#nosing edge trim
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Black Aluminium Stair Nosing - Sydney Stair Nosing
What is the installation process like?
The installation process for black aluminium stair nosing may vary slightly depending on the specific product and manufacturer. However, here are some general tips and instructions that can help guide you through the installation process:
Prepare the Steps: Before installing the stair nosing, ensure that the steps are smooth, sturdy, and clean. Remove any loose dirt, debris, or obstructions from the surface of the steps.
Measure Carefully: Measure the length of each step carefully and double-check your measurements before cutting the stair nosing. It is crucial to ensure accurate measurements to achieve a proper fit.
Cut the Stair Nosing: Using appropriate tools, cut the black aluminium stair nosing to the measured length. Follow the manufacturer's instructions for cutting the nosing to ensure a clean and precise cut.
Apply Adhesive: Apply an adhesive suitable for the specific stair nosing product to the back of the nosing. Make sure to use an adhesive that is recommended by the manufacturer to ensure proper adhesion.
Position and Secure: Press the stair nosing firmly onto the step, aligning it with the edge of the step. If the stair nosing has pre-drilled fixing holes, use screws to secure it in place. Follow the manufacturer's instructions for the specific installation method.
Repeat the Process: Repeat the above steps for each step of the staircase until you have installed the black aluminium stair nosing on all the steps.
It is important to note that building codes and regulations may vary, so it is advisable to research and follow the specific requirements for your location and application. If you are unsure about the installation process or have any concerns, it is recommended to consult a professional for assistance.
Remember to always refer to the manufacturer's instructions and guidelines for the specific black aluminium stair nosing product you are using, as they may provide additional or more detailed installation instructions.
#contrasting nosing for stairs#yellow stair nosing sydney#50mm stair nosing#laminate stairs nosing#staircase nosings sydney#commercial stair nosings#stainless steel stair nosings#wooden stair nosings#nosing edge trim
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if ur still taking requests could u do dbf!miguel? :3
he would be a brat tamer, change my mind.
DBF!Miguel O'Hara
(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist
DBF!Miguel O'Hara x fem reader
summary: fucking dbf!mig in a closet at a christmas party <3
warnings: Minors DNI. 18+. Brat taming, PIV, oral (f receiving), semi-public sex. established relationship? idk, this isn't the first time y'all are fucking
a/n: if you squint this is christmas themed. happy holidays everyone!
wc: 1k
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Dbf!Miguel but he has some semblance of a conscience. He has just enough self awareness, the wherewithal to feel guilty as he fucks you - sighing into the crook of your neck as you whine.
And God, do you whine… simpering, breathy little moans that go straight to his cock. The way you squirm underneath him, legs shaking and shivering so he has to dig into the meat of perfect thigh just a bit more; lapping at that dip below your jaw in a frenzy.
“Quiet.” He hisses, grinding his pelvis against yours, pushing your body flat against the wall.
“F-Fuck, Mig… can't–”
When your head tips back, and it will - he's been fucking you long enough to know your tells, to catch every shiver and creak of bones before you come - he'll lick up those moans too.
You keen, fucking back on his length, and Miguel shifts his hips just so - hiking up your leg even higher. With one swift movement, you've wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hand in his hair. He's pulled out, tip of his cock kissing your hole, and then he slams himself back in - a delicious curve that hits just the right place.
“Look at me.” He says it soft, tilting your chin so your noses graze against one another, lips barely a hair's breadth away. “You're close, baby.”
He says it like a statement, so attuned to you in that little coat closet, batting away fur trim and padding. And it's intimate, tits pressed up against him, spilling out of a push up bra under an itchy jumper you wore specifically for him - but of course, you wouldn't dare say as such.
The way your lips press against him is enough, desperate and breathy. He presses the flat of his thumb - deliciously rough, with just the right amount of pressure - against your clit, and your legs buckle under the pleasure that it brings.
“Look at me.” He says it again, crooning and gentle. “Want you to look at me when you come, hermosa.”
Like a dog in heat, what he says, goes; and you're brought to the edge by just his words. Quiet, like he said you should, and you nip at the juncture of neck peeking out from that thickly knit sweater, biting down a moan. It rips through you, bubbling up at your chest, causing you to clamp down on his length.
“Needy girl…. O-Oh fuck….” Miguel whispers it into your ear, holding you close.
Eyes lidded, you trace cheekbone and deep furrows, addicted to the way his dimples look in the low light. And when you tug, hand in his hair and pulling him closer, deeper, milking his cock; he rewards with you with hot cum and a sloppy kiss.
Hips stuttering, eventually he pulls out; tucking his cock back into loose slacks. You're breathless, slumped back onto cool. wall.
“Give me a second…” You huff.
“Here,” He says, wrapping the limp limbs around his shoulders even tighter. “Don't be a brat.”
It’s said without any real venom, quiet protests kissed into skin. He sinks to his knees, using his thumbs to open up your cunt, marvelling at the way you glisten. It makes you hot under the collar, batting him away. Regardless, Miguel persists, swiping his tongue at your pretty hole and taking a careful taste.
You squirm - half-heartedly, with a hand in his hair - as he presses pretty kisses, eating out his cum with a nose at your clit. You're close, tugging That second orgasm, ever elusive, is snatched away.
“Fuck you.” You spit, watching him wipe a hand across stubble as he gets up.
“Watch the attitude. S'why we're here in the first place.”
“No.” Adjusting your skirt, you step forward. If looks could kill, Miguel could give you a run for your money, you realise with a grimace. “We're here because you're a dirty old man.”
He rolls his eyes, arms crossed in the tiny space.
“Someone needs to teach you some manners.” He grunts.
…by fucking you in a coat closet? You raise an eyebrow.
“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He doesn't crack a smile, opting for a hand snaked under your skirt instead. Squeezing your ass, he presses you against him and gulps down subsequent moans. You both separate with a wet pop.
He goes to bed with a hand down his pants, fucking his hand to the pictures you send him late at night. But you already know that.
Miguel sighs, watching as you slip out of the little room, smoothing out the wrinkles in your skirt, adjusting a crinkly paper crown. After a reasonable amount of time, he follows the path you must have taken, across the hall and into the dining room, met with a dozen faces milling about.
There you are in the corner, pressing manicured nails to a screen; ignoring the way half the people in the room ogle you: the boss's kid. His chest puffs up, protective. There's a line drawn in the sand, between him and them. When he looks you up and down, traces the curve of thigh disappearing under a too-short skirt…. it's different, he thinks.
As if you can hear his thoughts, you look up. Catching his eye, he doesn't miss the way your thighs squeeze together, nor how you shift your red sweater to hide a blossoming bruise.
Good. You're learning.
Your dad asked him to take care of you - preening and dithering despite the fact you were grown; definitely not his wide eyed little girl. Spoilt rotten, sure. But Miguel will do anything to keep you safe, even if that means a few... corrective measures.
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#miguel o'hara x reader#across the spiderverse#miguel o'hara#miguel o hara x reader#spiderman 2099#kat_writes😼#miguel o'hara smut#dbf!miguel
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TORN ON YOUR HEART. — KÖNIG.
(in short: a concept about your husband, könig, wanting to ruin his pretty wife - and her pretty makeup.)
꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ contents: poorly google-translated german, husband!könig, slight dumbification, size kink & difference, body worship, soft dom!könig, manhandling, face-sitting, possessive sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, stomach bulge.
"Let me ruin that makeup off your face, mein kleines reh." his accented voice muffles from underneath you.
With his large anatomy in contrast to your much small-scaled body, it was without a doubt that the flat palms of his hands secured at the flesh of your thighs could keep you right where he wanted you to be. The veil of your husband's hood had been pushed up to a right enough amount to where his hooked nose had been exposed as well as his mouth where there was a visible scar starting at the right side of his lips that curved upwards to his cheek and possibly even up into his eyes — which were still shrouded behind the covering veil of his face, only two eyeholes teared in them to reveal the hazy blue irises that peek up at you when you were currently situated at his exhibited mouth.
"Köni! Mmph, baby... it's too much." Your voice comes out but nothing but a sole tone of a quivering tone, bare thighs sheen with sweat at this point while your chest rises and falls with each heaving breath. A mind fogged of entirely him and the pleasure he brings upon you, it causes you to have lose track of time; meaning that your trembling figure has rested on König's face for quite some time, but an obscured head of ecstasy forbids any kind of coherent thought to cross your head about anything outside of this dome of rapture. "I can't do a lot more, m'sensitive..."
"Awe. Come on, liebchen, don't be like that." König said, giving a small pause in between his words to lap more at your soaking cunt which he positions himself underneath; the warm muscle of his tongue causing your eyes to willingly roll back in your head while your thighs squeezed at his masked head with a bit more pressure, a faint squeal leaving your mouth from the mere pleasure of it all. "Just hold back a little longer, then you'll get your big reward, okay? Can my pretty girl do that for me?"
Voluntarily, you nod your head all of desperation to his words — nothing but absolute commitment to make the larger man underneath so proud of you in the moment. At your non-verbal response, a faint phrase of "süßes mädchen" came muffled below you as the motions of his tongue became more rapid without breaks. One of his hands had combined with the movements of his mouth, a circling thumb pressing on the nub of your clit which only sent your mind into a more in-depth condition of personal ecstasy. Your head was now fully thrown back, vulgar sounds of moans and whines falling from an agape mouth while a heated sensation began to birth at your lower abdomen. One of your hands plants itself right next to the bedsheets nearest to where your head laid while the other had a flat palm to his hooded head, your fingers twitching as I had started to lose myself more.
"König, fuck!" You whined out in a more high-pitched tone than intended, pools of sweat sticking to the soft material of your laced bra — chest puffed out which only pronounced on how heavily you were breathing, giving König the view of a lifetime; your breasts cradled above in the feminine-designed cloth of your bra, white and lining with a lace trim around the edges. The more his tongue sloppily lapped at your drooling cunt, the more that familiar sensation grew in intensity at your lower abdomen; the one that felt all tingly, like sparks were threatening to explode right there and now.
His eyes linger onto the soft plush of your breasts before peeking through your thighs up at your face before speaking: "Ah. That's it, kleines Reh, lose yourself to me." the man mumbles into your soft skin, palming at the flesh with his larger hands as the ministrations of his tongue could only speed up without break. The sensation at your lower abdomen approaches towards an end the more his tongue slid up the puffy lips of your cunt, bumping up right against the nub of your swollen clit along with the tip of his nose. Small whispers and mumbles of praises, which were barely audible, came from König as some sort of accommodation to the reach the final stage of an orgasm — he knew you were sensitive, and he knew damn well that the useful combination of both his voice and larger touch could make you easily fall compliant to him; your brain easily so stupefied into a state of only existing bliss.
By now, the tears that brimmed at the slightest corners of your eyes were ruining over the mascara that tinted your lashes — faint black streaks rolling down the sides of your face, the whites of your eyes mostly visible as they rolled back into the inner barriers of your head. Your hips had started to grind down onto his mouth while your trembling body had begun to get more responsive to him. "M'god... I'm gonna cum..." you whined out softly into the air, voice slightly hoarse from all the noises that creeped up your throat.
"Oh, you're gonna cum?" König asks, feigning a mocked innocence with a now more huskier voice and a growl to it. "Then go ahead, nobody is going to stop you, schatz." he adds on with a slight hiss, his hands moving from being wrapped to your thighs up towards your hips, then the soft skin of your stomach, then to your bra-confined breasts. He pulls off the delicate fabric and tosses it over to the floor, leaving you now completely bare above him.
Given his confirmation you don't hesitate to oblige with them — your body trembling a little more violently as you succumb into the tingling sensation that had expanded inside of your lower abdomen, pouring out without delay as you felt your orgasm finally burst into reality. Both of your hands moved to grip the bedsheets established at his head, holding them between your fingers in a near death grip while you rode out your climax. After a duration of a few more lasting seconds, you come down from your high; body coated in a light sheen of sweat, mouth widened to catch your breaths, and your grip loosening up at the sheets. Your head tilts in a downwards angle to get a better look at your mountain of a husband, steadily moving yourself down to sit on his bare and sturdy chest to gain a better perspective of his face.
König hadn't even given you a chance to catch even the slightest view of the aftermath of himself before his hands were back to your hips against, forcing you off his frame. He moved to lean up against the headboard, still holding you hostage in his more stronger grasp at your waist until he settles you in his lap. In his head, he almost thought of you as a fragile doll while you found placement on him; so much smaller in size, so easy to move around without a struggle with his more substantial clutch. His then leans into you and presses his mouth up against yours in a swift movement leaving you no time to think, breaching your mouth with his tongue that still had the aftermath of your orgasm residing there. Fingers trailed up the inner section of your legs before tickling at your thighs, slowly moving upwards to your sensitive cunt. His index and middle finger drag a slow line up your puffy lips, causing you to moan softly into his mouth while your tongue shyly wraps to his.
Those two fingers of his decide to no longer exist on the outer region of your cunt, plunging inside instead in a stretching method. A gasp is earned into his mouth as your body falls frail against his chest, back slightly arching at the sudden pressure inside of your aching cunt. You felt his fingertips drag at your inner walls the more they pumped in and out of you; it had first started off slow and careful, but they increasingly grew a little more violently with desperation. Your makeout session with König had gotten more heated and explicit, his tongue crowding your mouth and tasting every crevice that he could possibly reach to. His free hand held you steady on his lap easily as he took note of your hips bucking at the movements of his fingers pumping with more brutality. He can't help but chuckle to himself at your needy condition as he found it quite adorable, the sound resonating within his chest.
As he withdrew his head back from you, a thick line of saliva bonded at his tongue and had been shared into your mouth in a sloppy manner. He continues to move his fingers in and out of you without stop, your body squirming as your head was angled to look at him — but never breaking off eye contact with him. König grips that one side of your waist a little tighter, fingers speeding up to an intense rate while your inner thighs were now soaking of your leaking pre-arousal.
"A-Ah... König. Please, I want you." You whined out underneath your breath, the constant stretch of his fingers opening up your cunt was a bit painful but it didn't take long for them to subside into a stinging pleasure.
"You want me, do you?" He asks in response to your whining request, but never allowing his fingers to falter from their built rhythm.
You took a few seconds to pant out before replying. "I do, please... want you to fuck me."
Your words were like a shot of adrenaline to him, a sudden primal urge listing at his necessities. His exposed, scarred lips give you a smirk — one without teeth, but showing a smug kind-of expression to them even if you couldn't fully view his full face. He slowly extracts his fingers from your cunt before moving to the only article of clothing that was on his body at the moment, his pants. Underneath where you sat on his lap, his hand found the buckle of his belt and undid it from the hoops of his tactical pants. There was a distinct noise of a zipper coming undone as well as the rustling of pants to get off. Without even looking down, you felt it; there was no separation of fabric between the two of you anymore, just bare skin. Bare and sweaty skin against each other.
His erected cock rested against your inner thighs, only fueling the amount of eagerness you had that had lead up into this situation. Hands were placed at both sides of your waist while he guided you a little up above his lap to turn around and lean up at his chest, hovering over his cock. He lowered you just the right amount so your cunt could rub up against the head of it — smearing his precum around your swollen lips and clit, more wetness starting to pool down your thighs. König elicited a deep sigh and you bit your lip, full-on whimpers escaping past the bitten flesh.
"Want it so bad, oh, please..." The words slipped out into the usual whine of your tone, nails digging into the skin of your palms at the sense of his precum soaking your cunt. "Need t'feel you inside of me..."
"I know, mein Reh, and I will." he responds through a quick breath, carrying on with moving your hips so that your cunt was rubbing up against the head of his cock. "Don't worry that head of yours, my pretty little wife will get what she wants."
Those were his last words before sheathing himself entirely into your smaller anatomy, the more extreme stretch of his cock compared to his fingers had made you squeal out at the first thrust. You squealed as you felt him fill you up, make you full; allowing your cunt to swallow him up until he was right at the base. He was warm when sheltered in your inner walls, but you had felt you were being impaled in a good way. He kept a firm grip on your hips as he fucked up into you, starting off with slow yet powerful thrusts that made a loud squelching noise — but it wasn't long for him for his carnal wants to take over, slow thrusts becoming animalistic and eager. You supported yourself laying at his chest while your head slightly sloped back to rest at his shoulder, moans leaving your mouth at his vicious onslaught on you.
His fingers imprinted tightly into the skin of your waist as grunts began to emerge from behind his veil, his hips moving quickly against your soaking cunt. He rested his forehead against your shoulder as curses in his native language were muttered under his breath, muscles already layered with a sheet of sweat while pounding into you. His cock brushed up against your cervix with each of his pushes, inner walls pulsing as you savored the moment. Skin slapping against skin and personal sounds of ecstasy had started to reverberate against the room's walls, a divided choir of unadulterated material. His movements got more aggressive, more quicker as the both of you were left with no room to speak anymore; only grunting and moaning, incoherent words along with wet skin smacking so delightfully in a connected way.
You felt his hands transport from your waist to cup your breasts, still keeping you in a solid hold if you had wanted his fucking to continue. Large palms kneaded at your flesh while his head at your shoulder was turned towards the side of your neck, pressing small kisses there while he proceeded with splitting you open on his cock.
"This pretty body is alles meins, you hear me?" he manages to get out between grunts and heavy breaths. "Nobody else, just me... it will always be me." It's not like his words were some heavy lie to use you for your body, but they were genuine and came from his heart; the beauty of your anatomy was truly a treasure to him, and god consider him the luckiest man alive to have a woman possessing such angelic features as his wife.
"Mmhm, yes, all yours." you said through a foggy head full of rapture, head cocked to the side to give König better access to your neck.
His lips formed into a smirk at your words before he grabbed at your hips again, kissing and sucking marks of love into your neck while he pounded into your cunt; feeling himself on the brink of a climax as his grunts grew heavier, more pronounced with your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Your moans grew in volume as you felt a familiar heat start to ride at your lower abdomen, back arching into a curve off his chest as you slightly leaned your upper half forward — basking in the severe intensity of this moment. A more saturated wetness starts to drool down your inner thighs and onto his lap, the skin of his thighs glowing in your abnormally dripping arousal.
König moves one of his hands to the sweep of your stomach, taking notice of the obvious bulge that swells through the soft, sweaty flesh. His fingers inch their way on top of that protruding bump which appears more prominent each time the head of his cock pushed up against the barrier of your cervix, pushing against the area. Your eyes widened at the almost overbearing feeling, more arousal dripping down your thighs.
“-Eep! K-König! Hngh, please.” you said in a whining voice as you could only writhe against his touch, eyes glazing of tears that sourced from an overwhelming arousal, a second climax forming at your lower abdomen and threatening to spill over any second now.
“Mein gott, you’re so tight.” he growls, thrusts becoming less steady but more hostile; fingers pressing down harder on himself that showcases through the skin of your stomach. “Mmm - Scheiße, doing so good, almost there.”
It was a fact you weren’t going to last once he spoke those very words to you — his husky voice, his nonstop thrusts assaulting at your cervix, and his mouth presses wet saliva-soaked kisses to your neck; you couldn’t help but spiral into your second orgasm of the night, squirming at his lap and allowing everything to pour out. It was wet, everything was wet — his lap and bare muscular chest, your legs, the sheets of the bed. Your naked back was pressed to his chest as you immediately felt weakened by the experience. Soon enough, his own release followed your own and you felt every inch of him in your guts.
Your stomach was warmed and full, both of your skin sticky and blanketed with sweat. While he rested at the headboard, your head was idle on his shoulder — taking in his natural scent while you could only gaze absentmindedly at the sharp features of his face. He adjusted his head to stare back into your eyes, his left arm slowly coming to pat and wipe at your messy face with his thumb; streaks of mascara staining that thumb in an almost clay-like material, the sight causing him to chuckle lowly.
“Oh, süßes Reh. Who knew you could be even more gorgeous with a ruined face?” he whispers in a hoarse voice, giving you a small smirk which pressed to one side of his lips - leaning in shortly to press a small, gentle kiss to your cheek.
#. ˚ ʚ — ꒰ könig. ꒱#könig x reader#könig x fem reader#könig x you#könig smut#konig x reader#könig cod#könig call of duty#könig modern warfare#call of duty mw2#cod mw2 fanfic#drabble#female reader#.୨୧ fawnpires
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a lover's pinch | two
joel miller x f!reader
pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader
rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni
summary: will a complicated realisation drive you and joel apart, or drag you closer together?
warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, some mildly gratuitous Classics chatter, some very gratuitous descriptions of joel's office, trope of being enamoured by your favourite teacher lol [and her fav isn't even joel, sorry guys], angst, a little manhandling, semi-public sex acts with a not-so-stranger, dirty talk, brief impact play, fingering, orgasm denial, oral [m!receiving], face fucking, facial, cum eating, sheeesh i think that's it okay i need a glass of cold water
word count: 10.3k i'm not sorry
series masterlist | main masterlist
a lover's pinch playlist
a/n: folks, this series has taken over my entire brain. i'm having the best time writing+outlining it, and i have been so delighted by how many people liked the first part. giving you all the biggest kiss through the screen right now. lmk what you think of part two!
this is part two of ALP. you can read the previous part here: one.
Tuesday.
It’s as though a mirage resides in the periphery of your vision.
A wobbling, shimmering thing that offsets the centre of a picture and makes your eyes hurt until you want to close them. The type where you’re squinting and trying to see, trying to make out what’s happening, and people are turning to look at you and pointing and you realise that you aren’t wearing any pants, and it’s a dream, a dream, a nightmare, it’s not fucking real. Illusory. Fantasy.
It's a childish thought that you can’t help but be consumed by. The idea that this is all some cruel, fucked up delusion you’re about to wake up from. That it couldn’t be possible for the charming Texan you’d met four nights prior to be stood only a few metres in front of you, discussing your fucking syllabus. Reality becomes this twisting, writhing thing that is painful and awkward to comprehend, and everything slows to a liquid, dreamlike pace. His voice, his movement, the shifting of other students around you, all drifting by slowly, as if a year has passed in the span of ten seconds.
And yet when you pinch your arm—nails scraping across skin until raw red marks raise in jagged lines—and you don’t wake up, the mirage remains, your stomach rolls.
Joel looks so different here. What had been casual at the bar, a lob of messy hair above a cotton t-shirt, is now professional. Buttoned shirt tucked into pressed brown pants. Beard trimmed, and hair pushed back into soft, tidy waves that roll down to his neck. A set of glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. Square, with black frames that compliment his skin tone, and have your fingers gripping the edge of the desk, wondering why the hell he hadn’t been wearing them on Friday night when he sunk his mouth against your cunt. Dirty little thing.
You can still feel his hands on you, days later. Feel the rough scrape of calloused fingers on your thighs, between your legs. Remember how soft his hair was when you buried your fingers in it and held him against your aching core, whining his name. It had been like this all weekend; holding an image of his tan, handsome face in your mind, trying to emulate the feeling of his hand between your thighs with your own, only to fail over and over again.
And he’s talking. That low, honeyed drawl that tickles across your skin and drips into your ears, warming your insides. It’s a marvellous thing; the way he shifts easily from topic to topic, disarming the room with short, sharp—surprising—jokes sifted in between soft-spoken sentiments about classical academia and the university, and what he hopes you as individuals will gain from a postgraduate in this course, and it feels like it’s been both hours and seconds as you watch him breathlessly, waiting. Waiting for his eyes to skirt to your side of the room, to dance across your face and recognise you, remember you, just as he said he would.
Joel is talking about The Aeneid when he finally notices you.
“I want you to be thinking about language,” he’s saying. “And tone. Virgil and Homer’s writing differs in a lotta ways, but it does share that same character of irony. Don’t forget that Virgil wrote during the Golden Age of the Roman Empire – and he’s presenting us with a story about destiny, about fate. Our focus here isn’t so much about love, or reverence, as it is about tragedy – no one in The Aeneid is safe from what their own fate lays out for them. All of these calamities and heartbreaks are necessary for the empire to thrive.”
He pauses. “Take Dido in book four as a prime example. In the openin’ lines of her story, if we’re looking to the West translation; she is suffering from love’s deadly wound, feeding it with her blood and being consumed by its hidden fire. We know from the beginnin’, that her love for Aeneas will be her downfall; that her death is essential for him to leave Carthage. And on that same page, talkin’ about Aeneas, we get, oh how cruelly he has been hounded by the Fates. This is what you need to think about if you’re gonna get to the bottom of Virgil’s bigger plan with these books. Why is he using this language? These words? I want—”
Joel inhales sharply, dark eyes frozen on your face, which grows steadily warmer beneath his scrutiny. His body doesn’t move, hands hovering in the air mid-gesticulation, lips parted as his next words rest there, caught on his tongue. You swallow thickly. Feel sweat form on your hairline. The silence stretches, dead air giving rise to confused murmurs across the room, and your eyes widen, willing him to look away and continue; to do anything except stand there and keep looking at you like that. But it’s like he’s in a trance. Tan face dimming to a sickly, pallid colour, shoulders shifting as he breaths deeply. Staring.
A few heads turn in your direction, but you can’t bring yourself to look back at them; to snatch yourself away from the feeling of being held in his gaze again. It’s intoxicating—almost euphoric—to have those dark eyes on your skin.
And then it’s over, the moment severed as Joel’s eyes snap away and he clears his throat, offering a pained smile to the rest of the room. And he’s apologising, Lost my train of thought for a moment there, using a playful tone of voice as he says, first day of the semester jitters, y’know?
He ignores you after that.
For the entirety of the two-hour lecture, he makes sure not to spare a single glance in your direction. And it stings, but you suppose you understand. Can see the tension held in his shoulders now; the strain in his voice as he works to talk with that same measured ease he’d had at the beginning.
You take notes carefully, and don’t bother raising your hand when he inspires participation from the other students. But by the end of the class, you can’t bring yourself to walk out – not without saying something, without finding some kind of understanding over what the fuck is happening. You’re practically glued to your seat as students rise, filing out of the theatre hall.
Joel stands by the desk, back hunched as he collects his things, fielding kind comments of thanks and that was great from people as they pass him on their way toward the exit. Eventually you join the stream, wandering down the stairs on shaky legs until you find yourself at the edge of his desk, fiddling with the strap of your bag and watching his back. His shoulders hunch tighter when you pause there, shadow splaying across the desk. Though his face isn’t visible to you, his hands are almost a blur, scrambling to drag his things into a messy pile so that he can pack up faster. He slaps his laptop closed and you flinch at the sound.
After a few moments, you find the courage to speak.
“That was, uhh, that was really interesting,” you clear your throat awkwardly, watching other students shuffle past in your periphery. His hands move faster, stuffing loose notes into a leather satchel with little disregard for the paper creasing.
You lower your voice to a hoarse, careful whisper. “We need to talk about this.”
Joel finally looks up, nostrils flaring as he meets your stare. He nods once, looping the bag over his shoulder. “Not here,” he says gruffly, tight eyes darting around the room. “Room’s booked for another lecture in five.”
He tilts his head towards the door, encouraging you to follow him as he paces out towards the hall. You shadow him quickly, clutching your bag and watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he walks three paces ahead of you. You fight the urge to place your hand in the dip between his shoulder blades; to feel the heat of his skin, the rolling tension beneath it, and dig your fingernails into him. Joel doesn’t look back to check if you’re following – he knows you are.
He leads you up a flight of stairs and down another hall, makes a left, and then another left, until finally he’s pausing and dragging a key from his pocket, pressing it into the lock of a heavy wooden door and nudging it open. There’s a plaque on the wood that reads J MILLER, PhD. You swallow. And then follow him inside and let the door fall shut behind you.
Joel stalks into the room, feet heavy against the dark carpet. He tosses his satchel to the floor and then stands by the desk, wild eyes trained on where you hover silently by the door. He looks on edge, to say the least. Frazzled fingers race through his hair, mussing the curls until they look reminiscent of the past Friday. Foot tapping against the ground in a quick, jerky rhythm.
And you know that you need to talk, need to clear the air, need to say anything, but you can’t help it when your eyes wander around the room because—
His office is sort of beautiful.
A larger space than you expected it to be, with a north-facing window that allows a natural yellowed morning light to fill the space, and a vast bookshelf stretching across the wall behind a large desk. You can’t make out the titles from where you stand by the door, but texts fill every crack and crevice of the shelfing unit, not organised by any noticeable colour scheme or structure. The space is messy – personal. In fact, everywhere you look seems to expose something private, something intimate.
A jacket hangs from a hook on the back of the door, made of a worn duck brown waxed material that looks soft to the touch. In the corner opposite the desk, a velvet green armchair sits beside a low table that houses a record player and a potted plant. Sleeves of records are tucked beneath the table, stacked upon each other haphazardly, without a hint of dust on them. Clearly touched and rifled through more often than not.
The wide window is cracked just an inch, allowing a warm early-Fall breeze to slip in and rustle the starched curtains. A coffee mug is beside the record player. Two more sit abandoned on the outskirts of his desk. All empty and forgotten about, too busy to be refilled or moved or cleaned. And there are books everywhere; strewn across his desk, forgotten beneath the cushion of his armchair, piled against the wall beneath the window. Worn, well-read books, with frayed covers and broken spines. You almost drool, tempted to ignore him completely and venture towards them; to run your fingers over the covers and find out exactly what kind of writing this enigma of a man spends so much time devouring.
After what feels like an hour of simply looking—but could only have been a minute—Joel breaks the silence.
“Did you know?”
His voice is quiet. Detached. The backs of his thighs perch on the edge of the desk, hands tangled in his lap. Large fingers pluck at each other as he stares at you from across the room, in an almost anxious fiddling movement.
“What?” you ask.
“Did you know who I was?” he clarifies, voice hardening. Those dark eyebrows tighten in the middle of his forehead, features pinching together into a sharp frown. “When you saw me.”
“Joel,” you scoff, taken aback. “How the hell would I know who you were?”
“Your classes were organised,” his voice raises slightly—just a little. “You knew the names of your profess—”
“J Miller,” you interrupt. “Everything says J Miller, that’s it. I didn’t fucking know, Joel.”
His frown softens at that, eyes dropping to the carpet as he nods once, clearly still unsure. You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, shoulders tense. There’s only a metre or so between the pair of you, and yet you can feel it. That static, burning energy, the same as four nights before. Something inside of you that rages and claws at your skin from the inside, begging to get closer to him. You ignore it.
“Why didn’t I meet you when I interviewed for the program?” you ask. You remember the day you came in, six months ago. Sitting with an older man—the Classics department head—and a soft, round woman with light hair. No Joel. You would’ve remembered him.
His eyes flash, hands tightening in his lap. “I was on vacation,” he grinds out. It’s like it physically pains him to talk to you—to even look at you. One of his hands drops, palm flexing by his side. He’s taking deep breaths, clearly trying to calm the quell of panic that has been swirling inside him for the past two hours. You keep your distance.
After a moment, he speaks again.
“Greece, huh?” It comes out in a low scoff. His eyebrows are raised expectantly, frustration laced through the lines in his face. “Said you were there for a month.”
“Mhm,” you hum. “I was involved in a text translation study based in Athens.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales, digging the palms of his hands over his eyes. “This can’t be happenin’.”
“Joel—”
“Y’need to transfer out of my class,” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “They run it online, you can—”
“What?” you blink. You feel your blood pressure rise, anger spiking as you comprehend what he is suggesting. “Be serious – I am not doing the class online because of this. It’ll jeopardise my entire semester.”
“I don’t care,” he glowers, rising from the desk.
“Jesus, stop acting like this was all my doing,” you snap. “If memory serves, you’re just as to blame as I am—you wanted me just as much as I wanted you.”
“Stop,” he growls. It’s a rough, unforgettable sound that fills your stomach with heat. An oddly familiar thing that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Silly little slut. The memory licks at your throat, the skin of your chest, leaving a hot heady feeling in its wake. You wonder if he’s noticed the hickey on your neck that hasn’t entirely faded yet. A persistent, lingering reminder of his mouth on your skin. Of the sharp scrape of his teeth.
You take a step forward and Joel’s entire body goes rigid, right hand jutting out in front of him, fingers splayed open.
“Stay over there,” he says quickly, voice a low warning.
You scowl but don’t move, feet planted in the soft carpet. The breeze rushes in through the window and causes a paper on his desk to flap upward, and your eyes drift toward the movement. Gaze shifting over the items on his desk, the mess of papers, the half-full mugs, and then… a picture frame. You squint, unable to make it out from where you are. Take a step forward, and then another, and realise it’s Joel’s shape in the image, standing with a tall woman tucked against his side. It’s too far for you to see clearly, but you can tell his arm is wrapped around her shoulder, holding her against his chest, and you know he’s grinning from the splash of white across his face.
“What’re you—” Joel’s words turn to silence as he tilts his head and realises what you’re looking at. A broad hand darts out, gripping the frame and knocking it face down on his desk. You flinch, eyes widening in incredulity as you turn to him.
“What?” A sardonic laugh escapes your mouth. “Are you fucking married or something? Jesus, Joel.”
You reach for the frame, fingers skirting across it with every intention of seeing, of understanding, of knowing just what it is that he’s so desperate to hide. But then he’s there, strong fingers looping around your wrist, halting your movement. The speed of it sends you stumbling toward the desk, and Joel’s body follows you forward, chest flush against your back as your lower stomach collides with the dark wood. Caught between a rock and a hard place, quite literally. You stiffen, sorely aware of how close he is. How much of his body is touching yours, and how similar it is to before.
“I’m not married,” he bites, and you can feel his breath against your ear. Hot, harsh exhales that send whisps of your hair fluttering forward. A shiver runs down your spine. His grip is firm around your wrist; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place with your hand frozen in the air, fingers still outstretched towards the frame.
“Then who’s in the picture?” you grunt.
“None of your fuckin’ business,” he snaps quickly. You can feel his stubble graze the edge of your jaw, and something fizzes in your stomach. Your resolve softens at the frustration in his voice; the truth that bleeds out through his words. It is none of your business. Your body relaxes a little, arm going limp in his hold, and yet he doesn’t let go. It takes a moment for you to realise why.
Joel’s hips are pressed tightly into you, trapping you against the desk, and he’s hard. You can practically feel him throb against the small of your back, the full length of his cock only separated from you by two layers of clothing. Saliva pools in your mouth, eyes pinching closed as you remember the feeling of him; the delicious burn of his heavy cock dragging through you. Using your free hand, you twist your arm behind you and slide it down his front. A whispered oh fuck escapes your lips as your fingers drag across the front of his pants, and he grunts in your ear, grasp tightening around your wrist. Painful this time, but only for a second, until he’s tearing his hand off you and placing it on your lower back, pushing you down so that your chest is flush with his desk.
You gasp, lips parting to speak, but no words are coming out and Joel’s hands are on the waistband of your jeans, on the button. He’s undoing it, fingers steadfast in their movement, and then he yanks the material down roughly over your ass.
“Joel,” you whimper urgently as he grips your panties, dragging them to your knees as well. He keeps you bent against the desk, so you twist your neck to stare at him over your shoulder, legs tensing when you see the expression on his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown behind his glasses as he looks down to where his covered cock grinds against the swell of your ass.
“God dammit,” he exhales, and you clench around nothing, warmth pooling between your thighs. This is so different from at the bar. There the door was locked, place full of people who didn’t know either of you. Here, in his office, anyone could walk in. A member of faculty, a student, anyone. And the thought has you fucking aching for him.
Thick fingers streak between your thighs from behind, spreading your slick folds apart. You gasp as cool air hits your throbbing clit, but the sound cuts into a low moan as his fingers expertly roll over the sizzling nerve endings there. He ousts a low grunt of surprise at how wet you are, hips still grinding against you as his fingers drift to your entrance, rubbing and collecting your slick on his fingers until you’re whimpering into your own palm, pressing your hips back and begging him for more. All at once, one of his palms slaps across your ass while two thick fingers press inside you. The sting has your eyes rolling back. Your teeth sink into the palm of your hand to muffle the noise you make, and he’s curling his fingers inside you, rubbing against your g-spot, and your legs are trembling with the effort of staying standing. Your mind is a blur. You feel almost lightheaded at how suddenly this is all happening – and at how relieved you are to feel his hands on you again.
“S’this what you wanted?” Joel pants, scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching you out. “Knew if you followed me in here, I’d end up fuckin’ this pretty pussy again? Huh?”
“Fuck,” you choke out, eyelids fluttering as he adds a third finger. Heat sizzles beneath the tightening muscles in your stomach, and you can feel yourself clenching around him over and over again, your high already approaching. It’s almost pitiful, the affect he has on you; how easily your body yields to the simplest of touches from his hands.
“Huh?” he prompts for a response. You can feel the cool zipper of his pants cutting across the bare skin of your ass, scratching you as his hips rut forward.
“Please,” you say, voice quiet as you can muster. “I’m so close, Joel, please.”
He grunts, increasing the speed of his fingers. Soft squelching sounds are audible now, slick smearing against your inner thighs, his wrist, and your face goes warm at the sound of it. Your fingers claw at his desk, nails catching on paper as your hand lands against a book and grips it tight. Your abdomen burns, that soft thrumming heat licking at your skin, the muscles of your thighs, scorching in its might as your orgasm builds and builds, hanging dangerously close to the precipice.
“Gonna come all over my fingers?” Joel asks, voice haggard and breathless. “C’mon, give it t’me.”
You’re nodding before he even finishes speaking, forehead knocking roughly against wood, eyebrows pinching together. So close, so close, so fucking clo—
A light knock sounds against his office door.
Joel freezes. Your eyes widen, hips shifting against his hand as you murmur no, no, no, please Joel. But he ignores you, gripping your hip to keep you still and dragging his fingers from your dripping cunt to press them over your mouth. Your pulse thunders in your ears, heart trashing wildly in your chest as you catch your breath, devasted.
“Joel?” a soft voice calls from the hall. A woman. “You in there?”
“Just on the phone,” he says loudly, voice surprisingly steady. You can taste yourself on his fingers. Feel it smear across your lips. “What d’ya need?”
“I’m headed to the café,” the woman calls. “You want anything?”
Joel responds with a sharp, resounding no.
There’s a beat of silence where you can almost feel him holding his breath, waiting for her to inevitably open the unlocked door and discover the scene in his office. But the silence stretches on, and then you can hear soft footfalls fade down the corridor, and you know that you’re alone again.
Joel rips his hand from your mouth. Grips your underwear and drags it up over your hips, then your jeans, before he’s stumbling away and dropping into the armchair across the room. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, eyes wide as he gazes at the floor. When you push off the desk and turn to stare at him, a firm tent is visible in his pants. You button your jeans slowly, watching him. He doesn’t look at you.
“Joel—” you start softly.
“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Just… just get out.”
You open your mouth to speak—to argue—but once again, nothing comes out. No words to defend yourself, or what the two of you just did. You stare at him for almost a minute, but Joel’s eyes stay trained on the carpet, fists clenched against his thighs.
You leave his office silently and try not to look back. Make two rights and head down the stairs, outside and across the green to where your car is parked. The whole thing feels so dirty, so debauched, and yet you want so much more from him. Want it so badly that you drive home in silence, mind too busy with thoughts of Joel Joel Joel to remember to turn on the radio.
And behind it all, is a low, itching thought at the base of your skull, something that makes you smile as you drive – the knowledge that he wants you just as badly as you want him.
Wednesday.
You decide very quickly that you like Rachel.
Maybe it was because you were having a good day. The sun had been shining when you woke up; strong beams that teased their way through the window in your bedroom and rested warm upon the bare skin of your back. By the time you rose, the coffee was already done brewing, and Trin met you in the hall with a large mug of it and a soft hey, man, how’d you sleep? And when you went to get dressed for the day you remembered you did the washing two nights before, and found your favourite pair of jeans—the ones that squeezed your ass just right—were neatly folded in a drawer, waiting for you. Yes; maybe all of that had something to do with it. Or maybe, it because Rachel was just great.
You like her tenacity, her words; the idolatry with which she discusses her work. And she is charming; an intellectual through and through. The soft roundness of her face and the kind slant to her eyes offset by a razor-sharp wit. And there’s this peculiar quirkiness to her that catches your attention in seconds – a rough snort whenever she laughs, the bright orange shade of the toenails sticking out of her sandals.
Her teaching is direct, no-bullshit, and yet she has this smile. This soft, thin-lipped genuine smile that says, I know something you don’t know, and I can’t wait to share it with you.
During her first lecture, you feel rooted to the spot, unable to draw your eyes away from her for two-hours as she waxes poetic about heroines and tragic love stories, about the importance of myth, of gore.
Listening to her reminds you of what you’d always loved about classics – the filth of it, the horror. It feels like reaching your hands into a puddle of mud, flexing your fingers and letting the dirt and grime slide beneath your nails, coating every inch of your skin. The squeamishness of it, the rot, the tragedy – you love it all, and Rachel does too.
“When we talk about the juxtaposition between heroines across different texts,” she says. “We want to look at the values being portrayed; the meaning behind what’s happening to these women. Let’s appreciate the context here, guys! To understand the rage of Medea, or, say, the sacrifice of Iphigenia, we have to get to the root of their roles in society. Priestess, mistress, virgin, mother – we want to understand the perspectives being shown to us. What drives these women? What fire lives within them, pushing them to make their decisions—or to have their decisions made for them?”
She points to a student and nods, “Go on.”
“Do you think Medea holds much bearing here?” someone to your left asks. A man. “If we’re focusing on heroines, I mean.”
“Do you?” she challenges. A hint of a smile—that smile—drifts across her lips, hands clasped to her stomach as she awaits his response.
“Not particularly,” he says, voice less sure now. “I know you can view any text through most perspectives, but I’d never thought of her so much as a heroine in a feminist text.”
“I see,” Rachel nods. “Well, the short answer is that I’d encourage you to read it again.” She laughs, a soft tinkering sound. “The long answer is that her character is complex. Let’s not beat around the bush; Medea is a woman scorned. Banished by Creon, forgotten by Jason. As the reader, we are able to comprehend the most brutal pain through her – a woman trapped in a world where men have decided everything for her, and she is furious. Even describes herself as a woman born to sorrow. Now, as the reader, it is your right to believe that she is bad, or an anti-heroine, but you cannot deny that she is made bad by circumstances out of her own control.” She pauses, thick eyebrows jutting upward as she looks around the quiet theatre. “I’d say that’s pretty feminist of Euripides.”
You approach her afterwards, fingers an awkward tangle in front of your chest.
“I just have to say,” you smile bashfully. “That was wonderful. You’re so engaging, I was… god, I don’t even know what to say, but thank you. I’m really looking forward to learning from you this semester.”
Rachel’s eyes light up at your words.
Up close you notice a pair of thick, ceramic earrings dangling from her lobes. They look hand painted; thick brushstrokes of dandelion yellow smeared across crimson red ovals.
“Oh, how lovely,” her eyes assess you quickly, mouth splitting into a crooked, fond smile. “I’m very glad to have you here…?”
You tell your name in a mumbled rush, and she nods once, eyes scanning the list of students on her sheet.
“Oh of course,” she says knowingly. “You emailed yesterday, no? Some trouble with accessing the readings online?”
You stiffen. Blink at her, smile dimming somewhat. “Yeah,” you exhale. “Yes, that’s actually—I was having trouble with the link for another class, and I hoped you might be able to help.”
“I see,” she frowns then. “Well, unfortunately if it’s not for this class I won’t be of much help; my access code only gets me so far in that damn portal. Which professor assigned the reading?”
“It’s, uhh,” you speak slowly, the words stiff as they stumble out of your mouth. “It’s Joel Miller.”
“Oh, Joel?” she smiles. “Well, he’ll be happy to help, I’m sure. He’s usually in his office around this time – do you need me to show you the way?”
Your mouth is dry. Yeah, you think. I’m sure he’ll be over the moon to see me.
“That’s okay,” you reply with a tight smile. “I’ll find it.”
She nods, bids you a warm goodbye, and her eyes have already drifted back to the papers in front of her when you turn to leave the room.
Your bag weighs heavy on your shoulder, straps of canvas material digging into the muscle there as you retrace your footsteps from yesterday. Up the creaking set of stairs, taking a left, and then another left, and your mind is a blur, static wobbling in your veins as you rehearse what you’re going to say, how you’re going to say it.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you’d last seen him, and from the second you left, an image of what happened in his office played on a loop in your brain. Like the spool on a VHS has been stuck together, wound into a circle, and the tape repeats over and over again, the same images, sounds, smells, soaking your mind until all else is white noise. And it’s twisted, and wrong, and you’re vaguely aware of that, somewhere in the part of your brain where you stash knowledge that you’d prefer to forget. Because it’s easier to forget the hard part, the ugly part, and far nicer to remember the scrape of his stubble against your skin. The smell of him filling your nostrils as he crowds you against his desk. The scratch on your ass from his zipper. Remember how your name sounds when he moans it, and forget the feeling that comes when he refuses to look at you after the fact.
And you wonder if this is what the entire semester will be like; spending each day reminiscing on your last interaction with Joel, hoping for another touch, taste, another chance, another something, anything, from him. The weight of it sits heavy on your chest, like a wall of freshly cemented bricks left to solidify in the sun. And beneath that, beneath the clay and sand and limestone, excitement buzzes. Indisputable, persistent, anticipation. A vibrating that hums in your bones and has you shivering from the tips of your toes to the top of your skull as you knock on his office door.
J MILLER PhD. The words glare at you from the bronze plaque for the second time in two days.
You hear his voice call pleasantly from behind the door. Light, relaxed. You swallow down the lump in your throat and step inside.
The window is wide open today, pale curtains drawn back to allow the bright midday sun to shine through and warm the carpet. Joel’s head tilts upward and within seconds the soft, easy smile on his face dissolves into something unreadable. He’s perched behind his desk, broad frame bent over a mess of papers, pen tucked neatly between coiled fingers. A clear tension simmers in the lines on his forehead; a tangible rigidity that clouds his expression when he sees that it’s you. He clicks the top of his pen once, twice, three times, and says your name in a clipped greeting.
“Hi,” you say, hand raising in a quick wave. “Sorry to barge in like this, I, uhh, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“My office hours are between one and four,” he says tersely, eyes lowering back to his book. “Schedule an appointment over email.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, face warming as embarrassment swells in your chest. All of the excitement—the longing—that had churned inside you since yesterday seems to dissipate, replaced by a looming sense of dread as you register how distant and apathetic he seems. How hard he tries to not even look in your direction. Those words from yesterday ring in your ears. Just get out.
“Seriously?” you mutter, nonetheless, trying to contain the hurt that threatens to spill across your face. “It’ll take five seco—”
“Seriously,” he repeats firmly.
Your jaw clenches, annoyance tightening the already stiff muscles in your shoulders as you march over to his desk, dropping your bag onto the edge of it. The exact same spot from yesterday, where’d pressed you down against the wood and— Joel’s shoulders hunch. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to just below his elbows, thin white material stressing around cords of muscle. You gaze at the bare skin for a moment, tongue heavy in your mouth, before looking to what he was doing before you came in. A book in front of him is filled with scribbles and annotations, harsh black marks scrawled beneath thin lines of text. You only get a second to look at it before his hands are snapping it shut, revealing the cover. Robert Fagles’ translation of The Odyssey. The picture frame from yesterday is nowhere to be seen.
“Working on something for a lecture?” you try. If it’s about class, he can’t be mad. If it’s about class, he can’t push you away.
“What do you need?” he asks impatiently, ignoring your words entirely.
A hand lifts to rub the skin above his eyebrow. The tip of his middle finger massages the tan skin there in soft circles, and you watch the movement for a second, transfixed. No ring. I’m not married. His other hand reaches for the mug on his desk, and he takes a long, drawn-out sip of black coffee. Steam billows from the dark liquid, fogging the lenses of his glasses. The sight makes you want to laugh, but you swallow it down, acutely aware that Joel would be less than impressed by the reaction.
“I can’t access one of the readings for next week,” you explain distractedly, dragging the laptop from your bag.
You round his desk in a few short steps and Joel sighs, cringing as you place it down in front of him, opening the screen for him to see. He shifts his chair just slightly to the right, away from you. That persistent feeling of doubt coils in your gut, sharp teeth that twist and nip at your insides, taunting you, telling you that he doesn’t want you. And it’s not why you’re here—not at all—but you can’t bring yourself believe it. Don’t want to believe it. So you bite back – turn your back to his desk and pitch your thighs atop the edge of it, feet dangling an inch off the ground. You jeans are tight, and the fabric cuts into the skin of your hips where they bend.
“Get down,” he warns sharply, dismissing you with a taut shake of his head. “You can ask IT for help with that.”
“I’m asking you,” you persist stubbornly. “You’re my professor, Joel—"
“Yes, I am your professor,” Joel bites in agreement, glowering up at you. You stiffen warily at the heat in his gaze. At the anger you can see stirring in those dark brown orbs, brimming and ready to boil over. “And I don’t think we should be alone together,” he adds. “It’s not… this is bad for us, okay? I can’t… fuck, you can’t just come in here. I don’t want you comin’ in here anymore.”
And the memory plays once more. That thing, that something twisted, something wrong, something familiar, curls in your stomach. Snaps and bares its teeth at your uncertainty, sends it scattering into the distance, and replaces it with want.
“I didn’t even plan to come here,” your voice hardens, hackles rising as the feeling rises within you. “You’re not the first person I asked, alright? I just need some fucking help—”
“Don’t swear at me,” he interrupts through gritted teeth.
A beat of stunned silence hangs between you. A shocked laugh tumbles from your mouth, eyes widening as you take in the grave expression on his face.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you stare at him incredulously. “Joel, you had your fingers inside of me against this desk yesterday. I think swearing is the least of our worries.”
“Jesus,” he spits, pushing his chair further from the desk. His elbows fall against his knees, head resting in his palms as he breaths, not looking at you. “You’re fuckin’ filthy, y’know that? Can you not just behave?”
Don’t swear, you want to tease, but think better of it.
Instead, you nod slowly, drop your hand onto the desk, fingers hovering over his book. “Joel,” you implore, tone pleading. “I don’t… I don’t know how to act around you right now, okay? It’s not easy for me to just pretend nothing has happened between us. To just forget.”
“And you think it’s easy for me?” he gripes. His eyes are focused on your hand; on the way your fingers tense and untense over the bound cover, stroking the frayed paper his own fingers have clearly touched countless times. He doesn’t move a muscle. “To try and act like things are normal, act like I didn’t—” he cuts himself off, lips clamping shut. An anguished look crosses his features.
“We’re both adults,” you frown. “It’s not a crime that we fucked, Joel.”
A harsh laugh falls from his mouth, stern eyes blazing. “Ain’t about that and you know it. It’s against professional ethics,” Joel snaps, tone firm. “Against university policy – if anybody finds out it could put us both in jeopardy.”
You’re silent for a moment, watching him. His glasses have slid down a little, and they rest precariously on the tip of this nose. Dark eyes stare from over the top of black frames, and then his legs are crossing, one tucking tightly over the other, a thick forearm dropping to rest across his lap, and want burns in your throat. You struggle to remember why you came to his office in the first place.
“Nobody is going to find out,” you whisper.
A rasp of your name catches in his throat. Joel looks bemused, face as flat as he rolls his eyes. “Quit fuckin’ playin’ around. You know how serious this is.”
You contain the urge to scowl, lips tight as you say, “Yeah, I know. Just—look, you don’t have to worry. We can cut it off right now – I won’t say a word of it to anyone. Nothing else is going to happen.”
But you can see the way his eyes flicker down your body whenever you move. How his gaze rests heavily at the pinch of your waist, the spread of your thighs against his desk, your bare arms, before darting away. You wonder if he’s touched himself thinking about you, and a jagged heat tears through the top of your thighs as you picture what that would look like.
“But that's not what you want, is it?” you ask softly. Joel doesn’t speak. He’s so still you almost think he didn’t hear you. But his eyes glance to your thighs again, you know that he did.
“You want me,” you say then, voice low and sure.
The muscle in his jaw ticks. Lips purse around clenched teeth and a harsh breath escapes his nose before he’s saying your name again, a strained whisper. And God, you love the way he says it. Like the word was created just to spite him.
“You are walkin’ on some mighty thin ice right now,” he grits out, heated gaze scorching your skin.
You glance down to his lap, where a forearm still balances over his crotch, and arch an eyebrow.
“Show me,” you murmur.
You can hear him breathing. Slow, exaggerated puffs of breath, chest rising and falling at an increasing pace as he maintains eye contact. Large hands tighten into fists, fingers curling against palms, and he’s dragging his arm back from his lap, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go within the arms of his chair. You wet your lips, face heating as you stare. The firm line of his cock is evident beneath his pants, a solid ridge against his left thigh. When you look back to his face there’s a faint red hue colouring the skin of his neck, steadily rising toward the edge of his facial hair. He’s blushing.
“How long?” you ask, voice awed.
“Since you got on the desk,” Joel grumbles, tone almost begrudging.
You hum softly, a low vibration in your throat, and then you’re slipping off his desk and taking a step towards him. And he doesn’t flinch away. He watches you close the distance between the pair of you and hover between his thighs, your legs almost brushing his.
“Let me help,” you whisper, lowering onto the ground in front of him. The carpet is warm and rough against your jean-clad knees. Your eyes drift from his face to between his thighs, and then back up, slowly.
“We shouldn’t,” he croaks, lips chapped and dry. You want to kiss him senseless. Want to drag your tongue across his mouth until it’s soaking wet and then push your way inside.
“But do you want me to?”
An agonising beat of silence follows. But there’s no doubt there anymore. No more wondering, or uncertainty, because you can see it in his eyes. The same all-consuming, devastating desire that crawls its way up to rest at the base of your throat whenever you’re with him.
And then thick fingers are at the waist of his pants, undoing his leather belt, his button, pushing the material open to reveal a pair of black briefs. He doesn’t take his pants off, just adjusts slightly in the chair before pressing his hand beneath the band of his underwear. Joel grips himself, the sight still obscured from your vision, and you find yourself mesmerised nonetheless, unable to drag your eyes away from the dark material. A low grunt escapes him, and then he shifts the band of his underwear down and pulls his cock out.
The head of him is swollen and leaking, tight skin so red that it’s almost a purple hue against the stark white of his shirt. Joel’s fingers tighten around his base, stroking himself once. Impatient, you lick you hand and let it drift forward to replace his, fingers slipping over the silky wet skin of his head and wrapping around him. Your hand is so much smaller in comparison, and your fingertips almost don’t meet as you flex your grip around girth.
Your underwear clings to the skin between your thighs, material warm and damp against you, a result of the simmering heat that rests in the base of your belly and flares every time Joel sighs. When you glance up to see his face, he’s already staring at you, pupils blown wide, lips sealed in a tight line. His length twitches in your palm, and you salivate.
You lean in and place a gentle kiss again his tip, smearing the pearl of precome there against your lips. You stroke the length of him in slow, firm pumps, guiding his head against your puckered lips, but not quite taking it inside yet. Joel’s fists are tight against his thighs, and you wish he would put them in your hair, on the back of your head, grip you, pull you down against him. But he doesn’t, not yet.
He’s got a salty, heady taste, and you swipe your tongue out to clean the hint of it from your mouth, swallowing with a satisfied purr. A harsh exhale shoots from his nose, eyebrows dragging further down as he watches you tease him.
A quick flick of your tongue against his slit has a sharp gasp rising from him, and in response you lathe wet, messy kisses to his head, puckering your lips around it and swirling your tongue, not caring what you look like, not caring that he probably wants you to go faster. It’s purely for your own enjoyment, and you’re moaning and sighing around the taste of him. You want to take Joel Miller a part, piece by piece, and feel him come undone beneath your mouth.
Unable to wait any longer, you let his head slip passed your open lips and sink into the wet heat of your mouth. And he’s so quiet, so composed, so you glide your tongue over his slit again before pressing forward, lips meeting the movement of your own hand as you take him deeper.
Your jaw strains, muscles smarting as you attempt to take the entirety of him. He’s so long, so thick, and the tip of him is nudging against the back of your throat in seconds, making your eyes water. And god it’s better than you could’ve imagined.
Tears cling to your eyelashes as you look up and find Joel with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, pink skin turning white from pressure. The heavy weight of him crowds your senses, his taste on your tongue and scent in your nostrils, everywhere, and you can feel how hot your face is getting but you can’t look away from him. You don’t stop until his hand is landing on the nape of your neck, collecting your hair in his fist and dragging your mouth off him. You part with a wet gasp, a string of saliva dangling between his tip and your shiny lips.
“Breathe, goddammit,” Joel says, holding you still when you attempt to press forward and take him back into your mouth.
“You’re so big,” you say earnestly, head tilting backward to rest heavy in his hold. You blink through bleary eyes, smiling lazily. Drunk on him after only a little taste. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this, you know. How you’d taste… how it would feel to have you in my mouth.”
“Fuck, stop,” Joel says quickly, voice pained. “Y’can’t say shit like that.” His grip tightens at the base of your neck, and then he’s guiding your face forward so the head of his cock slips back into your mouth, effectively shutting you up.
You hum appreciatively and relax your jaw, taking him until he’s nudging at your throat again, and he’s still so fucking silent. Determined to get some kind of reaction from him, you pull off and lick a broad stripe from tip to base, hand stroking his length in unhurried, firm pulls as your mouth finds his heavy balls. Your tongue glides along the sensitive skin in slow, overwhelming movements, leaving no inch of him untouched. Wet sounds fill the air as the movement of your fist increases in pace, and your lips drag over him, sucking one of his balls into your mouth and then—finally—a long, drawn-out groan spills into the air, and he’s saying, “Shit, that’s it.”
Never pausing the movement of your hand, you pull back just a smidge and grin.
Joel’s hands are on you then, another deep sound sputtering from his lips. He’s brushing your hair off your face, mussing it as he rakes his fingers through it, short nails scraping against your scalp. He swears softly when you take him back into your mouth.
“Fuck,” he mutters breathlessly. “Is that what you want? Needy little thing wants a little praise, huh? Want me to tell you how good you are, how good your pretty mouth feels on my cock?”
You whimper, eyelids fluttering as you begin to move on him desperately. Your mouth tightens around him, and a tear squeezes from your eyes as his hips jolt forward, cock nudging suddenly into the back of your throat. Joel’s hand cups the back of your head, strokes the damp skin at the base of your neck as you gag around him.
“Jesus,” Joel groans at the sound. “There you go, s’perfect, s’fuckin’ perfect.”
The muscles in your thighs tighten, legs pressing together to try and soothe the pulsing ache there. Your head is moving up and down along his length and it’s wet and messy and depraved, saliva gliding down your chin to your neck, and you fucking love it. Joel’s gruff sounds of encouragement only serve to spur you on.
And then, as if by some stroke of divine intervention, it happens again.
A firm rap against the door of his office.
Joel goes silent. Your shoulders tense, and you pull back until his tip rests heavy on your bottom lip. Wide eyed, you gaze up at him, panic swelling in your chest. And then comes that voice; the same voice as yesterday.
“You in there Joel?”
You can feel your lungs squeezing inside your chest, grasping violently for air and finding zero reprieve as the reality of the moment begins to overwhelm you, because you know that voice.
“Fuck,” you whisper dazedly, slumping back to rest on your heels. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”
Joel shakes his head, strong hands gripping your shoulders to soothe you. “Shh,” he hushes quietly. “Stop, hey, stop. It’s fine.”
Another knock at the door. Nowhere for you to go, nowhere to hide.
“Just a sec, Rachel,” Joel calls, voice laced with frustration.
And then those hands are guiding you backwards. You move blindly, allowing him to encourage your body back, back, back, broad palm protecting your head as he nudges you underneath the desk. Further and further until you’re completely hidden, tucked away where only he can see you. And as you settle into the warm, sweaty space, watch Joel drag his chair forward and squeeze his long legs around your body, you feel the panic quell. Your pulse slows, the tremor in your hands settles, and cool relief comes in the form of a chill down your spine.
“Come in,” Joel calls. You can hear the door click open a second later, soft footsteps entering the room. You hold your breath as they begin to talk, heart stuttering, eyes trained on his where his spit-soaked cock rests against the underside of his desk.
“Sorry to be a bother,” Rachel’s soft voice chimes. “I was hoping to grab my copy of The Annals, I need it for the undergrad lecture I’m covering this afternoon.”
“Course,” he says sharply, and you can hear a drawer to your right open and close. A moment of silence. “All yours.”
Your abdomen tenses at the sound of his haggard voice, and something tight pulls in your chest. A flare of jealousy, of possessiveness, at the fact that someone else is seeing him right now. That the flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his neck, is no longer yours alone. And it’s absurd, because she has no idea. But the desire to reclaim the moment for yourself, to assert that his sweat, his blush—his body—is yours is overwhelming, and you find your hand gripping his heavy cock, tongue gliding out of your mouth to swipe against his weeping tip. The dread from before flares in the back of your mind but you push it away, shove it down until it’s hazy, a faint ringing that fades into the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.
Joel’s thighs stiffen. He coughs, a sharp, surprised noise.
“Thanks for that,” Rachel says, voice slow. “Hey… are you doing okay? Looking pretty faint over there, Miller.”
You smile around him and rub your tongue in teasing strokes along the underside of his sensitive head. He clears his throat roughly, and then his hand is slipping underneath the desk to tangle in your hair. It’s rough and it stings, and you find yourself humming ever so slightly around him, indicating that you love it.
“Feelin’ a little under the weather,” he agrees faintly.
“Should try some of that tea I always tell you about,” she says, ever so friendly. “Works a treat when you’re sick.”
“Maybe I will,” Joel says, and his fingers are twisting in your messy locks, pulling your mouth away from his cock.
Although he can’t see you, you pout. Not wanting to push it, you settle for looping three fingers around him, index middle and thumb, gripping just beneath his head, and begin to rub him in slow, soundless movements. With every forward motion of your hand, the tip of his cock brushes against your lower lip, and his grip on your hair tightens.
“I could bring you some,” Rachel offers then. You can practically hear the smile in her voice, picture the kind slant to her eyes. “Maybe tomorrow, if you think you’ll be coming into wor—”
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Joel snaps suddenly, voice almost harsh as he interrupts her. “Was that all you needed?”
“Oh,” she replies awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry.”
“No,” he says, audibly flustered. His cock is drooling over your lips, and the salty taste has your pussy aching, clenching painfully tight, begging to be filled. “m’sorry, got a fuckin’ headache, is all. Tea tomorrow?”
“Tea tomorrow, sure,” Rachel confirms. “Sorry again, I… yeah, sorry, I hope you feel better, Joel.”
Whem the door closes a moment later Joel is shoving his chair backward again, hands wrenching you out from underneath his desk. You fall forward, flushed and breathless. His expression is thunderous, pitch-black eyes glaring down at you. On all fours, you crawl forward and splay your palms across his thighs, feel them twitch and tremble beneath your nimble fingers.
“You couldn’t fuckin’ wait?” he snaps, hand finding a home in your hair once more. He drags it into a ponytail and wraps it around his fist.
“Sorry,” you lie, teeth nipping at your swollen bottom lip. Joel’s eyes follow the movement and he grunts, unimpressed with the apology.
“She could’ve caught us,” he admonishes you.
“Better start locking the door then,” you clip, winking lazily. A short huff passes through his lips, and then his left hand is dropping to land on your chin, thumb rubbing against your lower lip, prying it from between your teeth.
“Open,” he orders.
His jaw is set with concentration, eyebrows drawn low as he cradles your jaw, holding it still while he pushes his cock back into your eager mouth. The salt of him rushes your senses again and you’re moaning around him, cheeks hollowed and eyes wet as he begins to rut into your mouth, the tip of his cock caressing the back of your throat with every thrust. It’s fast and hard, and the noises coming out of you are scandalous, but you can’t drag your eyes away from his face. Lips parted, eyes ablaze as he watches his cock push in and out of your mouth, over and over again. A tear streaks down your cheek and Joel groans, swiping at it with his fingers. Shallow curses and murmurs of your name spill from his lips in a tortured stream of consciousness.
“Always so fuckin’—impatient,” he mutters. His grip on your jaw is near bruising, cock throbbing against your tongue. You can sense how close he is. Feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, snapping thrusts losing their rhythm.
The stretch has a dull ache searing through your jaw, but Joel is breathless, eyes dark and focused on yours, saying, “Look at you. So pretty takin’ my cock like this.” and you can’t bring yourself to care. Your eyelids flutter closed, and his fingers are tapping your cheek quickly—softly?
“Let me see you,” he says urgently. “Want those eyes on me, don’t close them.” You cast your eyes up to meet his gaze, and Joel hisses under his breath, expression taut.
His hips drag backward, and he’s replacing your mouth with his hand, fucking himself in quick, brutal strokes, and your mouth is open, slick tongue peaking between your lips before he can even say open your mouth.
“Fuck,” he exhales at the sight, tip bumping against your tongue with every wet pump of his fist. His thighs are trembling beneath your hands, and you dig your nails into the muscles there, encouraging him. “Fuck me.”
And then he’s coming, face going slack as hot ropes of his come paint your lips, your tongue, your chin. Unashamed rasps of your name fall from pink lips, washing over you in glorious waves as you sit there and take all of it. And for a moment, you think it’s over. But then Joel’s hand is still moving over his length, calloused thumb gliding against the ridge of his rounded tip, and there’s more.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck—yes.”
Salty strings of his spend gloss over your cheeks and slide down to paint your neck. And it’s like he’s coming a second time, torso jolting in short, jerky movements, and you wish you could see his body while he came; the way the muscles in his stomach would flex and pull taut, entire frame straining as he gives you his all.
His shoulders slump forward as he stares down at you, hand falling away from his sensitive cock, and his face is ruined. Eyes blown wide, cheeks a dark red, looking at you like he’d enjoy nothing more than to devour you whole. Maintaining eye contact, you swallow down his spend, practically purring at the taste of him.
Joel’s thumb smears his come off your cheeks and into your swollen mouth, making sure you don’t miss a single drop.
“Good girl,” his voice is broken. “That’s it, yeah—yes, s’perfect.”
Perfect, perfect, perfect. The word rings in your ears. Your skin is on fire, and you can’t believe that you are both still fully clothed. You feel naked, bared to him in the truest sense of the word, despite being completely covered up.
He groans heartily when you suck his fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around them greedily, and swallow down the last of his spend.
For a moment after, the two of you simply sit there, your knees chafed and aching against the carpet, his fingers hooked against your tongue, staring at each other. And you know. You both know – there’s no going back from this.
Joel drags his hand away and snatches a box of tissues from the top drawer of his desk. You stand, knees popping in relief, and lean against the desk to stabilise yourself. He takes a moment to clean himself, and when you’re sure he’s not looking you swipe a pen from his desk, scribble a set of numbers on a post it and press the sticky paper down against the cover of The Odyssey.
He offers you the box of tissues and you wipe your face carefully, make sure no trace of him is left on your skin. Joel watches your movements like a hawk, eyes fading from black to brown as he fixes his belt and tucks his shirt back into his pants.
“You good?” he asks after a moment. And it’s the same. The same thing he asked you that night in the bar after fucking your brains out. After calling you a slut, a dirty little thing. Maybe it’s his thing—you good? And it’s more than anyone else has ever said after you’ve had their cock in your mouth, so you smile at him. Nod. The duality of man, you think.
“Perfect,” you use his word, and cringe at how wrecked your voice is. The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches upward, something sly and conspiratorial in his gaze as he watches you tuck your computer into your bag, IT issue long forgotten.
Even as you wander toward the door of his office, tossing a casual see you tomorrow over your shoulder, you can see it in his face. In the lines by his eyes, the furrow of his brow; never satiated, never finished, never satisfied. More, more, more. This wasn’t enough for either of you. And this will not be the last time.
Hours later, when you’re tucked into bed with a glass of wine and a book perched in your lap, you get a text from an unknown number.
You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.
And then another, twenty minutes later.
That can’t happen again.
You grin. Save his number under J MILLER, PhD, and don’t reply.
tags: @lovely-ateez @nana90azevedo @stevie75 @evyiione @dameron-grant-spector @brittmb115 @ashhlsstuff @casa-boiardi @sinfulrock @bbyanarchist @murc0cks4eva @hopplessilse @joeldjarin @anoverwhelmingdin @bluevxnus @kelp-dreaming @prettyinpunk85 @spacelatinos4life @iluvurfather @daisies-yellow @mrsquill @sarap-77 @sunnywithachanceofjavi @alleyy-katt @zeida
thank you for reading! x
#my writing#fic: a lover's pinch#professor!joel#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller#joel miller smut
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Old Friend
Summary: You meet an old friend in your shopping trip with the family.
Nothing but a slice of life, fluff, bit of angst and a jealous Miguel ~
Whenever it was restock day, Costco or Walmart would be the main places to go.
You'd get the list, Miguel would secure Rosie to his chest, as Benjamin would get inside your cart. Gabi would walk alongside you or her beloved Papa, pushing his cart.
Each would take separate ways, you'd get the meats and veggies, as Miguel would get the rest, powder detergent, cleansing products, and snacks.
"Mama, can I have these?" Benjamin swayed his feet pointing at the colorful packaging of dinosaur shaped nuggets.
"Course you can, mi niño. Which one you want?"
"I tried the red one last time, I'll get the purple"
Benji's boyish voice echoed around you as you stopped on the frozen meals section.
"Alright, purple it is."
You picked the purple package, a triceratops and a T-Rex on the cover. Then, filled the cart with different sort of meats, Miguel's favorite cuts, hams and of course, lots of canned jalapeños. Orange, pineapple, and cranberry juice, a couple of sodas and finally you got to go to the cereal and coffee aisle.
Miguel was running out of coffee in his office, and back at home you only had a couple of packages. It reminded you the time Miguel nearly had an anxiety attack when he found out he had ran out of the black liquid gold, even in his secret stash.
For some reason the brand he always bought was put on the top shelves. With a huff you looked around to see if there was any ladder, but upon finding none, You stepped on the bottom shelf, trying to get the six pack in the edge, but obviously, you couldn't reach it.
Benjamin giggled when you missed, as revenge you smothered his face in kisses, earning you a loud and bubbling squeal.
"Here, let me." A deep voice rumbled behind you. Your eyes widened at the all too familiar face before you. Reaching effortlessly for the coffee packaging.
"Richard" you mumbled while taking the package, to then put it on the cart.
"Hey" His hand waved softly. Clad in a hoodie, bermudas and sneakers. A little gold band hugging his ring finger. Dull, as his overall aura.
Despite the years coming through, he hadn't lost his kind green eyes. Some wrinkles adorned his matured face. Ricky was only two years older than you, and still had some white hairs poking out here and there.
He sported a short and well trimmed beard, hair parted and neatly arranged to a side. His eyes darted to the boy that undoubtedly resembled alot like you, except for his curious big and round red-ish eyes.
"Whose this little champ?" The smile on his face was coy, but genuine.
"It's my boy, Benjamin."
A proud beam stretched on your face as your hand caressed Benjamin's head, some of his curls trapping your fingers.
"Nice to meet you, champ." Ricky stretched his hands towards him and Benjamin shook it, a tad nervous.
"He definitely has your curls."
You smiled, eyes diverting behind him, ready to meet his partner but, there was none, just his half cart full of car appliances, some diary products and snacks.
"My goodness, you have a beard now."
Ricky chuckled and scratched it. He was a handsome man, undoubtedly. Good and well worked physique. Lean muscles, athletic and healthy looking. Green eyes a shade darker than green apples, pretty lips you liked biting and a healthy tan on his skin, despite him being a pale guy. A couple of freckles adorned his nose.
"And you've got a kid now." there was a bit of disbelief in his tone.
"Three actually. Funny how we ended up doing the things we always said we wouldn't do right away."
Richard gave a soft laugh.
"At least we look good. And I'm sure you're a great mom. How long has it been?"
"I don't know, I suck at math. But I do know it's more than ten years." You pushed the cart to get the cereals and naturally he helped you to get them. Eyes looking for Miguel in every chance you had.
"How have you been?" He tensed a bit at the question, not expecting your openness to talking so casually, specially when your finger shone with a golden band. He graduated college and never saw you again, until now. Gentle and caring as always. You hadn't changed, and he was glad.
"As usual. Existing, trying to keep myself afloat after, uh... my divorce." His mouth pressed in a tight line, green eyes looked away for a second, unable to meet your stare. Ashamed.
Your eyes blinked at his reply. Clearly surprised by such thing. Face falling with worry. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Richard shook his head, and gave a nonchalant shrug.
"Things happen. It's one of those situations that get your eyes open for good." Ricky rubbed his neck awkwardly and you offered a little reassure with a hand on his shoulder, patting it softly.
"Hey, you've got this. I know it's been a while, but I'm sure your problem solving skills are still top notch."
Hw chuckled, almost sympathetic at himself, "I don't even know anymore, if I'm honest. But if you say so."
The voices in the aisles kept indistinct, each in their own world, mingling with the upbeat background music.
"Also... I'm sorry." His eyes remained on yours. Something he'd always do when speaking truthfully.
Your brow quirked, "Whatever for?"
Ricky's hands squeezed the insides of his pockets as he spoke.
"For breaking up with you. Specially like that. It was a d-" He caught his tongue before continuing with the french before Benjamin, "It was wrong of me."
You could only stare at him, and he recoiled further in his spot, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor.
"If something's worth saying, I... divorced cause my mom also ruined it for me."
You frowned, confused and he shook his head.
"So I cut ties, went to therapy and yeah." He reached out for a three pack of granola for himself, and another for you after you pointed at the brand.
"I'm sorry, I'm kind of confused as to why would you think I'd be happy to know something awful happened to you, Richard?"
Richard's brow puckered. You really hadn't changed at all. Even after he dumped you a few days before Christmas eve.
"I... don't know? Thought you'd hold a grudge for what I did."
"A grudge?" You tittered and this threw him off guard, "Not to sound mean or anything, but I didn't even remember what had happened until now. You know I'm forgetful."
You both chuckled as he nodded.
"Yeah, kinda wondered if you'd lose your head too if it wasn't attached to your body."
You gasped while mocking offense, "That was rude."
You grabbed a couple of cereal boxes Benjamin pointed at.
"But true. In all seriousness, I'm glad that at least something great came after me. Is he a good man?, wait..." He shook his head softly, "Stupid question Of course he is, you married him."
You beamed and this made his chest swell in a mix of happiness and pride. You deserved it after all he also put you through.
"You'll find someone, I know so." It always made him wondered why he was stupid like that to allow his mother come in between.
"I'll give myself a couple of years to heal first. Wanna make sure I don't repeat things over."
It was your turn to get that pride sensation in your chest. Knowing he was making a good progress out of his mother's shadow also made you happy. You out of everyone knew how hard it was like.
"Hope they're ready to listen country music nonstop in your car." He rolled his eyes.
"I know you hated the genre, that's why I always played them"
Your lips pursed with faked anger as he tittered, however, Ricky cleared his throat off the laughing upon watching a behemoth of a man, approaching from behind. Red eyes set on him. A shudder crawled on his skin as he gulped. The baby on his chest did little to appease the intimidating aura around him.
"Mama!" Gabi came to you with an excited face as she showed you her new acquisition. A purple and glittery cover for her phone.
"Qué lindo! Do they have it in blue too?" (How cute!)
"Nah, it was the last one, Papa said this would match with my room too."
Said Papa hugged you from behind, and kissed your temple, red eyes never left him. Ricky gave Miguel a polite smile as he backed away a few steps. Miguel's strong features only turned sharper. It would be a lie to say if Ricky wasn't surprised and intimidated.
Surprised cause you hugged Miguel's narrow waist, a pleased and proud purr emanated from his chest. Loud enough for only you to hear it.
The man before him screamed danger a mile ago. But also, explained lots of things. Like Benjamin's eyes.
"Richard, this is my husband. Miguel O'Hara."
Ricky hesitated for a second, but stretched his hands towards him, big tan hands easily enveloped his in a firm shake.
"Nice to meet you." His nervous smile was like fuel to your husband's ego.
Miguel acknowledged him with a brief nod, eyes not tearing away from him. A quiet She's mine in his eyes.
"Richard and I used to go at the same college. Oh! This is my eldest daughter, Gabriella. And my youngest baby, Rosie."
Gabi smiled politely while holding onto Miguel's hips.
"You have a beautiful family." His green eyes stared at an ever curious Rosie that gazed back at him. Miguel's shoulder's tensed when Rosie gave Ricky a smile.
"Thanks, You'll be fine though. Things take time, but, It all comes together somehow. Just be patient. I'm glad you're doing good on your own." Again, you patted his shoulder, he just gave you a small but genuine smile. Miguel's guts churned as his jaw clenched.
Ricky left after saying his goodbyes, not wanting to impose his presence any further.
"Gabibi, mi amor, can you get the food cart to the line, please?"
"Okay. Don't take too long, please?"
Gabriella took the cart as Benjamin showed her his nuggets, leaving you and Miguel with Rosie alone.
"Alright, interrogation can start now." You chuckled and Miguel pulled you by your waist towards him, ebbing you to walk a few steps before giving a firm slap on your rear.
"Miguel!" you hushed, flustered while looking around to see of there were people and he smirked.
"Wanted to do that before that guy, but that wouldn't be too polite of me, wouldn't it?"
You kissed his cheek, but he quickly corrected the place and pecked your lips.
"That's better. Who was he anyway?"
"My ex from college."
He just hummed and it was your turn to return the squeeze, he chuckled, "Relax. He just got divorced and obviously not having a good time."
"Too bad." He shrugged, a bit nonchalant and you deadpanned.
"Don't be mean. You were scaring him on purpose."
"Obvio. Still, forgot to thank him." (Obviously)
You chuckled as you approached to the line, Gabi waved at you both.
"Thank him?"
"Well, he let you go, and I wouldn't have met you in the first place. So thanks to that."
"Well, he's there on the other line, go tell him."
You teased, but to your surprise Miguel stepped away from the beeline and was walking towards Richard.
"W-Wait! Miguel!" You had skip a few steps to catch him and pull him back to spot, he smirked while pulling you tighter towards him.
"Don't tempt me, mi reina."
"God, I swear. You're-"
"Your husband, mi amor." He smirked, satisfied at his own title in your life.
"A jealous one."
He leaned to your ear and whispered, "Espérate que lleguemos a casa. No te la vas a acabar conmigo, mi reina." (Wait till we get home. You'll see what's up.)
Gabriella rolled her eyes at the flirty atmosphere around you and covered Benjamin's eyes.
"You're too young to see that."
#t writes✨#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara x you#soccer family ⚽🕷️#atsv miguel#gabi o'hara#miguel o'hara fluff#benjamin o'hara#rosie o'hara
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hi baby!! dont worry!! it was about reader getting so stressed and annoyed while building a gingerbread house that they throw it in the garbage because its going all wrong and carmy finds it hilarious lol then he builds one for her hehe<3 love u
Perfectionist.
Your boyfriend being a professional chef has its perks - especially when it comes to gingerbread houses.
pairing - carmen berzatto x female reader
warnings - cursing
word count - under 1k!! short and sweet
author's note - just a little dose of carmy at christmas for you. thanks baby angel for sending this request in (twice!!) <3
masterlist. inbox.
"Fuck this."
Carmy hears your raised voice and immediately comes running, coming to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen.
"You good, baby?"
"No."
The frown on your face is amusing him to no end, fighting to keep his smile from breaking out. He doesn't want to minimise your feelings, but you're cutest when you're mad.
Carmy takes in the scene in front of him, surveying carefully. There's chunks of gingerbread scattered across the table, icing dripping from the tablecloth. Your kitchen looks like a candy store exploded - sweets in red, green and blue littered over every surface. You're caked in frosting, hair falling into your eyes as you take deep breaths to try to keep your anger at bay.
"I knew this wouldn't be easy, but fuck me, Carmy... I'm on the brink of a breakdown here."
He makes his way over, grinning like an idiot. It's not often he gets to help you with things - you're fiercely independent, determined to get stuff done all by yourself. He likes teaching you, getting to feel like he's easing your worries a little.
"You want my help?"
"I said I'd do it," you huff, on the verge of stamping your feet and pushing the table over.
"It won't kill you to ask for what you need, baby."
You roll your eyes, bottom lip caught between your teeth. It's difficult for you to admit defeat, but you might rip your hair out if your gingerbread collapses one more time.
"Can you help me, Carm?" you whisper.
"What was that, honey? Say it again?"
You sigh in exasperation, slumping back into your chair.
"Can you help me, Carmen? Please?"
He beams at you like the cat that got the cream, making his way over to sit next to you at the table.
"Lets start again, hmm?"
"Good idea."
You pick up the remnants of your gingerbread house and throw them so forcefully, the trash can almost tips over. Carmy laughs, wrapping his arms around you from behind.
"I think we've finally found the one thing you're not good at, honey. It's a Christmas miracle."
You can't help but chuckle, leaning your head back to rest against his shoulder. He presses a kiss or four into your neck, nosing at the spot under your ear.
"Okay, Mr Michelin Star. Show me what you got."
You bake, first, Carmy explaining how to get the perfect texture you need for structural soundness. He even gets out a ruler, measuring the rolled out dough so the sides will be even.
He kisses you lazily while your gingerbread is in the oven. You're propped up on the counter as he stands between your legs, arms thrown around his shoulders. He tastes like cinnamon and spice, groaning when you lick the sugar straight from his tongue.
When it's cooled, you begin your assembly, sitting back while Carmy trims and remeasures. He draws out a template with a pencil and cuts accordingly, ensuring each piece has a straight edge. You watch in awe as he works, so careful, so attentive. You're fighting not to jump his bones at any given moment.
It's time to build, and Carmy has the perfect plan. He's made a thickened sugar syrup that acts as a glue, hardening when it dries and keeping everything together. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he concentrates, determined not to mess this up for you.
He steps back, then, to let you decorate. You clearly have a vision, your picturesque idea of what you wanted your original creation to look like. Carmy makes you multiple bags of icing in different colours, and melts down candies so you can make windows and doors. He opens packets of chocolates, and carves into them with a knife to make little trees for the yard.
Hours later, when you're both covered in powdered sugar and melted chocolate, you step back to admire your masterpiece.
"Holy shit, Carm."
"We did good, huh?"
"Is there like, a business in this? Can we do this for a living?"
He laughs, the sound vibrating through you from where his chest his pressed to your back. He's got you tightly in his arms, swaying gently to the soft music that plays from the radio.
"What were you saying about finding the one thing I wasn't good at, Berzatto? Hmm?"
He spins you, pressing his forehead into yours.
"I take it back. I take it all back, baby. You're good at everything."
"Especially gingerbread houses."
"Especially gingerbread houses."
You lean up to kiss him, wiping some frosting off his cheek with your thumb.
"Thanks for not making me feel like an idiot."
"I would never. Life is a learning curve, baby, You taught me that."
"I love you," you whisper. "And just so you know, we're never eating that. It's going to have to be display only."
He laughs, full chested and whole hearted, moving his hands to cradle your face.
"I love you too, baker extraordinaire. We don't need to eat it, anyway. We've got all this candy to get through."
You reach behind him to pick up a chocolate, tossing it into your mouth.
"It isn't as sweet as you," you wink.
A blush rises up his cheeks as he rolls his eyes, pulling you in closer.
"Merry Christmas, baby."
"Merry Christmas, Carmen."
#carmen berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto fic#carmen berzatto fluff#carmen berzatto x reader fluff#carmen berzatto x you#carmen berzatto#carmen berzatto x y/n#carmen berzatto smut#carmen berzatto x female reader#carmen berzatto x reader smut#carmy x reader#carmy berzatto#carmy berzatto x reader#carmy berzatto imagine#carmen berzatto imagine#carmy berzatto smut#carmy berzatto x reader fluff#carmy berzatto fluff#the bear x reader#the bear x you#the bear fluff#the bear imagine#the bear fic#the bear x y/n
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i’m still thinking of this post about price and you pretending you don’t know each other at a hotel and i’ve given in to the brain worms
part one | part two ->
18+ (no smut in this one but for future parts), fem!reader
un-edited, super lazy writing + formatting sorry
You sat idly at the bar, your finger running up and down the cool, smooth edges of your glass. You had one elbow propped up against the sleek wood, your body half-turned to watch whatever bullshit was playing on the tv above the shelves of expensive alcohol.
The hotel bustled around you, the bar itself busy with patrons moving to and fro. oftentimes, you felt slightly crowded, with bodies packing in beside you, ordering their poison before departing like a wraith. No one seemed to linger near the bar for too long.
“No company tonight?” The bartender asked, a dark-coloured dish towel tossed over her shoulder. She was a kind looking woman, in her late thirties you estimated, with flawless dark skin that seemed to glow beneath the ambiant lighting above.
You shook your head with a rueful smile. “Not tonight. Just enjoying my own company, I suppose.”
The bartender smiled politely. “Well, that’s nice. You here for business or pleasure?”
You took a sip of your drink, the taste of it washing over your tongue and continuing to put your nerves at ease.
“Pleasure, I think. It’s nice to get away from everything for a while, you know?” You said with your lips still brushing the cold glass, and you took another sip.
“I’m really happy for you,” the bartender smiled. Then, after being waved at by a drunken patron at the other end of the bar, added: “Give me a shout when you need a refill.” She then breezed away to continue her job.
You sighed through your nose, looking wistfully around the bar for a moment. When you returned to your drink, you let your eyes admire the kaleidoscope of colours that comprised the wall at the back of the bar— shelves upon shelves of glass bottles of different kinds of alcohol.
As your eyes alighted on a bottle of Bombay, the blue bottle glinting like some sort of diamond beneath the light, someone slotted into the barstool beside you. You didn’t take much notice, but when you caught a whiff of an expensive, masculine cologne, you couldn’t help but twist your head to the side.
A handsome man had settled in beside you. He was probably in his early forties, with neatly trimmed facial hair that perfectly settled between the angles of his face— his cheekbones, his jawline, the pinkish line of his Cupid’s bow. In the overhead lighting, all dim and moody, his eyes were dark, and his hair speckled with just a few grey strands.
He turned to face you the moment you looked his way, offering you a warm smile that made butterflies tickle the edges of your stomach. You smiled back, before taking another sip of your drink in an attempt to steel your nerves.
Signalling the bartender, he ordered his own drink, and the baritone of his voice had your stomach swooping. Deep and melodious, with a distinct hoarseness akin to a smoker of fine cigars. The rumble of it seemed to do wonders to your fraying nerves, acting as some sort of salve to cool the heat pulsing beneath your skin.
The man thanked the bartender when she placed a tumbler of whiskey before him, the single ball of ice clinking against the crystal. Once more, sending another deep swoop to your stomach, he turned to you with those deep, dark eyes and warm smile, raising his glass.
Your eyes traipsed over his fingers, the roughness of them, the calloused skin pressing against sleek glass. You noted the thickness of them, and the way they wrapped around the tumbler. You also noticed the couple of veins leading from his wrist and down his strong, hairy forearm. You swallowed, and hesitantly lifted your own glass.
“Cheers,” he said, smiling. Crow’s feet appeared at the corners of his eyes, three lines chiseled into his skin over the years.
“Cheers,” you echoed, and the two of you took a moment to sip at your drinks. You swallowed yours, still looking at the man beside you.
He placed his tumbler of whiskey against the bartop, and then leaned an arm against the surface, swivelling his entire body around to face you. He made it known that you had his full, undivided attention. It made you nervous almost.
“I hope you don’t mind me interrupting your alone time,” he spoke, and his words were honeyed and sweet, warm mollasses falling from his tongue. “Couldn’t help myself, really. A pretty lady like you shouldn’t be left all on her lonesome.”
You smiled shyly, running the tip of your finger along the ring of your glass. “Oh, no, you’re not interrupting anything at all. I… I don’t mind the company, actually.”
The handsome man’s smile only grew, and it was so warm that you wondered if you’d start to melt.
“That’s good to hear,” he said. “I’m John, by the way.”
He stretched his hand out. You introduced yourself, a first name that fell from your lips a bit more seductively than you had intended, and shook his hand. John seemed to beam at your introduction and the acceptance of his handshake, his broad-shouldered body sitting up just a bit straighter in his seat.
His hand was strong in yours. There was a warmth beneath his skin, seeping from his palm like ichor. It made your hand curl instinctively tighter around his, just a subtle squeeze of your fingers. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, and it took everything in you not to gasp.
When you retracted your hand, John reached for his drink to take a sip.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said before he sealed his lips around the edge of the crystal tumbler. You watched the movement, before dragging your eyes downwards in a sudden realisation.
Your eyes locked in on his other hand, resting on his thick, muscular thigh— stretched out beneath a pair of faded jeans, making you feel warm all of a sudden. Again. His hand was bare. No wedding band. You looked back up at him.
“What brings you here?” You asked, cocking your head slightly as he brought his tumbler of whiskey back to the bartop.
John smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth a couple of times, tasting the lingering bitterness of his liquor. He ran his tongue over his teeth, too, the potent drink seeping into the grooves of his molars. He wondered briefly whether you’d be able to taste it if you kissed him.
“A weekend break from work,” he replied simply.
“Oh, yeah? What do you do?”
“I’m in the Armed Forces. A captain.”
“Wow,” you said, impressed. “You must be a busy man.”
John chuckled, eyes meeting yours and darting quickly across your face, as if committing parts of you to memory. He replied with a light quirk in his lips. “I am, yeah.”
He then cleared his throat. “What about you? What brings you here?”
You shrugged, nonchalant. “Just needed a little getaway from home, I suppose.”
“Oh, yeah?” It was John’s turn to cock his head, eyes darkening— if that was even possible— beneath the weight of his pupils, expanding as he gazed at you. “Treating yourself?”
“Mhm.”
“Good girl,” he uttered. “I bet you deserve it.”
You smiled, feeling giddy. Your eyes didn’t leave him, and the butterflies wreaking havoc in your stomach didn’t leave either. They continued, and the way he was looking at you wasn’t much of an insecticide. His gaze was intense, all whiskey smooth and molten hot. You squirmed in your seat.
Your knees brushed— his large ones against yours, and you swear you felt sparks. You wanted so desperately to place the flat of your hand along his leg, hold it there, smiling and bartering your eyelashes and mentally insisting he take you back to his room.
Oh my god. You’d never thought like this before! You would never usually want someone to whisk you back to their room, especially not someone from the bar of a fancy hotel.
But if it wasn’t for the way he was staring at you— hunger and a mixed-bag of lustrous emotions— you would’ve felt guilty. But you didn’t.
“Sweetheart,” John began with a voice that could ignite a fire on a damp winters day. It definitely ignited something within you, stoking at the embers of your desire. He smiled, heated and tempting. “I don’t mean to be forward but… if you’d like too, I’d love to take you back to my room.”
You felt a smile creep over your pretty features. “Wow, John, are you always this forward with the girls you meet?”
He laughed. “Never. You’d be the first.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Trust me. You’re the prettiest woman I have ever seen.”
You grabbed hold of your drink and downed the rest of it— just two swallows, and your glass shone empty. You placed it gently back onto the sleek surface of the bar, not taking your eyes off of the handsome man in front of you.
“I’d love to go back to your room, John.”
Something shifted in his facial expression. Something primal, almost, passing over his features. With blown pupils and a rush of pink to his cheeks, he finished the rest of his whiskey in a couple of deep mouthfuls, before slamming the tumbler back onto the bartop.
The sound attracted the bartender, who sidled over with a knowing smile on her face. “Closing your tab, sir?”
“Please,” John said with a polite nod, getting to his feet. He then placed a hand to the small of your back as you clambered off of your barstool as well. “And put this lovely lady’s drinks on my tab as well.”
The bartender gave you a knowing look, but said nothing. And once everything had been sorted for the evening, John escorted you out of the bar and into the luxurious hotel lobby with a large hand still on the small of your back.
Walking, and with the lifts in sight, John pulled you closer to him, close enough that you giggled at the sensation of him pressed up against you. He smiled, leaning down until his facial hair tickled against the soft skin of the side of your face.
“I must say, you look absolutely stunning tonight, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice like heaven in your ear. Then, the hand on the small of your back smoothed around your waist, holding you impossibly closer, fingers bunching at the material of your outfit. “But I can’t wait to take this pretty thing off.”
#hey siri play hotel room by pitbull#captain john price smut#captain john price x you#captain john price#call of duty#cod smut#price cod#price x reader#fem!reader#captainfern
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paint. smut ahead. chris sturniolo x reader.
warnings: sloppy head, facial, cum eating
“hey baby?” you spoke to your boyfriend chris while you were both scrolling mindlessly on your phones.
chris put his phone down to give his attention to you, “what is it?” he asked you.
“i kinda wanna try something…” you trailed off.
“is it that food recipe i showed you, cause we don’t have the stuff but i can go pick it up at the store–”
“no, no. it’s not that.” despite being with him for so long, you found yourself getting shy at your words.
“what is it that you wanna try?” he reached his arm over to your thigh, caressing it slowly.
“i kinda want you to give me a facial.” you smiled sheepishly. you sounded like a little teenager.
chris’ eyes widened, not expecting that sort of request from you.
“oh. oh, well uh, yeah we can definitely do that.” he made a half-assed attempt to cover his excitement.
“come over here and kiss me, then.” you smiled, innocence in your voice as though you didn’t just ask him to paint your face with his seed.
chris didn’t bother to take his time with you as he normally would, immediately colliding with you, licking into your mouth desperately. a small whine escaped your throat.
“knees on the floor, baby.” he commanded, sending a shiver down your spine as his low-voiced demands always did.
you keenly followed his orders, pressing your knees into the soft carpet of his bedroom.
you nuzzled your face into his pants, feeling his half-hard dick underneath his clothes. chris shuddered a loaded sigh, hips pushing into your head.
“have i ever mentioned how i love you kneeling for me?” he smirked down at you.
“maybe once or twice,” you smirked back, hooking your fingers into his waistband and tugging. it was always such a pleasure to see his boxers stretching around his dick. it was a reminder of the power you had over him, and you were sure the damp patch on your panties did the same for him, though the sight of it was restricted right now.
chris only watched as your pulled his now fully hard cock out of his underwear, admiring its length and thickness.
not wanting to waste anymore time, you stuck out your tongue and licked all the way from base to tip, and he hissed.
“fuckkkkk,” chris moaned above you. you felt him grab a fistful of hair, “so good at this.”
his praise spurred you on, motivating you to make him come.
you moaned around him, licking around him anywhere you could while you took as much of him into your mouth as you could manage.
“oh my fucking god… taking this dick so well.”
chris’ hips edged their way further into your face, feeling his neatly trimmed hair tickle your nose. you gagged around him, half purposefully, knowing it drove him crazy when he could hear you struggling to take all of him.
“that’s it baby, fuck, make a mess.” he groaned lowly, and you watched his head throw back in pleasure. satisfying, but ultimately not what you wanted.
popping his dick out of your mouth, you spoke, “i’ll stop if you keep looking away from me.” he bit his bottom lip as to not moan from your words alone. he absolutely loved when you talked to him this way.
as soon as his eyes were on yours, you slipped his entire cock into your mouth, gagging once again.
“holy shit, y/n.” chris sighed loudly, willing his eyes not to roll back from the fear you’d stop again.
by now he was thrusting into you, carnally fucking your throat like he couldn’t help it.
“ohhh fuck,” he whined once he felt you swallow around him, your throat contracting over and over, giving him the sensation that he was inside your cunt. oh, how he wished he was wrecking your spongy walls.
you could tell he was close, fighting the urge not to come but losing the battle.
“baby, i’m not gonna last, fuck, much longer.” he panted out.
just a little bit more, you thought to yourself since you knew the words wouldn’t come out. adding the finishing touches, your hand reached up to fondle his balls and he snapped.
pulling himself out of your mouth, chris stroked himself over you as his cum spurted out in thick ropes on your face.
there was not much of you uncovered, his seed on your forehead, slightly in your hair, over your eyelashes and finally on your tongue.
you licked the evidence from your mouth, enjoying the salty taste of his load as you felt another spurt on your chin. the sight of your face dripping with cum already had chris half-hard again.
“y/n that was so fucking sexy.” he practically groaned out, watching you drag a finger across your eyelids and sucking it into your mouth.
“i think we should do that more often.” you giggled at your boyfriends stupefied face.
“we’re not done yet. it’s your turn to come on my face.”
a/n wow i wasn’t expecting that new tiktok to make me write so fast. my next draft is going to take a liiiittle longer than this just took me to finish but i hope it’s worth it in the end.
ciao ciao
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© APCYLPTC 2023. do not repost, translate, or duplicate any of my works here or any other websites
#sturniolo triplets#chris sturniolo imagine#chris sturniolo x reader#christopher sturniolo#the sturniolo triplets#matt sturniolo#matt sturniolo x reader#nick sturniolo#chris sturniolo oneshot#chris sturniolo smut
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John Price headcanons sfw & nsfw
I don’t usually do headcannons so please bear with me 👉👈
I hope you enjoy them tho :3 Will I use many of these in my writing? Yes, yes I will. These are both in general as well as him with you ;3
Part 2
Sfw:
He has an entire routine for his beard. Keeps it trimmed regularly and takes very good care of it, which causes it to feel very nice and soft to the touch.
Absolutely LOVES when you’re the one doing it though. It’s a small act of love that he can never get enough of. Whether you’re the one trimming it or just putting some products in. It’s a moment where he can sit on the bath rim and have you stand between his legs - or the other way around where he props you up on the sink and stands in between your legs. He just places his hands on your hips and closes his eyes, trusting you with something so important to him. It’s a very intimate thing that he treasures.
He has reading glasses. I won’t budge on this. Square(rectangle) ones with a very thin frame. Tends to forget whenever he puts them on his head and proceeds to go searching for them for five minutes.
He is very warm blooded. Always runs hot like a furnace. A blessing in the winter, a curse in the summer. Especially because he loves to cuddle.
Has a little trinket on his desk representing each of the 141 (+ Nik, Laswell and Farah). Be it a gift they gave to him or something that reminds him of them. There’s something for everyone. It clutters the edge of his desk a bit but it’s worth it because whenever the paperwork gets too much, he can just look at the little shrine he built and smile.
His love language is physical touch and quality time. While he loves giving you gifts and being romantic too, nothing beats holding you in his arms while you cuddle on the couch or in bed.
Speaking of- this man absolutely adores you. He doesn’t think he deserves the love you give him because of the things he’s done in his life. But every day he sees you, you prove that you do love him and he wants to return that love twice over.
His biggest fear is coming home after deployment to an empty house. Finding a letter on the table stating you can’t wait for him any longer. He’d understand, of course. But it would crush him.
While we’re on the sad train already- he suffers frequent nightmares due to PTSD. Feels really guilty for waking you up but also can’t stop himself from seeking your comfort after one of them - craving it. If you allow him to (he wouldn’t bring it up unless you suggested it), he’ll call you if he’s out on deployment or at base. Give him that privilege to phone you awake just to comfort him? There is nothing that man won’t do for you anymore.
He is terrified of being the one to leave you too though. He knows that if he’s ever faced with the option to sacrifice himself for one of the 141, he would. But it also breaks his heart because it would mean he’d leave you for them. He tries not to think about it like that, but it’s a constant conflict in his mind.
While he’s probably more likely to be a dog person, I can also really see him with cats just curled up on his chest. Once again, this man is always warm. The little felines will search him out like a bloodhound, preferring him over laying by the radiator.
THIS 👏 MAN 👏 CAN 👏 COOK 👏
And he loves to do it too. His idea of a hobby is either reading, building models or cooking. You can often find him in the kitchen with a cook book, making a five star meal. Loves to see your reaction to the taste of it, makes him proud of himself.
Also, yeah, he likes building models :3. Miniatures. In his spare time you can find him on the couch, bent over the coffee table with his reading glasses perched on his nose while he’s building a ww2 bomber plane out of matchsticks from some random pattern he found online. He has very steady hands and it causes the models to always look fantastic. His best and biggest work is a ship in a bottle from a kit you gave him for an anniversary between you two. He only works on that in short increments to make sure he doesn’t screw it up - it’s about 2/3 done. You’ve repeatedly tried to get him to share his work online but he always gets bashful and refuses.
If he ever got the chance to do it together with the team though?? He’s gonna be beaming about that single evening for a week straight.
His favourite colour is dark green, like the forests :)
This is less of a headcannon and more just snippets of canon proof that I found. But he can speak English, Russian, Arabic and Spanish. Maybe even more.
He’s a tea person. Can’t stand coffee. It’s not about the taste, simply that every time he tried it, it gave him a headache.
When he first introduced you to the team, he was very nervous. Really wanted them to like you. So when Soap immediately took you into a hug and thanked you for ‘taking care of the old man’, followed by Gaz introducing himself with a warm smile and a praising regalia of the things he’d heard from Price, he couldn’t be happier. And when he at one point saw you at the kitchen table with Ghost, talking calmly and laughing with the hulking man who’s tension had dropped from his shoulders? He knew you were the one.
Loves going on double dates with Laswell and her wife too. You’re all good friends and it’s a chance to truly unwind and just catch up with Kate outside of work.
Please for the love of all that is holy, take a bath or shower with him. He ADORES them. Really wants so bad to take care of you. Will do your whole cleaning routine for you if you let him. If it’s something he’s not used to? Teach him, he’s very eager to learn.
All in all, this man just loves you so much. He finds himself so so lucky that you chose him of all people as your partner. Whether you’re civilian or military, he’ll protect you with life and limb. Literally.
So, those were the sfw thoughts bouncing in my head. I hope you liked them. Now we’re moving onto the spicy stuff. Please respect the banner, thank you and more stuff for this man is coming! ^^
Nsfw:
He is an ass man. All the way. Don’t get me wrong, he LOVES your thighs, seeing the way his fingers indent the flesh when he squeezes, being buried between them - it’s heavenly. But there is just something about your ass that he can’t get enough of. If his eyes aren’t on it, then his hands are.
He won’t randomly smack your ass - doesn’t really sit right with him, doesn’t find it proper (except for certain situations ;3). But dear god does he always have a hand on your ass to squeeze if he gets the chance. Walking somewhere together? If he can, he’ll slide his hand from your back/waist down to your ass and hold there. Sitting on his lap? You already know it, his hand is on your ass, keeping you in place. Brushing past you? One hand on your waist, one hand on your ass while he apologises and squeezes past.
A gentle over a rough lover. While he can go both ways, he prefers to go slow and deep. Watching your face contort in pleasure as he fucks you, hearing every noise you make.
This man is an absolute pleasure dom. He gets off on seeing you get off. There’s plenty of nights where he solely focuses on you and doesn’t cum himself.
Doesn’t like the word daddy but for the love of god PLEASE use honorifics. Call him captain and sir and you’ll have an entirely different man on your hands.
Prefers giving over receiving oral. There’s just something about working his tongue and mouth on you that never fails to make him groan against you - even if his mouth is otherwise occupied.
Will always properly prepare you. He doesn’t like hurting you. He’s big and he knows it so he doesn’t want to take any chances.
While he doesn’t mind quickies (in his office is a favourite), he prefers the actual thing. Like stated before, he wants to focus on you and give you all the pleasure he can and a quicky just doesn’t allow for that.
For those instances where you rile him up enough to forego his gentler side however? He knows how to work you. He can push every button you have and have you seeing stars while he fucks the life out of you. Don’t expect to be standing on strong legs the day after.
Man has stamina for DAYS. Prefers to make you cum multiple times before he cums himself. Need a moment in between orgasms to recover before you can go again? That’s okay, you can cockwarm him while he waits.
Speaking of cum. It’s thick, potent and by god he cums a lot. Properly stuffs you if you let him.
Big on marking you. Loves leaving bites, hickeys and handprints. Give him the same too. Scratch marks, bite marks, hickeys. He loves checking his body over in he morning to see what you left.
He has quite the libido on him. He can’t help it, you’re the most inviting and enticing thing in his eyes. Bend over to pick something up and his cock can already be hardening in his pants.
He’s very considerate of your wants and needs though. If you don’t want to have sex, he’ll cuddle you and hold you instead. If you’re not into a certain thing, he’ll refrain on doing it next time. Very much wants to make it a time of pure pleasure and love for you, because that’s what it is for him too.
Very into kisses. Sloppy, long kisses where you moan and whine into his mouth. Better yet if you muffle your moans in his mouth while he fucks you.
Favourite positions are missionary, mating press, doggy style, lotus and spooning sex. He loves them for different reasons.
Missionary because of how close he can be, feeling your legs wrap around his waist while all of him touches all of you.
Mating press because of how deep he can hit and keep such control. He can see your face contort in pleasure while folding your legs up and holding you down.
Doggy style is obvious as to why. But he also really loves watching the way your back arches with this one. He can hold onto your hips and just let his eyes rove your body.
Lotus he loves a lot when cuddles on the couch evolve into more, or when he’s in his office and the need arrises for you both. Just having you seated on his lap, your legs around him, body pressed so closely into his while he gently fucks up into you? Heaven.
Spooning sex? You mean cuddles + sex? Hit. Him. Up. He absolutely loves fucking you like this in the morning. Lazy, tired, properly waking each other up with pleasure.
If you’re into it and allow him to, he’d even actually wake you up like that. Big on somnophelia like that for the thought of pulling you out of your dreams and your sleep with pleasure. If he gets to the stage where he’s opened you up and his cock is filling you without you waking up until then, he’s oh so proud of himself. Would only do it if you’re comfortable though.
Very big on cockwarming. Watch a movie together on the couch and let him rest his cock in you from behind. Can evolve into spooning sex on the couch while making you try to keep your attention on the movie. His hand on your chin, keeping your face pointed to the screen while he whispers against your ear.
I said it before, he’s big. Long and thick and knows how to use it well. He’s a very hairy man all over but he keeps it neatly trimmed down there.
The h a p p y t r a i l of this man. Run your nails over it and it instantly sends blood rushing into his cock.
Overall, John will fuck you whenever he gets the chance. And by the gods he will show you what it’s like to be truly worshipped.
Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to interact or send me any asks, I’d love to chat ^^
Part 2
#john price x reader#captain john price#john price#captain john price x reader#cod x reader#price headcanons#call of duty mw2#cod mw#price mw2#cod mw2#call of duty modern warfare#modern warfare x reader#nsft headcanon
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Tenth Doctor NSFW Alphabet
Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader 18+ ONLY / requests are open
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TENTH DOCTOR NSFW ALPHABET
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Ten is the cuddliest being in the entire universe after sex. Cuddles, kisses, snuggles. He’s basically a barnacle. He adores giving you cuddles just as much as he receives them. I also feel like he’d absolutely adore nuzzling his nose against your jaw and/or neck.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
His favourite body part of his own are his teeth/hands.
His favourite body part of his partner is their eyes. One of the most important things for him in a partner is their eyes. Being able to see compassion, kindness- love in someone’s eyes. There’s nothing that makes him fall in love faster.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Ten can cum a lot. Something to do with Time Lord genetics. When they mate, they mate to conceive (biologically speaking) so whenever Ten ejaculates, there can be a lot if he’s not had any for a while or if he’s been edging.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
A dirty secret of Ten’s is how much he fantasises and thinks about rubbing his cock against your clit/dick. It’s one of his favourite things, and he thinks about it way more than he should. He has- on more than one occasion, rubbed his thumb over his sonic screwdriver and thought about putting it inside you too.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Ten is experienced. He’s lived for 900-odd years. He hasn’t had a plethora of partners, but he’s had enough (both longer-term and one-night) but he’s experienced enough to know what he’s doing and how to get his partner exactly where he wants them.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Missionary. He’s not fancy about it, but he adores being able to look into your eyes as he brings you pleasure.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
It depends on the circumstance. Generally speaking, he’s more romantic than goofy, but he also believes that if you can’t laugh with your partner during sex- they’re not the one for you.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
He’s not shaved, but he’s not unruly either. He’s neat. Trimmed.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Ten’s all about the intimacy. He’s all about soft loving looks, hand-holding, and adoring caresses. He’s so romantic (most of the time) that it’s almost sickening. Even when he’s rough, he’s still romantic. Check-ins, kisses, reassuring touches and smooches.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Ten tries not to jack off too much since he has you, but he’s not opposed to jacking off in the shower if you’re not in the mood. He also has a bit of a thing for you watching him jack off. There’s just something about it that gets him hot and bothered.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Hair-pulling. The man is OBSESSED with having his hair pulled. He’s pretty sure he could cum untouched from that.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
TARDIS console room or his bedroom are his two favourite places to do it, but he’s not picky.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Teasing touches and sultry looks will get Ten going faster than anything. A brush over his shoulders, a light pat on his bum. If he’s feeling dominant, teasing him will definitely get him going. Behaving bratty and ignorant of how your words, looks and touches impact him will definitely have him all over you as soon as possible.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Knife or gun-play. It’s not for him.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
He prefers to give, but he enjoys receiving, too. Mostly when he’s feeling submissive.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Again, depends on the circumstances. If he’s feeling submissive and is receiving, he wants it loving but fast. He wants toys or cocks jackhammering into his ass. If he’s feeling dominant, he likes to make it slower and more sensual in order to tease you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Ten isn’t huge on quickies. He enjoys them, but he’d much rather be able to take his time and really enjoy the moment with you.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Ten is open to experimentation, but at 900 years old, there’s not much he hasn’t done that isn’t a huge no-no for him.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Ten can last about five to seven rounds before he starts to tire. That Time Lord biology does not quit.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Ten likes toys. He likes to use them on his partners more than receive, but having you fuck his cock with a fleshlight? Well, lets say that did something to him that he was not expecting.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
When he’s dominant, he’s very unfair. Or he can be. It depends on how naughty you’ve been. When he’s submissive, he’s only teasing when he wants to be punished.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Ten isn’t super loud, but he’s not opposed to making some noise, either. He’s louder when he’s being edged, for sure.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Ten loves to have you ride him. He adores watching you on top of him and taking charge.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
He’s not super thick, but he is quite a bit longer than the average human.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Ten’s sex drive is moderate. He’s not jonesing for it all the time, but he likes a good fuck at least two or three times a week. More if he’s really in the mood.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Ten doesn’t really fall asleep very quickly after sex unless he’s gone about eight rounds. That will tire him out like nothing else. Because he doesn’t fall asleep quickly, he likes to brush your hair and lull you to sleep on his chest for a while.
#david tennant#doctor who x reader#tenth doctor#tenth doctor x reader#doctor who#doctorwho#doctor who fic#doctor who fanfiction#david tennant x reader#10th doctor#10th doctor x y/n#10th doctor x you#10th doctor x reader#tenth doctor x y/n#tenth doctor x you#doctor who x y/n#doctor who x you#ten x reader#ten x y/n#ten x you#the doctor#the doctor x y/n#the doctor x you#the doctor x reader#david tennant doctor#dt doctor#allons-y
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Trailer park Steve AU part 59
part 1 | part 58 | ao3
cw: canon-typical horror/gore (like for real this time), emetophobia, reference to minor character death. ty to @thisapplepielife for indulging my weirdly specific research about headstones
Steve tries to follow her — gets shot down before he even gets within speaking range, Max shouting at him to give her a minute the second she spots him coming over the hill. He backs off, hands raised in surrender, and then…
Well, then he’s already out of the car.
Well then his feet know where to take him.
His dad’s grave isn’t far. Maybe a football field away, close enough that he’ll be able to hear it if Max calls for help. He moves toward it without thought, his legs carrying him past simple overgrown markers in the oldest part of the park — crumbling remnants of civil war soldiers, farmers and shopkeepers and factory workers, people who worked the mines, people who died before his grandfather was born. People who might have been loved once, before time and moss and water stripped their names off of the stones.
Up the next slope, the markers get more elaborate, shift from bronze to granite to marble, to monuments and mausoleums and a fucking obelisk; ostentatious displays of the town’s oldest money. The coal barons, the oil tycoons. Rotten bastards, Wayne might say.
The Harringtons aren't that rich. They're further down the hill in a neatly manicured row of Indiana limestone; fresh flowers on each grave, the weeds plucked, the grass trimmed.
Dad's buried right next to Grandpa Otis.
It almost looks nice.
Crisp, clean, dry. Nothing to suggest the messy wet red of his father's demise. Steve shoves his hands in his front pockets and steps up to his dad's plot, toes the edge of it, the rounded lump of earth, sparse grass and loose soil where his father's bones are laid. The ground gives a little under his weight, the dirt compacting. Could he dig this up with just his hands? Could he claw through until he reached the bottom, pry open the box and peer inside? Unbidden, the image forms in his mind: worm food and rot, half a man left inside, somehow still frowning in disappointment with his jaw bone shining clean.
Steve's stomach turns. A sick shiver runs through him, saliva flooding his mouth, sweat beading at his hair line.
This isn't right.
Something's not right.
There's a sudden chill in the air, frigid wind carrying a smell like roadkill in the summer — heat wafting from the pavement, death clogging up his throat. Steve covers his nose and wills his shoulders down from his ears; tries to mutter words of comfort to himself under his breath. “Just a graveyard, Steve. Just a totally… normal…”
Ice on the back of his neck. Steve tenses every muscle, turns his good ear toward the sound of whatever's creeping up on him; something taller than him, something slithering and wet, its rasping rattles of frozen breath sending goosebumps down Steve's arms. His hands twitch inside his pockets.
Then, a voice — a voice that isn’t his, that can’t be anyone’s, because the man it belonged to is dead. “That Munson boy was right about you."
Steve can't fucking breathe. Dark clouds roll in around him, violent as a blooming bruise, and that voice behind him echoes — distorted, vicious; hungry.
"You are a black hole."
Steve grabs two fistfuls of his own hair and tugs; wills the pain to dispel the nightmare, his eyes swimming from the sting.
The thing behind him laughs. "Look how you ruined your mother," it snarls. "Look how you tore her apart.”
"Shut up!" Steve barks with his hands over his ears.
“Steve…” The voice deepens, beckons, thick with malice and rot. Steve slowly turns to face it, trembling all over, pulse thudding in his ears, and his shoes squelch in the dirt, and when he looks down he sees that the dirt has turned to mud that now turns to oozing red, a viscous river beneath his feet, flowing up over his ankles, pouring from his father's grave. And there, in front of him, a mangled remnant stands. The ruined corpse of Richard Harrington, his skin shriveled and gray, the torn parts of him held together by his clothes. There’s a hole in his torso where the exposed ribs glint like knives.
Steve throws up on himself.
The ground gives way beneath him, goes spongy like rotting meat, and the thing wearing his dad's face cackles as Steve sinks into the earth, the grave swallowing him whole, up to his calves, his knees, his thighs. "Join me," it offers, lipless smile full of teeth.
The glamor peels back to reveal a monster underneath, its scarred skin crawling in mucus-coated vines; naked, long-limbed, stitched together with burnt flesh.
Steve screams as he scrambles for purchase, up to his hips now in the muck, his feet on the lid of his dad's casket. He claws blindly at the loose ground but it’s all thick and wet with red, and the air itself is red; blood in the sky, in his eyes, in his lungs. He's going to die here. The voice tells him so. It's in his head now, a bellowing echo as the monster draws near, one hideous hand outstretched, an all-consuming join me, join me, JOIN ME—
“HEY!!!”
Max shouts directly in his face, shaking him hard by both shoulders where they're crouched on the cool ground, Kate Bush leaking from the headphones slung around her neck. Steve gives a startled shout and jerks back out of her grip, falling hard on his ass, landing harder on his elbows.
The world shifts back to blue. To dry, clean grass. To breathable air.
Steve pants up at the sky. His shirt clings to him where he's soaked it through with sweat. When Max offers him a hand, he stands on shaky legs, looks at the ground beneath his feet and screams again, scurrying back until his ass hits a stranger's headstone.
There’s a dent in the earth where he was standing. A smudge of packed dirt where he really did sink in. Steve stares at it; feels it reaching out for him, the dark patch thudding like a heart beat, spreading out like snaking vines.
He clutches at his heaving chest. Max’s eyes are huge on him.
"Okay, what the fuck?" she begs.
"What the fuck yourself!"
No heat behind the words, but they burn him, anyway, pushed out on a weak gasp. Is this what she was talking about? Is this what she calls nothing?
This doesn't feel like fucking nothing.
“Shit," she says, and her eyes go even wider. Steve can see the veins in them. "Shit, Steve, your nose…”
He swipes his arm across his face.
It comes back red.
—
part 60
tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)
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“I still think this is a terrible idea,” Levi spews in a sour grumble as you finish trimming the ends of his hair, little blades falling on the shoulders of an old t-shirt.
“I’ll clean it up.” You ruffle his hair, smiling at your work as Levi’s personal stylist. “You look handsome, Levi.”
Blushing, he mumbles thanks, folding his arms over his chest. “If you say so.” Maybe your eyes or brains were damaged during the war.
“Stop acting like a brat. It’s a beautiful day.” The window sash rattles before it yields, and the cool late summer breeze reinvigorates the room. “We can’t miss it.” You look back over your shoulder. “We can’t stay here while life is happening out there.”
Your eyes beam like a child’s, and he can’t say no. Your cajoling smile pulls at the strings of his stubbornness, sanding his rough edges.
A mightier force than himself.
Levi sighs in surrender, tilts his head and a small smile curves his lips.
“Let me fill the tub.” You make way straight to the bathroom while Levi shuffles around on the wheelchair. Doctors still harbor hope that one day he will be able to use his legs again. Scars gnarl one side of his face, the bumpy tissue harsh under his fingertips.
Water gurgles, and you reappear before him in a tank top and underwear. You bring Levi to the narrow door, loop your arms under his armpits, and heave him on his feet. “Easy.” Your muscles strain. He’s lost weight, but you’ve lost strength as well. You sit him on the stool and peel off his clothes.
“You should undress too.”
“If I do that, we won't get out of the bathtub all day.”
Levi grunts.
You place a finger under his chin and lift his face. A cloud of freckles pinpricks his nose. “You’re beautiful, Levi.” You drop a soft, slow kiss on his lips. A tear runs down the curve of his cheek, the gold band around your finger touching his skin.
The blood, the wounds, the broken bones. Two fingers down, a leg that doesn’t work.
And you chose to stay.
maybe that's the love everyone's talking about.
You are the peace, the haven he craved.
#levi ackerman#aot#levi attack on titan#attack on titan#snk#shingeki no kyojin#snk levi#levi aot#levi x reader#levi x you#levi ackerman x reader#Levi ackerma x you#Levi ackerman x y/n#snk post war
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𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮
summary: you're self-conscious about your bush in the post outbreak world. joel shows you how much he loves it.
warnings: -> 18+ only | mdni <- Joel "pussy eating king" Miller x fem!Reader. body hair ftw! pussy eating galore. dirty talk. light spit kink. joel gets off on eating you out, literally. no beta.
word count: 1.1k
author’s note: i just know he would eat you alive. @ghotifishreads ty for brainstorming! 💙
☽ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ♁ 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ♁ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☾
You slam the bathroom drawer shut with a huff. You want to cry. Who’d of thought the simple task of finding scissors would be so difficult? Of all the houses you chose to take shelter in during the storm, you found yet another house that was without shears.
You contemplate cutting your bush with Joel’s knife while you walk into the adjoining bedroom and slowly take off your dirty clothing. Maybe it’ll work. You can imagine asking Joel for his knife and him asking you why. You laugh into your palms as you rub them over your face.
You catch a glance at your nude body in a mirror mounted on the wall. Looking yourself over, you run your hands through the curls that cover your mound. It’s the longest it’s ever been. At times it was nice to not worry about having to shave but ever since you started things up with Joel you missed being able to trim your bush whenever you wanted.
Joel creaks up the stairs and you turn to face him as he leans in the doorway. “God damn, you’re beautiful.”
Embarrassment burns your cheeks. Despite your time together, you still weren’t used to his compliments.
He knows you’re on edge, he heard you searching for those damn scissors like you always did. He cautiously walks into the room and wraps his arms around your naked frame. His soft gaze meets yours in the mirror.
“Come ’ere, Sweetheart.” Joel walks backward with you in his arms until his legs hit the bed. He shifts to the side and helps you lay down on the sheets.
You prop yourself up, digging your elbows into the bed as he slowly kneels between your parted legs. “Joel, it’s ok. You don’t have to.” Your eyes lock on his chest with unease.
His chest rumbles with a deep growl. “Why would you ever think I wouldn’t want to taste you?”
Your wary eyes flick up to his somber ones. Heat swirls and pools in your abdomen.
Joel pries your legs apart and admires your natural form. The hair on your mound is lush, spreading to the crooks of your inner thighs and down your legs. He slides his hands up your thighs feeling the wiry strands under his palms and the softness of your skin. “I love every part of you. Every inch.”
He lays his head on your right thigh and runs his fingers through your bush. His nose burrows softly into your curls. Your pheromones seep into his brain. A gust of hot air rushes over your mound as he groans. “You smell so fuckin’ good.”
He combs his fingers through the bristles before giving a slight tug that forces your heart into your throat. “You got a thick fuckin’ pussy.” He teethes your mons, gnawing gently on the flesh that lays hidden; marking you. “I’d eat this sweet cunt all day long.”
He licks his lips, looking parched, like he hasn’t had a drink in days.
Suddenly, his tongue dives into your folds and catches you off guard. Your arms give out forcing you back down on the bed with a gasp. He lathes his tongue up and down your folds and circles your clit with tight swirls taking his time to taste every inch of you.
Your legs wrap around his head as waves of mind numbing bliss drown your senses. His lips wrap around your clit with a grunt and create a spine bending suction on the tiny nub forcing you to writhe against his face. His arms wrap solidly around your thighs keeping you open and compliant while you chase your pleasure.
Joel stops his assault and sits back on his heels, you meet his fiery stare with perplextion. He holds your gaze as he licks his cream coated lips and picks a wiry hair from his tongue before flicking it away. His mustache and beard are soaked with your shiny arousal.
It makes your cunt throb.
“I love eatin’ this sweet cunt. Drinkin’ you down.” He mumbles into your weeping heat like a man gone mad. He fists his cock out from his jeans, giving it a squeeze at the base, trying to keep himself from cumming in his jeans.
Blinding aftershocks sizzle your nerves. You push into the mattress, desperate for a break, and edge away from his mouth with a gasp.
He tuts. “Where you goin’ sweet girl? I’m not done yet.”
Strong arms circle your thighs and drag you easily down the sheets back to his wicked mouth. Your fingers dig into his hair as his mouth covers your dripping core with a grunt. He pushes between your folds, tasting the deepest part of you, and glides his tongue along your velvet walls.
The room spins when he pulls away again and you reach for him with a whine.
Thick fingers pull apart your outer lips, exposing your milky, dripping center to the feral man. Your cunt convulses under his ominous stare. “I’ll let you know when I’ve had my fill.”
A wad of spit hits your vulnerable cunt, landing directly on your clit.
A gasp tears from your lips as the fluid drips down your slippery seam and combines with your cream. He lazily drags two fingers through the spittle before curling and pressing them inside your drenched heat.
“Shit- that’s a fuckin’ tight cunt.” He swipes a heavy tongue over your clit. “Sucha’ pretty, hairy pussy.”
You mewl and writhe on the bed as it rocks back and forth. The older man frantically grinds his cock against the soft bedding while he eats you out. So strung out on the taste of you and chasing his own high.
Cavernous groans vibrate your core adding to the blissful friction of his wicked tongue and girthy, determined fingers. Joel lewdly spits on your clit again and curls his digits, watching with a smirk as you convulse. “Thatta girl. Shit- Come on my fingers.”
The knot in your belly grows tighter and tighter with every powerful thrust until a haze of white explodes behind your eyes. Your body spasms around his fingers with a secure lock making his rhythm waver as your mouth parts in a silent scream.
Cream spills between your folds and trickles down his wrist as he spills ropes of white onto the sheets with a hoarse, ab twitching grunt. Your cunt flutters around his stilled fingers as the two of you slowly come back to one another.
He eases his fingers from your core, watching your opening clench and quiver from the emptiness as he licks your cum from his skin. “Still think I have an issue with your bush?”
“Stop, you’re killing me.” You whine, covering your eyes from the sinful view of his tongue lapping up your cream.
“Oh, my sweet girl, I’ve only just begun.” He croons as he climbs onto the bed and smothers you with a ferocious, cum stained kiss.
💌 send me mail - drabble requests: OPEN
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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 34
Part 1 Part 33
Steve wakes up to a deep, suffocating pressure on his ribs before he drifts back into darkness. Steve wakes up to a pinprick of pain from his hand being squeezed tightly, squeezes back before falling back to sleep. Steve wakes up to hair tickling his nose. He bats it away and falls back asleep. Steve wakes up. And wakes up. And wakes up. He wakes up long enough to squint his eyes open to a light so white that it doesn’t make sense. Where is all the red? Its red behind his closed eyelids when he falls back asleep. He wakes up to a kid laughing. Will? He falls backs asleep.
It’s bright when Steve wakes up, really wakes up. He doesn’t open his eyes, not at first. His mind scatters – fractals of Eddie’s eyes, up close, tears streaming from his face onto Steve’s. Of warm arms holding him close until he’s weightless. Of breaths that taste clean. But he knows, somewhere at the root of himself that if he opens his eyes, he’ll be alone.
Steve Harrington, big house, no parents, voted most likely to die alone.
But then he hears it. It’s almost nothing. A whisper of a noise. Cloth brushing up against something. It’s barely anything at all. But it’s a noise. Someone or something is here, with him, right now. He opens his eyes.
The first thing he sees is a white popcorn ceiling. The light shining off it is fluorescent, makes his eyes water and sting. It’s so white. He rocks his head sideways, feeling the tug of something beneath his nose. He reaches a hand up to pull it away, arm twinging somewhere deep enough to burrow into the marrow of his bone.
“I wouldn’t do that, son.”
Steve freezes, fingers hooked into the thing in his nose, unmoving. The voice is unfamiliar, deep and drawling. The face just as unfamiliar. His hair’s grey and receding, mustache and beard trimmed halfhazardly, wearing a working man’s clothes, all flannel and jean. Steve stares, and stares. He’s not alone.
The man leans closer, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Steve’s to pull his hand away from his nose, lowering their clasped hands to the bed Steve’s lying in. It’s warm. Steve squeezes and doesn’t let go.
“Who are you?” Steve asks, voice coming out as a croak.
“Wayne Munson,” the man replies.
Steve looks at the wrinkles in the corners of the man’s eyes, the laugh lines writ large across his face, and sees Eddie peeking out at his edges. “Uncle Wayne?” Steve asks.
That gets him a smile, “sure,” he says, squeezing Steve’s hand again. “I’m Uncle Wayne.”
The bed he’s in is firm, the lighting harsh. He wants to go back to sleep, can’t yet. “Eddie?”
“He’s just fine,” Uncle Wayne replies, squeezing his hand. “Him and Will both, thanks to you, from what I heard.”
Steve shakes his head, lethargic and slow, already drifting. “Said I’d see him at home.”
He falls back asleep holding Uncle Wayne’s hand.
Part 35
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*ೃ˚ :💾 professor!miguel x reader
❝ warnings ❞ oral (m receiving), desk fucking, making press, anal fingering, finger fucking, Miguel with glasses, cockwarming, exhibitionism, edging
Professor!Miguel makes you his TA because he wanted you to spend more time with it without it raising suspicion as to why you're always in his office.
Professor!Miguel who can't help but give you a little extra credit on your assignments when you get on your knees and open that pretty mouth of yours to him to slide his cock into and take the edge off of all his hard work. He deals with so much in a day and you want to be there for him, with open arms, open legs, and and open mouth.
Professor!Miguel who has you keep his cock warm with your mouth under his desk while he grades papers. You'll wait until your jaw aches before you begin to nod your head and stroke your tongue along the underside of his thick length. You'll suck his cock, leave him stuttering with his glasses falling lopsided on his face, "Hermosa, my love, please. I have work to do." It makes you bob your head faster, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue against his sensitive tip until he gives you what you desire. You let him cum down your throat, each swallow making him sigh in pleasure and relax further into his seat, his head lulled back and his glasses resting on the tip of his nose. You purr in pleasure, your own hand in your pants, teasing your own clit this whole time. His cum coating your tongue and lips making you rock with the beginnings of your own orgasm.
Professor!Miguel who will wait until his last lecture is done and the lights are dimmed before he bends you over his desk and fucks you silly. He'll have you squealing his name, echoing off the walls your eyes looking at the seats you and your classmates once sat in. "Fuck, fuck, fuck– M- Migueeel!" He'll fuck you so hard he moves the desk forward with loud screeches and leaves you with tears pricking your eyes. He strokes his cock inside you so good and deep that it makes you believe that heaven was real and this was it.
Professor!Miguel who loves to tease your ass while fucking you, never fully going there but always testing the waters. He'll spit on your ass and ease his thumb into the tight rim of your hole. You'll moan, your head resting on the papers you were meant to grade, papers you were crumbling in your hands. You'll have to reprint those later. He'll finger you there, ask you if you like it and you'll moan as he pushes further in.
Professor!Miguel who likes to tease you about someone coming in while he's fucking you. The spotlight was on the two of you. If any one came in, their attention would immediately be drawn to you getting railed so hard tears were beginning to prick your eyes. You shivered at the thought, in both fear and pleasure, every shadow making you want to stop but Miguel forced you to keep going, pinning your neck down to the desk with his large hand and rolling his hips against your ass. "Not so fast, cariño."
Professor!Miguel who likes it when you take his reading glasses off when he's fucking you in a mating press and put it on yourself. He'll tuck your legs further against your chest, bending you in half, pressing his body on top of yours to kiss you. "Muñeca, you look like a slut with my glasses on." His tongue will draw across your bottom lip as he looks into your eyes, his glasses barely staying on with the power of his thrusts. He fucks you stupid, drooling, brain-dead. Your fingers claw at his hairy forearms as you look at him. His hair tossed, his shirt open just enough to reveal his chest hair and the golf chain he wears all the time beneath his clothes. The happy trail leading down to the neatly trimmed hair at the base of his cock drilling inside you. If either two of you looked like the slut, it was him.
Professor!Miguel who, as a punishment, with put you in his lap force you to spread your legs, and finger fuck you in his empty lecture hall. He'll force you to look at those doors that you feared would open at any moment. He'll finger you with his thumb stroking and teasing your clit until you reach the edge of completion, labored breathing, grasping hands, needy whimpers, then he'll stop. You'll whine and cry and beg for him to let you cum but he'd wait despite your beautiful pleas for your orgasm to pass, then continue again, your body so grateful that it would relax into him, forgiving his betrayal, your hands reaching back and stroking the back of his head like he's a good boy. Then he'd do it again. And again. Until you were crying in his arms, begging to cum. And when you finally did, it wrecked you, took you in a way that made you thrash in his arms and toss your hand over your mouth to stifle your moan that bordered on a scream.
Professor!Miguel who knew you were easily jealous and would often call in a student to talk to alone without you as a participant. The anxiety killed you and the moment you could get alone with him, whether in a broom closet or in the staff bathroom, you'd pull him in and fuck him like he's never known before, have him shivering with the brutality of an orgasm within minutes.
Professor!Miguel who knows that a relationship of this nature with a student would get him fired but you were so addicting he found himself not caring. He had every reason in the world to cut ties of this nature with you, for you would inevitably lead to his downfall, but everytime you'd kiss him Everytime you'd trace his jaw and snatch his glasses. He could never get rid of you.
#across the spiderverse#spiderman atsv#atsv#spiderman#miguel o'hara#miguel spiderverse#miguel o'hara x reader#professor!miguel#professor!au#miguel smut#miguel ohara smut#miguel o'hara smut
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@steddiemas Day 17: Accidental Kink Discovery (Smutty Sunday)
Rated: T for suggestive language/flirtatious banter (y'know me, more silly than spice!)
“I hate it!” Eddie spits through gritted teeth.
He shakes his fists to the heavens, which jingle-jangles the bells on the green hat, collar and shirt hem of his costume.
Steve chuckles from his vantage point on the edge of the bed, impossibly charmed by what is a faint tinkling to his own ears as Eddie grumbles at his reflection in the full-length mirror.
He rakes his eyes down the back of his boyfriend’s seething and tense frame. He stops at Eddie’s legs, looking positively gangly in a pair of green tights. Long, too, as they disappear up under a tiny pair of green shorts with a red felt trim and –
Oh, no.
Steve gulps.
“What?” Eddie snaps, whipping around.
He scrunches his nose like he could hiss.
“Nothing!” Steve splutters, folding his arms tight and shrugging as he tries not to think about Eddie in a complementary pair of festive underpants –
Oh, no.
He puffs out a breath, looking anywhere but at Eddie and his scowl.
“I should have never let Joyce talk me into applying for a job at Melvad’s,” Eddie rambles, half-muttering his words, “Why couldn’t you have charmed Keith into giving me some shifts at Family Video? At least I wouldn’t have to dress as a goddamn elf.”
Jingle-jangle.
Steve looks up just as Eddie stomps his foot.
His shoes jingle-jangle too.
“Gah! Fuck!” Eddie curses and freezes on the spot, arms tight by his sides.
“I can’t help it if my work vest is already green,” Steve teases, shrugging innocently, “Besides, Keith currently has you banned for ‘distracting staff’.”
His air quotations only make Eddie bristle. He lifts his right hand, likely to worry with a lock of his hair. But his fingers snag his jester-like collar.
Jingle-jangle.
Eddie splutters away with what Steve can only assume is a series of incoherent expletives as he begins to hop on the spot to wrestle one shoe off and hurl it across the room.
At least that’s what Steve assumes Eddie’s full-body throw is intended to do. But the lightweight shoe only makes it about a foot before it softly falls to the ground.
Eddie shrieks and then dips his head to dry sob into his hands.
“I look so stupid,” he laments, “I don’t want to be an elf.”
He looks up all doe-eyed and Steve can’t help but think how nice his hair looks under the elf hat, his locks sitting in place to perfectly frame his face. Even if Eddie doesn’t want to be an elf, he looks cute as hell as one.
Fuck it. What happens in the bedroom, stays in the bedroom, right?
“Don’t worry,” Steve says, lowering from the bed to the floor, “It’s only for a few days, right?”
“What the hell are you doing!” Eddie recoils, glistening eyes going wide as saucers as Steve begins to crawl on his knees towards him.
Jingle-jangle.
He stops in front of his boyfriend and takes his hand, planting it on his shoulder before he dips down for the remaining shoe.
“Helping you take this off...” he explains, voice light as he wraps his hand delicately around Eddie’s ankle.
“Okay…” Eddie hums, raising a sceptical brow even if he shifts his weight onto Steve’s shoulder to steady himself.
Steve bites his bottom lip, trying not to so much as chuckle as every movement Eddie makes sounds off a series of tinny bell sounds. He removes the green felt shoe and tosses it over his shoulder, still holding Eddie’s ankle before carefully lowering it back to the ground.
He looks up, a smile turning to a smirk as Eddie gulps, his eyes flitting down to where Steve still has his hand wrapped around his ankle, soothing it now from the embarrassment and green.
“Stevie…” Eddie frowns.
Steve runs his hand up his green stockinged leg slowly, pausing only when his fingertips skirt the bottom hem of his tantalising green shorts.
“Oh my god!” Eddie exclaims, clawing at his shoulder, “You like this costume, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Steve smiles, running his free hand through his hair.
“Not possible,” Eddie insists, shaking his head and chopping a hand through the air before placing it right back on his shoulder.
Jingle-jangle.
“I do,” Steve insists, flicking a bell on the hem of his shirt now.
“Don’t jingle it,” Eddie spits, jaw clenched.
“What if I jingle you…” he begins, tilting his head to the side as he looks him over, “All the way…”
“Gross!” Eddie shrieks, “That is the worst line you have ever…”
He trails off, a visible blush creeping up his neck as Steve allows his hand to breach the hem of those shorts.
“But,” Steve bites, pressing his fingers into Eddie’s skin, “You have to be a good elf, okay?”
He watches as a myriad of emotions run through Eddie’s eyes before he lands on a similar ‘fuck it’ attitude and goes along with it.
“Sure thing, Santa,” Eddie soon coos, dimples dotting his cheeks as he offers a cherubic smile and a two-finger salute.
Jingle-jangle.
“You have been the naughtiest elf in my workshop,” Steve teases, popping the ‘p’ as he reaches around to grab at Eddie’s ass.
Eddie lurches forward, Steve’s face now flush with his scratchy polyester shirt front.
Jingle-jangle.
#they are just silly idiots in love who will speed-run the most random kink discovery lmao#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie ficlet#steddiemas#steve x eddie#steddiemasnaughtylist#👕🧥
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