#yearning in my favourite flavour

[amanitacurses]

Sacrificial Lamb

[hier--soir]

real image of joel the second she leaves his office

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/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’s take 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

thank you for reading! x

[celestialprincesse]

𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧 𝐆𝐨 - 𝟔

You're not sure whether asking Nikto how he worked out what your favourite foods are is a good idea. Realistically, you know that men in his field are required to be perceptive, to pick out the smallest of details which may be useful later. He's been in your house so many times, in your fridge for a left over slice of pie, or the less that you can barely consider a garage to grab whatever tool he'd needed to fix your wobbly fencepost. On the one hand, his awareness of you, what you like and dislike, is comforting. It feels safe to have someone so constantly tuned in on your frequency. Safe. On the other? Having someone so impossibly attentive to your needs is unsettling. It's been far too long since you've had someone shadowing your day-to-day life - and Nikto is, undeniably, like a shadow.

The picnic is - it's really sweet. Well intentioned. The execution, admittedly is rudimentary, but you're just splitting hairs. A guy set you up a picnic after you practically sucked off his face in your kitchen. You're pretty sure most would've run had they felt the sheer reverence, the need in your kiss. He fixed your fence.

Now you're sat rather awkwardly beside one another, picking at a strange assortment of cheeses and fruits, making stilted conversation as you watch a herd of cows graze a couple of fields down.

"How did you know my fence was broken?" You hum in an absent, obvious attempt to keep the conversation going. Tough considering you barely know anything about Nikto, and yet he seems to know everything about you. Your weak endeavour towards filling the stillness between the two of you obviously doesn't go unnoticed - nor does the way your make an effort to dig deeper and see just how much of you Nikto actually catches.

"You hit it with your car a few weeks ago." He states bluntly, leaving you flushing a beet red. Foolishly, you'd always believed that your sub-par driving skills were just imagined, that no one saw you the way you saw yourself. Clearly, you've been wrong all along.

"You do have your drivers license, yes?" Nikto continues to chide, unable to help the way his blood rushes south when you blush, fluttering your lashes as you avert your gaze to the strawberry you'd been just about to eat. "Mhm." You mumble, trying to feign an indignant look - futile, seeing as he's already caught you in the act of your embarrassment.

"I can help you if you would like." Nikto utters, before he too turns his burning face towards the gingham blanket he'd found whilst trawling the grocery store in the small hours of this morning, trying to be as prepared as possible for your date. He's far too quickly become accustomed to your little quirks and reactions, the way you flinch like a frightened bunny from loud noises, or worry at your lip when you're nervous but still trying to seem nonchalant. You're hardly ever nonchalant about anything. He sees that too. "Is it the car that you struggle with?" He tries, so desperately, to claw himself from the hole he's seemingly fallen into, painfully aware that he's probably coming off as some condescending, patronising prick. He knows you can drive. Kind of. However, the thought of helping you, spending time with you, taking all of the menial tasks of daily life out of your hands, he can't help but to yearn for it. Or maybe it's just you. You're the one thing he finds himself wanting for after a life of solitude. You, your silly little shoes, and strawberry flavoured lips, your bows and pearls. You with a smile so bright it's blinding, and a laugh that could bring the cruelest of men to his knees. You are what he yearns for. The silver lining to the rainclouds which have so long darkened his days. You, you, you.

He doesn't even realise you'd been talking until you stop. Only, of course, to take the next best course of action towards capturing his attention, shuffling towards him until you're sat flush against his side, blinking up at him with a look that clearly suggests that you're asking for permission. The fact that he doesn't get hard right then and there is a miracle - though he's not sure if it's one that'll last. At least, not when you finally work up the guts to crawl up into his lap like a needy cat, searching for attention by any means possible. Last week he was barely refraining from tearing your clothes off and taking you on the counter in your kitchen. This is far more intimate. This is what he wants.

He wants to see the way your cheeks flush pink when his hands slide up your skirt, just enough to brush the calloused pad of his thumb over the delicate lace of your underwear. With bated breath, he wants to watch the way the late afternoon sun turns your hair into a halo of molten metal, cascading from the crown of your head in some glorious inferno.

The little sound of your breath hitching as he noses at your jaw is only the first nail in the cruelest of coffins, burying him alive under the crushing weight of his adoration for you. This, he thinks, this is what he's waited for. This is both his reward, and his punishment for the toil of his career, of his life. His reward, you, so sweet and soft in his lap, pliable as gold, glittering as the brightest of precious stones. Breaking you, breaking your pretty, trusting heart, is entirely out of the question. He'd rather shoot himself in the kneecaps. Walk headfirst into enemy territory and beg to be tortured. Step on a landmine. Any and all of it would be better than seeing you hurt.

Whilst he can't find the words for the way he adored you, he can most definitely find the actions.

Nothing, no man, has ever made you feel the way you do as Nikto eases you to lie back on the picnic blanket, hooking your knees over his shoulders. A kiss to your inner thigh. "I hope you don't mind people hearing, Princess. I intend to make you scream."

[einsvei]

Embracing Frostiness .1

Pairing(s) : Kalim al Asim, Riddle Rosehearts, Malleus Draconia

❅ — about. "Your lips taste familiar. it's my favourite flavour, isn't it? Let me have another taste, please?"... ( 2.3k ) ʸᵒᵘ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗᵉˡˡ ʷʰᶦᶜʰ ᶜʰᵃʳᵃᶜᵗᵉʳ ᶦˢ ᵐʸ ᶠᵃᵛᵒᵘʳᶦᵗᵉ. ᴵ'ᵐ ˢʰᵃᵐᵉˡᵉˢˢ.

☃︎ — warnings. Fluffy headcannons and mini scenarios, all SFW. If you count kissing and teasing as suggestive, then there's that. Here is my shitty Christmas present to the TWST fandom.

Setting: the boys are still NRC students and classes/studying are mentioned.

Kalim Al-Asim, Coconut.

"You taste sweeter than usual!"

As soon as your lips touch, he stills. A thousand questions run through his mind, and greedy for an answer, he continues to place eager kisses on your face. It tastes so familiar, but its nearly the last thing on his mind.

He could get addicted to the taste of your lips, he thinks. Will hum curiously and keep you pressed against him, rendering you unable to get away.

Even when you push him, desperate for a breath of air, his lips will without a fail chase yours. Would probably shamelessly lick you if he's feeling more playful. He'd definitely lick his own lips after the two of you separate, how evil.

Kalim is a lover of PDA. He wants everyone to know how much he loves you, and vice versa! kisses, hugs, hand holding, nothing is entirely off the table when it comes to you. It's how he greets you and says goodbye, one of the main ways to communicate the near suffocating amount of affection he holds for you and those he holds very dear.

But as soon as you start adding lip balm with specific flavouring, expect his kiss attacks to become increasingly more frequent— and by that, i mean, it's the only thing he can think about.

"What flavour is it today?"

"I hope it's the one from yesterday again!"

Kalim wouldn't mind any other choices of flavours you would choose, but you can tell how much more longing his stares get when you use the coconut one, saved for special occasions.

You can encourage him using this ( Jamil recommended, ) for rewards in tests, mock exams, finishing homework on time, or simply by doing well in class. It will work very efficiently, unsurprisingly so, and by consequence— expect a nod of approval from the vice housewarden every once and awhile.

He'll wonder absentmindedly during class, only brought back by Jamil's book snapping shut beside him. He can only smile sheepishly and apologise.

But if the prospect of being rewarded for his due diligence is on the table, he'd be remarkably concentrated and very passionate on the basis of schoolwork. Though, Kalim is still Kalim, so make sure to bring him back down to earth if his mind wanders. If classes are out, its free game in his books!

Anytime he'd see you, he would, without a doubt, steal kisses from you— whether it's in passing due to him being in a hurry or simply doing it distractedly. It's as if a switch had been flipped inside of him, and a deep craving of the syrupy taste of you is all he can think about.

"When did you buy this? do you have any more of it?"

Assuming that you would tell him it was simply an offhanded purchase, or a one time thing, he'd stare at you curiously, before nodding resolutely. You'd do well to remember that look, as it usually means that an incredible amount of money is about to be spent.

Kalim will make sure that you have a very large stock worth of flavoured lip balm or Chapstick always at the ready. He's giddy, nearly vibrating with excitement as he watched you pick them out at Sam's shop. If there isn't anything that catches your eye, don't worry! he'll contact his parents and get a couple crates fully stocked imported and sent straight to ramshackle.

If by some stroke of luck— or misfortune, Kalim is more mischievous that day, he will whine and pout; yet won't say anything. He'll expect you to already know what he wants, simply by his mood. Better give him those kisses he clearly yearns so much for.

Will follow you around with those wide eyes of his, trailing closely behind you like a lost puppy. The display is just so adorable, you can't help but shower him with all the kisses he wants; smooshing the apple of his cheeks.

Coconut is his favourite flavour, and you're one of his favourite people; so Kalim thinks it's the best of both of his most prized worlds.

He's very indulgent by nature, and he'll definitely take advantage of your willingness and play into your love for him in exchange for more sweet tasting kisses. It's your fault you got him addicted to the taste of you, y'know? make sure to take responsibility.

Riddle Rosehearts, Strawberry.

"Don't just kiss me out of nowhere! what? huh...there's something different?"

In common riddle fashion when it comes to physical affection, he'll completely freeze up, body going stock still.

His face is rapidly gaining a red hue, and it threatens to take over his entire face. It feels to him, and looks to you; that his brain has completely shut off, as its not exactly sure how to respond to your straightforward affections.

You gotta let him know before you kiss him, lest this happens. Sure, it seems funny, and you might get a little chuckle out of it, but riddle doesnt like to feel like hes being made fun of. Occasional teasing is alright in his books, but he's very tight strung outside of your relationship and may sometimes find it difficult to tone it down.

If he were to ask for one, there would have to be a lot of prerequisites needed in order for it to happen. Not being a fan of PDA, you would have to be alone; and of course, you'd have to ask first. It's not that riddle doesn't want your affection, that's very far from it.

He is very starved for touch and affection, due to his very strained relationship with his mother. Unfortunately because of that, Riddle doesn't know how to receive affection-- be it in gifts or in the physical sense. He's glad you remembered his favourite flavour, and will compliment you shyly on your memory; he expects nothing but the best from his partner, after all.

He'll be very nervous if you kiss him randomly, but will notice that something is different awhile after he manages to reboot himself appropriately.

Being extremely observant, ( not to mention the fact that since he's not exactly allowed to have sweets, he will notice the delicious taste almost instantly. ) It'll be addressed, but only after a confused and blush ridden riddle scolds you, of course.

Riddle has a hidden sweet tooth, and doesn't get to indulge in it very often, so he may start seeking you out in the hallways, and drag you to an empty corridor or classroom, and ask for a kiss. Maybe if he felt more bold, he would wordlessly ask for permission before taking what he wants.

"Is it...is it on, today?"

he couldn't dare meet your eyes, it's taking a lot out of him to even ask! Riddle was taught to not be selfish, but maybe it's okay if it's with you, right? He'd cough into his fist, and give you a peck. It's up to you if you want to deepen the kiss ( he wouldn't complain,) or keep them simple in scale. Riddle won't outright say it, lest he wants to embarrass himself— but he sometimes catches himself watching your glossy lips whenever you speak.

Whenever you lick them, he yearns to taste it off of you; but knows to restrain himself. His kisses are shy, and he quickly learns to relish the delicious taste that rests on your lips. In due time, the more comfortable riddle is with you through the journey of your relationship, he'll become more eager, and show more vulnerability intimacy wise. He may let out a small whine into your lips and shut his eyes tight, embarrassed to lock eyes with your own during such a moment.

Perhaps ingesting lip balm so continuously isn't the best for his system, so he advises you to not wear it all the time. Even though he could just— not kiss you all the time when you're wearing it. He's tempted to collar you for that thought.

Dorm members will comment on their housewardens behaviour offhandedly, 'he seems less ... him?' or rather, the version that they're essentially used to seeing, at the very least. Your kisses are always slow and delicate, as if you're afraid riddle would break if you pushed him too far. He prefers to not be taken lightly due to his stature, and will encourage you to not play softly with him all the time— his manly pride is important!

But Riddle knows that you want to cherish the moments that the both of you are able to be physically intimate like this for as long as he’ll let you. The pleasant calming scent from the scented balm and the tempting taste of your lips helps relax him a lot more than he had initially thought. Expect his mood to be a lot less capricious than it used to be— Trey and Heartslabyul as a whole is very grateful to you. Its a very small change in his eyes, but in an outsider's perspective, it's major. Don't expect any further leniency on rule breaking, though.

Malleus Draconia, Ice cream

“You really remembered?”

Depending on how far along your relationship with malleus is, he'd be hard pressed to either do one of two things; cling onto you constantly and follow you, or practically have to restrain himself physically so he doesn't always seek you out.

Lillia told him some people prefer when their partners aren't always around them, and in common draconian fashion, took those words very seriously in assuming you and everyone else were the same way. Malleus is quite lonely, so don't take it too much to heart if he happens to cling onto a bit too much. You're the only one aside from his family that he's been able to confide in, whether it be about his emotional insecurity or physical— and with that comes the responsibility of reassuring him every now and again. He won't tell you, of course, but if you're observant enough to notice it, make sure to not leave that alone, lest it escalates.

With the array of peculiarity twisted wonderland holds as a whole, you'd be surprised if you didn't find anything of odd origins at the mystery shop. So spotting the ice cream flavoured lip balm on a shelf is the least astonishing thing you've experienced so far. Don't look too deep into the logic side of things, and buy it! And subsequently, malleus would notice the change by the smell alone. He yearns to be near you and prefers to not take any opportunities when he is for granted. So, when he catches a whiff of a scent he's very familiar with that isn't your natural one, his interest is immediately peaked.

“Something smells different about you today.”

He would sniff you to pinpoint it, As he knows that the scent is on you, but wishes to know exactly where it is. Stopping at your face, his eyes bore into yours, and he'll expect an answer. Tap your lips, or if you'd say it verbally, it would most likely end the same way. A smile would paint his face, a soft crease in his eyes— he's amused.

“Human inventions are incredibly peculiar. How amusing...”

He'd whisper before sealing your lips with his own, greedily and shamelessly licking the seam of your mouth slowly. Make sure to tell him if it's too much, he'll stop, of course, but will expect more. He's overjoyed ( silently ) that you recalled his favourite food and thought of him enough to buy something that he liked. Don't be surprised when small trinkets, stunning gems and miscellaneous items find their way to your hands, in return. Malleus wants you to know, and will try his best to make it very clear that he thinks about you as much as you do him— if not more.

If malleus wants a peck, or a kiss in between classes, or during a late night walk, he'll tap his lips— as you did before.

It'll become a bit of a signal for you both to speak the words that you, or he may be too nervous to speak aloud at times. Malleus is the prince of chivalry, and will always make sure your consent is spoken for whenever physical intimacy like that is present; the last thing he wants to do is potentially hurt you or make you uncomfortable in any way shape or form.

Once the first encounter is done with, expect a very disgruntled pair of knights to ask you where their young master is— his sneaking away has gotten incredibly worse as of late! Don't say anything too obvious, or show them the note he wrote you with a location sprawled on the back of it to them. Sebek is very skeptical when told you have nothing to do with it, but Silver and Lillia will work to reassure him and get off your back. Just make sure they never catch you kissing! though one would be more aghast than the rest, to be fair.

His kisses are delicate, yet hold an undertone of soft eagerness, be aware that he can, and will nip at your lips to tease. Due to his duties as future heir, be prepared to be bombarded with affection by malleus when all is said and done. You're his reprieve, his haven outside of the world that seems to do nothing but fear him— and he cherishes you more than you could possibly ever know. Expect very slow sessions of smooching, and a heavy sigh to leave him as he visibly deflates in your hold, arms wrapped around you.

“Does your tongue taste as sweet as your lips? Shall we see?”

( ༄) EINSVEI⠀𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 ⸰౨ৎ ͙ࣳ ━━ all rights reserved. I implore you to not plagiarize or steal my works. ❅*‧ ִֶ!

[sqtorux]

Do u have any Sukuna fic/smau recommendations I'm desperate 😞😞‼️

i don't read a lot of sukuna fics so i went on a hunt but lowkey why is everything smut😭 like okay slay smut but plain smut without plot? pls where's the buildup, the flavour, the emotions 😞

anyways here's:

let the light in; you Need to read this if you haven't already. it's my ultimate favourite sukuna fic hands down. so well written. read their other works as well i swear by their account. i love jordie!!

soft kuna; short but the impact is huge he almost became my favourite character after reading this lmao.

past lover to current lover sukuna; im a sucker for yearning kuna.

cool bf sukuna x loser gf; it's a whole series and it's pretty popular i dunno if you know about it but yeah definitely check their account out

as for smaus, most smau creators include him i think. if not you can always come back to my account PFFT.

[opultea]

Maybe It Was Always You

Xiao x GN Reader (No pronouns)

Romantic - Oneshot - Fluff - SFW

Word Count: 1.2k

Note: Loved loved loved writing this, my favourite writings are always secret character analyses lol (hope you enjoy!)

Perhaps Xiao had always wanted to love you.

Maybe he could admit that whenever he looked at you from afar, something deep within him would light up at the way you smiled, and then recoil as he reminded himself that he could never allow you to smile that way for him. But that was as much as he could ever admit.

Xiao took pride in his ability to stamp out any desire, any traces of mortal consciousness in his heart that made him yearn for worldly comfort. He did not need such frivolity. He was a Yaksha for Archon's sake; a creature of battle, an instrument of war. His heart had no room for simple temptations. He had no room for his heart.

So what was the tightness in the chest he swore was hollow? How could you fill him with more air than he thought possible to breathe? Maybe Xiao had always wanted to feel. Perhaps he never let himself stray too far from his position of duty because he couldn't know how. However gruelling it was to slay and strike and punish, it was almost comfortable. Xiao knew all of this well.

He knew not of how to speak to you.

"Which tea would you prefer Xiao?"

What kind of question was that? Why would a weapon like himself have any preferences? Was this a test of some kind? A cruel joke? How should he know what tea you'd like best? Of course you would make this difficult, you always found a way to make things difficult for him. Why was it always so hard to breathe around you?

"Does it matter?" He settled into his usual scowl. What he knew couldn't hurt him, right?

"Well, I guess not," You smiled warmly. You were always so warm. "But isn't it nice to indulge in little things that make you happy now and again?" Xiao clicked his tongue.

"Adepti do not indulge. Why would we ever have a need for such insignificant things?"

You took a moment to ponder the question, taking it as the genuine misunderstanding of someone who was used to an outsider's perspective rather than as criticism. You knew Xiao well enough by now to understand what he truly meant when he said such things.

"Well, I think that it's important for everyone to have things that bring them joy, no matter how insignificant they are. It makes living a little easier when you can rely on even the smallest things to make you happy,"

"Ease has never been the goal of my existence," Xiao argued, though the soft croak in his voice revealed what his words could not.

"Maybe not a goal, but you surely still need rest and recuperation?" Deciding Xiao was not going to pick a tea flavour, you plucked the one closest to you and began to brew it. "Like right now, we're having tea and chatting, even if it's not classically productive,"

"It is not... this... I would not call this an insignificant thing." That made you smile wide, your head tilting affectionately.

"Well for the record, you make me happy too Xiao,"

Maybe Xiao would never know if the racing in his chest was normal.

It was not uncommon for you to visit Wangshu Inn, but it felt as if the frequency of your visits had increased as of late. You would always start by greeting Verr Goldet, but the boss never kept you long before she ushered you upstairs, sneaking a knowing look toward the balcony.

For your first few visits, Xiao had not always been there, often out attending to his eternal duty. When the vigilant Yaksha returned to find you waiting on the balcony for him, it took him a moment to unfreeze.

“You need not waste your time waiting,” Xiao huffed.

"Well I come here mostly to see you, I think it would be a bit useless if I left without even accomplishing a hello,"

"You-" Xiao's reflex rebuttal caught in his throat. You came to see him. Maybe he would never figure out why that made his whole body feel light. "Then, the next time you come, call my name. I will arrive."

Now, you visited what felt like every other day, and each time you climbed to the tallest point of the inn and called the name of the Conqueror of Demons, he would dutifully appear. You both learnt to expect each other, and neither would dream of breaking the silent oath of commitment. Perhaps Xiao was pleased with the synergy you had created together.

It was a regular visit for you when Xiao asked that fateful question.

"Why do you persist?"

The night air was cool and crisp, the light breeze from the north still carrying some of the sweetness from its birthplace in Mondstadt. The two of you stood leaning against the railing of the balcony, savouring the time together. You blinked at the question, staring openly as if your gaze would be able to permeate the Adeptus’ mind.

“I’m sorry?”

“You endlessly approach me with conversation, as if I am like you,”

“And what am I like?”

“Mortal.”

You knew that Xiao had trouble accepting friendship; he had once told you that he was a weapon as if it was a fact of the world. But did he honestly still believe himself nothing more?

“Xiao,” you breathed softly. “I come to you because you make me happy, because I want to, because I desire your companionship. Is that not reason enough?”

Xiao turned his head away just enough that you couldn't see his face, but it did not do much to hide his ebbing emotion.

"It was never a good idea for you to interact with me, let alone so casually. I warned you as much." Xiao's head bowed slightly, as if his mind was tired from attempting to comprehend you. "And yet you persist. You come and you make me feel this way, and then you go and you make me feel even more. So why? Why are you doing this to me, to yourself?"

Xiao finally turned back to you, brow furrowed and eyes searching, maybe even hoping. You stepped closer, not wanting to scare him but wanting desperately for him to understand.

"Because you deserve to be loved, Xiao. And I want to provide that for you,"

His eyes widened in response, his whole body alight with confusion at the foreign thought. But somewhere just below the panic sat an old desire, a desperate part of him that craved the tenderness in your voice.

Perhaps that was all Xiao had ever wanted to hear. Maybe you were the only one his waking heart would ever allow to speak it. You, with your soft tones and gentle sincerity, your understanding nature and your persistence. Maybe your love was all he had ever dreamed of.

When you carefully opened your arms and stepped a fragment closer, Xiao was surprised at his willingness to accept the gesture. For a rare and incredible moment, he did not feel the weight of the world upon him. Only the comforting weight of you around his soul.

Perhaps you were all Xiao ever needed to feel free enough to love.

[marcelwrites]

I passed through Fitzroy and burnt for you. The streetlamps shone and the city was all lit up like a concrete skyscape, every twinkle a hand reaching out towards the heavens and beyond. It is life to wander and burn. With my feet on the pavement and the relentless sea sway of human bodies as the guitars and drums blared and beat like war drums in my chest. That sour salt smell of sweat compressed and distilled further heightening the senses. Back when I still had a father and his life force was here on planet Earth. The pounding music and scream of the crowd, an earsplitting intensity, it borders on the quaking orgasm, one that is truly earned and yearned for. A sensation that is felt in your marrow and is carried throughout your body, a necessary tingle that lingers for hours afterwards. Now I carry that life force, the torch of someone's essence, burning, brightly in my hands like living flame. I wield it like a weapon and it emboldens me. The night has never been darker but my resolve has never been greater. I am strong, strong for you, strong because of you, and my love for you was as pure as any I've ever or will ever know. Other loves and lusts swirl through my head like galaxies of humanity and they collide and create new memories, wants, and needs, I am everything you were, and I will live basking in the legacy of someone truly great. The sun starts to shine and I will bathe in the warmth, drinking it down like a wino and his favourite tipple, the afterglow something special. This is beauty rarefied and it's beautiful because of you. A vivid amalgamation of experiences and people. Everything tastes sweeter now. This morning I ate an apple and savoured every bite of its flesh. Like I'd savour the flavour and feel of yours. The smell of your hair would be ecstasy. Anyway, I will cry and crave separately in future, the conflicting war of human emotion is like raging torrents of water fit to split the dam of reservation and temperance; inside me a maelstrom of pure human violence. Isn't it beautiful to be alive?

[valentine-writes]

Could you write something about hanahaki disease with Johnathon ohnn? (Could end in angst or fluff either is good :3) no rush ofc, i love your work!!!

choking on flowers.

「 tws + notes: open ended ending, implications/mentions of death (but no Actual Death), unedited, OOC, interpretation of hanahaki may be slightly diff (i haven't heard of this trope thing in a hot min ngl so im not the Greatest With This), pre-collider even though his holes generating flowers is a silly thought which i giggled abt while writing this, present/past tenses are fucked up cuz i changed formatting halfway, angst?? 」

「 gn!reader, (unrequited) romantic relationship </3 」

↳ ft. johnathan/johnathon ohnn

author's note: THANK U SMMM!! (∩^o^)⊃━☆ lowkey 4got thiz thing existed lolz,, and while hanahaki aus are no longer My Thing, i wud b lying if i told u i didn't eat hanahaki ficz up in middle school ＞︿＜!! sooo,, here we go!!! hopefully this is ok,, many apologies for how short it iz aauwgwhwh

this is the third time you've called him today, trying to reach out. the first two times, he had thought he was strong enough to ignore you.

he was wrong. the minute his phone rang out that third time, he practically scrambled over to it just to answer. pathetic.

"you haven't been at work for what,,, almost two weeks now?"

the concern in your voice makes johnathan want to keel over dead instantly– not like he's far from it anyways. he pulls his phone away as he lets out a weak cough. you barely hear it from your end of the call.

"...sick." is all he manages to rasp out, his sore throat preventing him from speaking further. even if he could manage to talk more, he wouldn't know what else to say. how would he tell you? the call ends prematurely. you know you're not going to get more out of him, and he knows that it's better to keep you in the dark about his situation.

to tell you about how his unrequited feelings have manifested into something much more than both of you can handle was completely and absolutely out of the question. how was he supposed to explain he had been coughing up your favourite flowers? johnathan would rather let it kill him.

not only was he humiliated by the sheer intensity of his yearning– he knew you'd end up feeling guilty about it. yet, a part of his heart ached, wishing that he was selfish enough to tell you. maybe seeing you cry over him would give him some semblance of love.

that was an awful thought. he promptly pushed it aside. he'd never want to make you cry.

he could only laugh at how frustrating his situation is. it was inescapable, his fate inevitable and ever nearing– and no one to tell.

he had never felt so alone.

at least i'll have flowers for my funeral, he thought in the deafening silence of his home, finding the energy to let out a weak chuckle over the thought.

–

a few days after the call, his phone buzzed, receiving a text from you:

i'm coming over'

straightforward, at least.

'what if you get sick?' he messages back, trying to generate excuses to keep you away.

you reply swiftly, before he can come up with anything else, unswayed by the idea of potentially catching his illness which, unbeknownst to you, wasn't really transferable anyways. 'we'll wear masks then. omw.'

lovely. you were stubborn as ever. at least you gave him a heads up.

he noticed you made no attempt to keep your distance from him as you dropped off his little care package.

all neatly put into a little basket was some fresh fruit you had insisted he needed, as you rambled over the importance of vitamin c and immune health, a sweet little card filled with "get better soon"s filled by his coworkers at alchemax most of which he knew probably didn't really care all that much, a few packages of cough drops you had been a sweetheart to actually choose ones which had bearable flavours, a blanket, a few snacks, and... flowers.

if you had known exactly what illness, he doubted this choice would have been made. he stared at them silently, finding some sort of humor in the mortifying irony.

-

you said an awkward goodbye at his door, about to turn around and head off– before hesitating for a second.

"johnathan?" the way you looked at him, eyes filled with tenderness and worry– maybe it wasn't so bad after all, for you to be the death of him.

"...yeah?"

you didn't say anything further, instead, choosing to communicate through impulsively squeezing him into a tight hug.

you pull away just as quick as it had happened, yet the warmth of your embrace lingered a little longer, even as you headed out the door. something about you caring so much made it hurt more.

johnathan wondered why you even cared, why you were so persistent about looking out for him– knowing that he'd end up watching you slip away from him again, leaving an ache in his heart nothing could remedy.

he couldn't blame you. not sweet, kind, thoughtful you. he was the idiot, the careless fool who yearned for something he couldn't have.

maybe in another life, he thought to himself.

[suzannahnatters]

My current kdrama watch is the acclaimed historical Mr Sunshine and 8 episodes in, I'm LOVING it. This show is nearly precisely my jam. Here are some of the things I've been loving so far:

The scriptwriter is a woman and IT SHOWS. It's not that the men in this drama don't get up to the usual Asian Drama Patriarchal Nonsense. And it's not that the heroine tries to challenge the usual ADPN - she's just too smart, active, and driven for it to affect her much. In ep8 her grandfather and mentor conspire to keep her from running a dangerous mission and she just eavesdrops on them and informs them that she will in fact be running the dangerous mission anyway and there's nothing they can do about it. It's not that they aren't TRYING to infantilise her - she's just too much of an adult for them to be very good at it, which is refreshing.

The main pairing is leaving me more or less unmoved but this angst-ridden antiheroic crush from the angry little gangster man she scorns as a traitor??? The game of cat and also cat they have going on? The sheer levels of unrequited yearning and the ruthless way she's using it against him? …oh duh. It's yet another version of my favourite ETL flavour: Sad Wet Pathetic Man Hounded To His Death By Righteous Lady Warrior

For years - years - I have bewailed the way in which American writers of historical fiction always find a way to shove American characters into other people's stories. Mr Sunshine somehow does this trope in a way that I utterly love because it does the trope in a way that is not American-centric. The American being inserted into the story of 1890s Joseon is a Korean-American. The story is firmly centred on the Korean experience, whether as immigrants to America or as a subject of colonisation by other great powers. It depicts the US with a nuanced appreciation of that nation's democratic ideals contrasted with a realistic and jaded view of that same nation's inability to live up to those same ideals. YES this is what I've always wanted to see!

Related, I'm really appreciating the nuanced take on Korea and Japan - I absolutely loved Tale of the Nine-Tailed 1938 last year but it definitely didn't have any good Japanese in it. Mr Sunshine isn't particularly happy about Japan either, but it's far more empathetic towards those Koreans who found themselves collaborating with, living in, or taking on the identity of Japan for whatever reason. And by the same token, it was honestly a bit shocking to see this story open by shining a VERY uncompromising light on the plight of slaves in Joseon Korea - the show continually insists that slaves and women in Joseon are treated as badly as the hovering colonial powers would treat the Joseon nobility, and shows how disadvantaged people might end up on either side of the struggle for independence as response to the same kind of injustice bred in Korea itself. It's a beautifully complex and nuanced take.

Also HECK it's just so incredibly pretty to look at.

[reveluving]

you're shining (more than any star)

summary: what the wedding & having a kid with Trystan would be like.

pairing: m!trystan thorne x f!mc (written as ‘you’, no name usage)

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, major spoilers from book 2!

a/n: oh you thought it was over?? HAH. this isn't even my final form! but no, thank you @kyra75 for this ask!! I had so much fun making this, and I hope you enjoy it just as I did! and don’t forget to leave some sugar! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

» fancy reading another choices fic? check out my m.list!

Marriage? Yes!

Two weddings shall take place; as expected, having one in Drakovia is a must. Royal rules and all but I’ll be focusing on the one taking place in what you and now, Trystan call home; NYC. 

Believe it or not, Trystan is all up for your small wedding idea! But he has given you a fair warning that the wedding may be recorded and then televised. But he’s definitely up for a more intimate affair. Consider the one that took place in Drakovia a more ‘scheduled’ event, having to keep up with the itinerary. But as for in The States, the only royalties involved will be his family and a handful of their relatives or closest friends. And we can’t forget our girl, Olivia! She, Maksim, Viktoria, Lydea, and Marguerite are the most grateful for the smaller affair since they’ll be able to truly enjoy the moment without the fear of the press scrutinizing their every move.

That’s not to say they will completely sit back and forget their places. Lydea, especially, since she offered you her Royal Guards to keep watch of the venue. 

Unbeknownst to you, Trystan may have overheard when you quickly shot Captain Thompson’s so-called ‘offer’ down for the same services. So, like the attentive fiance he is, he may or may not have told Lydea about it, plus a quick backstory of what had happened when you were in the NYPD. Though your friendship with Lydea isn’t the strongest, you best believe when she replies with an ‘okay’.

Consider it the family’s long-overdue token of appreciation.

Glasshouse or outdoors-y venues. Just a hint of fairycore especially with the twinkling lights and chandeliers, plus tall glass candle holders plus pastel flower stand combo because I'd imagine young Rose yearning for a magical wedding before repressing her more 'domestic' wants shortly after Jimmy's murder. Plus, the view is absolutely breathtaking as dusk rolls around.

Just a little side note, but ‘Mr & Mrs Rose-Thorne’ written on the boards? It may be a hit or miss but I personally find it cute!

And fret not, for a ceremony that is still attended by royalty, not all of the food will be served as small as hors d'oeuvres or sourced from questionable ingredients. Fancy and filling, your buffet would offer an array of delicacies, ensuring to cater for those with allergies or any certain diets they have to follow. 

A simple cake! Single or double-tiered, the cake flavour is of your choice, perfectly layered with Swiss Meringue buttercream by the best baker in town. Nobody likes a grainy frosting or a dry cake!

A moment of silence for Jimmy, Juliana and Sebastyan with their framed photos at the very front of the altar. Though no one outwardly says it, you and Trystan can see the gratefulness in the family’s eyes. You’ve even caught some of them curtly bowing to Jimmy’s picture after the cake-cutting ceremony.

Alice (or however you've named your Boxer pupper!) as the ring bearer! An absolute sweetheart when Matty directed her to the alter, only to rush over to you and Trystan excitedly upon recognition, demanding pets from the both of you before commencing the ring exchange. It’s a wholesome sight, as you can imagine; earning a share of laughter with the guests, even a small smile from the queen herself as your right-hand lady drops her ‘professionalism’. Then, she'd instinctively sit beside Trystan during it all, barking in excitement with the guests clapping as you and Trystan sealed it with a kiss.

Photos! One of your favourites is a candid picture of Trystan spoon-feeding you crème brulee just after you shared with him some of your mini caramel trifle just after exchanging vows.

Another favourite comes in a set at the floral photo booth with the crew. You, Trystan, Uncle T, Mafalda, Ruby, Luke and Alice! Trystan points out that he likes the last one the most; Tommy and Ruby are clearly cooing as Trystan kisses the back of your hand whereas Luke and Mafalda are (affectionally) judgy. 

Now, children? Depends!

We know Trystan isn't into the whole reproduction idea, but I do imagine him thinking about adoption deeply even months before the proposal. Be it an actual child or even a sibling for Alice. But say he does grow fonder of the idea of having his own kids, the most important thing is that he can’t think of anyone better to be the mother of his kid other than you. 

Adoption or not, I can already see him with a daughter, affectionately calling her ‘Bug’.

Come, as we venture into a few HCs of Bug!

Being the very best of friends with Alice!

Bug being spoilt all the time, especially by her grandparents; both the NYC and Drakovia's side, Aunt Mags and Aunt Ruby (and maybe Uncle Luke, if she’s lucky) but is also still the most respectful cutie pie!

Bug excitedly running towards Lydea with an ‘Aunt Dee!’ before hugging her legs upon reaching Drakovia. Imagine the sheer terror on the faces of anyone new, including her guards who have known the queen as strict and a lady of no-nonsense. And yet, here she was, the corners of her lips quirking upwards as she bent down to carry Bug in her arms before greeting you and her brother. 

Any of the members, namely Maksim or Trystan calling the Drakkos Zoo a day before your arrival to ensure Bug gets the full, more satisfying experience. You may have been very wary of introducing her to the old and wise Orlenna, but you’ve grown weak to her puppy-dog eyes. It started off as saying hello and babbling to the majestic viper, then after a certain number of visits, possibly your fifth or sixth (or at an older age), you slowly but surely give in. 

And just like your first visit, Orlenna nuzzles into the young girl’s hand, eliciting giggles as her tongue tickles her skin. You don't even bother shutting Trystan up as he chuckles at how you sighed in relief. Heavily.

Can't forget about your family's favourite part; the otters!

You may or may not have a whole photo gallery of her with the chirping critters.

You trying to make sure Bug isn’t alone with Astrid, Patryk, Kaspar or Emika, though soon, you’re a little more open to the twins. But Trystan and Lydea are a step further than you, warning them (and especially Patryk, who they most definitely don't want Bug to be around) with God knows what as the craziest thing you’ve ever seen the twins do to bond with your daughter is introducing the oddest couture outfits they’ve ever worn.  

Visiting the graveyard to commemorate those who have passed on, just as you do so she would also remember her Grandpa Jimmy. The story where you and Trystan duelled in Kovmorti never fails to bring sparkles into Bug’s eyes, but you can tell she imagines the whole scenario as a fantasy thing; Uncle Seb’s spirit form watching her parents honour him with actual swords and in royal garbs and all.

Just to personally indulge on this request, I wish to share with you a faceclaim of (my) Rose in a wedding dress (if you're curious, this is Joy filming for the drama 'The One and Only'!).

But by all means, you are free to choose—to be creative! You (or your OCs) are Detective Rose, too!

And as Trystan would believe, no matter how your dresses may be, no matter how grand the party is, or whatever the future holds for the two of you, nothing beats you. 

After all, you’re always shining, more than any star.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

» tagging @choicesficwriterscreations for fic of the week ;; & the gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics ♡

[kinnbig]

ooh trick or treet!! 🎃

hello beloved here is an ArmKhun flavoured treat for you from a lil oneshot WIP I've had in my drafts for way too long 👀💖

It's the third outfit that does it.

Really, Tankhun isn't sure why he's surprised. The outfit is to die for. Tankhun looks incredible in it. He should almost certainly have anticipated some kind of reaction.

Perhaps it's different because it's just the two of them this evening. Usually, a bigger turnout is inspired by Tankhun's Pre-Party Styling Parties (wherein the afternoon before any excursion to Hum Bar (or really, to any function that Tankhun might care to attend - he's branching out these days, he's even been on a boat) is spent drinking cocktails and grazing on canapés and, most importantly, showcasing all of Tankhun's potential looks for the evening) - but today Chay has an audition, and Kinn and Porsche are away on business, and Pol was called away after barely ten minutes of partying (because one of his frankly ridiculous number of sisters rudely decided to give birth during Tankhun's gathering, which for some ungodly reason required Pol's presence) - and so now there's just Arm.

Arm, leaning against the wall in Tankhun's bedroom, wearing a surprisingly tasteful (albeit uninspiring) sky-blue button-up and holding a cocktail glass that no longer has a cocktail in it - because the entirety of said cocktail now finds itself staining the front of the aforementioned sky-blue shirt.

Tankhun had just swept aside the curtains of his dressing room to reveal his new outfit (his favourite so far; sheer, slinky mesh on top that clings exquisitely across his chest and waist and yoga-toned abs, if he does say so himself; expertly paired with a pair of flowy, delicately-patterned trousers with gorgeous corset detailing on the waistband; heeled, glittery boots; and a selection of fine silver jewellery, including a stunning body-chain that fastens quite eye-catchingly against his throat and waist), and Arm had looked up as he entered and promptly spilled his drink all over himself.

The thing is, Arm doesn't really even seem to have noticed. His eyes have gone very wide, and Tankhun can feel them on him; feel the heat of Arm's gaze on his skin as it traverses over him; feel Arm taking in the dark smudge of kohl around his eyes, the cling of shimmery black mesh to his torso, the caress of the delicate silver chain against his throat and sternum and waist - and Tankhun knows he looks good, of course he does, but the way Arm is looking at him stirs something molten and exhilarating deep within his gut.His blood seems to crackle.

Arm wants him.

It creeps through his veins, heady and powerful and intoxicating. Arm wants him, and it's so incredibly, electrifyingly perfect, because Tankhun has wanted Arm since the night he took off his clothes in Yok's bar.

(Or at least, the night Arm took off his clothes in Yok's bar is when Tankhun first allowed himself to admit that he wanted Arm; an earnest agreement to Yok’s drunken, filthy confession, whispered through a conspiratorial grin into Tankhun's ear, "I'd let that bodyguard of yours do more than just guard my body, I'll tell you that much," - but in truth, if he thinks about it: it's been longer than that. Much longer.

If Tankhun is honest with himself, he knows that this clawing, aching want has been simmering inside of him for so long that it feels perfectly at home in his rib cage; woven into the very fibre of his being; part of every single cell in his body as if each one had been designed to contain it - as if deep down, at his core, Tankhun had been built to yearn. To long. Like this. For him.)

Now, Arm stares at him with unmistakable desire, and Tankhun stills, for a moment, and lets the thrill of it hum down his spine; shuddered and singing and stuttered like wind-chimes in the breeze.

And then he tuts. "Oh," he says, and Arm startles at the sound, his eyes snapping to meet Tankhun's before abruptly dropping again, embarrassed, a pink flush rising high on his cheekbones as he inspects the damage to his shirt, "this won't do at all."

✨🍬 fic writer ask box trick-or-treat! 🍬✨

[partyfears]

6, 7, 20 for FT ask game

6. What is your favourite parallel/reference in the show?

I mean if we’re going for the obvious it has to be “promise you won’t write” doesn’t it? Who didn’t sob like a baby at that?

I have so many that I love though. Parallels are something that this show does so well, particularly due to the a-chronological structure of the plot. I’m just going to list all my favourites below because I’ve tried and I can’t narrow it down lol

Tim gazing longingly at the couples slow dancing together at Mary’s apt in episode 2 vs Tim slow dancing with Hawk in episode 8, totally blissed out, almost like he can’t quite believe that he finally has what he’s been yearning for for so long.

Tim looking at baby Jackson in ‘57 absolutely devastated, heartbroken, gutted to the core… and then Tim watching 11 year old Jackson sleeping in ‘68, at peace with the whole situation. It shows such wonderful cathartic character growth.

Hawk’s “you know me” in episode 1 vs Tim’s “I have you” in episode 7 - such a subtle yet genius way to show how the power between the two has shifted seismically. Tim has gone from desperately seeking out and willingly taking anything that Hawk will give him - happy to accept breadcrumbs of affection - to being safe and at peace in the knowledge that he no longer needs anything from Hawk. He has his love, and is content to love him from afar.

Tim outside the bathroom door asking to come in when Hawk is sick in episode 7 vs Hawk not hesitating to come to Tim’s aid in the bathroom in episode 3, even when Tim screams at him to get out. Such a literal depiction of how they each approach the relationship - Tim wanting to help, but respecting Hawk’s boundaries and understanding the need for distance, vs Hawk never being able to stay away, regardless of whether it’s what Tim wants or not. He’s always driven by his love - everything else melts away in the face of it.

Lucy saying to her dad “we’re all going to be fine” vs Hawk saying to Jackson “we’re all going to be fine” - the FORESHADOWING

And then just a couple of cute ones:

Hawk tricking Tim with the tie in episode 4 vs Hawk tricking Tim on the beach - both so that he can grab him and scoop him up into his arms. So fucking cute 😭

“You haven’t called in three weeks.” “Four!” vs “So, how long has it been since you two have seen each other?” “A few years” “Eleven”. The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same 😭

7. A crack question: which food represents every character of Fellow Travelers?

How do I even answer this hahaha

Erm okay, so Tim is milk obviously.

Hawk is a steak - expensive, coveted, when handled badly can have a tough exterior, and is a bloody mess on the inside.

Frankie is a cocktail, fun and fruity and spicy and comes in an array of colours, flavours, etc.

Marcus is a hard one… I honestly don’t know. I’m stumped. If I think of something I’ll leave it in the comments.

Lucy is something dignified, a nice sit down meal, like a Sunday roast or something. Comforting, in keeping with tradition, a way to get the family together.

20. If Fellow Travelers had a spin-off or a continuation, what would you like it to be about?

I’d love to see more of Frankie and Marcus and Jerome, and how the fight for AIDS funding progressed over the subsequent years. The protest at the gala was very reminiscent of ACT UP, which wasn’t officially formed until 1987, so I’d love to see how that unfolded and how involved Frankie and Marcus were. While it was formed in NYC, ACT UP had divisions all over the US, including DC and San Fran - I’m sure Frankie would’ve been at the helm of the San Fran chapter. Would Hawk have gotten involved in DC? And to what extent? Would he have tried to push things in the right direction from behind the scenes?

Of course we’d also get to see how Hawk’s relationship with Kimberly develops, how he navigates his grief for Tim, potential flashbacks to moments with Tim that we haven’t seen before…

Yeah I really want this now. Ron hit me up lol

[agentgreenbean]

rb for a larger sample size!!

[yawnderu]

hi lovely!!! for the ask game

LIME

BASIL

GRASS

JADE

Hi honey!!<3

From this game!

Lime: If you writing had a flavour, what would it taste like?

OOHHH it depends on what I write. If it's fluff, strawberry shortcake. If it's smut... GOD I have no idea HAHAHA

Basil: What small detail do you put in all your writing?

Longing!!! Yearning!! We roll with sweethearts and lovers around here and I'm a sucker for it, so unless it's hardcore smut, there's always a certain degree of longing and pining present between the pair.

Grass: What theme shows up in everything you have written?

Idiots in love!! God, it's my favorite thing to write about, mainly when it's not smut so I'm free to write about the mutual pining and softness that goes into characters that are usually seen (and mainly are, tbh) as rough around the edges or rough in general. Something about taking a character known for being stoic and going deeper into who he is and his story, finding the spots of softness that only one person can see is one of my favourite things<3

Jade: If you were a famous writer, what would you be known for?

I'm already known for the sex pollen fics, so that's the answer HAHAHA God, the crazy monkey sex seems like something fun to be known for

Thank u for the asks!!<3

[nkogneatho]

witch pasi !!!!! weeeee this ask game is so so cute <3 thank u for always delivering bb !!

one thing i love about myself is my perseverance, my favourite dessert is honestly anything matcha flavoured 😭 !! favourite colour is purple and anime is haikyuu <333

you've been sent to ꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ sirennia ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱

in the island of sirens, a human is treated as an object of desire, obsession and lust. male sirens usually deceive humans into love with their body and libido. but it looks like our beloved siren has taken quite an interest in you human, and it doesn't seem just desire to me but an yearning for more.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

32 - Multitudes

You are as mysterious to me as you are beautiful. What delicate mechanisms inspire your graceful movements? What divine forces animate your rarefied thoughts? What is your favourite flavour ice cream...?

Like a mote of light in a fathomless abyss, my piecemeal knowledge of the wonder of you only serves to show the stupefying depths of my ignorance. And the more I learn, the more I wish to know. I would chart the contours of your mountains and vales, delve deep into inky caverns to discover what new and awe-inspiring creatures may dwell there; lose myself in the jungle of your hair, be swept to sea by the force of your currents; to be swallowed up and drowned by the fetid swamp of your deepest, darkest self.

I know the risks well, but the promise of treasures untold, to hold such exquisite things in my hands... how could I refuse such temptation? If such danger must be confronted to know you more fully, then what choice do I have, as your most ardent scholar?

If you would just be still a moment, as I refine this portrait I carry in my heart... each new brushstroke, each splotch of colour a world unto themselves, stanzas in the perpetually-moving poetry that comprises you. Is there any room for me there, amid that churning maelstrom of contradictions, those riotous multitudes?

Be still, please, my subject, while I tease the gossamer layers from your heavenly form, unfurl your godly blueprint out before me and arrange the vital instruments that conspire to grant you life, categorising and naming them as is right and proper. Cause and effect - the scientific method. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. I will know you in your entirety... and with that knowledge will come power.

Maybe then I'll discover why - why I am so drawn to you and all your infuriating inconsistencies, why so much of my inner world is devoted to you, why my vital functions are so dependent upon your continued existence. Which piece of you ties to which piece of me; two halves yearning to be whole; the needle of a compass which points dutifully to its north; a beautiful object and the shadow it casts.

Let me experience the worlds you contain, and I shall know you until the end of time.

______________________________

The Dark Menagerie No. 32

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