much floral decor.”

“I mean, yellow hyacinths would definitely clash with your suit, don’t you think?”

Yellow hyacinths— the flowers of jealousy.

Aaron raised an eyebrow, clearly not picking up on your implication. “I suppose so,” he replied, but there was a fleeting shadow across his expression that hinted at something deeper.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The world outside your office faded away, leaving just the two of you locked in this shared moment. You could see the warmth in his expression, the way his eyes held a depth of feeling that hinted at unspoken emotions illuminated by the dim glow of the lamp beside you. Your heart raced, an undeniable connection sparking between you.

You glanced at the plant again, blushing, feeling a warmth spread through you. “Thank you, Hotch. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” He gave a nod as he met your gaze, a small smile appearing at his lips. He never knew how you managed to make him smile with just a comment, just one look. “I’m glad you like them.”

There was softness in his gaze, a flicker of vulnerability that caught you off guard.

“Good night,” he finally said, breaking the silence that crackled with electricity between you. He turned to leave before you could respond.

“Good night,” you whispered, stepping into the hallway after him, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him go. You relished his figure, the way he moved, the confidence in his stride.

When he disappeared behind the glass doors, you sighed, your gaze falling down to the plant in your hands.

The flowers, though beautiful, were ephemeral; a fleeting moment of beauty that left only memories in their wake. This plant—it felt like a promise, a symbol of something lasting in a world filled with fleeting moments. You would care for it, would cherish it, regardless of what anyone said. You would treasure it.

The corner of your lips turned upwards.

It only confirmed what you already knew.

No man could ever compare to Aaron Hotch.

#aaron hotch #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #unknowingly series #a yellow hyacinth is a flower that represents jealousy #so there it is #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds

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luveline · 1 year ago

Note

how about spencer x badass reader and they are wearing couple or similar clothes intentionally or unintentionally?? I think that would be cutee

tysm for requesting ♡ fem!reader

"Are you kidding me?" Derek asks, sounding like a kid in a candy store, a crisp twenty in his back pocket.

Emily follows his line of sight and feels her cheeks apple unbidden, a delighted smile on her painted lips. "Oh, my god."

"Yeah, Garcia?" Derek asks, phone to his ear, Penelope first on his speed dial. "You need to come and see this. Like, right now. Don't worry, baby, just come and see it for yourself."

"I don't even know what to say." Emily stares at you.

You usually dress in line with the other women in this profession: pants that aren't too tight so you can run in if needed, a simple blouse, and a blazer if you're feeling formal.

Today, you've opted for something softer. It was a slow change, one day you were wearing a cashmere sweater, thin and fitted to your form. Another day, you chose to layer your shirt with a cardigan of a similar colour.

Right now? You're all Spencer. Your slacks remain unchanged but your blouse has been swapped for a shirt with a stiff starched collar and layered under what can only be described as a grandpa sweater. It's not quite ugly, but it's almost identical to Spencer's.

What's more, you've swapped your boots for converse.

Spencer holds the door for you. He's chosen to wear a tie at least, clinging to that last strand of professional business attire. He has two coffees, one in each hand, while you carry a box. He's all elbows as he talks to you, and you, ever his fan, follow every word with a fond smile.

"Hey, are you guys sharing a wardrobe now?" Derek asks, absolutely unwilling to hold back.

Emily piles on, "It's cute! You're totally an old married couple, you look like my grandparents."

"What happened to your boots, lovergirl?" Derek asks, nodding at your cons, arms crossed over the back of his chair casually. "Don't get me wrong, I'm loving the sneakers."

"You guys totally match," Emily coos. "You could be on a Christmas card."

You smile —you smile, Emily might just call the news— and walk past them to your desk. Hotch has moved you away from Spencer knowing you'll encourage his endless chattering, which places you on a different island of desks next to Anderson and Agent Camille.

Spencer put his coffee down on his desk, taking off his messenger bag. "Nice going, guys. She brought you donuts. You know, to apologise for calling you both antagonistic losers yesterday," he says, smiling at the mutual horror that crops up on their faces. "The fancy kind, too. She knew your favourite flavours without asking."

From her desk, Emily can see you've opened the box and offered them to your desk mates, your expression unperturbed. "Just don't touch the chocolate sprinkle ones, they're for Spencer," you say.

No matter what they say, how sorry they sound, you give out the donuts to anyone who'll take one until they're all gone. When Garcia arrives, she finds you sitting in your desk chair with your head leaning against Spencer's stomach, taking alternate bites of the same sprinkle-covered donut like it isn't the most domestic, coupley thing you could be doing.

Unlike Emily and Derek, Penelope genuinely thinks you look cute. "You guys are like Brangelina," she breathes, eyes wide, her smile infectious.

Spencer fails to hide a grin, his hand on your shoulder. You're better at controlling your emotion, sliding a small parcelled package across the desk toward her.

"Thank you, Pen," you say. "I like the shoes. They're comfy. And the sweater was a gift." Spencer nods enthusiastically.

That explains why you'd taken such an offence. Anything to do with Spencer raises your hackles. If you felt someone was making fun of his present to you, you'd defend him with your last dying breath, or, in this instance, punish your coworkers in his honour.

"I'm sorry," Derek apologises again, "I was kidding! What do you want me to do, you want me to wear a sweater vest too? I can do that."

You reach back to touch Spencer's side, levelling Derek with an impartial look. Not mad, not sad. Totally indifferent. "That could be a good start."

Spencer hums. "I think so. You wanna borrow one of mine?"

The barest hint of a smile plays on your lips. "That's generous, Spence. You're a philanthropist."

"I am." He strokes the slope of your sweater-clad shoulder proudly. "You know me, I love sharing my wardrobe."

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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jelliedink · 1 year ago

Text

DILF!Boss Headcannons

Warnings: manipulative behaviour, huge age gap. If you squint, you'll see this is slightly suggestive, but nothing explicit happens here. Author's note: hi my loves! If you guys don't know @sweet-as-an-angel do yourself a favor and check them out. Their Yandere!DILF series has built a 3-store mansion in my head and is living there rent free, so I just HAD to create another manipulative hot older man to call mine. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Take care!

Dividers by @cafekitsune.

Brain melting thinking about an older boss that realizes you find him attractive the moment you start working for him. He's sure he's got at least 20 years on you, but he can't help but feel flattered.

A boss that finds it delightful to toy with you a little bit: getting his face way too close to yours when he's reviewing your work, a hand gently rubbing your shoulders when giving you feedback. He tells himself that it's just "harmless fun", you're so cute trying to hide how flustered you are!

A boss that watches with curiosity how you grow on him more each day seeing how hard you work and how eager you are to learn everything he teaches you.

A boss who acts as a mentor professionally and insists you can confide in him with your life problems too. He's already lived everything you're going through now, and he just wants to see you thrive.

A boss that starts to invite you to a lot of work related events once summer break starts. His ex-wife is travelling with the kids and the house just feels so lonely without them.

A boss that, upon the discovery that you're single, is sure that the gods gifted you for him to turn into his perfect little doll.

A boss that likes to give you little gifts "for your hard work" every now and then, and they get increasingly more expensive.

A boss who's so subtle when blurring the lines between professional and personal relationships that the word "date" doesn't even cross your mind when he starts to invite you to non work related events.

"Have you seen this artist is coming to town with their new exposition?" "The weather is nice today, how about we visit the japanese garden to freshen up after spending the whole week inside the office?"

A boss who never corrects anyone who refers to you as a couple during your outings, and instead laughs it off, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and giving you a playful wink every time this happens. He even turns it into a internal joke, and soon you get used to hear him calling you his darling, his dear, his precious.

A boss that makes sure to have you yearning for him before making his move. Sometimes he kisses your hands when you're out together, always saying how lucky he is to have such a beautiful company, his lips gently running along your fingers. Other times he caresses your face when you go to him for advice. His hugs are tight, so his scent will linger on your clothes. He might even kiss the top of your head every now and then.

A boss who loves to see you getting used to having him always present in your life, getting flustered when he touches you in ways that are intimate just enough to keep you guessing.

A boss that thinks you're so beautiful and so hard working that he'll take how much time he needs to mould you into a perfect wife and a perfect mother for his children. He'll guarantee that your life will be so enmeshed with his that you'll never be able to leave him, even if you want to. This time he'll create a family so perfect that nothing will tear it apart.

A boss who knows he doesn't need to rush things because he's sure you'll be his in the end. You're so young, so malleable, and he's been playing this game for so much longer than you. He knows just what he needs to do to wrap you around his fingers.

#yandere headcanons #yandere x reader #boss x employee #boss x reader #dilf x reader #oc x reader

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hanasnx · 6 months ago

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" DON'T BURY THOUGHTS THAT YOU REALLY WANT " — katsuki bakugou.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established coworker relationship ノ sexual and suggestive content: dirty talk ノ degradation: m+f receiving ノ body shame joke.

You’ve known pro-hero DYNAMIGHT for years now, and he just started paying attention to you in ways you notice. Admiring him from afar was easy, but closing in was another matter entirely; working alongside one another got you in the same proximity, and he was forced to acknowledge you. He treated you like any other person he meets, and after studying him, you figured out an in.

Instead of a simple, “I’ll kick your ass!” from him when you’ve pissed him off, you’ve devised your own special language with him. Miraculously, he doesn’t seem to give you the impression you’ve gotten the best of him. Instead, you’re rewarded with hateful but sexual confessions. Now when you piss him off, his and your special brand of understanding and humor have turned a violent warning into a disgusting promise. “I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you.” he tells you.

If anyone was listening in, they’d think you and him have entered some romantic relationship, completely inappropriate to your professional standings. On the contrary, you’ve trained him to speak to you in a way that pleases you without him even knowing. Now your banter with him consists of angry flirting, and he still believes he’s making threats. Out on the battlefield he shamefully critiques your poor choices with something along the lines of, “Was gonna fuck your brains out tonight, but it looks like my job’s already done!”

You wear it proudly. You’ve managed to get the great Katsuki Bakugou to do what you want him to. After a long, arduous process groomed by your consistent schedule with him, spending time together observing him as you work alongside one another, you’ve done it. In place of him calling you a simple idiot, he tells you you’re lucky you’re hot.

A “fight” with him, looks like a horny situationship from the outside, publicly debuting your desire for one another like PDA-obsessed freaks. You delight in it, while he remains oblivious. At least you thought he was. More and more, he leans into this little share of humor you two have going on, wit that leads you into suspicion.

“You look like shit. Maybe if you slept over at my place, I would’ve tired you out enough to get you to bed at a decent time.” Bakugou notes, passing you as if he’d relayed the weather. Brows furrowed, you pivot your head to watch the back of his while he strides on. It’s unusual that he’d phrase it that way, regarding it as opportunistic rather than domineering. You shrug it off under the basis he’s just evolving the jokes, he’s not extending an offer.

The next day isn’t so different, sitting across from him at the table in a meeting you’re both early for. His body language is lax as always, an elbow hooked behind a corner of the chair, his glove at his belt, legs spread far. Taking up as much space as possible, whereas your hands are clasped neatly on the surface in front of you. You can tell he’s reading you, those crimson eyes unapologetically scrutinizing your erect posture and a cruel grin stretches one side of his mouth. Sighing impatiently through your nose, you call him out on being a creep. “What? What’re you lookin’ at, Bakugou? You want me or something?” you call upon that unique sense of sexual humor, hoping to trip him up.

No such luck. He snickers, and leans back in his chair to cross his thick arms across his wide chest. A pose that leaves you gulping, and he visibly notices how your eyes wander for a milisecond. “Whatever guy you’re fucking is doing a shit job because you’re still a bitch with a stick up your ass.” Has he been cooking that up this whole time? He looks mighty pleased with himself.

“Don’t be a pig, Dynamight. Who I’m sleeping with is none of your concern.” you retort, and you’re not beating the bitchy allegations. You stick your nose in the air in spite of yourself, and out of the corner of your eye you can see him teetering on the back legs of his chair. So you peer at him a little more deliberately while you’re faced away. “Unless you want a piece, that is.” A much more subtle flirt, gauging his reaction to such a timid offer.

Meanly, he scoffs. “‘A piece?’” he parrots. “What, a piece? Of that little thing? The fuck am I supposed to do with that, huh? Ass like that you’ll have to work for it.”

“Bakugou!” Somehow, he went a little too far that time. A pang of hurt is uncharacteristic to experience, and yet it twists your heart. You mask it, trying to match his energy in a way you can manage. “Are you just gonna comment on my body or are you gonna do something with it?”

“Oh, I’m gonna do som’thin’ with it, alright. I’m gonna do som’thin’.” A greedy expression shifts his features, eyeing you up like you’re a meal, a prey. Maybe he's catching on to you... And before he can explain and you can rebuke, other heroes enter the meeting room, and all four legs of his chair land with a slam.

@HANASNX 2024 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

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feeder86 · 7 months ago

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The 1%

It had been such a thrill, finding that the scouts had picked him; those same experts who had signed up the likes of Harley Hawkinson and Carl Williams. Did they really see the same potential in Nicko as they had done in those superstar football players? It all felt so surreal as he got off the plane to Oklahoma and entered the training facility.

Nicko knew it wouldn’t be easy to prove himself. He looked around the large sports hall, filled with over one hundred large, athletic college guys, all hoping for the same dream of a professional sports contract: to play the game that they loved and get paid handsomely for it.

“As you all know, the modern game of football is dominated by guys who are more muscular than we have ever seen before,” an older guy explained to them from the staging area during this first welcome meeting. “In the last three years, we have seen the average weight of a professional football player increase by 30lbs. And that number looks set to continue to increase.”

Looking around at the other guys, Nicko couldn’t help but understand why he was saying this. Sure, the guys around him were full of talent. How else would they have got here otherwise? But put them on a field with the professionals out there these days, and they would get trampled down in seconds. They all knew it. None of them had the muscle and the bulk that was needed to survive in a big league game.

“Our training scheme and medical support can give you that last hope of achieving your dreams,” the man on stage went on; selling the scheme which each of them had already signed up for. They all knew this was their only real shot at success. These days, no professional football player got anywhere without the experimental drugs offered in places like this; not that anyone would ever admit it outside of these walls. “So, my advice to you is, train hard and work with us… Now I’m going to hand you over to someone you will all be very familiar with. We’re so proud of him and delighted that he has given up his time to be with us today. Boys, please may I introduce you to… the one and only… Carl Williams!” he beamed, as the large room of excited college athletes roared into life.

An enormous, hulking mass of man began strutting from the door and onto the stage. He lifted his arm up, accepting all the applause and smiling from ear to ear. Every muscle on his body was pumped and full. Even his forearms looked incredibly developed. Nicko could hardly believe his eyes! His biggest celebrity crush, right here in the same room with him! Carl was known for playing rough and dirty on the field and, in Nicko’s wildest fantasies, he was much the same in the bedroom. Not to mention the fact that, in terms of celebrity bulges, Carl was off the charts. Every gay site he visited had picked up on the fact Carl was packing something absolutely enormous between those giant thighs.

The man didn’t speak to them for long, but soon had everyone up on their feet, chanting his name. He stuck around too, and was there that evening as they sat down to their first meal together.

“They say he has some sort of sixth sense about which guys will go on to do well here,” Nicko’s new friend, Steve, whispered to him; both of them looking with jealousy at the six young guys who had been invited to sit on Carl’s table.

Nicko shook his head sceptically. “Nah, they’re just the loud ones who know how to sell themselves,” he scoffed, having met a couple of them and deciding that they were not the type of guys he would want to hang around with here; so pumped full of arrogance and self-importance. “We’ve just got to train hard, that’s all.”

Steve exhaled and raised his eyebrows. “I wish that was true,” he mumbled. “But we both know the only thing that sets this training academy apart from the rest is the drugs they use. You can train as hard as you like, but if the drugs disagree with you, that’s the end of the line. Career over.”

Nicko rubbed the spot where he’d had his first injection earlier that day; straight into the muscle at the top of his right butt cheek. ‘Please work!’ he thought silently. There was nothing more he wanted in life than to be up on that top table with Carl Williams.

During the first three weeks, some guys started to stand out remarkably well. Shoulders began to widen, whilst larger glutes and thighs made the training sessions more intense and physical than ever before. Nicko could see the changes in his roommate, Steve, each time he came out of the shower: his biceps bulging and his pecs pumped.

As for Nicko, he had seen only minor changes in his muscle mass, and he was yet to make any impression on the trainers. But as certain guys began to bulk faster, hit harder and dominate on the field, it became more and more of a challenge to stand out, or even stay on your feet.

Egos were beginning to run riot at the camp. Those guys who had quickly responded to the treatments began to strut about with more confidence and ownership of the place than any of them had expected. The larger guys hung out with each other more, sitting together at meal times and excluding those they obviously found inferior.

“Don’t worry,” Steve whispered to him as it was obvious that everything was getting to Nicko. “You’ll respond more to the drugs soon. You’ve just got to focus on the training. That’s the important part.”

Nicko nodded, knowing that Steve didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. In two weeks, they were making their first eliminations, and Steve knew he was heading straight home.

During the assessment, Steve very quickly got a sense of how badly it was going. He was weighed, prodded and poked to within an inch of his life; seeing the same grim faces on the medical professionals all around him. In the end, he was simply sent to a small room and told to wait there for someone to come and speak to him. The afternoon training session was to begin in thirty minutes, but no-one was in a rush to ensure he would make it. The reason for that was obvious: he wasn’t coming back.

It was no shock to Nicko that he was in this position. The last week in particular had been especially hard. He’d been thrown around by the larger guys in training, beginning to understand how the nerds must have felt back in high school. At twenty-one years old, Nicko was in a place that was little better than a kindergarten playground.

Without warning, and making Nicko jump with surprise, the door suddenly opened and an enormous muscular man entered. It took a couple of seconds for Nicko to focus and recognise the person who was now filling the tiny room they were in, but when he did, he shot to his feet and held his arm out, desperate to shake the guy’s hand. “Carl Williams!” he blasted. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Carl looked across at him with a smirk; his eyes travelling up and down Nicko’s body as he reached out his hand for him to shake. “So you’re Nicko, huh?” he asked, as if trying to hold back a laugh.

Nicko nodded, hardly believing that this meeting was even happening. Carl was even more insanely huge and attractive up close like this.

“Sit down, Nicko,” Carl ordered, grabbing a chair himself. “I need to break something to you.”

“I’m being kicked out, aren’t I?” Nicko shot back, not wanting to draw this out and ruin his one-on-one time with his biggest celebrity crush.

“Oh, of course you are,” Carl chuckled, seeming surprised that Nicko had only just figured it out. “But one of the boys told me you had a bit of a crush on me, so I thought I would come in here to soften the blow.”

Carl gazed at Nicko with a sly grin on his face. He knew that he had embarrassed him and he was enjoying the period of time when Nicko was squirming and desperately thinking of how to respond.

“Um, so… how come I’m going home?” he asked, trying to fill the cringing silence.

“Because you’ve not responded to the drugs the same as everyone else,” Carl shot back, looking at him as though he was stupid for not being able to see that for himself.

“But there are a few guys who aren’t packing on muscle all that fast either,” Nicko protested.

“Oh, you’re right about that,” Carl nodded. “But you’ve not gained any muscle mass at all,” he stated harshly. “In fact, you’re part of the less than 1% who actually lose muscle mass on this treatment.”

“That’s not true,” Nicko protested. “I have gained weight since I’ve been here.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Carl laughed. “You’ve only gained fat since you started.” He pointed at the slight paunch that always popped out whenever Nicko was on a bulking diet. “All the guys can see that. I hear they’ve been giving you a rough time this week? The medical team spotted a nice collection of bruises on your body this morning.”

“Not too bad,” Nicko lied, not wanting to look pathetic in front of his idol.

Carl simply laughed as if he knew differently. “Sure, sure,” he nodded patronisingly. “Those guys are just learning; being on a football team is like being part of a pack of wolves. So when you see a little piggy on the field with you, you’ve got to go for them.”

Nicko’s eyes bulged at Carl’s rudeness. But the professional athlete simply smiled at him, as if daring him to call him out on his comments. Then, when Nicko kept quiet, the big man nodded in approval.

“I like you,” Carl grinned wickedly. “You’ve got the right attitude and you don’t live too far from where I play, do you?” he asked, having clearly studied Nicko’s notes before coming in. “I’d love to grab a few beers with you sometime in the coming months.”

Nicko nodded his head frantically.

“Good,” Carl smiled, reaching his large hand out to stroke Nicko’s thigh. “Play your cards right and I might even let you suck me off,” he teased, before standing and heading straight out of the room.

Despite the daring, unbelievably hot fantasy Carl had dangled in front of Nicko’s nose: home still beckoned. He had lost. The dream of sporting success and insane riches was now over.

With a mediocre college degree, Nicko settled into an equally mediocre office job, close to home so that he could move back in with his parents. He’d suffered from a great sense of failure after the training scheme had gone so badly. No one wanted to be the first one sent home; he hadn’t even had a chance to say even a quick goodbye to his friends. He’d got himself into quite the slump, finding that no matter what he did, he simply couldn’t shake off the little arching paunch he had developed in Oklahoma. In fact, despite all his careful eating and gym work, it actually seemed to be increasing in size more than anything.

The same could be said for the rest of his body, with Nicko’s underwear pinching uncomfortably as his tight glutes began to pack on some extra, softening mass. Was he really developing love handles at this age, even after all this exercise? It just didn’t seem physically possible. His date, the weekend before, had even called him out on his extra pounds. Perhaps he had even been right to do so; his profile pictures really were a little out of date these days. It meant that when he got the call from someone on Carl Williams’ staff, trying to set up a date for their beers, Nicko went immediately into panic mode. There was nothing in his closet that was suitable for drinks with a football superstar; at least, nothing that fitted!

“Well, well, well…” Carl smirked as Nicko entered the very private VIP room at the back of the noisy, exclusive club in the city. The enormous 335lb football player looked sexier than ever, all dressed up as he was for a night out. “Let me get a look at you,” he demanded, ruthlessly kicking away the table in front of him with his feet and making space for Nicko.

Having travelled for an hour to get here and arguing with the security outside for twenty minutes that he was a guest of Carl’s, Nicko wanted nothing more than to just sit and have a drink. However, when Carl clicked his fingers and pointed again to where he was being summoned, Nicko only did as he was told.

Immediately, Carl reached forwards, slapping one hand on Nicko’s larger butt and the other on the furthest extent that his paunch was now sticking out. He smiled, bouncing both lightly and seeming to appreciate the new width across the middle of Nicko’s body. “Look at you!” he growled with disgust. “You wouldn't last two minutes on the football field now. My boys would rip you to pieces!”

“I’m trying this new diet…” Nicko began explaining, not knowing what else to say.

Carl winced and shook his head impatiently. “Shh! I don’t want to hear about shit like that.” He leaned right back, then tapped his outstretched thigh, silently telling Nicko to sit on it.

Again, Nicko did as he was old, unable to comprehend that he was getting so close to his football idol. He heard Carl growl in appreciation as Nicko’s torso slipped so easily into his reach. Then, without a word, he began unbuttoning Nicko’s shirt from the very top.

“Wait!” Nicko jumped. “Don’t people come in here?”

“Yes,” Carl replied, unperturbed as he reached the fourth button down.

“What if someone comes in and sees me like this?”

“Then they will see…” Carl smiled, finally reaching the end of the buttons and now splaying the shirt material to the sides, “...THIS!”

Nicko tensed as his fleshy torso was revealed to the one person he had been carefully dressing to conceal it from.

“Fuck!” Carl blasted. “Even the tits are coming in!” he laughed loudly, reaching up and bouncing one of Nicko’s nipples.

Nicko got up, feeling embarrassed. He felt Carl’s strong hand clasp the back of his pants and pull him back over his knee so that Nicko actually fell into the space on the couch beside the football superstar. From there, the enormous man seemed to envelope him, his arm over his body and his face so deliciously close.

“Don’t be shy,” Carl whispered teasingly. “This happens to all the boys at the training camp eventually. Well…” he grinned, raising his arm to show off his incredible bicep, “...almost all.”

“Weight gain?” Nicko asked, feeling his stomach rolling over his belt as he sat, half on his back, with the enormous athlete looming over him.

Carl nodded. “A fat belly, jiggly tits, a giant, doughy butt… you know how it goes,” he laughed; his lips devastatingly near. “But the one percent, well, that boy is always very special.”

Niko nodded, remembering Carl referring to the muscle stimulant medication having an opposite outcome for one percent of the people who used it. Which, in Nicko’s group, had been him. “I’m special?” he asked, aroused by all this attention he was getting.

“Very much so,” Carl grinned, rubbing Nicko’s cheek with an outstretched finger. “The one percent packs on fat faster than anyone else. In less than a year, he can go from a chiselled athlete to a full grown superchub!”

“That can’t be true,” Nicko replied. “They’d never allow something like that.”

“And yet…” Carl laughed, grabbing the roll of fat hanging over Nicko’s belt: his point made. “You really have no concept of how much money there is to be made in football, do you? How vital things like this are for the economy? Fatties like you are just… collateral damage… a necessary evil on the way to creating superstars like me.”

“How do I stop this?” Niko asked, watching the athlete getting up and unbuckling his pants.

“Sucking on this should help,” Carl lied, pulling his monstrously large erection out and slapping it into the palm of his hand. It was even bigger than Nicko had ever imagined, gazing at pictures and videos of the guy’s bulge over the years

Overcome with lust, Nicko slipped his mouth over as much of it as he could, just as he was directed. Everything that had happened since entering this room had been like a dream. Whatever weird things were happening in his life right now, here he was, pleasuring a football champion!

“Oh, yeah! That’s good!” Carl moaned. “Yes! Work that tongue, One Percent! Take as much of me in as you can!”

In those moments, Nicko did not care what was happening to him. He was the luckiest guy in the world, feeling ecstatic as he brought the enormous man to a full climax, simply by using his mouth.

Clearly impressed, a sweaty Carl buckled his belt back up and sat himself down again. “Keep that up and you’ll go far with me,” he sighed in appreciation.

As Carl fixed his clothing, Nicko tried to do the same, beginning to refasten his shirt buttons. However, Carl was still having none of it; placing his large hand very decidedly over Nicko’s and saying ‘no’ in a very strict manner; as if training a puppy.

“Have you ever thought about moving to the city?” Carl asked next.

Nicko shook his head. “I couldn’t afford it. Plus, I don’t know anyone here.”

“Good. That means you wouldn’t go wandering,” Carl shot back bluntly. “I can get you somewhere by next weekend. You can live there, and then you’re close by for me to pop in whenever I want. I keep a few guys that way.”

“Why would you do that for me?” Nicko asked, confused by what he felt were a rush of mixed messages.

“At a game, the front row seats are always the best,” Carl simply replied, leaning across once more and flicking the fat roll that fell over Nicko’s belt. “And this is a show I have no intention of missing…”

It was a couple of months later. Nicko stood at the large picture window of his apartment, still unable to comprehend the amazing view he had over the cityscape. Fully furnished and decorated by professional interior designers, Nicko was living a life he could have only ever imagined in his very wildest of dreams. He was even paid a salary each month and had new bank accounts set up entirely by Carl’s people. And all it took was the signing of several non-disclosure agreements from the athlete’s numerous lawyers.

“It’s time to put that pizza down, Fat Boy!” Carl called out, striding in unannounced, as usual.

Nicko chuckled. He hadn’t been eating any pizza, although you would never have guessed that from looking at him. Upon Carl’s insistence, he wore only his underwear around the apartment, catching glimpses of his increasingly lardy reflection in the many, many mirrors that Carl had insisted was part of the interior design.

“Jeez! Look at you!” Carl laughed, undressing himself at the door, as he always did, and watching as his secret project came waddling into view. He pulled his erection out and stipped even his boxers, standing there as the perfect masculine specimen. “Your tits just won’t quit growing, will they?” he laughed. “And look at this fat butt!” he marvelled, dropping Nicko’s underwear and slapping the oversized glutes which had been filling up at a faster rate since Carl had been sending over take-out most nights. Nicko could tell from the way that Carl was handling them, exactly how the big man wanted to fuck him that evening.

The big mirror in the hallway was always Carl’s favourite spot. He could bend Nicko over the sturdy little desk and watch their reflections as he powerfully bombarded his boy’s chubby’s rear with blow after blow.

“You played well last night,” Nicko offered afterwards as a naked Carl lounged on his sofa for a rest afterwards..

“Yeah, yeah,” Carl sighed, rolling his eyes. He had people blowing smoke up his ass all day long. This wasn’t what he kept Nicko for.

“I felt so proud, I decided to finish all those doughnuts you sent me,” he explained, hoping to please his lover.

“Good,” Carl nodded. “It’s about time you stopped resisting the ways I’m trying to help you fatten faster.” He beckoned Nicko closer, just as the chubby boy had hoped. “So, tell me, how did it make you feel, eating all that for me?”

Still fully loaded and, as yet, unsatisfied, Nicko gasped in excitement as he felt Carl’s hand moving onto his thigh, ready to pleasure him if only he said the right things. “It felt incredible,” he replied, exaggerating. “It made me want to eat even more food and please you so much more,” he continued, feeling his erection having a gentle stroke; so subtle and yet so precise.

“Go on,” Carl demanded, not letting Nicko stop. “Tell me more.”

Nicko gasped, always climaxing pathetically quickly whenever Carl was the one touching him. “It made me so excited to get heavier for you…” he offered.

“Oh, no. That’s not the right word now, is it?” Carl sighed with disappointment. “You’re not just getting heavier, are you? Tell me what’s really happening, One Percent.”

Nicko gave another gasp of arousal, his jaw slackening as the pleasure built. “I’m getting fatter for you,” he replied diligently.

“What else?” Carl demanded again, having found a small crack in Nicko’s defences and prizing it open in any way that he could.

“I’m getting lazier. I don’t exercise. And I eat like a pig,” Nicko whispered, just as he had been trained.

“You are a pig,” Carl shot back at him, spiking Nicko’s arousal even more. The shock he felt over the word was now gone, given how many times Carl had whispered it into his ear whenever he came. Now the word had become a key for unlocking Nicko’s arousal.

Nicko nodded, gazing submissively into the big man’s eyes. His breathing was heavy and his entire body twitched as the orgasm built.

“Piggy, Piggy, Piggy!” Carl sang teasingly, forcing Nicko’s hardess to erupt explosively yet again.

“My goodness! What on earth have you been eating?” asked Nicko’s mother a few weeks later as he called home for a quick visit.

Nicko could feel his face flushing. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, trying to conceal his stout gut that had quickly formed and dominated his torso. It was all his family wanted to talk about, demanding explanations from Nicko about exactly what he was doing to gain so much weight so quickly. Didn’t he have any regard for his health? His appearance? His ability to find someone nice to settle down with? Just what was this city life doing to him?

“She’s only thinking of you, Son,” Nicko’s dad offered later that afternoon, as the pair retreated into the TV room to watch the football.

“I know, I know,” Nicko huffed, trying to concentrate on the game to see how Carl was playing. Then he winced as Carl went in for a big tackle, destroying the opposition.

“Ouch!” Nicko’s dad hooted. “He’s a nasty piece of work, that Carl Williams! Look at him getting up like nothing’s happened. That poor guy will be out for weeks after that tackle.”

“So?,” Nicko replied defensively. “It wasn’t an illegal tackle. He’s not broken any rules.”

“No, just another guy’s shoulder by the looks of things. Third one this season by my count.”

They both watched the screen as Carl strutted about on the pitch, waiting for the medical team to finish up so that play could resume. Nicko knew the football player well enough to know when he was trying to suppress a proud smile.

“A man that big has no place on the football field,” Nicko’s dad continued. “Look at him! His arms are bigger than my thighs! The game has gone ridiculous!”

But Nicko definitely was watching, feeling blood pumping into his groin. He rubbed his fat tummy, just as Carl would have, suddenly knowing that he wanted to gorge himself stupid on fast food on the way home.

“I weighed myself this morning,” Nicko explained, lying on his front, naked on the bed after a particularly boisterous session with Carl. “Three hundred and forty one pounds,” he smiled, rolling a little and grabbing a wedge of belly fat.

“You have to start eating more then, won’t you?” Carl replied, unimpressed. “You’re only just a little heavier than me.”

Nicko laughed. Whilst the fact was true, his and Carl’s bodies were complete polar opposites in terms of composition.

“I mean it,” Carl stated seriously. “Three fifty by next weekend. Make it happen.”

“Am I the fattest of the guys you keep?” Nicko asked, knowing how Carl supported lots of secret lovers all over the city.

“Not even close!” Carl laughed.

“Do you think I could be, one day?”

Carl looked at him seriously, studying his face in a way that he did not usually. Then his answer, when it came, was actually a lot more considered than anything else that usually came out his mouth. “Why? Do you want to be?”

The feeling of having Carl’s attention was a drug that Nicko could never wean himself off. “For you,” he smiled, “I’d do anything.”

With Nicko’s new enthusiasm and commitment, he felt himself rising up the ranks in Carl’s mind. The athlete came over a lot more and took a very active interest in ensuring that Nicko continued to grow as he’d promised he would. One such perk was having free seats to any of Carl’s games; often getting himself on camera as he gorged on corn dogs in the stands.

“Steve?” Nicko asked as he recognised the man standing by the rest rooms after the game. “How’re you doing, buddy? I can’t believe I’m bumping into you!”

The young man Nicko had met and made friends with in the training camp failed to recognise him until Nicko introduced himself once more. His jaw dropped and he spluttered and mumbled his way through the conversation, clearly not quite believing that they had once been roommates a little over one year ago.

“How did the training camp work out for you in the end?” Nicko asked. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to anyone.”

“Yeah, we got used to that,” Steve nodded. “We’d see guys at breakfast and then… gone. Kicked out. I got down to the final thirty or so. But it got so toxic in the end,” he grumbled, reeling off the names of the guys both he and Nicko had despised: the ones who were now making names for themselves in the professional game. “In the end, I was quite happy to leave.”

Nicko looked down to Steve’s body, noticing a stout little stomach under his pumped pecs.

Steve noticed him looking and he sucked in hids stomach slightly, clearly feeling a little awkward. “I’ve been trying to keep up the training,” he rambled on, clearly used to making excuses for his appearance. “It’s just hard to balance now I’m working full time as well.”

“It’s much easier when you give into it,” Nicko smiled knowingly.

“Yeah, well…” Steve smiled awkwardly. “I’m not quite ready for that.”

Nicko wondered whether he should tell his old friend that the weight gain wasn’t going to stop; that just like him, Steve was heading on a path to enormous obesity as a result of their time in the training camp. However, he resisted, giving his old friend the goodbye hug he had never been allowed at the camp, and watching the guy’s meaty, round glutes and stubborn love handles as he walked back to his girlfriend who was now out of the restrooms. If only she knew the body her boyfriend would soon inhabit: another victim of his own lust for sporting success.

It was only now that Nicko realised just how involved Carl had been from the beginning, having invested millions in the training camp they had attended, and reaping fifty times as much in return. It was what he loved most in the entire world; never missing a single event day they held, and personally seeing to it that more and more naive college boys were signed up each year.

“You’re such a good pig these days,” Carl grinned, watching Nicko nibbling on the specially made giant doughnuts that fitted perfectly around Carl’s thick erection. “Just seeing you without your clothes on now… you’re so disgustingly obese, and yet… look at you eat!”

Nicko nibbled and licked the remaining bits up quickly and sat up so that Carl could touch and jiggle his enormous body, laughing as the waves of pure fat travelled in such interesting ways through his entire body.

“How about we get you somewhere nicer to live than this dump?” he asked, scorning as he looked around the plush, luxury apartment. “Somewhere a lot more superchub friendly.”

Nicko nodded, happy to live wherever Carl thought was best. As he had grown, the wage that was deposited into his account each month had been increasing more and more. Carl had always been great at incentives. In a couple more months, he would even be able to buy his own place, should he so wish.

“I’m looking for somewhere very exclusive for my original piggy to live in,” Carl explained, bouncing up and pushing Nicko onto his back on the bed. “I’d like it to be somewhere for you both to live together,” he smiled, picking up another cream filled doughnut and pushing it into Nicko’s submissive mouth.

Chewing quickly and swallowing as much as he could, Nicko nodded with interest. “This is the guy you first went on the training course with? Your fattest boy so far?”

“You wait until you see him!” Carl grinned excitedly. “Mountains and mountains of pure blubber!” he chuckled, stuffing yet another doughnut into Nicko’s mouth and watching as the greedy boy swallowed it down for him “But he’s not always obedient, like you. He still tries to push against my rules on occasion,” he sneered in irritation. “The pig’s almost one hundred pounds heavier than you are,” Carl explained, having never actually given Nicko any insight into the differences between him and the other fatties he kept. “Yet, he still thinks he can defy me at times.”

Nicko looked up at the gorgeous, hulking monster above him. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort him out for you,” he stated with certainty.

Carl threw his head back and laughed. “My disgusting fatty is setting himself a mission, is he?” he mocked. “Well, you do that then, One Percent,” he nodded approvingly. “Turn him into a good piggy, just like you.”

Nicko smiled, delighted to be trusted with such a task. He rolled over, feeling Carl’s large hand smacking an entire palmful of lubricant into his crack. Then he pulled his heavy, fat-filled glutes wide apart to demonstrate that he was ready to be fucked again. Nicko didn’t know exactly when he had stopped caring about anything else in his life; devoting himself entirely to Carl’s wants and needs. He knew that the guy was wicked and manipulative; throwing his money around and flaunting his good looks to get whatever he wanted. He knew as well that the guy could get bored of him and drop him in a flash. But whilst he was here, basking in the limelight, he would enjoy every second of it.

He would be the very best piggy.

#gainerstory #gayfeeder #gayfeedee #gainerfic #gainerstories #gainer fic #gainer story #gainer stories #gainer fiction #gay feedee

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hier--soir · 1 year ago

Text

a lover's pinch | two

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: will a complicated realisation drive you and joel apart, or drag you closer together? warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, some mildly gratuitous Classics chatter, some very gratuitous descriptions of joel's office, trope of being enamoured by your favourite teacher lol [and her fav isn't even joel, sorry guys], angst, a little manhandling, semi-public sex acts with a not-so-stranger, dirty talk, brief impact play, fingering, orgasm denial, oral [m!receiving], face fucking, facial, cum eating, sheeesh i think that's it okay i need a glass of cold water word count: 10.3k i'm not sorry series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: folks, this series has taken over my entire brain. i'm having the best time writing+outlining it, and i have been so delighted by how many people liked the first part. giving you all the biggest kiss through the screen right now. lmk what you think of part two! this is part two of ALP. you can read the previous part here: one.

Tuesday.

It’s as though a mirage resides in the periphery of your vision.

A wobbling, shimmering thing that offsets the centre of a picture and makes your eyes hurt until you want to close them. The type where you’re squinting and trying to see, trying to make out what’s happening, and people are turning to look at you and pointing and you realise that you aren’t wearing any pants, and it’s a dream, a dream, a nightmare, it’s not fucking real. Illusory. Fantasy.

It's a childish thought that you can’t help but be consumed by. The idea that this is all some cruel, fucked up delusion you’re about to wake up from. That it couldn’t be possible for the charming Texan you’d met four nights prior to be stood only a few metres in front of you, discussing your fucking syllabus. Reality becomes this twisting, writhing thing that is painful and awkward to comprehend, and everything slows to a liquid, dreamlike pace. His voice, his movement, the shifting of other students around you, all drifting by slowly, as if a year has passed in the span of ten seconds.

And yet when you pinch your arm—nails scraping across skin until raw red marks raise in jagged lines—and you don’t wake up, the mirage remains, your stomach rolls.

Joel looks so different here. What had been casual at the bar, a lob of messy hair above a cotton t-shirt, is now professional. Buttoned shirt tucked into pressed brown pants. Beard trimmed, and hair pushed back into soft, tidy waves that roll down to his neck. A set of glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. Square, with black frames that compliment his skin tone, and have your fingers gripping the edge of the desk, wondering why the hell he hadn’t been wearing them on Friday night when he sunk his mouth against your cunt. Dirty little thing.

You can still feel his hands on you, days later. Feel the rough scrape of calloused fingers on your thighs, between your legs. Remember how soft his hair was when you buried your fingers in it and held him against your aching core, whining his name. It had been like this all weekend; holding an image of his tan, handsome face in your mind, trying to emulate the feeling of his hand between your thighs with your own, only to fail over and over again.

And he’s talking. That low, honeyed drawl that tickles across your skin and drips into your ears, warming your insides. It’s a marvellous thing; the way he shifts easily from topic to topic, disarming the room with short, sharp—surprising—jokes sifted in between soft-spoken sentiments about classical academia and the university, and what he hopes you as individuals will gain from a postgraduate in this course, and it feels like it’s been both hours and seconds as you watch him breathlessly, waiting. Waiting for his eyes to skirt to your side of the room, to dance across your face and recognise you, remember you, just as he said he would.

Joel is talking about The Aeneid when he finally notices you.

“I want you to be thinking about language,” he’s saying. “And tone. Virgil and Homer’s writing differs in a lotta ways, but it does share that same character of irony. Don’t forget that Virgil wrote during the Golden Age of the Roman Empire – and he’s presenting us with a story about destiny, about fate. Our focus here isn’t so much about love, or reverence, as it is about tragedy – no one in The Aeneid is safe from what their own fate lays out for them. All of these calamities and heartbreaks are necessary for the empire to thrive.”

He pauses. “Take Dido in book four as a prime example. In the openin’ lines of her story, if we’re looking to the West translation; she is suffering from love’s deadly wound, feeding it with her blood and being consumed by its hidden fire. We know from the beginnin’, that her love for Aeneas will be her downfall; that her death is essential for him to leave Carthage. And on that same page, talkin’ about Aeneas, we get, oh how cruelly he has been hounded by the Fates. This is what you need to think about if you’re gonna get to the bottom of Virgil’s bigger plan with these books. Why is he using this language? These words? I want—”

Joel inhales sharply, dark eyes frozen on your face, which grows steadily warmer beneath his scrutiny. His body doesn’t move, hands hovering in the air mid-gesticulation, lips parted as his next words rest there, caught on his tongue. You swallow thickly. Feel sweat form on your hairline. The silence stretches, dead air giving rise to confused murmurs across the room, and your eyes widen, willing him to look away and continue; to do anything except stand there and keep looking at you like that. But it’s like he’s in a trance. Tan face dimming to a sickly, pallid colour, shoulders shifting as he breaths deeply. Staring.

A few heads turn in your direction, but you can’t bring yourself to look back at them; to snatch yourself away from the feeling of being held in his gaze again. It’s intoxicating—almost euphoric—to have those dark eyes on your skin.

And then it’s over, the moment severed as Joel’s eyes snap away and he clears his throat, offering a pained smile to the rest of the room. And he’s apologising, Lost my train of thought for a moment there, using a playful tone of voice as he says, first day of the semester jitters, y’know?

He ignores you after that.

For the entirety of the two-hour lecture, he makes sure not to spare a single glance in your direction. And it stings, but you suppose you understand. Can see the tension held in his shoulders now; the strain in his voice as he works to talk with that same measured ease he’d had at the beginning.

You take notes carefully, and don’t bother raising your hand when he inspires participation from the other students. But by the end of the class, you can’t bring yourself to walk out – not without saying something, without finding some kind of understanding over what the fuck is happening. You’re practically glued to your seat as students rise, filing out of the theatre hall.

Joel stands by the desk, back hunched as he collects his things, fielding kind comments of thanks and that was great from people as they pass him on their way toward the exit. Eventually you join the stream, wandering down the stairs on shaky legs until you find yourself at the edge of his desk, fiddling with the strap of your bag and watching his back. His shoulders hunch tighter when you pause there, shadow splaying across the desk. Though his face isn’t visible to you, his hands are almost a blur, scrambling to drag his things into a messy pile so that he can pack up faster. He slaps his laptop closed and you flinch at the sound.

After a few moments, you find the courage to speak.

“That was, uhh, that was really interesting,” you clear your throat awkwardly, watching other students shuffle past in your periphery. His hands move faster, stuffing loose notes into a leather satchel with little disregard for the paper creasing.

You lower your voice to a hoarse, careful whisper. “We need to talk about this.”

Joel finally looks up, nostrils flaring as he meets your stare. He nods once, looping the bag over his shoulder. “Not here,” he says gruffly, tight eyes darting around the room. “Room’s booked for another lecture in five.”

He tilts his head towards the door, encouraging you to follow him as he paces out towards the hall. You shadow him quickly, clutching your bag and watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he walks three paces ahead of you. You fight the urge to place your hand in the dip between his shoulder blades; to feel the heat of his skin, the rolling tension beneath it, and dig your fingernails into him. Joel doesn’t look back to check if you’re following – he knows you are.

He leads you up a flight of stairs and down another hall, makes a left, and then another left, until finally he’s pausing and dragging a key from his pocket, pressing it into the lock of a heavy wooden door and nudging it open. There’s a plaque on the wood that reads J MILLER, PhD. You swallow. And then follow him inside and let the door fall shut behind you.

Joel stalks into the room, feet heavy against the dark carpet. He tosses his satchel to the floor and then stands by the desk, wild eyes trained on where you hover silently by the door. He looks on edge, to say the least. Frazzled fingers race through his hair, mussing the curls until they look reminiscent of the past Friday. Foot tapping against the ground in a quick, jerky rhythm.

And you know that you need to talk, need to clear the air, need to say anything, but you can’t help it when your eyes wander around the room because—

His office is sort of beautiful.

A larger space than you expected it to be, with a north-facing window that allows a natural yellowed morning light to fill the space, and a vast bookshelf stretching across the wall behind a large desk. You can’t make out the titles from where you stand by the door, but texts fill every crack and crevice of the shelfing unit, not organised by any noticeable colour scheme or structure. The space is messy – personal. In fact, everywhere you look seems to expose something private, something intimate.

A jacket hangs from a hook on the back of the door, made of a worn duck brown waxed material that looks soft to the touch. In the corner opposite the desk, a velvet green armchair sits beside a low table that houses a record player and a potted plant. Sleeves of records are tucked beneath the table, stacked upon each other haphazardly, without a hint of dust on them. Clearly touched and rifled through more often than not.

The wide window is cracked just an inch, allowing a warm early-Fall breeze to slip in and rustle the starched curtains. A coffee mug is beside the record player. Two more sit abandoned on the outskirts of his desk. All empty and forgotten about, too busy to be refilled or moved or cleaned. And there are books everywhere; strewn across his desk, forgotten beneath the cushion of his armchair, piled against the wall beneath the window. Worn, well-read books, with frayed covers and broken spines. You almost drool, tempted to ignore him completely and venture towards them; to run your fingers over the covers and find out exactly what kind of writing this enigma of a man spends so much time devouring.

After what feels like an hour of simply looking—but could only have been a minute—Joel breaks the silence.

“Did you know?”

His voice is quiet. Detached. The backs of his thighs perch on the edge of the desk, hands tangled in his lap. Large fingers pluck at each other as he stares at you from across the room, in an almost anxious fiddling movement.

“What?” you ask.

“Did you know who I was?” he clarifies, voice hardening. Those dark eyebrows tighten in the middle of his forehead, features pinching together into a sharp frown. “When you saw me.”

“Joel,” you scoff, taken aback. “How the hell would I know who you were?”

“Your classes were organised,” his voice raises slightly—just a little. “You knew the names of your profess—”

“J Miller,” you interrupt. “Everything says J Miller, that’s it. I didn’t fucking know, Joel.”

His frown softens at that, eyes dropping to the carpet as he nods once, clearly still unsure. You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, shoulders tense. There’s only a metre or so between the pair of you, and yet you can feel it. That static, burning energy, the same as four nights before. Something inside of you that rages and claws at your skin from the inside, begging to get closer to him. You ignore it.

“Why didn’t I meet you when I interviewed for the program?” you ask. You remember the day you came in, six months ago. Sitting with an older man—the Classics department head—and a soft, round woman with light hair. No Joel. You would’ve remembered him.

His eyes flash, hands tightening in his lap. “I was on vacation,” he grinds out. It’s like it physically pains him to talk to you—to even look at you. One of his hands drops, palm flexing by his side. He’s taking deep breaths, clearly trying to calm the quell of panic that has been swirling inside him for the past two hours. You keep your distance.

After a moment, he speaks again.

“Greece, huh?” It comes out in a low scoff. His eyebrows are raised expectantly, frustration laced through the lines in his face. “Said you were there for a month.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I was involved in a text translation study based in Athens.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales, digging the palms of his hands over his eyes. “This can’t be happenin’.”

“Joel—”

“Y’need to transfer out of my class,” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “They run it online, you can—”

“What?” you blink. You feel your blood pressure rise, anger spiking as you comprehend what he is suggesting. “Be serious – I am not doing the class online because of this. It’ll jeopardise my entire semester.”

“I don’t care,” he glowers, rising from the desk.

“Jesus, stop acting like this was all my doing,” you snap. “If memory serves, you’re just as to blame as I am—you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”

“Stop,” he growls. It’s a rough, unforgettable sound that fills your stomach with heat. An oddly familiar thing that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Silly little slut. The memory licks at your throat, the skin of your chest, leaving a hot heady feeling in its wake. You wonder if he’s noticed the hickey on your neck that hasn’t entirely faded yet. A persistent, lingering reminder of his mouth on your skin. Of the sharp scrape of his teeth.

You take a step forward and Joel’s entire body goes rigid, right hand jutting out in front of him, fingers splayed open.

“Stay over there,” he says quickly, voice a low warning.

You scowl but don’t move, feet planted in the soft carpet. The breeze rushes in through the window and causes a paper on his desk to flap upward, and your eyes drift toward the movement. Gaze shifting over the items on his desk, the mess of papers, the half-full mugs, and then… a picture frame. You squint, unable to make it out from where you are. Take a step forward, and then another, and realise it’s Joel’s shape in the image, standing with a tall woman tucked against his side. It’s too far for you to see clearly, but you can tell his arm is wrapped around her shoulder, holding her against his chest, and you know he’s grinning from the splash of white across his face.

“What’re you—” Joel’s words turn to silence as he tilts his head and realises what you’re looking at. A broad hand darts out, gripping the frame and knocking it face down on his desk. You flinch, eyes widening in incredulity as you turn to him.

“What?” A sardonic laugh escapes your mouth. “Are you fucking married or something? Jesus, Joel.”

You reach for the frame, fingers skirting across it with every intention of seeing, of understanding, of knowing just what it is that he’s so desperate to hide. But then he’s there, strong fingers looping around your wrist, halting your movement. The speed of it sends you stumbling toward the desk, and Joel’s body follows you forward, chest flush against your back as your lower stomach collides with the dark wood. Caught between a rock and a hard place, quite literally. You stiffen, sorely aware of how close he is. How much of his body is touching yours, and how similar it is to before.

“I’m not married,” he bites, and you can feel his breath against your ear. Hot, harsh exhales that send whisps of your hair fluttering forward. A shiver runs down your spine. His grip is firm around your wrist; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place with your hand frozen in the air, fingers still outstretched towards the frame.

“Then who’s in the picture?” you grunt.

“None of your fuckin’ business,” he snaps quickly. You can feel his stubble graze the edge of your jaw, and something fizzes in your stomach. Your resolve softens at the frustration in his voice; the truth that bleeds out through his words. It is none of your business. Your body relaxes a little, arm going limp in his hold, and yet he doesn’t let go. It takes a moment for you to realise why.

Joel’s hips are pressed tightly into you, trapping you against the desk, and he’s hard. You can practically feel him throb against the small of your back, the full length of his cock only separated from you by two layers of clothing. Saliva pools in your mouth, eyes pinching closed as you remember the feeling of him; the delicious burn of his heavy cock dragging through you. Using your free hand, you twist your arm behind you and slide it down his front. A whispered oh fuck escapes your lips as your fingers drag across the front of his pants, and he grunts in your ear, grasp tightening around your wrist. Painful this time, but only for a second, until he’s tearing his hand off you and placing it on your lower back, pushing you down so that your chest is flush with his desk.

You gasp, lips parting to speak, but no words are coming out and Joel’s hands are on the waistband of your jeans, on the button. He’s undoing it, fingers steadfast in their movement, and then he yanks the material down roughly over your ass.

“Joel,” you whimper urgently as he grips your panties, dragging them to your knees as well. He keeps you bent against the desk, so you twist your neck to stare at him over your shoulder, legs tensing when you see the expression on his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown behind his glasses as he looks down to where his covered cock grinds against the swell of your ass.

“God dammit,” he exhales, and you clench around nothing, warmth pooling between your thighs. This is so different from at the bar. There the door was locked, place full of people who didn’t know either of you. Here, in his office, anyone could walk in. A member of faculty, a student, anyone. And the thought has you fucking aching for him.

Thick fingers streak between your thighs from behind, spreading your slick folds apart. You gasp as cool air hits your throbbing clit, but the sound cuts into a low moan as his fingers expertly roll over the sizzling nerve endings there. He ousts a low grunt of surprise at how wet you are, hips still grinding against you as his fingers drift to your entrance, rubbing and collecting your slick on his fingers until you’re whimpering into your own palm, pressing your hips back and begging him for more. All at once, one of his palms slaps across your ass while two thick fingers press inside you. The sting has your eyes rolling back. Your teeth sink into the palm of your hand to muffle the noise you make, and he’s curling his fingers inside you, rubbing against your g-spot, and your legs are trembling with the effort of staying standing. Your mind is a blur. You feel almost lightheaded at how suddenly this is all happening – and at how relieved you are to feel his hands on you again.

“S’this what you wanted?” Joel pants, scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching you out. “Knew if you followed me in here, I’d end up fuckin’ this pretty pussy again? Huh?”

“Fuck,” you choke out, eyelids fluttering as he adds a third finger. Heat sizzles beneath the tightening muscles in your stomach, and you can feel yourself clenching around him over and over again, your high already approaching. It’s almost pitiful, the affect he has on you; how easily your body yields to the simplest of touches from his hands.

“Huh?” he prompts for a response. You can feel the cool zipper of his pants cutting across the bare skin of your ass, scratching you as his hips rut forward.

“Please,” you say, voice quiet as you can muster. “I’m so close, Joel, please.”

He grunts, increasing the speed of his fingers. Soft squelching sounds are audible now, slick smearing against your inner thighs, his wrist, and your face goes warm at the sound of it. Your fingers claw at his desk, nails catching on paper as your hand lands against a book and grips it tight. Your abdomen burns, that soft thrumming heat licking at your skin, the muscles of your thighs, scorching in its might as your orgasm builds and builds, hanging dangerously close to the precipice.

“Gonna come all over my fingers?” Joel asks, voice haggard and breathless. “C’mon, give it t’me.”

You’re nodding before he even finishes speaking, forehead knocking roughly against wood, eyebrows pinching together. So close, so close, so fucking clo—

A light knock sounds against his office door.

Joel freezes. Your eyes widen, hips shifting against his hand as you murmur no, no, no, please Joel. But he ignores you, gripping your hip to keep you still and dragging his fingers from your dripping cunt to press them over your mouth. Your pulse thunders in your ears, heart trashing wildly in your chest as you catch your breath, devasted.

“Joel?” a soft voice calls from the hall. A woman. “You in there?”

“Just on the phone,” he says loudly, voice surprisingly steady. You can taste yourself on his fingers. Feel it smear across your lips. “What d’ya need?”

“I’m headed to the café,” the woman calls. “You want anything?”

Joel responds with a sharp, resounding no.

There’s a beat of silence where you can almost feel him holding his breath, waiting for her to inevitably open the unlocked door and discover the scene in his office. But the silence stretches on, and then you can hear soft footfalls fade down the corridor, and you know that you’re alone again.

Joel rips his hand from your mouth. Grips your underwear and drags it up over your hips, then your jeans, before he’s stumbling away and dropping into the armchair across the room. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, eyes wide as he gazes at the floor. When you push off the desk and turn to stare at him, a firm tent is visible in his pants. You button your jeans slowly, watching him. He doesn’t look at you.

“Joel—” you start softly.

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Just… just get out.”

You open your mouth to speak—to argue—but once again, nothing comes out. No words to defend yourself, or what the two of you just did. You stare at him for almost a minute, but Joel’s eyes stay trained on the carpet, fists clenched against his thighs.

You leave his office silently and try not to look back. Make two rights and head down the stairs, outside and across the green to where your car is parked. The whole thing feels so dirty, so debauched, and yet you want so much more from him. Want it so badly that you drive home in silence, mind too busy with thoughts of Joel Joel Joel to remember to turn on the radio.

And behind it all, is a low, itching thought at the base of your skull, something that makes you smile as you drive – the knowledge that he wants you just as badly as you want him.

Wednesday.

You decide very quickly that you like Rachel.

Maybe it was because you were having a good day. The sun had been shining when you woke up; strong beams that teased their way through the window in your bedroom and rested warm upon the bare skin of your back. By the time you rose, the coffee was already done brewing, and Trin met you in the hall with a large mug of it and a soft hey, man, how’d you sleep? And when you went to get dressed for the day you remembered you did the washing two nights before, and found your favourite pair of jeans—the ones that squeezed your ass just right—were neatly folded in a drawer, waiting for you. Yes; maybe all of that had something to do with it. Or maybe, it because Rachel was just great.

You like her tenacity, her words; the idolatry with which she discusses her work. And she is charming; an intellectual through and through. The soft roundness of her face and the kind slant to her eyes offset by a razor-sharp wit. And there’s this peculiar quirkiness to her that catches your attention in seconds – a rough snort whenever she laughs, the bright orange shade of the toenails sticking out of her sandals.

Her teaching is direct, no-bullshit, and yet she has this smile. This soft, thin-lipped genuine smile that says, I know something you don’t know, and I can’t wait to share it with you.

During her first lecture, you feel rooted to the spot, unable to draw your eyes away from her for two-hours as she waxes poetic about heroines and tragic love stories, about the importance of myth, of gore.

Listening to her reminds you of what you’d always loved about classics – the filth of it, the horror. It feels like reaching your hands into a puddle of mud, flexing your fingers and letting the dirt and grime slide beneath your nails, coating every inch of your skin. The squeamishness of it, the rot, the tragedy – you love it all, and Rachel does too.

“When we talk about the juxtaposition between heroines across different texts,” she says. “We want to look at the values being portrayed; the meaning behind what’s happening to these women. Let’s appreciate the context here, guys! To understand the rage of Medea, or, say, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, we have to get to the root of their roles in society. Priestess, mistress, virgin, mother – we want to understand the perspectives being shown to us. What drives these women? What fire lives within them, pushing them to make their decisions—or to have their decisions made for them?”

She points to a student and nods, “Go on.”

“Do you think Medea holds much bearing here?” someone to your left asks. A man. “If we’re focusing on heroines, I mean.”

“Do you?” she challenges. A hint of a smile—that smile—drifts across her lips, hands clasped to her stomach as she awaits his response.

“Not particularly,” he says, voice less sure now. “I know you can view any text through most perspectives, but I’d never thought of her so much as a heroine in a feminist text.”

“I see,” Rachel nods. “Well, the short answer is that I’d encourage you to read it again.” She laughs, a soft tinkering sound. “The long answer is that her character is complex. Let’s not beat around the bush; Medea is a woman scorned. Banished by Creon, forgotten by Jason. As the reader, we are able to comprehend the most brutal pain through her – a woman trapped in a world where men have decided everything for her, and she is furious. Even describes herself as a woman born to sorrow. Now, as the reader, it is your right to believe that she is bad, or an anti-heroine, but you cannot deny that she is made bad by circumstances out of her own control.” She pauses, thick eyebrows jutting upward as she looks around the quiet theatre. “I’d say that’s pretty feminist of Euripides.”

You approach her afterwards, fingers an awkward tangle in front of your chest.

“I just have to say,” you smile bashfully. “That was wonderful. You’re so engaging, I was… god, I don’t even know what to say, but thank you. I’m really looking forward to learning from you this semester.”

Rachel’s eyes light up at your words.

Up close you notice a pair of thick, ceramic earrings dangling from her lobes. They look hand painted; thick brushstrokes of dandelion yellow smeared across crimson red ovals.

“Oh, how lovely,” her eyes assess you quickly, mouth splitting into a crooked, fond smile. “I’m very glad to have you here…?”

You tell your name in a mumbled rush, and she nods once, eyes scanning the list of students on her sheet.

“Oh of course,” she says knowingly. “You emailed yesterday, no? Some trouble with accessing the readings online?”

You stiffen. Blink at her, smile dimming somewhat. “Yeah,” you exhale. “Yes, that’s actually—I was having trouble with the link for another class, and I hoped you might be able to help.”

“I see,” she frowns then. “Well, unfortunately if it’s not for this class I won’t be of much help; my access code only gets me so far in that damn portal. Which professor assigned the reading?”

“It’s, uhh,” you speak slowly, the words stiff as they stumble out of your mouth. “It’s Joel Miller.”

“Oh, Joel?” she smiles. “Well, he’ll be happy to help, I’m sure. He’s usually in his office around this time – do you need me to show you the way?”

Your mouth is dry. Yeah, you think. I’m sure he’ll be over the moon to see me.

“That’s okay,” you reply with a tight smile. “I’ll find it.”

She nods, bids you a warm goodbye, and her eyes have already drifted back to the papers in front of her when you turn to leave the room.

Your bag weighs heavy on your shoulder, straps of canvas material digging into the muscle there as you retrace your footsteps from yesterday. Up the creaking set of stairs, taking a left, and then another left, and your mind is a blur, static wobbling in your veins as you rehearse what you’re going to say, how you’re going to say it.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you’d last seen him, and from the second you left, an image of what happened in his office played on a loop in your brain. Like the spool on a VHS has been stuck together, wound into a circle, and the tape repeats over and over again, the same images, sounds, smells, soaking your mind until all else is white noise. And it’s twisted, and wrong, and you’re vaguely aware of that, somewhere in the part of your brain where you stash knowledge that you’d prefer to forget. Because it’s easier to forget the hard part, the ugly part, and far nicer to remember the scrape of his stubble against your skin. The smell of him filling your nostrils as he crowds you against his desk. The scratch on your ass from his zipper. Remember how your name sounds when he moans it, and forget the feeling that comes when he refuses to look at you after the fact.

And you wonder if this is what the entire semester will be like; spending each day reminiscing on your last interaction with Joel, hoping for another touch, taste, another chance, another something, anything, from him. The weight of it sits heavy on your chest, like a wall of freshly cemented bricks left to solidify in the sun. And beneath that, beneath the clay and sand and limestone, excitement buzzes. Indisputable, persistent, anticipation. A vibrating that hums in your bones and has you shivering from the tips of your toes to the top of your skull as you knock on his office door.

J MILLER PhD. The words glare at you from the bronze plaque for the second time in two days.

You hear his voice call pleasantly from behind the door. Light, relaxed. You swallow down the lump in your throat and step inside.

The window is wide open today, pale curtains drawn back to allow the bright midday sun to shine through and warm the carpet. Joel’s head tilts upward and within seconds the soft, easy smile on his face dissolves into something unreadable. He’s perched behind his desk, broad frame bent over a mess of papers, pen tucked neatly between coiled fingers. A clear tension simmers in the lines on his forehead; a tangible rigidity that clouds his expression when he sees that it’s you. He clicks the top of his pen once, twice, three times, and says your name in a clipped greeting.

“Hi,” you say, hand raising in a quick wave. “Sorry to barge in like this, I, uhh, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“My office hours are between one and four,” he says tersely, eyes lowering back to his book. “Schedule an appointment over email.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, face warming as embarrassment swells in your chest. All of the excitement—the longing—that had churned inside you since yesterday seems to dissipate, replaced by a looming sense of dread as you register how distant and apathetic he seems. How hard he tries to not even look in your direction. Those words from yesterday ring in your ears. Just get out.

“Seriously?” you mutter, nonetheless, trying to contain the hurt that threatens to spill across your face. “It’ll take five seco—”

“Seriously,” he repeats firmly.

Your jaw clenches, annoyance tightening the already stiff muscles in your shoulders as you march over to his desk, dropping your bag onto the edge of it. The exact same spot from yesterday, where’d pressed you down against the wood and— Joel’s shoulders hunch. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to just below his elbows, thin white material stressing around cords of muscle. You gaze at the bare skin for a moment, tongue heavy in your mouth, before looking to what he was doing before you came in. A book in front of him is filled with scribbles and annotations, harsh black marks scrawled beneath thin lines of text. You only get a second to look at it before his hands are snapping it shut, revealing the cover. Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey. The picture frame from yesterday is nowhere to be seen.

“Working on something for a lecture?” you try. If it’s about class, he can’t be mad. If it’s about class, he can’t push you away.

“What do you need?” he asks impatiently, ignoring your words entirely.

A hand lifts to rub the skin above his eyebrow. The tip of his middle finger massages the tan skin there in soft circles, and you watch the movement for a second, transfixed. No ring. I’m not married. His other hand reaches for the mug on his desk, and he takes a long, drawn-out sip of black coffee. Steam billows from the dark liquid, fogging the lenses of his glasses. The sight makes you want to laugh, but you swallow it down, acutely aware that Joel would be less than impressed by the reaction.

“I can’t access one of the readings for next week,” you explain distractedly, dragging the laptop from your bag.

You round his desk in a few short steps and Joel sighs, cringing as you place it down in front of him, opening the screen for him to see. He shifts his chair just slightly to the right, away from you. That persistent feeling of doubt coils in your gut, sharp teeth that twist and nip at your insides, taunting you, telling you that he doesn’t want you. And it’s not why you’re here—not at all—but you can’t bring yourself believe it. Don’t want to believe it. So you bite back – turn your back to his desk and pitch your thighs atop the edge of it, feet dangling an inch off the ground. You jeans are tight, and the fabric cuts into the skin of your hips where they bend.

“Get down,” he warns sharply, dismissing you with a taut shake of his head. “You can ask IT for help with that.”

“I’m asking you,” you persist stubbornly. “You’re my professor, Joel—"

“Yes, I am your professor,” Joel bites in agreement, glowering up at you. You stiffen warily at the heat in his gaze. At the anger you can see stirring in those dark brown orbs, brimming and ready to boil over. “And I don’t think we should be alone together,” he adds. “It’s not… this is bad for us, okay? I can’t… fuck, you can’t just come in here. I don’t want you comin’ in here anymore.”

And the memory plays once more. That thing, that something twisted, something wrong, something familiar, curls in your stomach. Snaps and bares its teeth at your uncertainty, sends it scattering into the distance, and replaces it with want.

“I didn’t even plan to come here,” your voice hardens, hackles rising as the feeling rises within you. “You’re not the first person I asked, alright? I just need some fucking help—”

“Don’t swear at me,” he interrupts through gritted teeth.

A beat of stunned silence hangs between you. A shocked laugh tumbles from your mouth, eyes widening as you take in the grave expression on his face.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you stare at him incredulously. “Joel, you had your fingers inside of me against this desk yesterday. I think swearing is the least of our worries.”

“Jesus,” he spits, pushing his chair further from the desk. His elbows fall against his knees, head resting in his palms as he breaths, not looking at you. “You’re fuckin’ filthy, y’know that? Can you not just behave?”

Don’t swear, you want to tease, but think better of it.

Instead, you nod slowly, drop your hand onto the desk, fingers hovering over his book. “Joel,” you implore, tone pleading. “I don’t… I don’t know how to act around you right now, okay? It’s not easy for me to just pretend nothing has happened between us. To just forget.”

“And you think it’s easy for me?” he gripes. His eyes are focused on your hand; on the way your fingers tense and untense over the bound cover, stroking the frayed paper his own fingers have clearly touched countless times. He doesn’t move a muscle. “To try and act like things are normal, act like I didn’t—” he cuts himself off, lips clamping shut. An anguished look crosses his features.

“We’re both adults,” you frown. “It’s not a crime that we fucked, Joel.”

A harsh laugh falls from his mouth, stern eyes blazing. “Ain’t about that and you know it. It’s against professional ethics,” Joel snaps, tone firm. “Against university policy – if anybody finds out it could put us both in jeopardy.”

You’re silent for a moment, watching him. His glasses have slid down a little, and they rest precariously on the tip of this nose. Dark eyes stare from over the top of black frames, and then his legs are crossing, one tucking tightly over the other, a thick forearm dropping to rest across his lap, and want burns in your throat. You struggle to remember why you came to his office in the first place.

“Nobody is going to find out,” you whisper.

A rasp of your name catches in his throat. Joel looks bemused, face as flat as he rolls his eyes. “Quit fuckin’ playin’ around. You know how serious this is.”

You contain the urge to scowl, lips tight as you say, “Yeah, I know. Just—look, you don’t have to worry. We can cut it off right now – I won’t say a word of it to anyone. Nothing else is going to happen.”

But you can see the way his eyes flicker down your body whenever you move. How his gaze rests heavily at the pinch of your waist, the spread of your thighs against his desk, your bare arms, before darting away. You wonder if he’s touched himself thinking about you, and a jagged heat tears through the top of your thighs as you picture what that would look like.

“But that's not what you want, is it?” you ask softly. Joel doesn’t speak. He’s so still you almost think he didn’t hear you. But his eyes glance to your thighs again, you know that he did.

“You want me,” you say then, voice low and sure.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. Lips purse around clenched teeth and a harsh breath escapes his nose before he’s saying your name again, a strained whisper. And God, you love the way he says it. Like the word was created just to spite him.

“You are walkin’ on some mighty thin ice right now,” he grits out, heated gaze scorching your skin.

You glance down to his lap, where a forearm still balances over his crotch, and arch an eyebrow.

“Show me,” you murmur.

You can hear him breathing. Slow, exaggerated puffs of breath, chest rising and falling at an increasing pace as he maintains eye contact. Large hands tighten into fists, fingers curling against palms, and he’s dragging his arm back from his lap, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go within the arms of his chair. You wet your lips, face heating as you stare. The firm line of his cock is evident beneath his pants, a solid ridge against his left thigh. When you look back to his face there’s a faint red hue colouring the skin of his neck, steadily rising toward the edge of his facial hair. He’s blushing.

“How long?” you ask, voice awed.

“Since you got on the desk,” Joel grumbles, tone almost begrudging.

You hum softly, a low vibration in your throat, and then you’re slipping off his desk and taking a step towards him. And he doesn’t flinch away. He watches you close the distance between the pair of you and hover between his thighs, your legs almost brushing his.

“Let me help,” you whisper, lowering onto the ground in front of him. The carpet is warm and rough against your jean-clad knees. Your eyes drift from his face to between his thighs, and then back up, slowly.

“We shouldn’t,” he croaks, lips chapped and dry. You want to kiss him senseless. Want to drag your tongue across his mouth until it’s soaking wet and then push your way inside.

“But do you want me to?”

An agonising beat of silence follows. But there’s no doubt there anymore. No more wondering, or uncertainty, because you can see it in his eyes. The same all-consuming, devastating desire that crawls its way up to rest at the base of your throat whenever you’re with him.

And then thick fingers are at the waist of his pants, undoing his leather belt, his button, pushing the material open to reveal a pair of black briefs. He doesn’t take his pants off, just adjusts slightly in the chair before pressing his hand beneath the band of his underwear. Joel grips himself, the sight still obscured from your vision, and you find yourself mesmerised nonetheless, unable to drag your eyes away from the dark material. A low grunt escapes him, and then he shifts the band of his underwear down and pulls his cock out.

The head of him is swollen and leaking, tight skin so red that it’s almost a purple hue against the stark white of his shirt. Joel’s fingers tighten around his base, stroking himself once. Impatient, you lick you hand and let it drift forward to replace his, fingers slipping over the silky wet skin of his head and wrapping around him. Your hand is so much smaller in comparison, and your fingertips almost don’t meet as you flex your grip around girth.

Your underwear clings to the skin between your thighs, material warm and damp against you, a result of the simmering heat that rests in the base of your belly and flares every time Joel sighs. When you glance up to see his face, he’s already staring at you, pupils blown wide, lips sealed in a tight line. His length twitches in your palm, and you salivate.

You lean in and place a gentle kiss again his tip, smearing the pearl of precome there against your lips. You stroke the length of him in slow, firm pumps, guiding his head against your puckered lips, but not quite taking it inside yet. Joel’s fists are tight against his thighs, and you wish he would put them in your hair, on the back of your head, grip you, pull you down against him. But he doesn’t, not yet.

He’s got a salty, heady taste, and you swipe your tongue out to clean the hint of it from your mouth, swallowing with a satisfied purr. A harsh exhale shoots from his nose, eyebrows dragging further down as he watches you tease him.

A quick flick of your tongue against his slit has a sharp gasp rising from him, and in response you lathe wet, messy kisses to his head, puckering your lips around it and swirling your tongue, not caring what you look like, not caring that he probably wants you to go faster. It’s purely for your own enjoyment, and you’re moaning and sighing around the taste of him. You want to take Joel Miller a part, piece by piece, and feel him come undone beneath your mouth.

Unable to wait any longer, you let his head slip passed your open lips and sink into the wet heat of your mouth. And he’s so quiet, so composed, so you glide your tongue over his slit again before pressing forward, lips meeting the movement of your own hand as you take him deeper.

Your jaw strains, muscles smarting as you attempt to take the entirety of him. He’s so long, so thick, and the tip of him is nudging against the back of your throat in seconds, making your eyes water. And god it’s better than you could’ve imagined.

Tears cling to your eyelashes as you look up and find Joel with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, pink skin turning white from pressure. The heavy weight of him crowds your senses, his taste on your tongue and scent in your nostrils, everywhere, and you can feel how hot your face is getting but you can’t look away from him. You don’t stop until his hand is landing on the nape of your neck, collecting your hair in his fist and dragging your mouth off him. You part with a wet gasp, a string of saliva dangling between his tip and your shiny lips.

“Breathe, goddammit,” Joel says, holding you still when you attempt to press forward and take him back into your mouth.

“You’re so big,” you say earnestly, head tilting backward to rest heavy in his hold. You blink through bleary eyes, smiling lazily. Drunk on him after only a little taste. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this, you know. How you’d taste… how it would feel to have you in my mouth.”

“Fuck, stop,” Joel says quickly, voice pained. “Y’can’t say shit like that.” His grip tightens at the base of your neck, and then he’s guiding your face forward so the head of his cock slips back into your mouth, effectively shutting you up.

You hum appreciatively and relax your jaw, taking him until he’s nudging at your throat again, and he’s still so fucking silent. Determined to get some kind of reaction from him, you pull off and lick a broad stripe from tip to base, hand stroking his length in unhurried, firm pulls as your mouth finds his heavy balls. Your tongue glides along the sensitive skin in slow, overwhelming movements, leaving no inch of him untouched. Wet sounds fill the air as the movement of your fist increases in pace, and your lips drag over him, sucking one of his balls into your mouth and then—finally—a long, drawn-out groan spills into the air, and he’s saying, “Shit, that’s it.”

Never pausing the movement of your hand, you pull back just a smidge and grin.

Joel’s hands are on you then, another deep sound sputtering from his lips. He’s brushing your hair off your face, mussing it as he rakes his fingers through it, short nails scraping against your scalp. He swears softly when you take him back into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters breathlessly. “Is that what you want? Needy little thing wants a little praise, huh? Want me to tell you how good you are, how good your pretty mouth feels on my cock?”

You whimper, eyelids fluttering as you begin to move on him desperately. Your mouth tightens around him, and a tear squeezes from your eyes as his hips jolt forward, cock nudging suddenly into the back of your throat. Joel’s hand cups the back of your head, strokes the damp skin at the base of your neck as you gag around him.

“Jesus,” Joel groans at the sound. “There you go, s’perfect, s’fuckin’ perfect.”

The muscles in your thighs tighten, legs pressing together to try and soothe the pulsing ache there. Your head is moving up and down along his length and it’s wet and messy and depraved, saliva gliding down your chin to your neck, and you fucking love it. Joel’s gruff sounds of encouragement only serve to spur you on.

And then, as if by some stroke of divine intervention, it happens again.

A firm rap against the door of his office.

Joel goes silent. Your shoulders tense, and you pull back until his tip rests heavy on your bottom lip. Wide eyed, you gaze up at him, panic swelling in your chest. And then comes that voice; the same voice as yesterday.

“You in there Joel?”

You can feel your lungs squeezing inside your chest, grasping violently for air and finding zero reprieve as the reality of the moment begins to overwhelm you, because you know that voice.

“Fuck,” you whisper dazedly, slumping back to rest on your heels. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

Joel shakes his head, strong hands gripping your shoulders to soothe you. “Shh,” he hushes quietly. “Stop, hey, stop. It’s fine.”

Another knock at the door. Nowhere for you to go, nowhere to hide.

“Just a sec, Rachel,” Joel calls, voice laced with frustration.

And then those hands are guiding you backwards. You move blindly, allowing him to encourage your body back, back, back, broad palm protecting your head as he nudges you underneath the desk. Further and further until you’re completely hidden, tucked away where only he can see you. And as you settle into the warm, sweaty space, watch Joel drag his chair forward and squeeze his long legs around your body, you feel the panic quell. Your pulse slows, the tremor in your hands settles, and cool relief comes in the form of a chill down your spine.

“Come in,” Joel calls. You can hear the door click open a second later, soft footsteps entering the room. You hold your breath as they begin to talk, heart stuttering, eyes trained on his where his spit-soaked cock rests against the underside of his desk.

“Sorry to be a bother,” Rachel’s soft voice chimes. “I was hoping to grab my copy of The Annals, I need it for the undergrad lecture I’m covering this afternoon.”

“Course,” he says sharply, and you can hear a drawer to your right open and close. A moment of silence. “All yours.”

Your abdomen tenses at the sound of his haggard voice, and something tight pulls in your chest. A flare of jealousy, of possessiveness, at the fact that someone else is seeing him right now. That the flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his neck, is no longer yours alone. And it’s absurd, because she has no idea. But the desire to reclaim the moment for yourself, to assert that his sweat, his blush—his body—is yours is overwhelming, and you find your hand gripping his heavy cock, tongue gliding out of your mouth to swipe against his weeping tip. The dread from before flares in the back of your mind but you push it away, shove it down until it’s hazy, a faint ringing that fades into the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.

Joel’s thighs stiffen. He coughs, a sharp, surprised noise.

“Thanks for that,” Rachel says, voice slow. “Hey… are you doing okay? Looking pretty faint over there, Miller.”

You smile around him and rub your tongue in teasing strokes along the underside of his sensitive head. He clears his throat roughly, and then his hand is slipping underneath the desk to tangle in your hair. It’s rough and it stings, and you find yourself humming ever so slightly around him, indicating that you love it.

“Feelin’ a little under the weather,” he agrees faintly.

“Should try some of that tea I always tell you about,” she says, ever so friendly. “Works a treat when you’re sick.”

“Maybe I will,” Joel says, and his fingers are twisting in your messy locks, pulling your mouth away from his cock.

Although he can’t see you, you pout. Not wanting to push it, you settle for looping three fingers around him, index middle and thumb, gripping just beneath his head, and begin to rub him in slow, soundless movements. With every forward motion of your hand, the tip of his cock brushes against your lower lip, and his grip on your hair tightens.

“I could bring you some,” Rachel offers then. You can practically hear the smile in her voice, picture the kind slant to her eyes. “Maybe tomorrow, if you think you’ll be coming into wor—”

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Joel snaps suddenly, voice almost harsh as he interrupts her. “Was that all you needed?”

“Oh,” she replies awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry.”

“No,” he says, audibly flustered. His cock is drooling over your lips, and the salty taste has your pussy aching, clenching painfully tight, begging to be filled. “m’sorry, got a fuckin’ headache, is all. Tea tomorrow?”

“Tea tomorrow, sure,” Rachel confirms. “Sorry again, I… yeah, sorry, I hope you feel better, Joel.”

Whem the door closes a moment later Joel is shoving his chair backward again, hands wrenching you out from underneath his desk. You fall forward, flushed and breathless. His expression is thunderous, pitch-black eyes glaring down at you. On all fours, you crawl forward and splay your palms across his thighs, feel them twitch and tremble beneath your nimble fingers.

“You couldn’t fuckin’ wait?” he snaps, hand finding a home in your hair once more. He drags it into a ponytail and wraps it around his fist.

“Sorry,” you lie, teeth nipping at your swollen bottom lip. Joel’s eyes follow the movement and he grunts, unimpressed with the apology.

“She could’ve caught us,” he admonishes you.

“Better start locking the door then,” you clip, winking lazily. A short huff passes through his lips, and then his left hand is dropping to land on your chin, thumb rubbing against your lower lip, prying it from between your teeth.

“Open,” he orders.

His jaw is set with concentration, eyebrows drawn low as he cradles your jaw, holding it still while he pushes his cock back into your eager mouth. The salt of him rushes your senses again and you’re moaning around him, cheeks hollowed and eyes wet as he begins to rut into your mouth, the tip of his cock caressing the back of your throat with every thrust. It’s fast and hard, and the noises coming out of you are scandalous, but you can’t drag your eyes away from his face. Lips parted, eyes ablaze as he watches his cock push in and out of your mouth, over and over again. A tear streaks down your cheek and Joel groans, swiping at it with his fingers. Shallow curses and murmurs of your name spill from his lips in a tortured stream of consciousness.

“Always so fuckin’—impatient,” he mutters. His grip on your jaw is near bruising, cock throbbing against your tongue. You can sense how close he is. Feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, snapping thrusts losing their rhythm.

The stretch has a dull ache searing through your jaw, but Joel is breathless, eyes dark and focused on yours, saying, “Look at you. So pretty takin’ my cock like this.” and you can’t bring yourself to care. Your eyelids flutter closed, and his fingers are tapping your cheek quickly—softly?

“Let me see you,” he says urgently. “Want those eyes on me, don’t close them.” You cast your eyes up to meet his gaze, and Joel hisses under his breath, expression taut.

His hips drag backward, and he’s replacing your mouth with his hand, fucking himself in quick, brutal strokes, and your mouth is open, slick tongue peaking between your lips before he can even say open your mouth.

“Fuck,” he exhales at the sight, tip bumping against your tongue with every wet pump of his fist. His thighs are trembling beneath your hands, and you dig your nails into the muscles there, encouraging him. “Fuck me.”

And then he’s coming, face going slack as hot ropes of his come paint your lips, your tongue, your chin. Unashamed rasps of your name fall from pink lips, washing over you in glorious waves as you sit there and take all of it. And for a moment, you think it’s over. But then Joel’s hand is still moving over his length, calloused thumb gliding against the ridge of his rounded tip, and there’s more.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck—yes.”

Salty strings of his spend gloss over your cheeks and slide down to paint your neck. And it’s like he’s coming a second time, torso jolting in short, jerky movements, and you wish you could see his body while he came; the way the muscles in his stomach would flex and pull taut, entire frame straining as he gives you his all.

His shoulders slump forward as he stares down at you, hand falling away from his sensitive cock, and his face is ruined. Eyes blown wide, cheeks a dark red, looking at you like he’d enjoy nothing more than to devour you whole. Maintaining eye contact, you swallow down his spend, practically purring at the taste of him.

Joel’s thumb smears his come off your cheeks and into your swollen mouth, making sure you don’t miss a single drop.

“Good girl,” his voice is broken. “That’s it, yeah—yes, s’perfect.”

Perfect, perfect, perfect. The word rings in your ears. Your skin is on fire, and you can’t believe that you are both still fully clothed. You feel naked, bared to him in the truest sense of the word, despite being completely covered up.

He groans heartily when you suck his fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around them greedily, and swallow down the last of his spend.

For a moment after, the two of you simply sit there, your knees chafed and aching against the carpet, his fingers hooked against your tongue, staring at each other. And you know. You both know – there’s no going back from this.

Joel drags his hand away and snatches a box of tissues from the top drawer of his desk. You stand, knees popping in relief, and lean against the desk to stabilise yourself. He takes a moment to clean himself, and when you’re sure he’s not looking you swipe a pen from his desk, scribble a set of numbers on a post it and press the sticky paper down against the cover of The Odyssey.

He offers you the box of tissues and you wipe your face carefully, make sure no trace of him is left on your skin. Joel watches your movements like a hawk, eyes fading from black to brown as he fixes his belt and tucks his shirt back into his pants.

“You good?” he asks after a moment. And it’s the same. The same thing he asked you that night in the bar after fucking your brains out. After calling you a slut, a dirty little thing. Maybe it’s his thing—you good? And it’s more than anyone else has ever said after you’ve had their cock in your mouth, so you smile at him. Nod. The duality of man, you think.

“Perfect,” you use his word, and cringe at how wrecked your voice is. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches upward, something sly and conspiratorial in his gaze as he watches you tuck your computer into your bag, IT issue long forgotten.

Even as you wander toward the door of his office, tossing a casual see you tomorrow over your shoulder, you can see it in his face. In the lines by his eyes, the furrow of his brow; never satiated, never finished, never satisfied. More, more, more. This wasn’t enough for either of you. And this will not be the last time.

Hours later, when you’re tucked into bed with a glass of wine and a book perched in your lap, you get a text from an unknown number.

You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.

And then another, twenty minutes later.

That can’t happen again.

You grin. Save his number under J MILLER, PhD, and don’t reply.

tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida

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#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #professor!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller smut

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