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hier--soir · 9 months

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a lover's pinch | three

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: joel gets a little birthday surprise, and you get a little too drunk. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, pining, f!masturbation [barely], sending nudes, joel finally locks his office door, dirty talk, the slightest slip of possessive language, uh.. ahem.. biting, protected piv birthday sex, a messy dinner party, excessive alcohol consumption [i'm talking embarassing], irritating men, soft!joel. word count: 10.3k series masterlist | main masterlist a lover's pinch playlist a/n: let the pining commence folks. hey siri, play brown eyed girl by van morrison. special thanks to @bageldaddy for the emotional support as i endured the labour that was the final hour of editing this. hope you guys enjoy! this is part three of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two.

Thursday.

A fortnight passes in the slow blink of a bleary eye.

Fall nudges Summer out the door, solidifying its presence in Maine with flaxen leaves and rolling grey clouds.

The rain comes at night. Rivulets of moisture that leak onto the windowsill, seep into the cracked wood there and fill your room with the sweet smell of petrichor. It clears before the sun rises most days, but you unpack of a box of sweaters and hang them in your closet, nonetheless. You enjoy communal coffees in the kitchen and try not to frown when the morning light doesn’t warm your legs the way it used to. Force yourself not to feel mournful when you get home one afternoon and find Pete on the sofa with a blanket over him.

And perhaps that’s why when you wake on Thursday to sunshine—to warm bed sheets, to blue sky, to bright whites and yellows coming through the window—you feel lighter. Start the day with a calm countenance that has you blinking sleep from your eyes and smiling drowsily as your fingers trail the windowsill and come off dry. You share a pot of coffee with Pete; let him explain soil vapour extraction to you for the fifth time. Listen, smile, nod, and don’t roll your eyes when he asks do you get it now? And when the time comes to get ready for the drive to campus, you are smiling. Shoulders loose, eyes bright.

It had been a tiresome couple of weeks.

As the middle of the semester drew closer, you’d spent days on end poring over a laptop with tired eyes and cramping fingers. Writing and editing—and then rewriting and re-editing—your first round of essays and analyses. Balmy afternoons spent nursing glasses of cheap wine with your roommates evolved to late night coffees alone in your room, eyelids drooping as you fawned over every word, every quote, every fucking comma – all of it for him.

Him who you hadn’t been alone with in almost fifteen days.

Him whose texts were seared into your memory, left unanswered on your phone.

Him who you could hardly look at during lectures, for fear of losing your train of thought.

Him who you were hellbent on impressing.

Joel, Joel, Joel.

And as busy as you’d been, it hadn’t stopped the stares. Brief, intimate glances from down the hall in the history commons. The flash of a knowing smile as you shuffle toward the exit after a lecture. The graze of fingertips against your elbow, muddling your mind as you rush to meet a text translation study group.

Watching, waiting, wanting – a near insufferable task since that afternoon in his office.

Late into the first week you’d discovered that, upon focusing hard enough, you could still feel the ache in your knees; the rug burns his carpet had left on your skin. And then you shoved the memory of it down; compressed it somewhere deep inside, hidden away until you had the chance to open it back up again, and take your time with him like you truly wanted to.

And it seems today was that day.

You stare out the window for a moment. Sip your coffee and rake in the greenness of the grass, the cloudless sky, the ray of sun shining across your bedroom floor – and decide you’ll wear a skirt to Joel’s seminar.

The pin on his shirt is blue.

Not cerulean, or baby, or steel.

Not like how the sky was blue as you drove to campus with your windows down. Not like clear turquoise waters on a white sand beach in Greece, or like a robin’s egg swathed in leaves and sticks. But a deep, rich colour. Royal blue. A folded circular pin, with two tassels coming out the bottom of it.

It’s the first thing you notice when you walk into the lecture hall – the thing your eyes snag on repeatedly as you wander towards the third row and tuck yourself into a seat. That vivid splash of blue against a plain white t-shirt. No buttons today; formal wear forgone in place of a simple tee that hugs the vast planes of his chest, snug against the thick span of his biceps. His arms are almost enough to distract you from the gaudy brooch.

Joel won’t stop moving at the foot of the room, pacing the same length of floor over and over again, waiting for the crowd to settle. Hands busy themselves at his waist, wiping a small square of cloth against the lenses of his glasses. A muscle in his forearm twitches with every swipe of fingers against glass, and the sight has a hazy flush rising in your neck. Despite yourself, you try in earnest to catch a glimpse of what the pin says. Bare thighs tensed in your seat as you tilt your torso forward, eyes squinting.

The last students wander in, and he’s shifting, sliding those glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and snatching the slide clicker from the desk. He offers a polite greeting to the room.

It doesn’t take long for someone to speak up. “Special occasion?”

Joel’s hands still, chin tilting down as he glances at royal blue and then back out at the group, a wry smile breaking across his face.

“Just a thing the faculty does here,” he clears his throat awkwardly, laughs a little. It’s a soft sound, his laugh. Tickles your ears and makes you want to smile in return. “Some of the others started it a few years back… they make everyone wear one on their birthday.”

A chorus of surprised well-wishes chime from around the room, and Joel waves them away with a broad palm, shaking his head.

Even from three rows back you can see the pink in his cheeks; the resistance in his eyes as he intercepts the kind words soaring in his direction. You recognise a shyness there, an unwillingness to be the centre of attention, and it surprises you. Joel always seems so confident, standing week after week in front of 30 odd people and talking for hours. But you suppose then he can hide behind his words; behind years of knowledge and study and practice. When it’s about him? He falters. Tries to hide. You almost want to curse at him for being so endearing. And maybe you would – if it wasn’t his birthday.

“Nah, none of that,” Joel tuts, shaking his head. “Let’s get started, alright?”

He claps his hands once, and the sound reverberates through the quietening room. The fabric of his pants clings to the meat of his thighs, tightening around muscle as he rests against the edge of the desk. You fight to keep your gaze on his face.

“Today we’re gonna start with talkin’ about the instigators in our parallel texts.”

And you try to listen, you really do.

Try to focus on his words as he talks, spouting thoughts about antagonists of war, about Helen and Menelaus, about Paris of Troy, but you can’t get past the spread of his thighs against the desk. The way his body moves when he finally rises, wandering to-and-fro across the space. How his thick thumb presses against the clicker in his hand, slides shifting on the wall behind him. There’s a dull ringing in your ears, the rough spell of his drawl vibrating inside your mind, spinning it’s yarn, and tangling itself in the space where rational thought normally resides. Birthday. It’s Joel’s birthday. Your hands clasp in front of your face, knuckle snagged between teeth, biting down, clinging to some far reach of clarity; something to bring you back to the ground and halt the dallied trance you seem to come under whenever he’s nearby.

Birthday, birthday, birthday.

As he discusses the Judgement of Paris, your mind wanders to a teacher you had as a child. A stern woman in her sixties who was fearsome among the gang of six-year old’s you roamed in. One year it had rained on your birthday, a spitting storm of hail and thunder. And when you cried, she told you that it only rains on your birthday when you’ve been a bad little girl.

It was sunny the next year, but she wasn’t your teacher anymore, and there was no one around to praise you for how good you must’ve been that year. For how hard you must’ve strived to achieve such wonderful sunshine on your special day.

A wry smile splits your face, tucked into the back of your hand, for you know better than anyone else just how bad Joel has been. And yet today, for his birthday, the sun shines.

He steps closer to the front row of seats, and your eyes glean across the lettering on his pin; the words Birthday Boy laid out in gold. A huff of laughter escapes you, and then your eyes are drifting up, past tan skin and scruffy facial hair, to find Joel staring straight at you. Dark, intrigued eyes. Assessing you, undressing you. Frowning.

“Somethin’ to add?” he clips.

The smile slides off your face. “Sorry?”

“Do you have somethin’ to add?” he drawls, unimpressed. The words slow and paced out as if he were speaking to a fool. “You seemed amused.”

“Oh,” you blink.

You shift awkwardly in your seat, straighten up, aware of every set of eyes in the room on the two of you. Joel’s face is stony, unimpressed. It’s the first time he’s made direct eye contact with you since you stepped into the room, and he is… on edge, clearly.

“No,” you decide on the safe answer, tone firm. “Nothing to add.”

He stares for a moment and then nods. Mutters a stern Pay attention underneath his breath before returning his gaze to the rest of the room. You scoff quietly, and swallow down the stab of embarrassment his words bring. The feeling is sour in your mouth, like the seed of a lemon is stuck behind your teeth.

Two seats to your left you hear a poorly concealed titter. Turn your head to spot a woman, maybe a year or two younger than yourself, giving you a pitiful smirk. You arch an eyebrow. Mouth what?

She simply shakes her head at you and turns to look at Joel, all glossy lips and doting gaze as she listens to his continued ponderings about Menelaus' role in the Trojan War.

You watch her for a moment. Note the way she laughs at his jokes, smiles as he goes off on a mindless tangent about something you aren’t paying attention to; hanging onto his every word. And you wonder if this is how you look to other people when you watch him. Another stark-raving Maenad, thirsting and possessed by the spirit of this Bacchant of a man. The Roaring One. The one with bedroom eyes and cheeks like wine. Joel Miller; fraught, brooding, and willing to embarrass you in front of a room of your peers to feel an inch of the self-control you've so easily ridden him of. A Dionysian fit to oppose the doomed Bacchant inside of you, whose mouth foams and eyes roll in ecstasy at the mere presence of him.

He crosses the front of the room, back and forth, and you imagine him as a bull of a man. Golden locks and thorned head, thyrsus in hand as he commands the attention of an enthralled audience. Corrals them to follow him, to adore him. And yet the image you create is distorted at best, a watered-down version of the truth, for what spites you the most is that he simply… doesn’t have to try. There are no attempts to convince; no persuasion in his voice, no dishonesty necessary as the room swoons for him. As you yourself yearn for him. Covet his touch, his body, akin to that of a God’s.

And perhaps there is some immorality there, some gross misalignment of hubris, that yearns to reset the scale. To remind this man that indeed you have knelt before him, but he knelt for you first.

The thought has your thighs pressing together.

“Well, Juno hates Aeneas because she hates Trojans. And for that we have Paris to blame,” he answers someone’s question with a chuckle. Gains a few scattered laughs in response. “Because we all know how Juno feels about Paris.”

You rise from your chair, legs shifting before your brain can catch up. Take careful, tip-toed steps towards the exit. Joel’s eyes drift in your direction, curious gaze draping over the bare skin of your legs as he talks. Just for a second though, a split second, before he’s looking determinedly back to the room, and you’re disappearing from his line of sight.

“And so, she thwarts the Trojans every chance she gets,” his voice grows softer as you stray farther from the door, until it’s nothing more than a vague purr down the hall. You wander into the women’s bathroom and slip inside an empty cubicle.

Birthday, birthday, pay attention, birthday, they make everyone wear one on their birthday, pay attention.

Your brain is abuzz, nerves alight as you place your phone carefully atop the toilet paper dispenser. Trembling fingers graze the hem of your skirt, the warm skin of your thighs, and yes you’ve been wet since you saw him. Turned on from just the sight of him, the sound of his mellow voice, the idea that maybe, just maybe, today you will get to touch him again. You can feel how it clings to your panties, sweet soft warmth pooling out of you, a dizzying wetness that longs for Joel to come and find you. To take you in his hands, tilt you down to his parted lips, and drink it from the source.

Your fingers are cold against your skin. A delighted shiver swims down your spine as you graze them along the front of your underwear. Barely touching, hardly any pressure, simply grazing over the spot where your clit has begun to pulse. A little firmer now, you press against the thin material of your underwear, let it slip between your soaked folds. You bite your lip to contain a soft sigh, and smile as you feel how wet the material is getting. Once you’re satisfied you pull your hand away, leave a shimmering streak against your leg where you wipe your fingers, and reach for your phone.

Position one foot on the closed seat and rest your back against the cubicle wall, angling the phone between your spread thighs. Tilting your phone this way and that until the camera catches you in the perfect light; the flared material of your skirt bunched around your hips, the shiny smear across your inner thigh, the damp stain of slick against the front of your light blue panties. You take a few pictures. Trail your hand down your stomach and let it appear in some of them as well; fingers poised over the band of your underwear, just a tease. Finally content, you tuck your phone away, splash some cold water on your neck, and wander back into the lecture theatre.

Joel looks up when you walk inside. He’s seated behind his desk now, the room quiet as people jot down notes, eyes flitting between their laptops and the presentation displayed across the wall. Furrowed eyebrows and brown eyes shining with that barely-contained interest they always seem to hold when he looks at you these days. You offer him a nonchalant smile before turning your back to him. Sway your hips with exaggerated emphasis as you waltz up the stairs, slide back into your seat, and take your phone back out.

No one’s watching you now. Not your fellow Maenad, with her sharp judgemental eyes. Not even Joel. Your fingers dance their way into your text thread with him, and you select your favourite from the pictures.

You glance at the two lone messages in the thread, gaze lingering on the second message.

That can’t happen again.

Hesitation grips you, fingers hovering over the screen as you contemplate the seriousness behind the words. And then you hear him answer someone’s question, and the rough drone of his voice has you pressing send anyway.

Happy Birthday Professor x

You imagine you can feel the vibration of his phone. Feel it groan and shift in the pocket of his pants, screen lighting up. You wonder if he’s saved your name in his phone, or if a picture of underneath your skirt just popped up from an unsaved number. You try to focus on the article laid out in front of you. Stare at the messy under linings, at the notes on the margins made in your chicken-scratch handwriting, and wait.

It doesn’t take long to feel the heat of his gaze, almost paranormal in its effect. You can feel it’s weight – how it glides across your skin, sticky, viscous, and impossible to ignore.

When you glance up, you have to resist the urge to shrink into your seat. Joel’s face is a mess of emotions. Square jaw clenched tight; lips sealed. Stormy eyes that dart furiously between you and his lap, where you imagine his phone rests. Previously neat curls are now tousled and stressed over. You watch he glares downward, and drags tight fingers through the locks again. He doesn’t look up for a long time after that. Shoulders hunched forward, chin to his chest as he stares down.

Joel doesn’t stand up for the last 90-minutes of the seminar. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke. And he certainly does not look in your direction again. Not until the little hand on the clock strikes 11 o’clock, marking the end of his seminar, does he even entertain your side of the room. And not until the last student files out the door do you rise and meet him by the desk, a knowing look in both of your eyes.

You walk ahead of him the entire way to his office. Joel keeps an all-too casual distance from you, but you can hear the weight of his steps against the hardwood floors. Can feel his looming presence over your shoulder – sense his bursting need to get you alone. You only fall into step beside him when the office door comes into view, and then he’s herding you towards it, palm pressing flat against the small of your back in trivial, insistent shoves.

With a final glance over his shoulder, Joel nudges you inside his office.

There’s music playing inside. Soft waves of sound undulating toward you from the record player, and yet when he drags the door shut behind him you still hear the undeniable click of his key turning the lock. The window is closed, curtains half-drawn, and the air in his space is warm; almost stuffy from lying dormant and empty for hours.

Silently, Joel makes his way across the room to where his record player sits. Your eyes trail him faithfully, trained on how his shoulder blades shift like tectonic plates beneath the thinning fabric of his shirt. The urge to wander forward and pull it off him is intense. To run your nails down his skin and leave marks on his body the way he’s done to you.

“You think you’re funny?” his voice comes, a low murmur that you almost miss through the music. He lifts a hand and pulls the glasses off his nose. Tucks them carefully onto the table.

“Funny?” you reply, mouth suddenly dry.

Joel shifts the needle, restarting the record. Momentary silence swells into a bright intro, and he’s turning to look at you, thick arms folding across his chest. Your heart is a galloping staccato behind your sternum. A bead of sweat glides from the hollow of your throat down your chest, dampening the fabric of your shirt.

“Sendin’ me that picture of your pussy all wet for me,” he tuts softly. “Knowin’ damn well, I couldn’t do anythin’ about it.”

You swallow as he takes a step towards you. His hands drift to the front of his body, and you watch with bated breath as long fingers begin working at the silver buckle on his belt.

“Y’gimme nothin’ for weeks, don’t even pay attention during my fuckin’ classes, and then…” he pauses, almost glaring at you. But it’s not contempt in his eyes. No, it’s something else, something deeper—black brown peppered with frustration and lust and… There’s a lump in your throat. Something heavy that presses against your windpipe and makes it hard to swallow.

“You get off on this, hmm?” he asks, voice gravelly. “Torturin’ me? Makin’ me wait?”

“I’ve been busy,” you murmur, eyes fixed on where he drags leather through the beltloops of his pants. He discards it on the ground between you – an offering, an invitation.

“Busy girl,” he murmurs dryly. “And what about now? Now that I’ve got you here all alone… you gonna make me beg for it?”

Your pussy clenches at the thought of him on his knees, palms clasped in his lap, and it has that slick heat pooling between your legs. You want to denigrate him the way you feel he has done to you. Order him to kneel, to apologise, to fucking beseech you. But Joel’s eyes are dark, face drawn as he watches you. And you know that you’ve already gotten even.

Royal blue swims in your vision and you give him your best smile. Shake your head and say, “Not today, birthday boy.”

Something glints in his eyes, hands twitching by his sides. You mirror him, finally inching forward a step across the carpet. His belt is solid beneath your shoes.

He’s shifting in an instant, swallowing the final stretch of distance between you until his chest knocks into yours. The breath rushes from your lungs at the contact, and his hands are clasping your face, mouth slipping against yours in a brutal collision.

It’s rough, messy, teeth knocking and chapped lips. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since that night at the bar, and it consumes the both of you.

Joel’s body seizes yours, wraps around you and holds you to him, gripping the skin of your arms, your neck, your face, anywhere he can reach. Saliva pools in your mouth and wells into his, low sounds of desire being swapped back and forth between dripping tongues. There’s something desperate about it – how his lips bruise against yours. Something earnest and needy and urgent in the way his thumbs dig into your jaw, fingers tangling in the hair around your ears.

You’re gasping into his mouth, hands dropping to undo his zipper in a frenzied hurry. You can feel him behind the material, a firm bulge that becomes more and more evident as you work to get him undressed. His hands drop to your waist, your ass, and he’s pressing up, up, up the hem of your skirt, nails digging into skin as he squeezes and pulls you flush against him. Broad palms splayed across searing flesh, the tips of his fingers dragging dangerously close to where you’re aching for him. Your fingers shift from his pants to your own shirt, gripping the hem to tear it over your head—but Joel stops you. Bats your hands away and hoists you off the ground instead.

“Shit,” you huff in surprise, holding his shoulders for support as his arms tighten like a vice beneath your thighs and around your waist. He cuts you off with another sweltering kiss, and he’s moving. Stumbling blindly backward, a blurred mess of two people, all harsh exhales and clashing teeth, tilting back, back, back until his calves hit the armchair and he’s dissolving into it, dragging you down with him. Your knees sink into the plush fabric on either side of his waist, and his hands are on you, bunching your skirt up around your hips until your underwear is visible. He breaks the kiss and looks down quickly, lip curling upward as he takes in the sight of your barely covered cunt hovering over his lap.

“Fuck me,” Joel breaths. He cants his hips upward, clothed cock grinding against you. The pressure on your clit is exquisite. It has your nose scrunching up as your shallow breaths flutter the curls across his forehead. “Dress like this for all your classes?” he asks, fingers snapping at the band of your panties before his hand drops to cup your entire sex. “Fuckin’ filthy girl.”

“No,” you gasp as his palm settles over you. “Only—oh fuck, no, no, only yours.”

A rough sound escapes him, and he’s pushing the material of your underwear to the side. Thick fingers glide over the coarse hair on your mound, dipping in between your folds, right to the beating centre of you. You stare at his face while he stares at the swollen mess between your thighs.

“S’damn right,” he grunts. His eyes are ablaze. “Just for me.”

Your eyelids flutter closed, face warming at the words, and you’re whimpering as he rubs firm circles over your clit. Joel’s tongue presses against yours, coaxes your jaw open until it aches.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he marvels into your mouth. “Always so fuckin’ wet.”

A finger drops to your slick hole, slips slowly slowly slowly inside until the tip of it is curling against the soft spot inside you that he reaches so fucking easily. The air in the room is thin, his breaths a hot wash against your face, and a languid moan snakes its way out of your throat.

“Quiet.” Joel adds a second finger. It’s everything and nothing at the same time. Fingers so long, so thick – fingers that pale in comparison to his cock.

“I want you,” you gasp.

“Hmm?” he hums dangerously.

“Please,” your head tilts back, mouth ajar and thighs trembling as he works you open on his fingers. Joel lets out an impatient sound, and then his fingers drop from your swollen core, and he’s holding a condom. He must’ve pulled it from his back pocket, or between the cushions of the chair, but you don’t dwell on it. Don’t care where or how or why, too restless to be filled to ask; just give a pleased nod and lean back so he has enough room to free his cock from his pants.

The thick weight of it rests in his palm. He’s swollen and thick, the tip a deep rosy colour that reminds you of his flushed cheeks, his puffy lips, and has your mouth watering. And it’s wet with slick strands of precome that drip down his length to meet the movement of his fist.

“S’this what you were thinkin’ about?” Joel breathes shakily. “Got your cute little panties all soaked thinkin’ ‘bout my cock?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip. Watch him tear open the foil packet and roll latex down his length. You ignore the familiar urge to say forget it just take me I’m here and I’m yours just fuck me. “Please.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. Drags his cock against the dripping seam of your cunt. “Say that again.”

“Please,” you repeat, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt. “God, Joel, please.”

A sharp wet smack and a trembling gasp fill the air as he taps the tip against your clit, and then rests himself at the notch of your entrance.

“Show me how bad you want it,” he orders huskily, hands drifting to rest on the arms of his chair. “Go on, fuckin’—ride it.”

Breathing heavily, you reach down to grip him. holding his length still as you lower yourself over his lap.

There’s a stinging resistance there – your body pushing back against the size of him, against the angle.

Joel’s fingers drape against your clit and he rubs soft circles above the spot where you’re connected. You grip the back of the chair, face twisted in muted concentration.

“C’mon,” he breaths, jaw set with clear intention. “Fuckin’ drippin�� for me, y’can take it, I know you can. Yeah—yeah, that’s it.”

You sigh, body relaxing, and you’re pressing down, through. Sink down on him another inch, and then another, until he’s bottoming out inside of you and the skin of your thighs is flush with his pants and he’s making this rough, low sound from deep in his chest. Your mind goes blank for a moment, vision whiting out and lungs squeezing as you hold your breath and adjust to the sheer size of him, to the delicious burn between your thighs where he’s stretching you. And everything is soft and hazy around your mind, but you can see Joel’s eyes on you. The glassy, blissed out expression on his face as you clench around him. His hands drift to your waist, fingers groping bare skin underneath where he holds your skirt up.

“Fuck,” Joel pants. “So god damn tight.”

A pathetic whimper catches in your throat as you grind down, clit rubbing against the coarse hairs at his base. You’re so full, every sense heightened by the feeling of Joel, pressing you apart and making a home for himself inside of you.

Slowly—tentatively—you rock your hips forward, rutting against him in short, shallow movements. His hands encourage your body, guiding you along his cock as you gain confidence.

Soon enough your hips are lifting and dropping back onto him, over and over, tilting against him, doing whatever it takes to drag more hopeless sounds from his mouth. The music from his record player is a low, thrumming bassline in the back of your mind, every bright refrain of guitar punctuated by sharp gasps and elongated sighs.

Joel’s eyes shift from the space between your bodies to your face. Pupils blown, sweat beading along his forehead. Watching you, he seems to fall backward, into himself perhaps. His body goes slack against the armchair, head lolling back as he stares.

“Jesus,” he mutters lowly. “Missed this perfect little pussy.”

There it is again. Perfect, perfect, perfect. You clench around him at the word, rut your hips in a particularly rough movement that has Joel’s eyes rolling back and a guttural moan falling from his lips. His chest is heaving with ragged breaths, the tendons and veins in his neck on display as his chin tilts upward. A bright red flush has raised across the exposed skin of his collarbones, his neck. You lean in and lick the skin there, skirt your teeth across his pulsing jugular. Joel’s palm clasps the back of your neck, holding you against him. You can feel his thighs tensing below you, and then his hips begin to snap upward, meeting you thrust for thrust. The angle is harsh, and he's filling you to the brim, the tip of his cock bruising against the deepest part of you. You cry out against his skin, and the hoarse sound only spurs him on.

His wide palm shifts to hover at the base of your neck, slips beneath the collar of your shirt. Splays over your collarbone, dull fingernails grating against the skin above your breast, by your armpit. You lean back to let him see you, and his eyes drop to watch the way your hips roll over his lap. His finger snags on the strap of your bra and it snaps against your skin.

“Take it off,” you mutter urgently. Need to feel his skin against yours. Chest to chest. Heart to hea—

“No.” His hips snap up into yours faster, knocking the breath from your lungs. One hand grips the armchair, one his shoulder, trying to find some kind of leverage as he pistons into you from below. That fucking Birthday Boy pin is still stuck to his shirt, and blue flashes in the periphery of your vision. A particularly rough thrust has a loud moan parting your lips, but as soon as it begins Joel’s hand is crashing over your mouth, fingers gripping your face to silence the sound. Your eyebrows raise, silently questioning overtop his hand.

“Need to shut up,” he grits out. “Gonna—ohhh—gonna get us caught.”

You glide your tongue against his palm, taste the salt on his skin. Feel his fingers squeeze your jaw harder in response. And then your own hand is moving from his shoulder, fingers gliding across the sweaty skin of his neck, to slot over his mouth. You stare at one another, wild eyes locked, palms sealed over slick lips, and something fiery pulls taught between you. Liquid heat spreads through your muscles, tightening and loosening with every movement of his body against yours. You can feel the coil at the base of your stomach tightening. Your pussy throbs in a rhythm sympatico to that of your heartbeat, and your fingers squeeze around his face.

You can feel the vibration of Joel’s moans against your hand, and then his teeth are sinking into the soft flesh of your palm. For a moment you wonder if he’ll pierce the skin. Let your blood seep from the wound and spill across his tongue; a sacrificial offering. Drink you down, devour you as he lies within your body. You bite down on his palm in return, holding his gaze as your bodies grind and rut against each other.

Your back arches suddenly, and your forehead knocks against his as your orgasm steadily approaches. Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours. Your shoulders begin to lock up, thighs burning, but he doesn’t let up. His hips collide with yours at a devastating pace, and his free hand drops between your thighs. The pad of his middle finger circles your swollen clit, and you jerk against him, every nerve inside your body fraying and sparking.

Joel slurs a curse against your hand and then you’re coming with a haggard whine into his hand, walls constricting around him in a vice grip. You close your eyes only to discover that royal blue is stained on the inside of your eyelids, unavoidable. He is unavoidable. Even in the darkness of your own mind, he lurks. The smell of him in your nostrils, the taste of his spit in your mouth. You think you hear a garbled version of your name spoken into your palm, and then a stinging sensation rips across your ass as Joel starts to come, fingernails dragging across skin, as he grinds his cock desperately into your pulsing heat. Your eyes flutter open, body shivering with the aftershocks of your high, and you watch him. Admire the way his jaw softens beneath your grip, teeth retracting and leaving dull indents on your skin in their wake.

There’s a low pinch between your thighs. It rings out minutes later, a sullen ache, as you lift your hips and let him slip from your wet clutch. His hands fall from your body, and you suck in stale air, taking a clumsy step off his lap to stand shaking on the ground before him. There are circular white marks on his cheeks, lingering reminders of how you held him, smothering his wanton groans of pleasure. You watch them slowly fade to pink, and try to settle the unsteady breaths that wrack your frame.

Your fingers drop lazily to adjust your underwear, but then those hands are tilting your hips, encouraging you to turn until your back is to him. They slip beneath your skirt, find purchase on the band of your panties, and slide the drenched material down your legs. You step out of them, and gasp in surprise when he flicks your skirt up again. A shiver travels down your spine as he glides a finger through your swollen cunt.

“Joel,” you whimper, lips poised to say that it’s too much, too soon, that you need a second to breathe.

But Joel exhales a quiet groan, and something sharp nips the sensitive skin of your ass. Peaking over your shoulder, you find Joel’s mouth there, wet tongue soothing over the mark his teeth made on your flesh. There’s a slip of blue clenched in his fist, held protectively in his lap beside his softening cock.

You feel the vibration of something against your skin, a murmur of words that you can’t quite make out, before he pulls back. Retracts all points of contact, carefully removes the condom, clears his throat softly as he tucks himself back into his pants. The tell-tale sound of the moment drawing to a close. You swallow down that familiar tang disappointment and hold out a hand for your underwear.

And then Joel surprises you.

This soft, teasing smirk lights up his face, and Joel knocks your hand away. A huff of surprised laughter escapes you as he rises and wanders toward the desk. You watch, stunned into silence, as he drags open a drawer on his desk and tucks that blue slip of fabric inside. It slides closed with a definitive thud, and Joel falls down into his desk chair. His eyelids must be heavy, because they droop closed while you watch.

There’s a damp patch at the bottom of his t-shirt that has your face in flames, but he doesn’t seem to care, chest rising and falling with deep breaths as his body relaxes into leather. Your legs tremble as you grip the strap of your bag, taking that as your cue to quietly head for the door.

“Liked your essay.”

You pause with your fingers on the door handle. Turn to find that his eyes are still shut.

“You’re only saying that becau—”

“No,” Joel interrupts, the firm tone a sharp contrast to his lax frame. Eyes open now. “It was good.”

You hum quietly and rock back onto your heels. Unsure of what to say, you settle on offering him a small smile. He nods in return. The silence drifts back in, and you find yourself unable to speak until his eyes close once more.

“Happy birthday, Joel.”

So softly, so as to not disturb. And you aren’t sure whether he heard you or he’s already fallen asleep, but you do notice the corners of his mouth tilt upward ever-so-slightly.

Friday.

A crimson tablecloth covers the expanse of the table. Deep dark red, almost brown, reminiscent of old blood.

Plates smeared with remnants of a dinner long-past litter the surface, dirtied knives and forks stacked precariously atop them. Sauces have hardened to thickened globs on the China, sticky and stale and calling out to be cleaned. But the end of the evening is nary in sight, as Ian, your gracious host, deposits another bottle of wine onto the table.

“It’s a Cabernet Franc,” he slumps back into his seat at the head of the table, directly opposite you. “My parents brought it back from their trip to Bordeaux this past Summer. A gift.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes for the thousandth time in three hours. Pour yourself a generous glass and taste it. Say, “I’m more of a Merlot fan,” despite being drunk as all hell and having zero knowledge to help discern between different wine grapes.

Pete offers a supportive smile, and you watch as his friends light fresh cigarettes that send plumes of smoke to the already stained roof of Ian’s apartment.

Ian’s girlfriend Claire, a wildlife and conservation biology undergrad, is draped across the chair to your left. Eyelids half closed; her slim fingers grip a half-smoked joint for dear life, hand hovering dazed in mid-air between her thigh and her face. You think back on the words Pete spoke to you this morning in the kitchen – there’ll be another woman there, don’t worry. And Claire’s great, I swear. You try to reconcile his words with the girl beside you, and the dank smell of burnt weed drifting toward you through the air. She’d been high when she arrived, and after speaking a measly three words of greeting in your direction, had sequestered herself to a chair and smoked through the entire dinner. When none of the others batted an eye, you held your tongue. And their nonchalance became clear when, upon completion of the meal—overcooked chicken, sticky carrots, and undercooked parsnips—Ian and Henry lit up cigarettes at the table too.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to attend the dinner party.

They’re really cool, Pete had blabbered into his mug that morning. We do it every Friday. It’ll be nice to have you meet some of my friends.

Oh, Pete. Cool, they are not.

Henry and Ian, friends from one of Pete’s environmental engineering units, are filthy rich. The kind that you can smell from a mile away. The kind that radiates from their expensive clothes, their manufactured pearly teeth, their god-awful haircuts. The kind of rich boys that have their own apartments in Portland, paid for by a Mummy and Daddy who holiday in Europe every summer—a trip that Ian has managed to bring up at least once an hour since the moment you met him.

The one beautiful, stunning, gorgeous saving grace is that there is alcohol – enough to ply yourself with in order to deal with Ian, who asked what your postgrad was in and replied slyly, “Oh, a fun one.” Ian, who, upon learning about your translation internship in Greece, said, “Sounds like you had a marvellous vacation.”

In return, you sat like a good little house guest—ornament—and listened to the three of them talk ad nauseam about engineering. Consume glass after glass of wine, decline cigarette after cigarette; you get profusely intoxicated as they debate—interrupt each other—the validity of different pollution control policies.

It’s not until early in the fifth hour of the dinner that Ian raises the topic of philosophy.

“It’s curious, that’s all,” he says, cigarette hanging limply between wine-soaked lips. “That these old guys would just hang out all day and… what, talk? Never understood why people rave about Socrates and Aristotle all the time. Just a bunch of sad sacks that liked the sound of their own voices a little too much, if you ask me.”

You hum against the rim of your glass, decidedly unbothered. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times, in a hundred different ways. His dining chairs are stiff, and your ass is aching against the heavy mahogany. Pete shifts awkwardly to your right. You can feel him looking at you, trying to gauge your impending reaction, and your face remains placid, numb from all the wine rushing through your veins.

“Is that what your degree is like?” Ian asks. “A bunch of old guys who love to listen to themselves talk?”

And that almost makes you crack a smile. You respond with a lacklustre shrug that neither confirms nor denies his suspicions, and definitely don’t think about—

“I don’t know,” Henry slurs, shooting a pointed glance in your direction. “I used to date this girl—”

“You fucked her once,” Ian interrupts.

“—Rita—"

“Rose.”

“—and she studied all that shit. Used to tell me about that guy who, he, uhm,” Henry pauses. Belches loudly. “He said something about God committing suicide and like, we’re his body or—wait what is it?”

“Mainländer,” you nod, mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s a creation theory of sorts – God commits suicide to create the universe, and we’re all living on his decaying corpse.”

“What do you think of that?”

“Of a potential God’s potential suicide?”

“Yeah,” Henry grins dopily.

You sigh. “Would’ve been cooler if he left a note, I suppose.”

Henry guffaws loudly, leans back until his chair is balanced precariously on two legs. The cigarette falls from his fingers to his lap, glowing orange cherry leaving charred ashy marks on his jeans. If you were more sober you might’ve said something. But as if were, you just laugh and drain the final dregs of wine from your glass.

“So, your degree involves stuff like that?” Ian asks then.

“Sometimes,” you hum, already bored with the hint of mockery you sense in his tone. “We study the societies as a whole, so yeah, there’s talk about philosophy on occasion.”

“And mythology,” he wiggles his eyebrows from across the table, fluttering his fingers in the air. “Must be fun to talk about made up ideas all day.”

Henry clears his throat roughly and plucks the cigarette out of his lap, all remaining hints of laughter filtering into silence.

You stare. Feel your hackles rise. Sharper this time, as a more acute sense of irritation floods your system. “You do know that Greece and Italy are real countries with real histories, right?”

Claire moves for the first time in fifteen minutes, takes a long drag from her joint. Exhales in your direction.

“Sure,” Ian shrugs. “But you have to admit, all the stuff about the Greek Gods is a little silly.”

You spare a quick glance in Pete’s direction and find him wearing a tight, awkward smile, looking at you with something apologetic in his eyes.

“Silly,” you repeat the word slowly. It as though your brain is working at a thousand miles a minute, desperate to catch up with the conversation. Constantly two steps behind wherever Ian is dragging you. And he’s giving you this smarmy, sympathetic smile that screams oh your poor thing, you have no idea how poor your future job prospects are, and you’ve seen that smile a hundred times, had this conversation a thousand more, and you can suddenly envision yourself reaching across the table and pouring your glass of wine into his lap.

“And what about the rest?” you ask tersely. The collar of your shirt scratches against your neck, and his cigarette is spilling ash onto the fucking table, and he’s an asshole, and you want to throttle him for getting off on belittling you.

“The rest?”

“The rest,” you nod. “I suppose I can admit that those gods are silly, so long as we’re also admitting how fucking laughable biblical Gods ar—"

Pete says your name sharply. You pause, seal your lips shut. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, the wary glint in his eyes a reminder that you’re a guest in Ian’s apartment. Ian’s apartment that was paid for by Mummy and Daddy; Ian’s apartment that has a crucifix above the kitchen entryway.

“More wine?” Pete asks smoothly. He’s rising from the table before you can respond, lifting the bottle and pouring a swell of red into your glass. Ian’s grin broadens, and a fresh round of irritation flares across the back of your alcohol sodden brain.

“Gimme a second,” you mutter, pushing your chair out. Your body sways as you stand, blood rushing to your head. Blinking the dizzy spell away, you grip Pete’s shoulder for leverage and make your way past him, shuffle down the hall and into a swanky bathroom. Your feet are heavy, mind a blur, as you collapse onto the toilet seat and rest your face against the cool tiled wall.

“Silly,” you grumble under your breath. “You’re fucking silly… asshole.”

Digging your phone from your pocket, you squint against its harsh light. Fingers fumble across the screen to your messages app. Tap Nora’s name, and hold your finger against the voice memo button.

“Nora,” you mumble, nose squished against tile. “It’s awful, you... I need you to save me.”

There’s a roar of laughter from the dining room.

“Why do men always have to be the smartest person in the room?” you continue as the sound dies down. The tile is cool against your skin, a welcome reprieve from the boozy flush that’s taken over your body.

“Pete is such an—” hiccup “—asshole for inviting me to this, I swear—”

Your phone hits the ground with a sharp clatter, and you curse, torso tilting forward as you reach clumsily for it. When you tilt the screen back to your face, a jolt rushes through you. You stare for a moment, dumbfounded, at the picture. There’s the soft sound of rushing water in your ears – your pulse, you realise.

“No,” you mutter, senses sharpening the longer you stare at the picture; your soaked blue panties. At the voice memo underneath said picture, that had certainly not gone to Nora. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, no.”

A moment of painful clarity comes when you make out the delivered sign below the voice message. Blurry eyes dance across the screen, vaguely deciphering the capitalised word MILLER. Panic swirls in your stomach, a churning writhing thing that feels a lot like nausea.

And then a text appears.

Are you drunk?

Your thighs are still numb from sitting for so long, so you slink dejectedly onto the floor and type out a response.

yes

that wasn’t for you

Ten minutes pass. You stare at the bright screen until worn-out tears prick in your eyes.

Doing okay?

tired

ate bad food, drank alotta wine

Probably time to go home.

cant drive

thought you hada phd? telling me to drunk driev

bad profeseor

Five minutes. Pete knocks on the door to ask if you’re okay and you assure him that you’re fine.

Where are you?

You type out the address carefully. Wash your hands in the sink and combs wet fingers through your hair to tame your appearance before skulking back into the dining room, where the vulture awaits you.

“I’m going,” you announce blandly. Claire is asleep, you think. Ian and Henry are playing an aggressive game of cards. Only Pete looks up.

“How are you getting home?” he frowns.

“Got a ride,” you mutter. Collect your things and give his shoulder a brief squeeze before slipping out the front door.

The air is cool outside the apartment building. A sharp breeze whistles through the parking lot, snakes it’s way beneath your clothes to curl against your skin. You welcome the chill. Rub lazily at the goosebumps on your arms as you glance at the last text from Joel.

Be there in 20.

You’re perched on the stoop when headlights finally appear. You curse, eyes smarting as you duck to avoid the harsh fluorescents, and then a black truck is idling a few metres away, engine purring. The passenger door kicks open and you squint, trying—and failing—to see inside through the darkness. Until—

“Get in.”

You’re barely in the car before Joel is pressing a bottle of water into your hand. The plastic is sweating, damp with condensation, and you sigh in relief. Press it against your neck, your face.

“Drink it,” he says sternly. You crack an eye open and look at him. He’s so close. Just a hairsbreadth from you, in a soft t-shirt and jeans. Glasses on the end of his nose. Fluffy hair—bed hair. There’s a soft frown on his face that dips and rolls in your vision. A downward tilt to his mouth as he puts the car in drive and tears away from Mummy and Daddy’s apartment.

“Hey,” you give him a lop-sided smile.

“Hey."

“Were you in bed?”

“You stink,” Joel ignores your question. “You chain-smokin’ in there? Christ.”

“Not me,” you huff in frustration. Take a small sip of water, careful not to spill on the seat. “They were smoking at the table. While we were eating.”

“Who was?”

“Pete’s friends.”

“Who’s Pete?” Joel grunts. He’s got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, and his eyes are set on the road. Only when you don’t respond does he look back at you.

“Who’s Pete?” he repeats. Something stony in his voice. You smile.

“One of my roommates,” you offer. “Why? You jealous?”

“Quit it,” he bites out. “You gonna tell me where you live or am I s'posed to guess?”

Your smile spreads into a full-blown grin as you type your address into his phone. He snatches it from your hand and tells you to drink it all. You sit in silence for a while after that. Roll down the window and let your hand rest outside the car, fingers fluttering as the wind whips past them. He’s driving fast, green traffic lights blurring in your vision, and you feel your head spin faster, harder. Mumble under your breath.

“What?” he asks, voice too loud.

“Slow down,” you repeat, inhaling a deep breath. You feel him ease his foot of the gas instantly, a hand coming to hover over your knee.

“You feelin’ okay?” he murmurs.

“Mm.”

You let your eyes slip shut. Just for a second. A minute. And then—

“Hey.” A firm hand is on your shoulder. Thumb pressing into the skin beneath your collarbone. “Wake up.”

You jolt upright in the seat. Rub a palm roughly against your eye. Forget that you’re wearing makeup until you see black smeared across your hand.

Joel is saying something as you climb out of his truck, but you don’t hear it. Too busy pressing the door shut behind you and stumbling up the paved path to your house. Cool metal slides in your palm, numb fingers grappling for purchase. You scratch the key against the door’s aperture once, twice, and then feel it slip from your hand. A wave of dizziness hits as you watch it clatter against the ground.

“Shit,” you grumble. Bend down to pick it up. Rise and try a third time as silver swims in your vision. You hear a car door slam, the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, and slur another impatient curse under your breath.

“Let me help,” he says from behind you.

“It’s fine,” you protest, skin searing with embarrassment.

“C’mon.” Joel’s warm hand covers yours. Pries the key from your palm and unlocks your front door in a one easy movement. “Let’s get you inside.”

“I can do it.”

“Just let me help you.”

You practically float down the hall, buoyed by the thick arm around your waist, towing you along. In your room, Joel clicks on the lamp in the corner. Dim orange light envelops the space as you fall back onto your bed with a huff, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of your stomach.

“You need more water before you sleep” he says. “And a fuckin' shower.”

“Mmm,” you agree, eyelids fluttering. “I'm… just gonna lie here for a second.”

The responding sound is that of heavy footsteps disappearing down the hall. A fleeting rush of liquid somewhere in the distance. Your eyes close for a minute, maybe two, and reopen to find Joel’s broad frame hovering in the doorway, holding a glass of water and gripping the doorknob as he assesses your most private space. Your eyes are hardly open, but you can see him in the dim light. Glancing into the darkness of the hall and then back to you, slumped messily against the pillows. After a thick moment of silence, he steps decidedly across the threshold, and closes your bedroom door behind him.

As you watch him, you begin to feel a sense of startling clarity.

Joel Miller, in your house. Joel Miller, in your bedroom. Joel Miller… seeing you make a complete fool out of yourself.

“Oh fuck,” you blurt out.

“What?” Joel asks sharply. He rounds the bed in two quick strides, and then he’s pressing a glass of water on your side table and sitting beside you. His weight on the side of the bed has the mattress dipping, your body tilting onto your side to face his back. A wave of nausea strikes suddenly, and you suck your lips into your mouth. No.

“Y'oughta warn me if you’re gonna be sick,” he warns.

“M’not.”

“You better not.”

“I won’t.”

“Think you’ll need about ten of those,” you hear him say. “But one glass is a good start.”

But there’s already an ocean inside you. Rocky, white-wash waves that lap at the walls of your stomach, press against your lungs, and have your mind swaying even as your body lies still. Fingers, moving faster than your brain, seek purchase. Crawling across the sheets to snag your index through a belt loop on the back of his jeans. Chilled skin against worn denim, an anchor. Something sturdy to calm the eddying current inside you.

“What’re you—”

“Did you have a good day yesterday?” you interrupt, eager to distract yourself.

Joel is silent for a while. Keeps looking down at you until he finally says, “Yeah,” so quiet that your ears strain to hear it.

There’s a hint of something there that you can’t quite read. An emotion that he holds clasped in tight hands, just beyond your reach. You let it be, mind distracted by the soft orange light emanating from the lamp. When you close your eyes it glows against the back of your eyelids, vibrant swaths of sunset and marigold that make it hard to fall asleep just yet.

“Seventy, right?” you tease.

An indignant scoff rings out, and you squeak as a set of rough fingers pinch at the skin of your exposed stomach. The quickest touch, just a graze of flesh, before he’s pulling back. You laugh easily, open your eyes to look at him again.

“Careful now,” he warns. But you can see humour in the lines by his eyes, the quirk of his lip.

Your finger wiggles against his belt loop, tugging on the material there once. A tired patience in your eyes as you wait.

“Fifty,” he finally concedes, smile wavering as his gaze darts to the sheets.

“Mhm,” you murmur. Lips part as you let loose a low, impressed whistle. It comes out as more of a lacklustre exhalation of air. Joel’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter when he meets your eyes again, a little more relaxed. “The big five-oh, huh?”

“The big five-oh,” he repeats simply. Tired as you are, you can see the question in his eyes. This searching, curious thing that rakes across your features, waiting to note any hint that you might be perturbed by the fact.

“S’nice,” you offer quietly instead. “Get any good gifts?”

The muscles in his neck strain, shirt tightening around his shoulders as he turns to look at you head on. Soft eyes gleam with something darker, teasing, as his lips pull into a lazy smirk.

“Sure,” he agrees, voice low, suggestive. “Good’s one word for it.”

Warmth floods your stomach and your toes curl. But you falter under the intensity of his gaze, a weary heat rising in your cheeks as your gaze lowers to his collarbone.

“Hey," you say quietly. “Look, I appreciate you helping me out tonight, I just…”

Joel’s eyebrows pinch the middle of his forehead, relaxation dissipating as he stares.

“Sorry,” you grimace, skin on fire. All of a sudden, your finger feels swollen in his belt loop, a promise that you can’t keep, the fabric branding hot against your skin as the words tumble out of you. “I’m just, I’m pretty wasted, and I’m grateful, you know, but I don’t think I can—we probably can’t fuck tonight—"

Joel says your name quickly. His hand is gripping your bedsheets, sun-kissed skin against pale yellow. “We’re not fucking.”

Unwitting relief courses through you, and you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay, I just wasn’t sure if you thought maybe… I don’t know—"

“Thought that if I gave you a ride home you owed me a fuck?” he asks plainly, expression tight. A dark, frustrated laughs spills from his lips and his shoulders are tightening, muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt. “That’s not how this goes, darlin’. So don’t go thinkin’ that way, ever, y’hear me?”

You blink, eyes wide. Suddenly alert. Feel the warmth in your stomach spread to your chest, your thighs. Darlin’.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Yeah, that’s—how does this work then?”

The indent between his brows only deepens as he gazes down at you.

“You call the shots,” Joel says. “I thought that was well established by now.”

His brown eyes look so soft in the dim lighting of your bedroom. Honeyed and golden in the warm orange haze. You stare at them for so long that you lose track of whether or not he’s answered your question. Forget everything that isn’t the lines beside his eyes, the dark speck of his pupils, the wild hairs of his eyebrows. You feel yourself drift closer to sleep again.

“Pretty,” someone says faintly. You. “You’ve got brown eyes.”

“Jesus.” He’s still frowning.

“Brown-eyed girl,” you sing—slur.

“Alright, Van Morrison,” Joel grumbles, the lines in his face softening. “Drink up.”

You do as he asks, gulping down half the water while he watches. His fingers rest cautiously at the base of the glass in case you drop it. And when you’re finished, he takes it from your hands, stands. Another wave crashes inside you when the mattress shifts in the absence of his weight, and you drift, unmoored, onto your back again.

Joel is staring at you. Towering over the bed, hands jammed awkwardly against his hips. His presence so large, so looming. He crowds your small space, his size ensuring that there is no room for another; only you and him, you and him, you and him, and you call the shots. You squeeze your eyes shut, determined to block that thought out.

“I think I’ll go to sleep now,” you mutter. “If that’s alright with you, teach.”

Joel says something, but it’s a far away sound. You tuck your face further into your pillow.

You think you hear him say good night, or some version thereof, but you don’t hear him leave. Don’t hear his boots on the hardwood, or the creak of your bedroom door. Don’t hear his truck start up outside.

And when you wake, alone, you find that droplets of rain have settled on your windowsill, marking another wet September morning. But you don’t frown as you drag a sweater from your closet, nor as you draw the curtains and clamber back into bed. Don’t yearn for the warmth of Summer as the dull ache of a hangover ricochets inside your skull. For you can smell Joel on your sheets; can still feel his presence lingering in the corners of your room.

And that’s warm enough for you.

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 @mendessi @love-the-abyss @myrealmofchaos @a-roving-woman @punkshort @gracie7209 @whichwitchwanda @fellinfromthetop @bitchwitch1981 @suzmagine @lmariephoto37 @harriedandharassed @cumberpegg @tonysttank @ourautumn86 @my-tearsricochet @shotgun-shelby @5oh5

thank you for reading! x [and idgaf okay i was gonna put that birthday boy pin on him no matter what shitty excuse i had to come up with]

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

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sixosix · 5 months

Text

i want you for worse or for better | aether

synopsis your ex, aether, asks you to be his plus one; you were doomed from the very beginning.

tags wc 2.8k, gn!reader, modern au, profanity, getting back together, exes to lovers, humor bc i cant take my own writing seriously, ft 4GGRAVATE!!!

notes ty to @earthtooz and @naosaki helping me brainstorm w this one… our big brains were on the same wave while cooking.

Aether moved around a lot. He was never the type to settle down. It was in his blood to explore the world and leave only a trace of him behind. He was something like a hero, coming in at the worst time and leaving them better than before. You couldn’t say the same about his effect on you, though.

You told him of this before, and he slumped over and rested his head on your lap, “I don’t even mean to. Are you at least swept off your feet by my heroic deeds?”

“I was so charmed I only dated you because you have overthrown the government,” you said.

Aether had laughed then, and kissed you sweetly. You couldn’t fool him for a second—how you melted to the kiss spoke for itself. You loved him for so much more than that.

But you also knew that it wouldn’t last long. Aether warned you about it, too; you couldn’t even be mad. How could you blame anyone but yourself when you deliberately brushed past all the warning signs?

“I don’t stay,” Aether told you, at the time. “If you want to do this…”

“I know,” you said, at the time. “I know what I’m getting myself into. So will you just kiss me already?”

Well, you should’ve known, too, that falling out of love with Aether wouldn’t be as easy as falling in love with him. Not when he kissed you like he would never leave, anyway. You were doomed from the very beginning.

“You’ve been staring at your phone for a worryingly long time now,” Tighnari said, eyeing you from the top of his cards.

You were seated on Alhaitham’s living room couch, the four boys lounging on the floor playing TCG. Cyno was winning effortlessly against Kaveh, but against Tighnari, he found himself at a loss. Alhaitham was continuing Cyno’s winning streak on his behalf, while Cyno was down two rounds from playing with Tighnari. You had been playing, too, but your phone lit up and displayed a name that had you dropping your cards and hiding your screen from your friends’ view.

You bit your lip and reread the message for the third time. The previous texts had been months ago, with him wishing you a happy birthday. You replied with a Thank you and a red heart emoji, because the <3 emoticon felt too intimate.

“Aether texted me,” you murmured, then braced yourself for the explosion.

It was Kaveh that did. “Aether? As in your ex, Aether? That Aether?” Kaveh demanded.

“Do you know other Aethers?” Alhaitham quipped, then placed a card that had Kaveh clutching his head and groaning.

“Shut up,” Kaveh hissed, mostly because he lost. “The point is—that’s your ex! What did he say?”

You buried your face on the couch pillow, hating how your heart was racing. Like you were still in high school, or something, and not a full-grown adult who was having a crisis over their ex texting them. “He said hey are you up?, all lowercase, no comma.”

“No comma,” Kaveh repeated with a suspicious look on his face.

“No need to be so wary,” Cyno said. “His intentions don't appear to deliberately cause any 'comma-tion’.”

Tighnari’s ears dropped along with his face.

“Do you get it?” Cyno seemed proud that he was able to come up with that one right away. “There was no comma. It was a wordplay on commotion—”

“Did he also say what he was texting you for?” Kaveh interrupted loudly. “If he wants something, send a picture of us and tell him you’re busy.”

“Aether’s not like that,” you murmured in defeat.

Kaveh was making him out to be some sort of playboy. Aether wasn’t, which made you worry more. You didn’t want to entertain someone who left you, but you still cared enough to wonder if something came up and he needed you.

“You’re going to reply?” Tighnari asked.

“Yes,” you said, typing out a what’s up? and hitting Send. You didn’t know why you had butterflies in your stomach—you used to shower with Aether back when you were still together; there was no need to be so nervous. “He’s your friend, too, you know.”

“You were our friend first,” Kaveh said. “And he broke your heart. That’s not something to be taken lightly.”

You felt warm, a smile blooming on your face. “It’s okay. I wasn’t that affected.”

“You were,” Kaveh, Tighnari, and Cyno chorused.

“Fuck you,” you said, smile dropping.

Aether was typing again. You sat up straight and watched the three dots do the worm on the bottom of your screen.

hi :) how are you?

Ugh. Furiously, you typed, aether spit it out. did something happen?

okay okay

You expected that he just wanted something. Something had to have come up for him to text you after months. That didn’t make it hurt any less, though. Maybe Aether was a playboy; the way he played with your feelings almost qualified him for it.

But then you think back to when Aether was still in Sumeru, lighting up the room, lighting up a fire in your heart. He was everyone’s favorite, too, not just yours. And even if Kaveh and the others denied it now, they hadn’t been able to deny him back then. Aether helped them out in ways they didn’t know how to repay. Aether made you so happy, to be thinking so negatively about him like this.

Aether sent: i’m invited to aymar’s wedding and i wanted to ask if you would agree to be my plus one

why me?

you’re the first person i thought of.

Perhaps he wasn’t in trouble—he was trouble enough. What were you getting yourself into?

i thought you didn’t want to get involved with Aymar anymore

i can’t turn down an excuse to eat free at a buffet

You sighed. You wouldn’t, either.

You frowned at your screen, wishing it was Aether in front of you instead. Maybe if you could read his expressions instead of reading between the lines of his texts, you could figure out why he invited his ex, of all the people he knew.

besides, Aether continued to text, this is probably aymar’s way of showing us that she’s over me. she has a groom now and all that

Aymar had the biggest crush on Aether, and she never hid it, even when you and Aether were dating. But despite her advances, she was a sweet girl who was just as infatuated with your ex as the rest of Teyvat was. Maybe this was her way of apologizing.

However—

she didn’t even invite me wtf

haha well is that a no?

“Guys,” you spoke up, grabbing your friends’ attention. Kaveh was still losing miserably. “Have you heard news of Aymar’s wedding?”

“Oh,” Kaveh looked thoughtful, “yes. We were invited.”

“What? Was I the only one not invited?”

“Maybe it’s because you got to date Aether and she didn’t,” Tighnari said.

You rolled your eyes. “Well, Aether’s asking me to be his plus one—and I’m going to say yes don’t look at me like that.”

Alhaitham, Cyno, and Kaveh wordlessly clear their expressions.

“Oh,” Tighnari frowned. “We weren’t planning on going.”

“We have to now!” Kaveh said. “We have to, if Y/N’s going.”

“Is this too much?”

You checked yourself out in the full-length mirror, performing a little twirl that had Kaveh clapping. Alhaitham sat beside him, briefly looking up from his book. Tighnari and Cyno were elsewhere, picking shoes for you that would be in the range of ‘cheap’ and ‘expensive, but not because I care about what Aether would think’.

“Of course not,” Kaveh said, giving a thumbs up. “You look great!”

You turned to Alhaitham next, who didn’t hesitate: “Looks good. Might as well wear yellow, too.”

You flushed hotly at his implications. “I’m not dressing up to impress him! This is a formal event, which he happened to invite me to—as friends.”

“Right,” Alhaitham drawled. He could at least pretend to believe you, but that would probably be asking too much from him already.

Kaveh nudged Alhaitham, with a bit more force than necessary. “Cut Y/N some slack.”

Alhaitham sighed imperceptibly, turning his full attention to you. “This would probably be the closure you needed,” Alhaitham said, and you recognized his way of comfort for the way it is. “You’ll find out that you’re over him after this.”

“You’re right,” you said, breathing in deep. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“So,” Kaveh stood up. “Is that what you’re buying? Let’s make haste—Cyno reserved a spot in the line for you!”

Excitement bubbled in your chest as you held the fabric to your chest.

You were definitely not over Aether.

As soon as you felt yourself fidgeting nervously a block away from the ceremony, you knew. As soon as a car rolled in and he stumbled out of the car, tripping because he was waving at you, you knew that you were so not over him.

You tried to blame the heat of the sun for how warm you suddenly felt, but you could be referring to the other sun making his merry way to you, his smile bright, all teeth. His braid could almost be a tail from how it waggled as he jogged over.

“Hey,” Aether, charming and beautiful Aether, gold and warm—your ex, Aether—breathed out, “you look great.”

“You, too.” Aether looked maddening in a suit, in the best way possible. You felt lightheaded and choked out, “Very dashing.”

“Yeah?” He grinned.

“Yeah,” you said, then turned away in case he saw the raw, unfiltered want on your face.

“Shall we?”

How cheesy. Still, you felt yourself flush as you linked your arms with his, like you were a couple. Kaveh was going to kill you—after he killed Aether first.

Aymar’s wedding was startlingly grand. You think she might just have invited the entirety of Sumeru; you might even find Lesser Lord Kusanali here, maybe.

You found your friends and settled beside them while Aether awkwardly sat on the far edge. He seemed reluctant to have space from you, so you pulled him closer.

“Hey,” Tighnari greeted him. “How have you been? You stopped sending us letters.”

Aether looked extremely uncomfortable. He must be feeling Cyno’s stern stare. “Haha. Well, yeah.”

The ceremony went as usual. The groom was someone you didn’t recognize; he looked like he was from Sumeru, all big and intimidating—the complete opposite of Aether. Aymar’s tastes changed drastically. All the same, you cheered along with the crowd when they kissed.

You haven’t been able to attend many weddings yourself, though you could always appreciate how emotional the newlyweds got. Vows were always the sweetest to hear. You’d never seen Aymar smile so wide before; then again, it was only fitting. This was her wedding day. Not that you’d know, though.

You glance to the side, catching Aether looking at the newlyweds kiss with an unreadable expression on his face. He looked like he longed for it, but that didn’t seem right. Weddings tied you down. Aether didn’t want to be tied down.

Kaveh clapped the loudest, which snapped Aether into clapping along as well.

You wondered what Aether was thinking. You wonder if he was thinking the same. Looking at the happy bride and the teary groom—could this have been you and him in another life?

Hah.

That’s a funny thought.

You bit your bottom lip to distract yourself from feeling your eyes go hot.

Aymar beamed at you two as she bounded over. “You came!” she said, though it was directed at you.

You wanted to tell her you weren’t even invited, but you felt like that would ruin the moment. Plus, it was literally her wedding. You were glad you ended up here after all the years you spent knowing each other. You smiled back, genuine, and leaned into her hug.

“Of course,” you said. “You look beautiful.”

Aymar blushed. “Thank you. You two look great as well!”

Aether shuffled beside you. “Thanks for inviting us.”

Aymar had that look in her eye that spelled suspicious.

But the past was the past. You weren’t going to get jealous when Aymar was quite literally married, and Aether wasn’t even your boyfriend anymore. “I’m glad you’re happy, Aymar,” you said.

Aymar glanced between the two of you, then finally at you. “I hope you find happiness, too, Y/N. Soon, hopefully.”

The reception started. While your friends were busy hoarding the food, you and Aether were left alone. He looked uncharacteristically nervous—it made you pity him. He was the one who asked you to come with him, but he must have felt out of place the entire time. Everyone thought he would never return, after all.

You traced the rim of your glass, hoping to appear nonchalant. “So, what have you been up to while at Fontaine? Finally moving off to Natlan?” you asked, then bit back a Find any other flings, too?

Aether sighed, twirling his champagne flute before taking a long sip. “Didn’t do too much, honestly. I spent most of my time there thinking.” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Lumine already found her place here in Teyvat, and I…”

Oh.

You were glad you held back from being petty while Aether was genuinely distressed over his journey to self-discovery. Again, you weren’t an asshole. And you still cared about Aether, despite everything, because he was hard to hate. With a sad face like that…

“Sorry,” you muttered. You didn’t mean to make him remember Lumine.

Aether laughed softly. “It’s not like that. It took me a while, but—I had already found my place, too. I was just too dumb not to realize it sooner.”

You wanted to chide him for calling himself dumb, but he was looking at you like he was waiting for you to get something. You blinked, feeling lost.

Aether tilted his head. “It’s with you.”

Your mouth hung open. “What?”

Aether went to repeat it, but Cyno and Tighnari had come back with plates heaping with food. Cyno had one on each hand, unabashed. He sat on his seat and said, in all seriousness, “We might have finished all the catering.”

Tighnari chuckled, “We didn’t, but you two should hurry and get your fill.”

You didn’t get another chance to talk with Aether privately during the reception, but it was still good fun. Aether seemed to warm up to your friends again—or, rather, your friends seemed to warm up to him again.

You shared laughs, food, and toasts with the newlyweds—but your favorite had to have been sharing glances with Aether all throughout the night.

You and Aether went ahead. Cyno and Tighnari didn’t seem surprised when you told them that you were letting Aether take you home, which would have certainly been a blow to your dignity had it been in any other situation.

“So,” you started, “what made you realize you wanted to get me back? Did you have some revelation while in Fontaine?”

“Yes, actually,” Aether said, his hands brushing against yours now and then. “For every sight and couple I saw, I just kept thinking about how you would’ve loved it there.”

“Oh.”

Aether looked bashful. The moonlight highlighted his blush well. “I thought it was because we had just broken up at the time, but I never stopped thinking about you.”

Aether kept going, but you were already sold. You already wanted to get back with him the moment he texted you with all lowercase and no commas. You were fooling no one. Not Alhaitham, not yourself. “What, so you want to take me to the City of Love?”

Aether looked at you fondly. “You would always be the first one I’d think of.”

“I curbed your wanderlust…?” You were fishing for it at this point, but being deprived of Aether’s affections for a long while did that to a person.

You felt outmaneuvered. Shouldn’t you be letting him chase after you a bit more? Why were you discarding your pride just like that? Over your ex?

Your not-ex-anymore now-boyfriend-again smiled. “You became my reason to stay.”

Well. You were doomed from the very beginning.

“Aether!” Paimon shrieked from the other room. “You have mail!”

“Alright, alright,” Aether sighed, lazily pulling himself up from his bed and trudging to the living room. Paimon held a brown envelope.

Aether opened it and withdrew the contents, puzzled.

“Ooh!” Paimon gasped. “Two invitations for a wedding? Is it for Paimon, too?”

Aether ripped the other envelope, heart stuttering at the sight of a familiar name inked on the vellum paper. He blushed. “This is—!”

“Huh? For Y/N?” Paimon snatched the invitation from Aether’s fingers. “Why was it addressed to us? Maybe they were mistaken…”

Aether read something on the back of your invitation. “I don’t think it was mistaken.”

Written with a ballpen, it said, Hi, Y/N! It’s Aymar! I don’t know Aether’s address and none of my colleagues seemed to know where his residence would be…? (Probably because Aether wasn’t even in Sumeru.) But I assumed you would be staying together, so here’s my invitation for you both—I hope you can come!

Aether recognized an opportunity when he saw one.

extras!

the ending was rlly vague so let me add: aether was planning to go back to sumeru for you already and the wedding invitation was a perfect excuse—he flew out back to sumeru literally the next day.

earthtooz was making out with alhaitham & art was making out w kaveh during the reception which is why they dont show up during the end thanks

cyno brought his tcg deck and made tighnari bring his own—thats what they did during the afterparty lol

don’t ask if paimon was floating or if she was on the ground. sometimes we dont have to question things.

aymar was a name i just grabbed from the list of sumeru npcs—i don’t actually know if i butchered her personality horribly. if i did, forgive me.

THANK YOU FOR READING HOPE U ENJOYED!! LMK WHAT U THINK <3333 comments/rbs get a kiss from aether

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #aether x reader #aether x you #aether x y/n #genshin x y/n #genshin impact

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thatsoup · 2 months

Note

hey beastie how'd you get a comma in the tag

I'm so glad you asked! It isn't a comma, it is a single low quotation mark that does not create a new tag, but still looks like a comma. It is this symbol:

‚

You could copy and paste it, but what I did was create a unique autocorrect rule in my phone's keyboard. It "corrects" ☆| to ‚ when typed.

This is the wikipedia entry for the character, I'm not sure the alt key if you use a PC.

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ask-whitepearl-and-steven · 1 year

Note

Sorry for being dumb, I'm literally terrible when it comes to social intelligence, so could you explain what is painful so I can avoid asking it?

Anon, you are very kind for reaching out, but I need you to understand that you are absolutely not the person I was targeting with that throw-away tag.

This? This is not for you.

You wanna know why?

Because you have one of these:

and also one of these

What I am referring you is not literally a painful topic.

I am referring to sentence soup the likes of which is incomprehensible by anyone except the person who wrote it.

I am referring to run-on sentences so long they stretch into a new topic of conversation without a single comma or a period in sight before being guillotined by a character limit

And look. This is not a callout. I understand that this isn't English class - this is tumblr. I don't care if you use the right 'your' vs 'you're'. It's casual. I don't care if you capitalize stuff. Y'all'd've been perfectly fine if you just kept it short and sweet as long as I understand it.

But therein lies the problem.

As long as I understand it.

Writing messages on the internet has a goal.

That goal is to communicate an idea to another person. To establish a peer-to-peer connection. To make yourself heard.

And although I respect you guys sticking it to the man and refusing to capitalize, and using casual speech and inventing fun new words like 'yeet'

You need to realize

that if you yeet your basic ass punctuation

you will also yeet

my ability to understand you

If the message I receive looks like this

hey just wanted to ask if you i thought maybe could u draw me pony big one could be playing together with a different one could you do it please i rly like your art would be paid or no its ok if no want to show u my stuff as well have a lot of art u could maybe like anyway the pony is blue if u still want

Then halfway through this mess I had to stop, start over, and re-read everything while muttering swear-words to myself.

Because this is not a message

This is just you shoving 3-5 sentences into a blender and throwing them at my head and giving ME the task of untangling it.

USE. PERIODS. BETWEEN SENTENCES. PLEASE.

If your teachers did not explain to you how to do this - I apologize. But periods are a pretty ubiquitous part most languages. This is not an EFL or ESL issue. This a big ole' F grade on the Theory of Mind Test.

I cannot read YOUR mind. We are not connected through an ethernet cable. You need to make an effort to make your ideas CLEAR. That means breaking up your separate sentences and using a question mark once in a blue moon.

THAT is what I mean when I say some of y'alls messages pain me.

I still love you all. I just need you to come in after class, because we need to do some one-on-one tutoring.

#chekhov answers #sometimes i side eye the tumblr age limit #because there is no way some of the people i get these messages from are 13 and still write like this #if you wanna assault your friends with this #fine #but not strangers on the internet who are not familiar with you #please put effort into communication #if you want effort returned

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spotsandsocks · 11 months

Text

10 first lines challenge

Tagged by @monsterrae1 and @hippolotamus thank you this was fun

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able to and see if there are any patterns!

Good Knight Sweet Prince Prince Evan is almost 16 years old when he meets the love of his life for the first time, of course he doesn’t know that and won’t really understand fully for another decade. What he does know is he’s extremely annoyed by the news a new squire is due to arrive.

Worth the wait Eddie comes back into his living room and for a moment he can’t see Buck anywhere, puzzled he takes an extra step forward, spots him and wonders what on earth he’s doing, with a crease of his brow he sighs and folds his arms.

Everything But (temptation) It’s an undeniable fact that Eddie’s couch is so much more comfortable than Buck’s but while he has been known to take the odd nap on it, at his age trying to get a full night’s sleep there leads to stiff limbs and an aching back the next day.

Always There To Eddie’s relief Christopher’s birthday party is going well, he’d been worried this year, the older Chris gets the harder it is to know what will work but you can’t go wrong with computer games (at least that’s what Buck said and Christopher agreed).

The Answer I Needed “Where are you?” The words come out hushed but urgent.

Date Night The plan had been simple enough: get Buck out of his flat, introduce him to people who would understand what he’d been through, the people who had helped Eddie get through what he’d been through too.

100 word Adrenaline has to go somewhere.

No Place The dizziness is overwhelming for a moment, it builds and builds until it’s so intense he thinks he might be sick, with his vision blurred like it is it’s impossible to make out where he is.

Just another minute “Hey Buck, it’s me.” He doesn’t want to hold his hand yet. He has once before, only once.

Patterns... looks like I like long sentences and commas. I expected more dialogue to be involved

@shortsighted-owl @mysteriouslyyounggalaxy @rogerzsteven @bekkachaos @fiona-fififi @alyxmastershipper @cowboy-buddie @buddierights @the-likesofus @jobairdxx @megsvstheworld @ronordmann @spaceprincessem @panbuckley @littlebitofdiaz @prince-buck-diaz @elvensorceress @heartbeatdiaz @thekristen999 @like-the-rest-of-la

#buddie #911 fox #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie fic #911fic #tag games #spotty scribbles #911 on fox #911 fic

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late-to-the-party-81 · 4 months

Text

New starts happen all the time

AN: Here I am, still clearing out my outstanding requests, and it's been a minute since I wrote some Starker

Anonymous asked: Peter Parker sleeps with tony and makes the mistake of wearing his boyfriends favorite boyband t-shirt to school. Request

Now, I know this is probably not the story you thought you were going to get with this prompt, but the muse does what it does. I hope you all enjoy anyway. I now know more about Engineering classes at MIT than I ever thought I would know. Also, no massive age gaps here, only about 3-4 years.

Unbeta'd, so apologies for typos and rogue comma's.

Likes are loved, reblogs are golden.

Mood board by me and dividers by @firefly-graphics

Join my tag list here

Master list

Summary: MIT is still a big adjustment, even when you are gifted, and bullies still exist, so it’s a good job Peter falls at Tony’s feet.

Relationship: College Peter Parker x College Tony Stark

Word Count: 6.4k

CW: College AU, No Powers, Strangers to friends, Friends to lovers, developing relationship, Gay Peter Parker, Pansexual Tony Stark, insecure Peter Parker, inexperienced Peter Parker, Supportive Tony Stark, Confident Tony Stark, Fluff, Angst, Bullying, name calling, attempted Sexual Assault, Background Rhodey/Maria, BAMF Maria Hill, Justin Hammer is a douche, Explicit Sexual content (oral sex, mutual masturbation).

“Watch it, nerd!”

Peter tried to right himself as he bounced off the shoulder of whoever had just shouted at him. He had hoped that once he’d swapped Midtown High for the hallowed halls of MIT that he wouldn’t have to deal with this sort of thing any more. However it appeared that college, even one where technically every student was a nerd or a geek, was still slave to the various cliques and sub-groups. The jocks were definitely those who majored in Astronautics, and those who studied Business Analytics liked to look down on everyone else, assured of the fact that their degrees would lead to higher paying jobs than someone doing a lowly science or engineering degree.

He readjusted the pile of books in his arms as he tried to work out if he was going the right way. Two weeks into his Freshman year and he still hadn’t gotten the layout of campus straight in his head. It didn’t help that he’d decided to Double Major in both Electrical and Mechanical Engineering, so always seemed to be coming and going.

And now he was late for his next class.

He hiked his backpack higher on his shoulder and started to jog towards his destination. However, the infamous Parker luck was once again on his side, or not, as the case may be, and suddenly he found himself tripping over a stone, or maybe it was even his own feet, and crashing to the ground.

For a few moments, Peter lay dazed, the taste of gritty dirt and the tang of iron in his mouth.

“Hey, kid,” a voice called out, “are you alright?”

Peter pushed himself up with a groan and shook his head to try and clear it.

“Be careful,” the voice said, closer than it was a moment ago, and suddenly there were a pair of hands gripping his upper arms, easing him into a sitting position. He blinked a couple of times, the way the sunlight was falling onto his face making him wince, but then the light was blocked out by a body and Peter gasped.

Back in highschool he had wondered why he wasn’t really interested in girls the way the other boys were. It had taken him a while to realise that he was gay, and once he’d made that revelation, he wondered why it had taken him so long to work it out. He supposed that it was all down to a hetero-normative society and all that.

However, if he were still in any doubt, the sight of the man before him and the way he was affecting Peter’s equilibrium - although maybe that was from his fall - was enough to bring his own understanding of his sexuality into crystalline focus.

“I hope you haven’t got a concussion, kid. But you do have a nasty cut on your lip.”

The guy was speaking but all Peter could focus on was his features, his tousled brown hair, thick eyebrows, equally dark eyes, perfectly straight nose and pouty pink lips.

“Here, have some water.”

As a water bottle was pressed to his lips, the pressure against the cut he’d apparently sustained jerked Peter back to reality. He took hold of the bottle with shaking hands and gulped down a few mouthfuls, eager to remove the horrible taste from his mouth.

“Umm, thanks,” he stammered out and tried to pass the bottle back to his erstwhile rescuer.

“Keep it. You might want it later, and to be honest, it has your blood on it, and while I’m kinky, I’m not that kinky.”

At the strangers words, Peter felt himself blush, because firstly, he was currently a vanilla as they came - mainly due to circumstance than anything else - and secondly, it conjured all sorts of images to his mind that he should not be having about someone he just met, regardless of how attractive they were.

“Thanks. Again.” Jeez, Parker. Way to show off your vocabulary.

“No problem, kid. Where’re you heading to in such a hurry?”

Horror swept over Peter’s face and he leapt to his feet, although he wobbled a bit.

“Shit, I’m gonna be late to Professor Hart’s class on Systems Design.” He desperately tried to pick up all of his books, but as soon as he bent over the world started to spin. He’d have fallen again if it hadn’t been for the stranger taking hold of him again.

“Hey, be careful,” he cautioned, before steering Peter over to a bench. “Let me.”

Peter watched as the other man collected all of his scattered belongings, trying not to stare at the way his ass filled out his jeans as he bent over. When he returned with all of Peter’s books stacked in his arms and Peter’s backpack over his shoulder, Peter looked away, worried about being caught staring. Some guys got weird about other guys looking at them, and Peter didn’t have enough experience to have a working gaydar yet.

“Come on then, let’s get you there.”

Confusion wrinkled Peter’s brow. “What do you mean? Get me where?”

His rescuer smiled at him. “Your class. I’m going the same way.”

“Oh. Umm, okay. Thanks.” Maybe it was head trauma that was affecting his ability to speak with any eloquence?

Peter stood up, and winced as he moved his left knee, actually glad that his hopefully new friend was carrying his stuff for him.

“I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.”

“Tony,” the other man replied. “Tony Stark.”

It turned out that not only was Tony a fellow student, but being a Senior he was also a TA. Like Peter he was also a double major, taking Electrical Engineering as well, but had paired it with Biological Engineering. Therefore, with Tony assisting in some of the EE classes, Peter started to see him fairly often.

“You did well today, kid.” Peter willed himself not to blush at the praise as Tony clapped him on the shoulder as they left the Introductions to Algorithms class.

“Thanks, Tony. Once I’d got my head around the paradigm shift it wasn’t too bad. Thanks for help with that.”

The pair of them walked together towards one of the coffeeshops and Tony playfully judged his shoulder against Peter’s.

“No problem. Anything for a pretty face.”

Peter had also learnt a couple of other things about Tony over the last few weeks. Firstly, due to a combination of his outgoing, charismatic nature and the fact that he - or rather his father - was loaded, Tony was one of the most popular people on campus. People were always stopping him to say hi, and Tony generally had a friendly word for all of them.

Secondly, Tony was into heavy metal. Like really into it. He was always wearing a t-shirt plastered with the picture of one band or another; AD/DC, Black Sabbath, Pantera etcetera, often humming a tune under his breath when he was concentrating.

Thirdly, he was a massive flirt who’s love language was definitely physical affection. The first time that Peter had met Tony’s best friend and roommate, James Rhodes, Tony had been walking arm in arm with him, and when they’d stopped so James could peel off towards his Military Sciences class, Tony had given him a smacking kiss on the cheek. When Peter had tentatively asked if James was Tony’s boyfriend, the brash senior had just laughed.

“Nah. Rhodey’s as straight as a flag pole, more’s the pity. Why, you vying for the position?” He’d thrown Peter a theatrical wink and chuckled as Peter had gone bright pink. From then on he seemed to make it his mission to make Peter blush as much as possible, which didn’t help with Peter’s promise to himself to not think about Tony ‘that way’.

However, by and large, Tony had become his best friend. Sure, as the weeks passed Peter had gotten to know others in his classes and was building himself a circle of peers that he got on well with, but it wasn’t the same. He knew that he was infatuated by Tony, but who wouldn’t be. He was handsome, clever and popular, and Peter loved basking in his radiance. It also didn’t hurt that when he was hanging around with Tony other students were less likely to pick on him. Unfortunately he couldn’t spend all his time with the older boy, and was therefore still subjected to the kind of taunts he’d thought he’d left behind. At least no-one was trying to shove him in a locker.

The fall semester progressed, the leaves turning brown and dropping to the ground, and before Peter knew it he was visiting home for Thanksgiving weekend. While it was nice to catch up with his Aunt May and his old school friends, Ned and MJ, he found himself waiting to go back for those last few weeks before Winter Break. He also couldn’t hold back his blush when Aunt May questioned him about whether he’d met anyone special. It was true that he had, but it wasn’t like that between him and Tony, no matter how much Peter liked to fantasise about it. He and Tony were friends and, yes, the older boy liked to flirt with him, but that was who Tony was, he told himself. It didn’t mean anything, even if Tony didn't discriminate about who he liked . So Peter had lied and said he hadn’t, and if May didn’t believe him - which from the pointed look she gave him she most certainly didn’t - she was good enough not to raise the subject again.

Returning to campus on the other side of the long weekend, Peter made his way straight over to see Tony.

“Hey kid, good to see ya. Have a fun time with la familia?” Tony opened the door with a broad smile and gestured for Peter to make himself at home on the ratty couch.

Peter grinned at Tony’s jovial tone and threw himself down on the saggy brown cushions.

“Yeah. It was okay. Nice to catch up with my aunt and my friends, but I’m back and ready to work hard all the way up to Winter Break.”

Tony sat down next to him, clutching a bottle of beer by its neck.

“Well as long as you don’t work so hard you’re too tired to come to my Christmas party.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “You’re inviting me?” he squeaked. “But I’m just me and you’re you.”

“Yes,” said Tony, “but you’re my friend and I want you there. No if’s, no but’s - unless it’s that cute butt of yours.” He pointed down at Peter’s backside and chuckled at the flush that appeared on his neck and cheeks. “You make it far too easy, Petey. I might really start to think you’ve got a crush on me.”

Somehow, Peter managed to regain his composure and continued to chat to Tony about Thanksgiving and the plans for the upcoming party until he realised it was time he ought to head back to his dorm. As he excused himself, and made his way to the door, Tony pulled him into a big hug.

“Can’t wait to see you at the party, kid.” He held onto Peter for what felt like a few moments too long, although Peter wasn’t going to complain. It felt nice to be held in someone’s arms, especially when they belonged to Tony. He gave his friend a shy smile.

“Can’t wait to be there. I’ll see you in class later in the week.”

Three weeks later, Peter jogged up the steps to Tony’s home, glad that his friend was holding his party somewhere he was familiar with. They’d seen a bit of each other over the last few weeks, but Peter had been busy making sure he was up to date on all his coursework, so that he could have a relaxed Winter Break. It was frustrating that he hadn’t gotten to hang out with Tony as much as he’d wanted, but it hadn’t stopped him from dreaming - and maybe other stuff - about the other boy, though.

He was nervous, though, and took a moment to smooth down his black t-shirt that he’d casually paired with some skinny jeans and a leather jacket. This was going to be the first big party he’d attended since starting at MIT, and he didn’t know that many of Tony’s friends aside from Rhodey. Also, the chances were that some of the attendees would be folk that didn’t view Peter as ‘popular’ material, despite Tony’s apparent endorsement of him. That guess was proved correct almost as soon as Peter had made it through the door, almost bumping right into Justin Hammer, who, like Rhodey, was majoring in Military Science.

“Oh, god.” Justin sneered. “Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re here. Parker. You’re like a bad smell we can’t get rid of.” He threw back his head and guffawed loudly, his cronies laughing along with him. With his cheeks burning, but not wanting to make a scene, Peter ducked his head and moved further into the apartment, searching for Tony. He found him, predictably, in the kitchen. Equally predictably he was wearing one of his band shirts - a black one proclaiming his love of the band Black Sabbath.

Tony’s response to Peter’s arrival was the complete opposite to Justin’s. “Petey!” he cried, flinging his arms in the air, before pulling Peter into a crushing hug and planting a kiss on Peter’s cheek, dangerously near the corner of his mouth. “You made it!”

Keeping one arm firmly around Peter’s shoulder, Tony steered him over to where Rhodey and some other close friends were standing. “Let me introduce you to the gang.” Tony’s friends smiled as Peter was introduced to them, before turning back to their own conversations. Most were Seniors, like Tony and Rhodey, but one or two were Juniors.

“And this,” said Tony, “is Maria, the harlot who’s stolen my Platypus from me.” He clasped his hand dramatically over his heart and Peter giggled. The tall, brunette woman standing next to Rhodey rolled her eyes and then punched Tony in the arm.

“Can it, Stark,” she bit back, jokingly. “You still get to see him on weekends and holidays.” She then turned to Peter and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Parker. Thanks for keeping Tony occupied so Jim and I can have some time together without being interrupted.” Tony had the good grace to look a little embarrassed at her comment and Peter laughed again.

“No problem. For some reason I actually like him.”

Now it was Tony’s turn for the faux outrage. “Hey! I’m eminently lovable, I’ll have you all know.”

Rhodey clapped him on the shoulder. “We know, bud. We know. Now if you’ll excuse us, they’re playing our song.” He led Maria through the throngs of people towards the area that had been designated as the dance floor, all the while Tony looking on with his over the top pout.

Peter nudged him. “You’re happy for him really, aren’t you?”

“Oh definitely,” Tony agreed. “She’ll be good for him, and she also seems to be able to put up with me, so that’s good. Not that many people can.”

“I do,” Peter said vehemently. “And surely all the people here do as well.”

A small frown appeared on Tony’s face. “They put up with my money for the most part. I can probably count the number of true friends I have on less than two hands.” He looked at Peter, something in his expression morphing, and Peter found himself unable to look away. “I’m glad you’re one of them though, Peter.”

Tony lifted his hand, and for a moment it seemed to Peter as though his friend was going to brush his riotous curls away from his face, but then someone near them bumped against Tony and the moment was lost.

“Come on, kid. Let’s go mingle.”

Tony picked up a beer, and just gave Peter an understanding nod when he grabbed a soda for himself. Peter was glad that Tony wasn’t judging him or pressuring him to drink, given the fact that most of the other people at the party were, whether they were twenty-one or not.

They moved among the guests, Peter feeling like a sail boat being pulled along in the wake of a trawler. When Tony stopped to talk to someone, Peter hovered by his elbow, feeling a little awkward, but at the same time there was nowhere he’d rather be than basking in Tony’s radiance. He was like the sun, and Peter was the moon, absorbing what light he could, and reflecting back the rest to those around him. Peter wasn’t totally dependent on Tony, though. There were a few people there that he did know, and he took the opportunity to chat with them, and hopefully build up a bigger pool of friends. He was still at the beginning of his course. He’d be here for a few more years yet, and Tony, being a Senior, would finish at the end of this year and then who knows? It made Peter’s heart ache just to think about it.

It was inevitable that they’d get separated, but Peter wasn’t too worried. The apartment wasn’t that big and it wasn’t as though Tony was planning to leave his own home while the party was still in swing. It did mean, however, that there was more likelihood of Peter bumping into some he didn’t want to, like…

“Justin! I’m so sorry.” Peter rebounded off the other Senior’s arm with a loud exclamation and watched in horror as his soda sloshed out of the neck of the bottle and over the, no doubt, expensive fabric of Justin’s shirt.

“Parker! You dumb fuck!” Justin shouted back, slurring slightly, as he shook his arm to rid himself of some of the excess liquid. “I can’t even fathom why Stark lets someone like you hang on his coattails.” He peered at Peter, observing through the lens of his beer-goggles and Peter felt a shiver go down his spine as Justin’s expression turned into a leer. He took a step forward and Peter took an echoing one back. “Although,” he drawled, looking up and down Peter’s body, “I suppose that despite your stupidity you have other things going for you. Maybe you can make up for ruining my shirt? I’m sure Stark won’t mind sharing. You look like you could suck a dick well at least.” He stepped even closer, his cronies following at his back, caging Peter in. With how crowded it was, and the noise level, no-one would really be able to see him. Justin put his hand on Peter’s shoulder and pushed down, trying to get the younger boy down on his knees. “Come on - show me why Stark puts up with you.”

At the insinuation, Peter snapped.

With a shout he pushed up and back, shoving Justin away from him with all his strength and sent him staggering back into his friends. “Get off me!” he shouted, despite the fact his voice wouldn’t carry far. It was enough that a few people around them were starting to notice something was wrong. However, Justin’s pride, along with the amount of beer he’d drunk, made him decide to double down instead of quietly withdraw.

“You little shit. You should be thanking me for even paying you any notice.” He lunged forward, face red with anger and fisted his hand into Peter’s hair, making the younger man screw up his eyes and shout out in pain.

“Let. Go. Of. Him.” The menacing command came from behind Justin and he immediately complied, whirling around to look at the owner of the voice. Peter opened his eyes, overjoyed to see Tony there, but the feeling was muted by a deep embarrassment. Everyone was staring at them.

Tony walked right up into Justin’s space, but didn’t raise either his hands or his voice.

“Get out. You and your little crew. You’re not welcome here.”

Justin shook his head as if clearing it and stepped away from Tony with a small shrug.

“Whatever, man. The company isn’t as good as I thought it would be.” He started to walk towards the door, his friends a few steps ahead of him when he stopped and turned, unable to leave without having the last word. “Can’t believe you’re getting so bent out of shape over a rent-boy.”

Tony’s hands balled into fists and he stepped forward, a dangerous glint in his eye and Peter drew in a sharp breath, convinced that a fight was about to break out. However, Tony was stopped in his tracks as Maria clamped her hand down on his shoulder.

“It’s not worth it,” she hissed. “You know the Dean isn’t your biggest fan.” Tony seemed to be listening, because his shoulders slumped, the fight almost instantly draining from him.

“Pathetic,” Justin bit out. “I don’t know what everyone…”

His drunken tirade was cut off as Maria stepped forward and launched a perfect right jab at Justin’s nose, making his head snap back and causing red to bloom across his face. A couple of his friends caught him as he toppled toward the ground, but Maria was already walking back to Tony.

“I thought you said it wasn’t worth it?” Tony queried.

Maria shrugged as she shook out her hand. “The Dean likes me. And you really think Hammer is gonna complain that he got punched by a girl?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Justin’s friends giving each other sideways glances before the decided discretion was the better part of valour and shuffled out of the door, holding up a dazed Justin between them. His attention was then caught by Rhodey, who appeared at Maria’s side, eyes sparkling. “Damn, baby! I have never been more attracted to you than I am right now.” Maria grinned back, cupped Rhodey’s face and started to make out with him.

Tony held up his hands. “Okay, okay. You two - get a room. Everyone else - back to partying now the trash has been removed. Petey-pie? You’re with me. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Tony placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder to try and steer him, but he was feeling too keyed up - too embarrassed - so he shrugged it off. If Tony took umbrage at the gesture he didn’t show it, and instead just led the way to one of the only parts of the apartment Peter had never seen. Tony’s bedroom.

Peter was gnawing on his lower lip, too busy going over everything that Justin had said to really take in where he was, or that he was now sitting on Tony’s bed.

Is that what everyone thought, he wondered. That Tony only let Peter hang around because they were fucking? The thought was conflicting, because, yes, he would love to be fucking Tony, he couldn’t deny that, but he also knew that his worth as a person was not tied to who he was sleeping with - he and Tony had a real friendship and it pained him that others couldn’t just accept that.

Almost as though Tony could read his thoughts, or at least partly, Peter was brought back to the here and now when Tony crouched down in front of him and took hold of his hands. Tony peered up at him with sympathy filled eyes and his thumbs rubbed soothingly over the back of Peter’s knuckles. Or rather Peter assumed it was supposed to be soothing. However, it wasn’t having the intended effect because despite Tony’s affectionate nature he had never actually held Peter’s hands before. Which therefore meant that Peter was concentrating more on how it felt to really have Tony’s hands on him, than on calming down from his ordeal.

“Are you okay, kid? I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

However, still full of frustration and hopped up on adrenaline, Peter shook Tony’s hands off and stood up in agitation

“Don’t call me that, Tony,” he practically shouted. “I’m not a kid, I’m eighteen.”

Tony raised his hands in supplication. “Noted. No more ‘kid’.”

However Peter wasn’t really listening, and was working off his energy by pacing up and down in front of Tony.

“Do you know what Justin was saying? Did you hear him? He thinks that you’re only friends with me because I let you fuck me.”

“And that would be bad,” Tony asked, tentatively, although Peter didn’t pick up on his tone. “If people think we’re fucking?”

“That’s not the point, Tony. It’s not about sex, it’s about the assumption that the only benefit to you is ass on tap, and the benefit to me is second-hand popularity.”

“Why would anyone with half a brain think that? And who cares what other people think, as long as we know the truth? You’re fun and brilliant, and you put up with me prattling on all the time. Like I am now. I should shut up. But before I do, can I just check. Would it, you know, be so bad, if we were?”

Finally, Peter picked up something questioning - unsure - in Tony’s voice and stopped moving.

“If we were what?” he asked, head cocked to the side.

“Umm, fucking. Shit! I mean…” Tony blew out a breath and looked up at the ceiling for a moment before continuing. “I really like you, Peter. Like ‘like you’ like you. Have done since we first met, in fact. I found myself hoping you’d fall at my feet figuratively, not just literally.”

Peter blinked, trying to process what Tony was saying, even as his verbal stream of consciousness continued.

“And I’ve just decided to do a Masters, so I’m going to be around past the end of this year, so I wondered if you’d like to be more than my friend, not that I don’t value your friendship. Quite the opposite in fact. I’ve been trying to let you know how I feel, but because I can be quite unsubtle I was trying to dial it back, so maybe I went too far the other way. But I got the feeling that you like me as well, and was hoping you’d be my boyfriend. And there doesn’t actually have to be sex. I don’t wanna presume that that’s something you want or are ready for… and fuck, I’m still rambling.”

Peter snapped back to reality and stepped forward, taking Tony’s hands in his, this time.

“Tony,” he interjected, a sudden boost of confidence taking him over.

“What?” Tony’s eyes were wide, like he was caught in the headlights of a semi.

“Shut up and kiss me.” Peter leaned in closer and pressed his lips to Tony’s.

For a moment Tony didn’t react, but then suddenly he was kissing Peter back and Peter was mentally punching the air in celebration. He’d been worrying so much that his crush on Tony would be unwanted, that somehow he’d failed to pick up on Tony’s signals. They’d probably talk and laugh about that later, but for now, Peter had singular focus.

He let go of Tony’s hands, so he could wrap his arms around Tony’s waist and pull him closer. At the same time he opened his mouth and teased the seam of Tony’s lips with his tongue. Tony’s hands came up to tangle in Peter’s hair as he accepted Peter’s deeping of their kiss.

It was only as his legs hit the edge of Tony’s bed that Peter realised they’d been moving, and had no idea which one of them had instigated it, but he smiled and chuckled into Tony’s mouth as they tumbled down onto it. Two pairs of lips and two pairs of hands roamed everywhere they could easily get, Tony pushing Peter’s jacket from his shoulders, and after a minute Peter broke away to pull his t-shirt over his head.

“God, Petey,” Tony exclaimed. “You’re so beautiful.” Then he pulled his own shirt off and surged back to capture Peter’s lips again.

Through all the kisses and the touching, both of them managed to shed their jeans, until only two thin layers of cotton separated them. Tony scraped his teeth over one of Peter’s pectorals, including his small, dark nipple, and Peter arched up with a gasp. Tony moved lower, kissing and nipping, until his face was nuzzling into the soft fabric between Peter’s hip and rigid cock.

“Can I, baby? I wanna make you feel good.”

Just the thought made Peter feel overwhelmed and he fisted the sheets as he whined.

“Y-Yeah. Oh, god.”

Tony pulled down Peter’s tight boxer-briefs and let out a sigh at the sight that greeted him. “I knew your cock would be just as pretty,” he said as he gently stroked over the soft skin with his index finger. Peter shuddered under the touch, so turned on that he was worried he was going to embarrass himself.

“I’m gonna kiss you now, and you just do what feels good, okay?” Tony soothed, and Peter just bit his lower lip and nodded.

The first touch of Tony’s lips on the shaft of his cock, mouthing up the vein that ran from root to tip, had Peter groaning wantonly. He wasn’t totally inexperienced, but there was no mistaking the fact that Tony had more skill than any of - admittedly few - previous lovers. When Tony flicked his tongue over Peter’s slit, lapping up the pre-cum that had gathered there, Peter thought he was going to fly into orbit and gripped the sheets with such ferocity he was convinced he was going to rip them. Tony carefully explored the head of Peter’s cock with his tongue, circling around the spongy tip and the underside of his ridge, tracing over his circumcision scar, and Peter? Peter whimpered.

“Shh, shh, baby. It’s okay. Just relax.” Tony’s words were whispered against the length of him, breath hot on his skin.

And then Tony finally took him into the warm cavern of his mouth. He must have been expecting it, because he didn’t make a move when Peter’s hips bucked at the sensation, his cock pushing deeper into Tony’s mouth. He let Peter get over his initial reaction before placing his hands carefully on Peter’s slim hips and starting to bob up and down. Peter could feel the way the flat of Tony’s tongue pressed against the underside of him and when he glanced down to actually look at what was going on he had to really fight the urge to just come, because Tony had swallowed all of him, that perfect, straight nose pressed right into the thatch of dark curls at the base of Peter’s cock.

“Fuck! Tony! Feels - feels amazing. Shit!”

Tony popped off and smirked up at him. “Such a potty mouth,” he quipped before taking Peter back in with a hum.

Peter suddenly found his left hand tangled in Tony’s hair, not really holding him in place, but more he just feeling him. It was getting harder and harder to hold back from coming, and while it would be bliss to spill himself into Tony’s mouth he didn’t want that for their first time together.

“Tony,” he whined and gave Tony’s hair a gentle tug, trying to communicate what he wanted with actions, given his brain didn’t want to let his mouth really work. Luckily for him Tony seemed to get the message and with obvious reluctance let Peter’s cock, wet and flushed pink, fall from his mouth as he slid his way up Peter’s body.

“What is it, Petey? What do you want?” Peter was sure he’d have had a better time answering if Tony hadn’t been nuzzling kissing his neck, but somehow he managed.

“Wanna feel you. Wanna feel us. Against each other.”

Tony lifted his head and smiled softly. “I got you, sweetcheeks. You just reach into that top drawer and get the lube and I’ll deal with these pesky underpants.”

Peter twisted at the waist, reaching up and to the side to pull open the drawer of the small wooden table and moved his hand around inside it until his fingers closed around a familiar feeling bottle. As he did that, he felt Tony pull his boxer-briefs, that had been tangled half way down around his knees, fully off. He turned his head back just in time to see Tony discard his own, and kneel by his side.

He was gay. Absolutely. Wow! He didn’t even realise he was reaching out until Tony chuckled.

“You wanna touch? Go ahead, baby. I’m all yours.”

Peter curled his fingers around Tony’s cock, immediately obsessed with the weight and feel of it in his hand. The way Tony’s eyes closed and his body shuddered as Peter lazily jerked him gave him a heady rush of power. On another occasion he’d love to just do this - touch Tony oh-so-softly - and see how long Tony would be able to hold out. However, his patience wouldn’t run to that now, so he urged Tony down to lie beside him. Peter squirted a healthy dollop of lube into his palm and slicked himself up, before doing the same to Tony. Then, lining his hips up to Tony’s, Peter wrapped his hand around the pair of them, pressing their cocks together.

For a moment, Peter couldn’t keep his eyes open, needing to block out one sense in order to deal with the overwhelming feeling of another, but when he did raise his eyelids again it was to find Tony looking back at him, brown eyes made even darker by lust. Tony leaned forward to capture Peter’s mouth for another ferocious kiss and then placed his own hand over Peter’s, helping him to jerk them both off.

The sounds of their sighs and moans, alongside the schlick-schlick of their cocks moving together, filled the room and Peter found himself rolling his hips, pressing up further and harder against Tony. He imagined what it would be like to do more with Tony, how they could discover those little things that made the other stutter and lose control. He wanted to know the taste and feel of Tony’s cock on his tongue. Maybe even the feel of it inside him, or even the other way around, if that was something Tony wanted. The possibilities seemed endless, and this was just the beginning.

However, having been on the edge longer than Tony, it was inevitable that Peter would come first. Sensing that his younger lover was close, Tony stopped moving their hands and just let Peter rut up against his cock within the circle of their joined fingers. Peter spilled his cries into Tony’s mouth at the same time he spilled his cum over the pair of them. It just felt so fucking good, and his hips kept moving until the sensations in his cock morphed into the sting of over-stimulation.

Moving Tony’s hand away, Peter let his softening cock fall away, and then tightened his own solo grip over Tony’s still hard cock, going back to jerking it, his own cum adding to the wet mess easing his way.

“Fuck! That’s it, baby. Just like that.” Peter watched with hooded eyes as Tony rambled and twitched within his grasp, head thrown back. “Gonna come, Petey. Gonna come. Feels so good. Yes! Yes!”

A feeling of immense satisfaction washed through Peter as Tony reached his peak and pulsed into his hand, and for the next few moments the pair of them lay next to each other, panting and coming down from their highs.

Peter opened eyes, feeling Tony’s gaze on him, and found him grinning. Then Tony was kissing him playfully and they both started to giggle. Peter twined his clean hand with Tony’s as they smiled and kissed, his heart feeling so light, he hoped he’d never lose this feeling.

“Please tell me you can stay tonight,” Tony asked, and despite his usual brashness, Peter could hear the note of insecurity in his voice. He let go of Tony’s hand so could brush a lock of dark brown hair from Tony’s forehead.

“I can stay. Don’t wanna be anywhere else. But I might have to leave early. I’ve still got some last things I need to do before I go home, and I have a feeling that you might prove a distraction.”

“Why would you think that,” Tony joked as he leant forward and took Peter’s lower lip between his teeth, pulling on it gently. “I can’t fault you for your dedication.” Tony eased away and got off the bed, walking across to his en-suite, confident in his nakedness, before looking coyly over his shoulder. “Coming for a shower?”

Peter had never moved so fast in his life.

When Peter blinked open his eyes the next morning, he was surprised to find it was well after 9am. Luckily, with it being Saturday he didn’t have any classes, but he hadn’t been lying to Tony about having some things he needed to sort out before the start of Winter Break. And the sooner he started them, the sooner they’d be finished and he could dedicate his remaining time to Tony before they had a two week period where they wouldn’t see each other.

He eased himself out from under the deadweight of Tony’s arm and climbed out of the bed. He tried to be as quiet as possible as he used the bathroom and when he came back out he was happy to see that Tony was still deeply asleep. After allowing himself a moment to observe Tony relaxed - and quiet - in sleep, Peter dressed as quickly as he could given he had to dig around Tony’s floor for his clothes. He had no idea when the party had actually wound down last night - he and Tony never had resurfaced, so he assumed Rhodey and Maria had taken over the hosting duties.

Peter dropped a gentle kiss to Tony’s temple, his heart flipping in his chest at the sleepy nose scrunch that crossed Tony’s face at the sensation, and then crept from the room and then out of the apartment which still showed all the evidence of the previous night’s party activities.

It was almost ten am by then, so as Peter crossed campus he could see a few other folk out and about, although most of them looked hung-over, or at least sleep deprived like him. However, after passing by the first few people, he realised that he was receiving a lot of stares. Worried that he was sporting a giant hickey, he stopped in front of one of the glass fronted buildings, intending to inspect his neck in the muted reflection, but when he saw himself he gasped, before starting to laugh out loud. A cowled skull stared back at him. It seemed that in his haste to get dressed he’d picked up Tony’s Black Sabbath shirt and not his own, plain black one.

If people had thought he and Tony were fucking before, there would be no doubt that anyone who knew the pair of them and saw this, would think anything else. The Peter of yesterday would have been appalled, but the Peter of today? Well he had taken Tony’s words of last night to heart - how much did the opinions of others really matter when it was no-one’s business but theirs?

With a smile on his face Peter squared his shoulders and walked back to his dorm, plotting about how he could steal another of Tony’s shirts.

Tag list: @km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky, @kmc1989, @doasyoudesireandlive, @marvelstarker-mha98

#starker #tony stark x peter parker #college au #late writes

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bumblepony · 3 months

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Writing patterns tag game from @dancingonmoonbeams :)

rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

1. Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning: He can feel the dream on the edge of his memory, heavy and jagged, trailing tendrils of sounds linger just on the verge of understanding.

2. Searchin' Our Hearts For So Long: Joel's walking down Jackson's main drag when he sees the group of newcomers getting the tour.

3. The Flapping of a Moth's Wings: They charge towards the doors leading out to the theater’s lobby, Jesse just a few feet in front of her.

4. Turn On The Red Light: “Brother, when was the last time you got laid?”

5. Boy I Was Back Then: It's around 7 PM when he finally gets to his hotel for the conference, and honestly, all Tommy wants to do is check into his room, take a shower, maybe order some room service, and call it a night.

6. Ashes denote that Fire was: As he maneuvers down the hall, the flames lick up the walls.

7. When The Time is Wrong, We Make It Right: The soft chirping of birds wakes Tess slowly from her disjointed dreams of dark rooms and echoing hallways; the sounds of screams and fists pounding on flesh slowly fade away.

8. Everything's Waiting For You: The air outside the Bison is cool as Alexei steps out, his hair twisting in the wind.

9. A Little Boy So Old In My Shoes: The valley is still covered in pockets of frost where the sun has yet to grace it with its rays.

10. A Soul For Sale Or Rent: It’s almost midnight when someone finally talks to her, “Hey kid, are you alright there?”

So yeah I might have a problem with comma's, yeah let's not look at that.

Tagging @two-birds-alone-together @hypnotisedfireflies @boopernatural @becomethesun @lauronk and anyone else who wants to do it!

#tlou #tlou fanfiction #Game #Tag game

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anakinsthot · 7 months

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Fic Tag Game!

I was tagged by @veloursdor, @mischievouschan4, and @lilredghost. Y'all probably forgot but I DID NOT. I've just been sad and mopey because I'm working when it's dark out with the time change and it's pitch black by the time I'm home, so I haven't gotten anything done!

How many works do you have on a03?

Ten

2. What’s your ao3 word count?

118,260!!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently just Star Wars! And I don’t foresee that changing. When I first got into fanfic I wrote for Bleach, Final Fantasy VII (oh my god there were song fics, what the fuck), Harry Potter, Marvel Cinematic Universe (I had forgotten about that completely. Hopefully I forget again), and The Hobbit.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Hey this feels like a war crime, actually. They’re all obikin except the first.

Lady of the Rocks, with 1,125 kudos… my Hobbit fic that hasn’t been touched in like 6 years.

Bitter Honey (BEE FIC, BEE FIC, BEE FIC!! Sits at 447 right now)

Anakin Skywalker, Witch (420, nice)

Living with the Present (402)

Tapio (128)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! Although frequently very late. I got bad about it this summer because this summer sucked, emotionally. But I love it when authors respond to my comments so, as hard as it is for me to believe, I imagine that people enjoy when I respond to their comments and try my best to do it.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don’t think any of them have an angsty ending. One of the Harry Potter fics was going to though. LOL.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Anakin Skywalker, Witch.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope!

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Yes… mostly pretty vanilla right now I think. I need to expand my writing comfort bubble.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I haven’t written any. Used to read a ton though.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I’m aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Again, not to my knowledge.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No. It’s stressful enough trying to match my own writing voice haha.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Obikin, definitely!

15. What’s a WIP you’d like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

My hobbit fic. I still get comment occasionally asking if I’ll finish it. My big thing with that fic was world-building and I’ve lost a lot of what I had. I WANT to work on it for the people that still enjoy it though.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I’d say probably dialogue, because I feel like I edit that the least, and world-building.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

….actually writing the words down RIP. Also comma usage.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I avoid it, generally. I read too many fantasy books and fics back in the day where you had to flip to the glossary at the end of the book/bottom of the page for translations and it gets annoying, especially if there’s a multiple characters speaking.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Omg I had to look up my old ff.net account to check this. It was Bleach.

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

I want to immediately say Anakin Skywalker, Witch. It’s my first obikin fic, my first fanfic after a long hiatus. I’ve put so much work and research into it. But Tapio has a vibe that I really enjoy, and has managed to inspire that vibe in readers so… dark horse winner is Tapio.

Bonus: What fic would you want to rewrite one day?

Probably that damn Hobbit fic. I didn’t have an editor back then so I shudder to think about what the comma situation is there.

I feel like I've seen most people do this game already! So I'm not going to tag anyone, but if you see this and have not been tagged yet/want to do it... this is me, tagging you.

#f u you microsoft word not keeping my formatting #see if i copy/paste a numbered list ever again #fic #tag game #mal writes #ahahahahah never want to look at my ff.net account again #obikin

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tennessoui · 2 years

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Omg pleasee do “Don’t be fucking rude.” for kuwtsk in honour of the iconic scene from the other keeping up with 🤣🤣🤣 (no one hitting each other with a bag though 😅).

hey hi!! hello!! this IS set in the KUWSK universe (ao3 tag here) in honor of it breaking 800 (!!!!!!!) kudos on ao3 and also yes it's just an iconic line from the Kardashian show lol

so this original draft (no written words just me thinking in my mind and coming up with dialogue and text) had it be a story where one of the twins (10 years old) tells the other twin "don't be fucking rude" and KUWSK obikin freak out and point fingers at each other because well I know for sure I DID NOT teach the child that word so YOU must have taught the child that word!!!

and they go on and on and fight very pettily about who cursed in front of the baby and WHOEVER did it should just ADMIT IT because the more times anakin sleeps on the couch the crankier he gets (obi-wan is allowed the bed because he has a bad back and anakin still loves him even if he taught his kid how to say fuck)

and then it's padmé who said it around them by accident while on a business call.

BUT i JUST wrote a KUWSK fight so even though i love writing them petty and dickish towards each other, this happened instead:

(1.8k)

Obi-Wan is in the kitchen making the twins hot cocoa.

It’s a bit of a complicated process, seeing as how Leia thinks she’s lactose intolerant because her best friend at school is, so now she’ll only drink coconut milk and soy milk. Luke hates coconut milk with a strange sort of passion that only ten year olds who have recently come around to the concept of liking and disliking things can.

Leia is not lactose intolerant, but Anakin figures they should respect her dietary wishes and Obi-Wan agrees.

But they’re out of soy milk. So instead of whisking milk to simmering temperatures in one pot, he’s got one pot on the left eye of the stove and the other on the right eye and two children on both of his legs.

Fuck, the milks look the same.

Which one was the coconut again?

He’d try it himself, but he’s allergic to tree nuts. Surely he put the coconut milk in the pot to his right. Right? That’s the leg that Leia is clinging to, so it makes sense that that would be the decision he made.

Which would mean the left pot would contain the 2% milk that Luke favors.

Right?

Damnit.

With his free hand, he texts Anakin. Anakin love, will you stop at the store and pick up some soy milk?

The response rushes back immediately. My plane literally just landed.

Congratulations! He texts, adding the cocoa powder to both milks before they start to curdle. Now, about that milk…?

Did you even cook dinner? For your starving husband who has toiled away for the last week in order to put bread on the table? Anakin’s fingers must be flying across his keyboard.

I’m sure you did a lot of toiling in the harsh sun and ocean paradise of Scariff.

It was a work trip, Anakin replies. Obi-Wan sniffs. His work trips have never been nicer than a two day stint to Alderaan for a conference, lodgings not included.

Tech companies.

Instead of picking up that thread of bickering, he adds the smallest amount of cinnamon and vanilla. The twins like the Healthy Living brand best, he texts his husband.

Obi-Wan, I’ve been grocery shopping for them for ten years, Anakin texts back. You’ve done it MAYBE ten times.

This is fair criticism. But also, The last time I went you threatened to throw the tomatoes I lovingly chose at my head.

They were bruised! You picked the ones from the bottom of the pile! Why!

This is an age-old argument that Obi-Wan could have in his sleep. I thought the best tomatoes were the ones that weren’t exposed to light!!

THAT’S POTATOES BABY!!!!

“What are you smiling at, Obi?” Leia asks.

“Just your daddy being silly,” he tells her after sending a text that says you forgot the comma, baby.

Anakin sends back a winking emoji and a Sorry,,,,,Professor,,,,,,, and Obi-Wan is in love all over again.

Soy milk, he texts back before pocketing his phone.

Now the most pressing question: would it be better to give the maybe-coconut-milk-maybe-regular to Luke or to Leia? Luke would surely kick up a fuss if he has to taste coconut. Like Leia’s lactose intolerance, a disease that can appaarently be transmitted through close contact, Luke has discovered a new and sudden deadly allergy to tree nuts that matches Obi-Wan’s perfectly.

But Leia will throw up a huge stink as well, if she doesn’t get the coconut milk.

And Anakin is thirty minutes away, probably an hour if he really did just land.

Obi-Wan turns off the flames and strokes his beard thoughtfully. As always when he’s stuck in a situtaion he doesn’t quite know how to solve, he thinks about what the greatest parent he’s ever known would do.

It’s of little help this time. Anakin would probably just point and laugh at him, because his husband’s propensity to be an asshole sometimes outweighs his natural parenting talent.

“Alright, darlings,” he decides. The truth is neither of the children are actually allergic to tree nuts or dairy. If he gets it wrong, he can correct the mistake instantly by just switching the cups. It’ll just be a bit of complaining, but it’s not like anyone’s life is really in danger.

Carefully, he pours both pots into plastic souvenir mugs (the kids are too old to not find sippy cups offensive, but that doesn’t mean Obi-Wan trusts them to not accidentally shatter glass and then cut themselves to death on it by accident). “Who wants whipped cream?”

Leia apparently tolerates the lactose in the whipped cream. “My body is very smart,” she had said primly, when Anakin had pointed out the dairy content of a can of whipped cream to her a few weeks ago.

Obi-Wan thinks it’s because it looks very fun and Luke always requests extra. Luke will request sprinkles if he thinks he’s been good enough to deserve them.

He hasn’t yet figured out that Obi-Wan always gives him sprinkles if he asks. This is probably for the better.

He sets the hopefully coconut milk hot chocolate in front of Leia, whose eyes light up at the bright red mug. Luke is similarly excited for his shockingly pink one, piled high with whipped cream and made with (hopefully) 2% milk.

—---

Obi-Wan is wrong.

An hour and thirteen minutes later, he’s still hearing about it. Not directed at him, of course. The twins know better than to be so openly rude to their Obi, who they know will probably cry about it or stop giving them treats when Anakin is looking away. But that doesn’t mean they haven’t shut up about the pros and cons of coconut milk and cow milk since.

Obi-Wan had even offered to run to the store himself and get soy milk, seeing as how Anakin is taking his sweet time coming home himself. Obi-Wan’s last hope in the entire universe is that their daddy’s arrival home will snap them out of the petty bickering, because Obi-Wan is going to pull out his hair.

He’s moved rooms three times now. They just keep following him.

“Coconut head!” Luke tells Leia. It’s admittedly very rude, but Leia has taken to mooing at him every time he says anything at all, so Obi-Wan doesn’t know who really has the high ground of maturity here.

“Children, please,” Obi-Wan rubs at his forehead. This is all very frustrating, especially because it’s his mistake and he knows Anakin would never have made such a mistake, but Obi-Wan has not been sleeping well. For the first time in years, his bed is too big.

He’s lonely. Anakin has been gone for too long and now he’s going to come back to his old husband near tears as one child probably swears off animal products for good while the other decides to become a carnivore, and—

“Husband! Children! I am home!” Anakin calls from the entryway, and Obi-Wan is not ashamed at all for how fast he rushes to throw his arms around him in a tight embrace.

“Fuck Scariff,” he murmurs fervently into his husband’s neck, pushing him up against the wall by the mirror. “Never do that again.”

Anakin laughs, sounding slightly breathless and smelling of travel, and bends his head down to kiss the only part of Obi-Wan he can reach: his ear. “Need I remind you that you’re the one who led that month-long study abroad?”

“I understand now,” Obi-Wan promises, nuzzling further, closer. “That was stupid of me. The twins are trying to kill me. Will you love me when my hair isn’t red anymore? I’ll be gray-headed by the time they’re sixteen.”

“You’re in luck,” Anakin tells him, pushing him away enough so that he can tuck a loose bit of hair behind his ears worshipfully. “I think the idea of you as a silver fox is really sexy.”

Obi-Wan kisses him. It’s a miracle the twins haven’t interrupted them yet, so while they’re busy, he takes his hello kiss with both hands gripped firmly in Anakin’s traveling coat and his mouth open wide.

“Baby,” Anakin pants when they separate. “Baby, I have to tell you something.”

“What?” Obi-Wan breathes back. Anakin makes him feel so many things. So many twisted, beautiful, wonderful things, that sometimes it’s hard to think straight.

“Baby,” his husband tells him solemnly, pushing him back with one hand so he can bring whatever he’s holding in his right hand up to eye level. “You’re my soy-lmate.”

Obi-Wan blinks at the carton of soy milk in his husband’s hand and then back at Anakin. “Are you late getting home because you stopped and googled soy puns in the parking lot of the grocery store?”

“It was our driveway, but yes. Ab-soy-lutely.”

“I’m never sleeping with you again,” Obi-Wan marvels, taking a step away. “This is the death of all things holy and divine.”

“That’s so sweet, baby, you see heaven when I touch you? And never soy never, I think I’m quite convincing.”

Obi-Wan wants to throttle his husband. “I can’t believe I had good news I wanted to tell you. Too bad we have to get a divorce now.”

Anakin pouts. Obi-Wan wants to kiss it off him because the man is ridiculous but he’s his and he’s going to be his forever. Death do them part, etcetera etcetera etcetera.

“Don’t be fucking rude,” Anakin says, roping him back into his arms and leaning back against the doorway. “I got you the soy milk. Give me a proper hello.” “In the hallway?” Obi-Wan replies in a murmur. The kids are yelling in the background, and there are noises that should be concerning, the banging of things and loud crashes. But Anakin is here, in his arms. “I expected soy much better from you.”

He can feel Anakin’s grin against the side of his neck when the man buries his face there, arms tightening.

“What’s the good news?” He asks, pressing a single, delicate kiss on his neck. “You’re killing me here, Kenobi.”

“Kenobi-Skywalker,” Obi-Wan corrects absently, running his fingers through the blond curls he loves so dearly, it might just kill him one day. He thinks about the children he loves beyond all words in the other room. He thinks about the papers on the table, the ones sent from the agency, the ones telling them that they’ve been approved for adoption. He thinks about the man in his arms, so trusting and beautiful and perfect. He thinks dying from love isn’t the worst way to go.

“Kenobi-Skywalker,” Anakin repeats worshipfully, like he agrees even though he doesn’t know anything at all about the papers just yet. “Wait—” he tenses and then pulls back, frown marring his face. “Why is our daughter mooing?”

Obi-Wan sighs, reality rushing back into their bubble. He separates them completely and grabs the soy milk from Anakin’s lax hands. “Anakin love, when she’s mooing, she’s your daughter."

#asks #KUWSK #obikin #prompt fill #they're gonna adopt baby rey btw #obi-wan telling anakin was also supposed to be in this + anakin's reaction #but that felt like it would make the ficlet much too long to actually do that justice #obi-wan is going to really struggle when the kids are 13 and rey is in her terrible twos phase #he's going to careen towards that breakdown #but anakin will be there to help him and that's love <3 #also i told myself when i finished this i would go to the store and buy myself bagels so brb #:D

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