im requesting some pure fluff with Matt
PLEASE
PLEASE
PLEASE
I swear everything is smut I just want a break đ
I also don't mind angst with a fluffy ending like maybe he accusses you of cheating or smth and you get in a fight and then you explain yourself and he apologies and it ends with cute cuddles đ„°đ„°đ„°
THANK YOUUU đ«¶đ«¶đ«¶
~a m.s oneshot
a/n~ omg i actually like this one? keep sending requests cause i have no creativity đ
warnings~ angst to fluff, cheating accusations, fighting, kissing, not proof read
matt
y/n
friend 1
friend 2
âwhat about this one?â gabby giggles, spraying a bottle of mens dior sauvage onto your wrists
you give your wrist a quick sniff and gasp. the thought of matts face when he sees what you bought him is enough alone to make you smile. âthis is so matt! im getting this one, definitelyâ
âits âŹ62, dont you think youâve bought him enough other things last time we went shopping?â emily asks
ânot at all, he spoilt me so much when it was my birthday, Iâve gotta spoil him!â you smile, walking up to the counter.
its matts birthday in 2 weeks, heâs turning 21. you always go crazy with presents every time its one of your birthdays, but because turning 21 its an even bigger deal, you have to go even crazier.
youâve been going shopping with your friends a lot recently to try and find the absolute best gifts. every time you go, you only end up buying some little cheap stuff that reminds you of matt, its only today that youâve bought an actual present
you didnât want matt knowing your going out to buy him presents all the time, that ruins the surprise. instead, you tell him youâre going to chill round gabbys house for a movie night. its just a little lie, no harm right? and its all for good cause.
you almost drop the keys whilst trying to open the door with the immense amount of bags and presents in your hand.
as soon as you get inside, you rush to shove all the bags deep down in the depths of the cluttered closet. hidden enough right?
you stroll down the corridor, pushing open the door to your shared bedroom with a smile on your face.
oh little does he know youâve just bought him the best present ever
âhi babyâ you smile, kicking your shoes off to one side, rubbing the back of your heel from the pain of walking in shoes that rub
heâs on the bed, scrolling on his phone, when he hears you and lifts his head up and watches as you walk into the room. matt glances you up and down, before looking at you with a frown on his lips.
"you just got in?" he questioned, raising both of his eyebrows. he didn't mean for his words to sound like he was accusing you of something, but he did want to know. the way youâve been going out more, going more on frequent night outs was making him wonder and overthink.
âoh yeah, we decided to watch the next film in the seriesâ you say casually
âa film huh?â
he looks at you with a slight hint of disbelief in his voice, and his eyes narrow as he gets up from the bed, standing a fair distance away from you
"what film?" he asks although he wanted to ask so many more questions. who did you go with? do you even actually watch this film? where did you go? the way you didn't answer his phone calls, going out more often, it was making him want to know what was the hell was going on.
fuck why cant you think of a film?!
âra- ten things a hate about youâ you say, slightly cringing at the fact that thats not a series of films, only one, but heâs to dense to know that.
he can see the way you look at him and stutter out an answer, matt isn't an idiot, he can tell something's off about the way youâre acting right now. with every step he takes, he slowly closes the distance between the two of you, until he's standing directly in front of you.
matt's expression stays neutral, blue eyes staring down at yours..
âyour lying to meâ he states, in a voice thats so quiet, itâs intimidating.
âno i promiseâ you say, that was kinda a shit way to defend yourself
"then why aren't you looking me in the eye, huh?" his hand comes up, gently pressing a thumb and forefinger to your chin, forcing you to look at him. his eyes stay focused on yours, a slight hint of frustration in his voice.
âyou go out way more than usual and when you get home you act all strange," he points out. "something's up. tell me."
âwha- i swear im just going out with gabby and emily i dont know what your so pressed aboutâ you mutter
"bullshit."
"stop lying to me," he cuts into your sentence, voice getting more stern each time. his hand grabs your chin more firmly, tilting your head up to look at him. the other cups your jaw in a firm hold, keeping you in place.
"you're acting weird and you're out there for hoursâ he presses. "answer me."
âanswer what?â you groan, getting frustrated with his wrong accusations
âi was at gabbys house, i came back and now your shouting at me, thats all i can answerâ you say with a scoff
his eyes harden at the scoff, and his hands move down to your waist, gripping them so hard it almost hurts. his jaw is clenched tight, and his grip is firm as he stands in front of you, staring you down with so much intensity it makes you want to cower and hide.
âliarâ he muttered, voice quiet and filled with anger. "if you think I'm stupid, you're wrong."
you groan. he was so fixated on something that didnt even happen.
âfine. i wasnt at gabbys house but its not what you think!â you snap, pulling yourself out of his grip and stomping the the bed
and thats when he gets a whiff of menâs cologne
he knows you, so he knows you wouldn't cheat, right? at least that's what he tries to reassure himself of. but something's wrong, he's not stupid, he's not blind either. he can see the subtle clues, the little things that add up. he's trying to tell himself that he's overthinking, but you not answering his calls, being out constantly, the scent of cologne , he can't let it go.
god, he wants to believe you, he really does.
his eyes are on you, and for a moment, he's just silent. no words being said between the both of you as he simply stares. he's trying to hold back, but his breathing is slightly uneven, his heart beating faster.
"You smell like cologne," he finally speaks, an almost accusing tone to his voice, like he knows something.
oh you have really got yourself in a pickle
you let out a nervous chuckle
âno no no matt its not-â you say but get cut off by him shouting
âdont lie!â he raises his voice, pacing around the room frantically. why would you do this to him? after 2 whole years? and his birthdays coming up, why would anyone ever do this?
âexplain this! explain to me why you smell like another man!
in one swift movement he drags you off the bed, smelling the air around him. the grip on your wrist is strong.
âyour a- your cheating on meâ he squeaks out, almost as he cant believe the words heâs saying
thats it.
your eyes start to fill up with water. how could the one person you love think so low of you? does he not trust you?
âits your birthday in 2 weeks so Iâve- Iâve been going out with the girls to try and find and bunch on perfect presents. the cologne- its the cologne iâve bought for you, i had to smell it before buying itâ you say between sobs
when your tears finally spill and you begin bawling, matt hesitates for a moment, his heart faltering at the sight of you crying. he swallows, the anger slowly disappearing from his body as he hears your words, taking in the information until it fully registers.
"b-but you-" he stutters out, voice wavering and a small, confused frown on his lips.
"You've been going out.. trying to.. find me stuff?" He questioned, the firm hold on you loosening as guilt suddenly filled his heart.
you nod, continuing to sob âemily told me it would be a better surprise if i didnât tell you i was going to buy you thingsâ
he's suddenly feeling so many emotions at once. relief, because you're not cheating on him, but also guilt because of the way he just reacted to you, the way he doubted you.
he doesn't say anything for a moment, his hand slowly letting go of your wrist and bringing it up to rub at his face out of frustration.
"god, I'm- I'm sorry," he mumbled, voice soft. "I just- I thought-"
you shake your head, wiping your eyes.
its not his fault, all the reasons coincidentally added up. any human being would have thought i was cheating on him
matt is still quiet, his body and mind filled with guilt. he can't believe he questioned you like that, the way he accused you. he's trying to process the fact that you weren't cheating on him, that the reason you've been going out more often is because of his birthday. his. birthday.
âgod, Iâm so sorry,â he mumbled again, his blue eyes staring down at you, before he suddenly brings you closer against him, arms wrapping around your form and pulling you into a tight embrace.
he tries to hold you as close as possible, his broad chest pressing against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, lips softly pressing against your skin. its like heâs trying to get his words out through physical touch.
He knows you're not a cheater, he knows you're not that type of person, but his stupid insecurities just got the better of him.
"god I'm such a dickhead," he whispers against your skin, holding you near.
you hug him back, wiping your tear stained face into matts shoulder.
he gently drags you down onto the bed, still holding you against him, keeping you close to his body. he makes sure your body is practically laying comfortably against his, his hand slowly coming to cup your chin and tilt it up to look at him.
his touch is much gentler now, the way he's holding you is so drastically different from how he was grabbing you a few moments ago. He leans forward, peppering soft, apologetic kisses over your face, from your forehead, to your nose and down to your lips.
his lips continue to trail across your skin, apologising in the only way he knows how to. each press of his lips against you is soft, forgiving. itâs so quiet in the room, he can only hear the sound of his own breathing and his heart beating against his chest.
âmâ sorry, baby,â he mumbled, voice gentle against your skin. He suddenly pulls back a little to look at you. âI shouldâve never doubted you.â
a/n- longer than i thought it was gonna be!
a/n- i could make this into a pt2.? maybe apologetic smut.? đ
anthony lockwood đ€ kaz brekker đ€ kai azer đ€being shit at using endearment terms for the loves of their lives
i think in my day i think about âi know everything about bags sweetheartâ AT LEAST 10 times. like holy fucking shittttt matt KNEW what he was doing
okay wait I love !
@cumberbitchhhh @urmomswife69654368 @aalisgarden @madifilipowiczslvt I dont have v many moots loll
Put a pic of your princess and your sidekick and tag a couple friends!
You donât have to be tagged to play!! Someone PLZ do Nick Matt & Chris !!!
@issysh3ll @bbernard-03 @anyaa2s @annasturns @colorthecosmos444
@heartlessturniolos @lovesturni0l0s @mattsbrat @mattsfavoritestar @sturniowhore
@sweetshuga @sturniolo-fann @sturnihoelooo @strnilolover @sierrraaaaxz
Everybody moved onâŠ
Help Iâm still at the restaurant..
STILL SITTING IN THE CORNER I HAUNT
Thatâs literally one of my favorite songs ever and this is the cutest thing youâve ever done omfg youâre gonna make me cry.
joel miller x f!reader
pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: a one-night stand with a charming texan turns into something much more thrilling when you discover he is your new college professor. warnings/tags: au, age gap [20 something years diff], alcohol consumption, irrational sexual tension, smut, sex in a public place w/ a stranger [and i'm talking depraved/zero time wasted/known you for thirty minutes type strangers], oral [f receiving], protected piv, rough sex, dirty talk, a spot of degradation + misogynistic language, a split second of soft!joel, you get the picture word count: 5.9k series masterlist | main masterlist a/n: my friends.... oh boy, oh boy. this series is a complete au, self-indulgent, fantasy land idea that has plagued me for weeks. horny academic brain rot to the highest degree. hope some of you enjoy it with me x
Friday.
You sit with three almost strangers.
Listen to them talk about their summers and their families and their degrees as you twirl a straw around your half-empty glass, disrupting the melting ice as you try to wrap your head around what a masterâs in environmental engineering might entail. One of them, the only man at the table, takes great pleasure in explaining it to you all for the second time. You take mental notes and hope heâs not expecting you to remember words like sparging and leachate.
They do ask you about your undergrad, and your internship, nodding and smiling curiously. They donât ask what type of job you plan on getting after your postgrad, which is a welcome relief. The bombardment of questions from immediate and extended family is enough.
Cousins wondering aloud, saying you study Greek mythology, right?
Or your grandfather, before he died, berating you ad nauseam at family events about whatâre you gonna do, kid? Be a historian? Thereâs no money in being a historian. Now, being a lawyer, thatâs where the money is.
And youâd respond no, not quite Greek mythology, and no, I donât plan on being a historian, as you gorge yourself on red wine and triscuits and wait for Christmas to end.
Thankfully you arenât expected to rehash these scenarios with your almost strangers, who routinely ask a few well-mannered questions and then go back to talking about themselves.
After a week of living with them, in a new house, and a new city, youâre becoming used to their company. The way the four of you commune lazily in the kitchen most mornings, swathed in the light streaming through a window above the sink, making idle small talk as you wait for coffee to brew. How Pete and Trin study opposite each other at the dining table, while Nora prefers to spread her limbs across the couch, laptop balanced precariously on her stomach. Sheâs doing her masterâs in education, which she describes as an expensive way to get a pay rise. Sheâs kind, with wild curly hair and dark humour, and is easily your favourite of your new roommates.
It was her idea to go out that night. One last hurrah, sheâd called it. Before we enter the final circle of academic hell next week. And between four overworked, already burnt-out, twenty-something students, it hadnât taken much convincing before you were sharing three bottles of wine and hightailing it to the bar with the highest Yelp rating.
The late August air is dry; a faint warmth that follows you into a quaint bar in downtown Biddeford. The space is small and crowded with patrons, with dim overhead lighting that casts a soft glow across the booth youâre crammed into. A thin sheen of sweat coats your skin, and your shirt sticks to your back uncomfortably. The others seem unbothered by the heat, nursing sweaty glasses and discussing how different Maine is from where they all grew up. You involve yourself here and there, offering up stories about your family and friends from back home, and suddenly an hour has passed, and then another, and youâre pleasantly tipsy, body humming as alcohol spreads its way through your veins, and your latest drink is practically empty, spare a few melting ice cubes.
âI need another drink,â you tell Nora, who nods absently before turning her attention back to the others.
You wander toward the bar, fumbling for your phone as you go. Fall in between two leather cushioned stools and rest your elbows atop the sleek wooden counter. Check your bank account and mentally traverse the list of reasons for returning to student-life when you see the number staring back at you. I donât want to be a lawyer, I donât want to be a lawyer, I donât want to be a lawyer, your internal monologue runs, although you could admit how sweet a solicitorâs pay check would feel right now.
Itâs a low, Southern drawl that pulls you from your reverie.
âMind if I sit here?â
Deep. With a rough, lilting quality that piques your interest and has your eyes drifting upward from your phone screen.
You notice his body first; a tall frame with thick arms, thick shoulders, thick neck. A navy-blue t-shirt that stretches thin around his biceps, hugging the tan skin there. And then you look higher, andâoh.
Your heart stutters a beat out of time as you take in his face. Loose brown curls that are just long enough to hang across his forehead. Dark, almond-shaped brown eyes. So dark they almost appear black on the first glance. The strong nose and dark hair across his jaw, dappled with streaks of grey. A moustache resting atop a set of dark pink lips. Gone are thoughts of academia, of bank accounts, of your almost strangers. All replaced in an instant by wanton, pulsating desire.
Something like surprise cuts across his face, but it disappears just as quickly. In a far recess of your brain, you register that he must be at least twenty years older than you. You wilfully ignore the thought, perfectly content to continue admiring him.
A dark eyebrow ticks upward then, and you realise you havenât responded.
âNo,â you rush, flashing him a quick smile. âAll yours.â
He gives you a pleased nod, a hint of a smirk passing over his lips as he sits down. He looks vaguely uncomfortable perched on the tall chair, all six-foot-something of him cramped onto such a small cushion. You cast a single glance back towards the booth, and then slip onto the stool beside him.
Silence descends between you for a moment. A song by The Eagles plays faintly, but you canât figure which one - too distracted to make out the lyrics. You take a careful sip of the melted ice at the bottom of your glass, taste the last remnants of tequila in it, and watch him out of the corner of your eye.
ââm Joel,â that accent rings again, sending a volt of warmth through your chest.
You tell him your name, fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt. If he notices the tension in your posture, he doesnât let on. âYou a Southern man, Joel?â The name feels warm on your tongue. Soft and silken like honey.
âSâit that obvious?â he grins crookedly, pink lips tearing back to reveal a straight white smile.
âAn accent like that is hard to ignore,â you smirk. âItâs not a bad thing.â
âThought it would fade a little since I moved here,â he explains. âY'can take the man outta Texas, but⊠you know.â
You hum, eyes alight as you watch him speak. His mouth is beautiful, lips parting around prolonged vowels.
âYou here alone?â he asks.
âNo,â you say. âWith friends.â
âLet me guess,â Joel tilts his body, glancing around the bar. His shirt shifts with the movement, hem raising to reveal the slightest hint of a soft, tanned stomach. He points somewhere over your shoulder. You shut your mouth, careful not to gawp. âThem.â
You turn, a soft laugh of surprise bubbling up through your chest when you spy the bachelorette party set up across the bar. Women dressed in gaudy shades of pink. One of them with a sashâreading Jennyâs Big Dayâacross her chest, a short veil pinned to her head, and an empty champagne glass clutched in her fist. One of them teary-eyed, gripping the brideâs arm and yelling something in her ear, sloshing champagne onto herself all the while.
âYou got me,â you turn back to him with a grin. Hold your hands up in mock surrender. âI wouldnât be caught dead missing Jenniferâs last night as a free woman.â
The corners of his eyes crease, entire face blossoming into a smile now. He has a dimple on his right cheek.
âKnew you were a good girl,â he nods. Says the words in a matter-of-fact tone. Something twists in your stomach, and your palms dampen. You wet your lips quickly and donât back down from his gaze, allowing the corner of your mouth to kick up a little.
âAnd you?â
His eyebrows raise in a silent question.
âWhoâre you here with?â you clarify.
âJust you, darlinâ,â he says, left eye dropping in a quick wink.
It's easy with him, you find, and the two of you sit there for a while; exchanging small talk about Maine, the hot weather, the music at the bar, slipping in flirtatious comments that are about as subtle as a neon sign, until he finally spies the empty glass in your hand.
âWhat are you drinkinâ?â he asks. Â
âIâll have whatever youâre having,â you say, hoping it doesnât come across too eager. He seems pleased though. Thereâs something provocative to his gaze, a teasing warmth that raises the temperature of your skin wherever he looks. But whatever it is, itâs gone by the time he reaches across the bar for the bound beverage list.
He peers at the menu, squinting ever-so-slightly to see through the dim lighting of the bar. The skin beside his eyes is soft and creased with age, crowâs feet that hint at years of laughter and smiles. You wonder again how old he is. How much older than you.
âForget your glasses?â you tease, testing the waters.
Joelâs eyes flash up to yours. The muscle in his jaw ticks.
âWatch it,â he says. Thereâs a playful note in his voice, but it rings deeper somehowâa hint of a warning. Â Â
Your thighs squeeze together on the stool, warm sweaty skin peeling off the tacky leather as you move. His eyes dart to the bare skin of your legs, and then back to the menu.
He orders you both a whiskey, and a moment later the bartender is sliding a crystal tumbler in front of you. A finger of amber liquid with a single grandiose sphere of ice resting in it. Fancy.
âCheers,â he holds his glass out. You knock yours against it gently before taking a short sip, fighting a grimace as it burns down your throat.
He watches your face closely, tries to gage your reaction. You take another sip, holding strong in your efforts to show him that you can handle it. Whatever he wants to give to you, you can handle.
âSo what brings you here?â he asks. You notice how large the glass feels in your palm, and how small it appears in his. Long, thick fingers wrap around the object, dwarfing it. He takes a sip, and you watch him swallow. His Adamâs apple bobs, and you want to graze your teeth across it.
âTo the bar or to Maine?â
âEither.â
âWell, I just moved into town last week, from the West Coast. Itâs actually my first week back in the US; I was travelling before the big move.â
âBusy girl,â his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. You blink. âTravellinâ?â
âI was in Greece,â you explain, sip your whiskey and definitely donât grimace at the harsh taste. âFor a month or so.â
âA month in Greece?â His eyebrows raise and he does a low, impressed whistle that has your stare zeroing in on his mouth.
âEver been?â you ask faintly.
âNo,â his reply is swift. âNever had much interest.â
And youâre nodding absentmindedly, but you canât seem to drag your stare away from his mouth as he speaks. The trance is only broken when he raises his glass for another sip, and you shake yourself out of it, eyes shifting to stare into his brown orbs once more. Theyâre darker than you remembered, gaze loaded as he looks back at you. The tension was palpable when you first sat together, but now it feels impossible to ignore; an electric tangle of wire between the two of you that just keeps getting shorter and shorter. And you think, fuck it, if youâre about to descend into the final circle of academic hell, why not have a little fun?
âCan I tell you something, Joel?â
You say it softly, make your voice as sultry as possible. He watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes sparkling with intrigue. And then his mouth tilts into a sort of knowing smirk, and heâs nodding.
âIâd really like to kiss you,â you confess.
He hums, smirk broadening.
Sets his glass down on the bar top with a soft clink, and then lowers his hand to the bare skin of your knee. You gasp at the contact, nerves fraught. The callouses on his fingers scrape against your skin in slow, rhythmic circles, goosebumps raising in their wake. His fingers are long, and as he tenses them over you, squeezing your knee once, you see the way deep blue veins flex beneath the skin, hot blood pumping through him. Your stomach turns molten.
âIs that all?â he asks, a taunting lilt to his voice.
Your mouth is dry, eyes wide as you sense the proposition in his words. The hint of something darkerâsomething greedyâin his gaze.
âNo,â you say definitively. âThatâs not all.â
A sharp tut escapes his mouth, fingertips dragging higher on your leg as he shakes his head. âDo you have any idea how old I am?â
âDonât look a day over forty,â you hazard a guess, resting your shoe onto the rung of his stool, using the leverage to drag yours closer. Both your legs are between his now, thighs bracketing thighs. The denim of his jeans scrapes against your outer thighs, and you shiver. His hand pauses, fingertips just shy of the hem of your skirt.
Joel wets his lips. âGuess again, sweetheart.â
A low heat licks at the base of your spine, spreading its way through your veins until you feel like you could combust at any given moment. Fuck it.
âDonât care,â you mutter, and drape your hand over his. You trace your nails over his skin, feel how the bones shift underneath it, how warm he is. He still doesnât move, face pensive as he regards you. You arch an eyebrow. âYou approached me, you know.â
His lips purse tightly. Another squeeze to your thigh, fingers moving again. âI know.â
Driven by boldness, by arcane desire, by animalistic instinct, you lean forward on your barstool and rest your hands atop the thick expanse of his thighs. Hear his breath kick as your nose traces the side of his square jaw, lips settling at the shell of his ear. Right at the soft, sloping crest of his neck. And you whisper those same words again, quiet enough that no one in the world can hear it but him, can I tell you something?Â
Your movement drove his hand higher on your thigh, the heavy weight of it now settled beneath your skirt, fingertips skimming the indent where your leg meets your hip, toying at the soft fabric of your underwear there. Painfully close to where you want him.
âYes,â his deep voice rumbles.
Ever so slowly, your tongue slides out of your mouth to trail against his earlobe. Joelâs thighs tense beneath your palms, and you roll the balls of your thumbs against the muscles there.
âI want to kiss you,â you murmur. âSo Iâm going to. And then I want you to fuck me, just like I know you want to.â Your teeth graze his lobe, and you bite it once, gently, before rearing your face back to peer at him. âHmm?â
The muscle in his jaw jumps, shifting beneath the skin, and instead of responding verbally he cups your face with a rough hand. Cool drops of condensation from the glass have stuck to his fingers, and the liquid smears across your skin as he cradles your jaw and draws your mouth to his.
Soft lips envelop yours, the coarse hairs of his moustache tickling your face as he steals the breath from your lungs. And when you lick into his mouth you can taste peppermint on his teeth, and then that oh so familiar whiskey tang across his tongue. You donât mind the taste so much when itâs on his lips.
You nuzzle closer, dig your fingertips firmer into his thighs and grin when a deep groan falls from his mouth into yours. Wet heat pools between your thighs, liquid fire that stokes at your insides, begging for more more more of him. And, as if he can read your mind, Joel is dragging his mouth away, teeth grazing against your swollen bottom lip as he departs.
âBathroom,â he says, voice low and commanding. âNow.â
Shock and excitement lace your blood, the proposition of something so dirty, so lewd, making your heart race. With your pulse a dull, thrashing roar in your ears, you allow Joel to help you down from your stool. Your legs feel unsteady now that youâre back on solid ground. Gripping your hand, dwarfing it in his, Joel tugs you away from the bar top and towards an obscured hallway. You amble past the bachelorette party, down the dark hall and then heâs pressing a dark hand against the ambulant bathroom door and dragging you inside, sliding the lock shut behind you.
Joelâs on you in a second, arms bracketing you against the door as his wet mouth slips over yours. His hands are so big, all wide palms and long fingers splaying across the entirety of your back, tucking you against his solid chest. He bunches your shirt in his hand, twisting the material between his fingers as he pushes into your mouth. Tongue hot and wet, gliding against your teeth, your tongue, tasting you, devouring you. thereâs nothing polite about it. No more wariness, no more hesitation, no more eyes that could see the two of you at the bar. Heâs insatiable, touching you everywhere he possibly can, and even then it doesnât seem like enough for him.
âFuck, I want you,â you say against his mouth. He makes a low sound in response, and one of his palms lower to grab a handful of your ass, dragging your hips against his. You can feel him, hot and hard, straining in the confines of his jeans. Your hand presses into the crevice between your bodies to palm him through the material, grinning into the kiss when he groans. His lips trail a slick path across your cheek, past your jaw.
âGonna let me fuck you here?â his hot breath fans across your neck, tongue darting out to taste the salty sweat there.
âYeah,â you say. âFuckâyes.â
He steps back, dragging you with him, and then heâs turning you around so that youâre facing the mirror. Your hips dig into the sink, and heâs holding you there, forcing you to stare at your reflection as he bites and licks and sucks down your neck with reckless abandon, leaving marks in his wake. Thereâs a low, steady throbbing at the apex of your thighs, and you can feel how your underwear clings to your skin, damp and ruined. You whimper, tilt your chin up to give him access to more skin. He grinds against your ass in response, and then heâs crouching down on the ground behind you.
Fast hands push your skirt up over your hips and then flare across your ass, massaging the flesh there. You feel a nip of teeth against the sensitive skin there and flinch into the porcelain. He makes quick work of dragging your underwear down to dangle precariously at your knees. And then long fingers are spreading you apart, revealing you to him. You tilt your hips back so he can see more. Moan at the sensation of cool air rushing to meet your dripping core.
You think you can hear him speaking, but canât be sure over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears and the low music playing in the bar. And then it doesnât matter anymore, because you can feel his hot tongue glide through your folds, parting you like the sea. He buries his face in you, nose nudging against your asshole as his tongue swipes at your clit, moaning roughly as he absorbs the taste of you. Youâre gasping, hooded eyes staring back at you in the mirror, and this time you can definitely hear him saying youâre so fuckinâ wet. The flat of his tongue smears from your clit to your entrance, and then heâs sinking it inside you. You reach behind your back and card your fingers through his hair, gripping the salt and pepper curls between your fingers and holding him against you. Joel doesnât complain, groaning as you tug on his locks in encouragement, in fucking desperation.
Your thighs tremble where they bracket his head, threatening to squeeze around him at any moment if it werenât for his vice grip keeping your spread apart. A choked sob of a moan claws its way out of your throat and then heâs standing again, chest against your back as you hear the clink of his belt coming undone, and heâs saying, I know, I know, you need it so bad, donât you?
Your hand skirts around the firm sink and slips between your thighs, fingertips ghosting over your throbbing clit. The sound of foil crinkling echoes around the room, and you hear him exhale a ragged sigh as he rolls the condom down his length. You peek over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of him, eyes widening as you take in the sheer size of his length. Itâs long, with a prominent vein running from base to tip. It pulses, raging beneath the skin, practically daring you to drop down and run your tongue along the length of it. And you would if you thought heâd let you.
âShit,â you breathe, skin tingling with a fresh wave of nerves and anticipation.
âItâs alright,â his voice is a low rasp, filling your ears like molasses, and his hand is rising to push stray hairs out of your face. âSo fuckinâ wet fâme, I know you can take it, honey. You gonna show me how good you take coââ
He cuts himself off, eyes narrowing as he spots your fingers shifting between your thighs.
âSo impatient,â he smacks your hand away with a grunt. âSilly little slut, canât wait just a minute for me?â
A broken moan falls from your lips, shameful heat soaring through your chest. You shouldnât love the way that word sounds falling from his lips, shouldnât be so turned on by it, but you can feel how the ache in your core intensifies, and so you push your hips back against him.
ââm sorry,â you whine pitifully.
âYou want it that bad?â Joel asks. His lips brush your earlobe as he nudges the thick head of his cock between your folds, gliding it through your slick once, twice, before notching himself at your entrance.
âI want it,â you gasp. âWanted it from the second I saw you, Joel, please, pleasââ
Joel curses under his breath and loops a hand around your front, pushing the neckline of your shirt down to reveal your left breast. He slips his palm underneath the cup of your bra, long fingers pinching at the peaked bud of your nipple. Your skin burns under the attention, and you push your chest further into his hold.
âShit,â he grunts, beginning to press himself inside. âI wanna fuckinââwreck you, sweetheart.âÂ
âWhatever you want,â youâre pleading, arching your back for him. Your fingers tighten around porcelain, bracing yourself. âGive it to me.â
You hear a muted, dark chuckle before Joel says, âWhatever I want, huh?â
And then heâs pressing inside you with a single, harsh thrust. His thighs come flush with yours and you gasp, face twisting at the sharp sting. The weight of him inside you is heavy, and you squirm at the intrusion, shifting on your feet. He allows you a momentâjust a momentâto adjust to him, before heâs moving.
Joel finds a pace he likes and sets it. Heavy, unrelenting, expert rolls of his hips that have his tip brushing against the opening of your cervix with every shift forward. The air fills with harsh sounds of skin smacking against skin, and stilted moans and spilling from your lips as your hipbones collide rhythmically with the sink.
âChrist,â he spits, hand leaving your breast to grip your jaw. He forces your face forward, pace never slowing. âFuckinâ look at you.â
You do as your told, gazing at yourself in the mirror. And you look wrecked. Hair a wild halo around your head, makeup smudged around your eyes and mouth, lips swollen and shiny with spit.
âBeinâ soâfuckinââgood,â he punctuates the words with his thrusts. His thumb digs into your cheek, and you can see him grinning in the mirror, lips peeled back to reveal that fucking perfect smile. âDirty little thing, lettinâ a stranger fuck you like this.â
You mewl in response, stomach tensing as his cock grazes a particularly sensitive spot within you. Joel notices and seizes your waist, one hand holding you in place and the other falling to rub your clit while he pistons into you from behind.
âShit,â you cry, eyes pinching shut as the intense medley of pleasure and pain begins to overwhelm you. Your orgasm claws its way up your chest.
âYeah, you like that, huh?â heâs panting. âCan you feel you squeezinâ me, sweetheart. Go on, give it tâme, show me how wet that pretty pussy gets when you come.â
âOh, fuck, ohâoh god, Joel.â
Your lungs feel empty, chest on fire as you rake in rapid breaths. Your entire body is constricting, muscles in your stomach drawn tight as you press firmer against the sink, thighs shaking with every impact of his hips against the plush of your ass. The pressure makes your head spin. And then something in the base of your spine snaps, and youâre falling apart in his grasp. Joel curses behind you, but the sound is faint, almost inaudible over the ringing in your ears. Your vision goes white, body shifting forward as he fucks you through the high.
And even as you begin to come down, muscles going lax and body slumping against the sink, Joel is relentless. He uses you; gripping your hips to keep them tilted at the perfect angle, and just fucking wrecks you, exactly like he said he wanted to. A stream of profanities fill the air as his movements become disjointed, and you know heâs close. Can feel the way his cock twitches inside you, desperate for release. You tilt your face to the side and stare at him over your shoulder. Those dark eyes meet yours and his face crumbles, hand reaching to grip your shoulder and hold you down as he nears the precipice. You rut your ass back against him and he almost shouts.
âFuck,â he growls. âThatâs it, thatâs it..â
And then heâs coming, cock jerking inside you in sporadic movements, and youâre wishing he hadnât worn a condom so you could feel the heat of him spread inside your cunt. Itâs intense, the yearning you feel to have him dripping out of you once heâs gone. But you settle for watching his face through bleary eyes, admiring the way his lips part and chin tilts towards the ceiling, eyes pinching closed as his body convulses against you.Â
For an all too brief moment, Joel doesnât move. He slumps against your back, forehead resting in the gap between your shoulder blades, and just breathes. Haggard, drawn out exhales that send whisps of your hair flying forward into your face but you donât care, too blissed out and relaxed underneath his weight to say anything. And then heâs straightening, and you gasp in unison as he grips your waist and slips out of you. Thereâs a determined ache between your thighs, pussy clenching around his absence, missing the weight of him already.
You sag onto the cold surface. Your mind is a blur, senses dulled from the intensity of your orgasm. The music in the bar has increased, and you imagine that your roommates must be wondering where you are, but canât bring yourself to care all that much. You can hear him throw the condom into the trash, then thereâs a low rustling as he drags his boxers and jeans back up his legs. Body trembling, you close your eyes and wait. Wait to hear the door open and close as he steps out, and leaves you in the bathroom alone, as you know he inevitably will.
But instead, you feel those hands, almost familiar now, grazing your back. They drag your panties back up and smooth your rumpled skirt down over your ass.
âHey,â a soothing voice murmurs. âYou good?â
You peer at him over your shoulder, uncontained surprise no doubt evident in your face. Joelâs expression is soft; cautious. He grips your shoulder and pulls you up, straightening your body. Drags a thumb over the corner of your mouth, wiping away the lipstick smudged there. His touches are so gentle, so tender, in comparison to a few moments ago. It almost gives you whiplash, and yet you find yourself melting under his gaze, because fuck, heâs handsome.Â
âIâm good,â you breathe, and he bares his teeth in a smile, cupping your jaw.
âSweet girl,â Joel says. His head shakes once, slowly, eyes darting across your features, as if trying to memorise them. âIâm gonna remember this.â
You heart is in your throat all over again.
Your fingers fumble to adjust your top, smoothing it out as you smile, humming, âYeah⊠yeah, I think I will too.â
A heady silence swells between you. His thumb brushes along your lower lip again, eyes watching the way your swollen mouth yields to his touch. The tip of your tongue slides out and glides over the tip of his digit, just for a second.
âProbably got your friends all worried,â Joel says then, hand dropping to his side. âMust be wonderinâ where you got to.â
You swallow down the disappointment you feel. It burns its way down your throat and into your stomach, not unlike the whiskey had. I donât care, you want to say. Take me home with you. But you nod and agree. Glance in the mirror and rake numb fingers through birdâs nest hair, trying to tame your wild appearance. You swear you feel his hand graze the hem of your skirt one last time, playing with the soft material while he stares at you in the mirror.
The bubble pops as he unlocks the door, outside sounds rushing in through the gap, infiltrating the space that once smelt like sex and lust and now just feels like any other room. Joel doesnât kiss you again. Doesnât touch you. He steps into the hall, and you follow him out. And when he trails toward one side of the bar, with a final lingering glance at you over his shoulder, you begrudgingly head in the opposite direction to the booth, where your almost strangers await you with curious eyes and pinched brows.
Tuesday.
You feel hungover on the day of your first lecture.
A dull ache blossoms behind your left eye, a persistent reminder of how little sleep you had the night before. Your fingers wrap tightly around a tall styrofoam cup, and you take slow mouthfuls of the black coffee inside, attempting to savour the liquid gold, and letting the caffeine act as a saving grace for as long as possible.
You were normally so much better than this, too. Years had passed since your undergrad, and in the past youâd prided yourself on being punctual and prepared. But apparently one of the professors for this semester had it out for you, because when the required weekly prep work for your 9 oâclock Tuesday morning lecture was released the day prior, you were stunned to find that it included an entire fucking book.
After spending a dutiful two hours going over the weekly notes and required journal articles, youâd found yourself glaring at three sentences, written casually at the bottom of the professorâs notes.
Also, read Hesiodâs âTheogonyâ. It will do you well to have these ideas and themes fresh as you undertake the first weeks of this class. See you tomorrow.
Cue you staying up until two am reading fucking Theogony, and walking to your first lecture with a near-permanent yawn sprawled across your face. Â
As you approach history commons, a guy wearing a bottle green shirt that reads UNIVERSITY OF NEW ENGLAND in garish gold lettering shakes a pamphlet in your direction. It has a picture of a girl in a tiny athletic uniform on the front, preparing to spike a volleyball. You avoid eye contact and sidestep him quickly, continuing into the building.
The theatre room is easy enough to find.
Thirty odd chairs line the space on an incline, all facing toward a desk at the front of the room. A projector hangs from the ceiling, displaying the beginning of a slide show on a white wall. The slide is a muted beige colour, with stark black lettering that spells out: The Language and Literature of the Odyssey and the Aeneid.
Your professor stands with his back to the room, shuffling through a myriad of notebooks and loose-leaf pages splayed across the desk. Standard.
You traipse your way up the stairs, buoyed along by the steady stream of other students shuffling into the room, and take a seat a few rows from the front. Not too far back that you seem disinterested, and not so close that your professor will notice you falling asleep on the first day.
You open your notes on your laptop and then slump back into your chair, slurping down the final morsels of coffee in your cup before discarding it to the floor by your feet. And then the room quietens as a final group of students file in, heavy door swinging closed behind them, and you allow your eyes to rest upon the man at the foot of the space.
Heâs tall. Itâs impossible not to notice that first. Tall and broad. A thin white dress shirt stretches across the arch of his back, fighting to pull free from where itâs tucked neatly into the waist of his brown pants. From where youâre seated, you can see a dark head of hair shaking side to side every few moments, the man muttering inaudibly as he peers down at his notes.
You glance down at your laptop again. Watch your cursor blink against the white screen. And then you hear it.
âAlright folks,â an all too familiar voice drawls. âLetâs get down to it.â
You stiffen in your chair. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, palms going damp as a memory flits through your brain. One of your own voice.
An accent like that is hard to ignore.
You canât make out what heâs saying anymore, every word overpowered by the sudden roar of your own heartbeat in your ears.
Slowlyâso fucking slowlyâyou peel your eyes away from your laptop and glance upward.
And there he is, in all his glory. Pearly white smile. Strong jaw. Dark eyes.
Joel⊠your professor.
Fuck. Â
thank you for reading!! x
Shout out Jess Marianoâs mouth being crooked in most of his expressions.
Shout out to the way it affects how he talks and makes him sound slightly muffled/like heâs talking through gritted teeth all the time.
Shout out to his smile being adorable.
Shoutout to the way itâs kind of obnoxious when heâs younger and he sounds like an angsty punk all the time but then when heâs older like in season 6 it kinda just makes him sound softer in a way I find oddly comforting.
Shout out Jess Mariano hehehe