onyxdin

Chapter 1 -`♡´- Your new professor

Chapter 2 -`♡´- His ring

Chapter 3 -`♡´- His office

Chapter 4 -`♡´- The door

Chapter 5 -`♡´- The bookstore

Chapter 6 -`♡´- Wrong answers

Chapter 7 -`♡´- The gift

Chapter 8 -`♡´- The sofa

Chapter 9 -`♡´-

Chapter 10 -`♡´-

Chapter Six. ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ Wrong answers

You were mad.

You spent weeks sitting in the same classroom, breathing the same air, and yet to him you were invisible, vanished in thin air. No appointments because of badly written essays, no brief glances, nothing. He didn’t look at you when you walked in, or when you raised your hand, not even when you accidentally knocked your notebook off the desk with a loud clatter. You tried truly everything, to get even a crumb of his attention.

It was a visceral need, something that you couldn't put into words, or find any logic reason to it. Yes you two had…something, that didn't mean he had to pay attention to you. Perhaps that was just his own way to have fun in what would've been a boring work filled afternoon. Perhaps this, perhaps that.

You wanted your professor to do it again, to look at you again, to put his hand under your skirt once more. No matter how wrong this whole situation was, you craved it.

So you decided to become a problem, thinking maybe this way he would’ve noticed you.

The class after your childish and probably totally stupid plan found space into your head, Joel was talking about Fitzgerald again —“Tender is the Night”, specifically. You had read enough to know the answers — obsessed as you were, you couldn't resist from devouring the whole course syllabus — but knowing and answering were two very different things and you did your best to not give Joel what he wanted.

"What does Fitzgerald want us to understand about Diver's decline?" he asked, not looking up from the book open on his desk. His voice was flat, almost bored, like the question was something he wasn’t really interested in. Too academical.

Your hand went up.

He glanced at you briefly, then looked back down at the page. "Go ahead."

"He loses himself because of Nicole," you said. "He sacrifices everything for her and she just... drains him."

Joel didn't even deign you of an answer, he turned a page and simply said: "Anyone else?"

As if you hadn't spoken at all. He was not even telling you you were wrong. How much could he keep ignoring you? 

It happened again three days later. This time, the topic was “The Beautiful and Damned”.

Joel was standing by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the book loosely at his side. "What ultimately destroys Anthony and Gloria's relationship in your opinion?"

You raised your hand way too fast, like you were dying for him to ask anything.

His gaze moved to you. "Yes."

"They're just too similar," you said. "Two selfish people who want the same things. It was never going to work."

He looked at you for a moment, rested your eyes on you just enough for your heart to beat a little faster. Just a few fast seconds. Then his eyes drifted to the rest of the room. “If anyone else was planning on giving me a similar answer, I'd strongly suggest reconsidering their choice of degree." 

Someone behind you let out a nervous half laugh that died almost immediately.

You stared at him and said nothing. The heat that was building in your body had nothing to do with embarrassment anymore. He looked, he got annoyed and most importantly, he didn't treat your answer as deaf words in the air. Your answer mattered enough for him to humiliate you in front of everyone.

A week later, “This Side of Paradise".

He was sitting on the edge of his desk for once, shirt buttoned perfectly, blue tie, low voice — which made you remember your first appointment at his office, and that was disgustingly enough to distract you for half an hour.

"Amory Blaine," he began, "What is Fitzgerald really criticizing through him?"

You waited a few seconds, and then your arm was up.

Something crossed his face, you were not exactly sure what, but it was there. He nodded at you without a word.

"He's criticizing his generation," you said. "The idea that being special is enough. Amory thinks the world owes him something just because he's charming and intelligent." He said nothing for a long moment.

His eyes stayed on you this time, his expression was different, far from the icy cold and bored eyes he would usually give you. The weight of it was making your heart hammer, your cheeks turning warm. Was he angry? You thought. He definitely looked pissed off.

And as much as it felt intimidating, or even scary, having a man like that look at you with those eyes, you couldn't help but smile. Because Joel didn’t look at you again for the rest of the lecture. Not once. You knew he wouldn’t, that was the point, that was what you wanted, to annoy him so much he would have to ignore you. Even if this was what you desired to create,it didn’t make it easier to sit there for fifty minutes while his gaze moved to every corner of the room except yours.

You didn't take notes for the rest of the class, there was nothing your pen could write if not the word Miller with hearts next to it. Definitely fell in the teenage crush kind of love.

When Joel's class ended and the other students began to leave you took your time again, the same way you had the week before. Jacket, notebook, bag. You were almost at the aisle when his voice stopped you.

“Stay.”

You swallowed, your knees were jelly and he just said one word, your eyes wide looking at the door in front of you.

He waited until the last footstep faded down the corridor and then it was just the two of you in the empty lecture hall, door closed, the overhead lights humming faintly, his papers still spread across the desk at the front. You turned to him, while your heart threatened to explode in your chest and kill you right there in front of him.

He didn’t look up from them immediately. He made you wait shuffling through pages with that infuriating composure of his.

“He's criticizing his generation,” Joel said. “Amory thinks the world owes him something just because he's charming” He was saying your own words, delivered back to you in a tone so flat, almost as if he was easting oxygen saying that.

“It was a simplification,” you said.

“It was wrong.” He came around the desk slowly, and stopped closer to you. Close enough to make it too real. “You know it was wrong. ”

“Maybe I wasn’t paying attention.” your voice was a murmur, close to a whisper.

Joel's jaw clenched. “We’ve already established that you don’t have that problem with me.”

You said nothing, you really couldn't. He was intimidating, and your heart was doing its best to pump your blood so fast that you weren't sure how you haven't fainted.

“So, why?”

Joel didn't receive an answer once again. You weren't sure how to express your frustration in a way that didn't say 'I want you to notice me, and touch me again.'

Joel took a few steps closer, reaching out and taking your notebook from your hands, without asking. Then, he opened it to the blank page you had been staring at for fifty minutes. He looked at it for a moment, validating what he thought silently. Seeing nothing, he closed it and set it down on the nearest desk, and when he came back he was close enough that you had to stop your own body from stepping back.

“You’re not as difficult to read as you think you are” he said quietly.

“I’m not trying to be difficult.” you murmured, surprised that your words didn't come out broken.

“No.” His hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face up toward his with a pressure that was between something gentle, and totally not gentle at all. It was firm, forcing your eyes to lock on his. “You’re trying to get a reaction.” 

And totally out of your control, that hand on your jew, with his fingers pressing on your cheeks, was sending an unbearable heat in your belly.

You held his gaze for a second longer than was your intention, or long enough that you started feeling like he was piercing through you before turning your eyes away. Joel's hand moved lower to your neck, his fingers just resting there with a light weight that was somehow more authoritative than force would have been.

Your felt his thumb resting lightly against your pulse. He could feel it — how hard you were trying to stay composed — you knew. You hoped he couldn’t tell how fast it was, though. Then, slowly, with a pressure that gave you every opportunity to resist to it, to stop him and stay standing in front of him, he guided you down. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, it was making you feel something you have never ever felt before in your whole life. When your knees met the floor he kept his hand where it was for a moment, warm against your throat, and looked down at you with that expression you could never quite read.

“Good,” he said quietly. Just that, like the first time against his door.

Joel looked at you being there on your knees, in his own classroom, and it felt like that sight was somehow intriguing to him, and at the same time like he was waiting for you to make it too hard for him to ignore you. Then he crouched down slowly, until his face was close to yours, brought two fingers under your chin, tilting your head up.

“I’m starting to think,” he said, “that you didn’t quite understand the last lesson in the office.”

Your eyes were trying to stay fixed on him as much as bearable, where did your confidence go?

“You need to pay attention.” The way Joel was saying those words to you was gentle, it was making you confused, seeing how irritated he was just minutes ago. “Not just when it suits you or when you feel like it.” His thumb traced a slow line along your jaw, the same way it had that day, and his eyes stayed on yours. “Listen when I’m speaking. Do you understand?”

You nodded slightly, “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I have to listen.” you said again, in an insecure whisper.

Something shifted in his expression, satisfaction now, maybe. At that point he stood, calm as always, and straightened his shirt.

“Good,” he said. It made you go crazy.

“You know what I find difficult to tolerate?” His voice had the same tone he used in front of the class when he was explaining the text. “When a student opens their mouth without having anything worth saying.” He continued. “A wrong answer isn’t just wrong. It’s a waste of everyone’s time.”

Your breathing was completely uneven, seemed like the entire room was devoid of oxygen. Your knees were beginning to ache against the floor, but you didn’t move.

“If you don’t understand something, you stay quiet. You listen. You wait until you do understand.” He looked at you for another moment, something unreadable was moving behind his eyes.

“You knew the right answer today.” His voice dropped slightly, making you think that yes, he was totally angry, but was trying to keep it .

“That’s what I can’t decide whether to forgive you for. Ignorance I have patience for.” His fingers came back to your chin, two fingers only, tilting your face up more to meet him at his new height. “This was something else.”

He was quiet for a moment after that, looking down at you with a gravity that was honestly making you feel like a vessel of any angriness or petty behavior you threw at him the last classes. Him lecturing you this way was even dirtier than whatever your mind came up with in the last two months, in your fantasies, Joel was not this composed, he was not using his words this well. Your brain was too busy with something else.

“The problem,” he said finally, “isn’t that you don’t know the answers.” Thumb moving slowly on your jaw, sending shivers to your spine. “The problem is that mouth of yours.”

Fuck. You felt stars spinning all around your head. As if you weren't worked up just from him holding your jaw minutes ago, you were now totally out of your mind. Throbbing, waiting for more.

“All that impertinence.” Joel said, his eyes now dropped briefly to your mouth and then came back up to your eyes. “It’s a waste, really. A considerable waste.” A pause, long enough to make your pulse do something inconvenient, again. “I can think of far better uses for it.”

You knew — even as you opened your mouth — that it was a mistake, what you were about to do.

“Maybe,” you murmured, keeping your voice as stable as you could, “you should teach better.”

His fingers under your chin stopped, your words changed his expression, the small amount of warmth you could feel him giving you, disappeared, leaving only coldness.

“Say that again,” he muttered.

You didn’t, you still weren’t completely reckless. You stayed still where you were. The floor was hard under your knees to hurt, and you were acutely aware of how you must have looked from where he was standing.

He reached up and loosened his tie. He took his time with it, fingers working the knot open with the same patience he applied to everything else. You watched him, impatient, pulsing in your core, trembling slightly at the sight. He folded it once, twice, and then stepped behind you.

“Since you seem to have difficulty,” he said quietly, close to your ear, his breath warm against the side of your neck, “controlling what comes out of your mouth.” He brought the tie around and held it at the level of your eyes, letting you see it for a moment. “We’re going to try something else.”

His hands moved to either side of your face, settling the fabric gently across your eyes. “I’m going to take away one thing you rely on.” The knot at the back, slow and precise. “And then, you’re going to focus on what I’m actually teaching you. Instead of that impertinent little mouth of yours.”

The light disappeared.

"That little brain only uses those eyes to watch me instead of your ears to listen."

His hands stayed at the back of your head for a moment after he finished, not moving, until you didn’t feel them anymore.

At first there was nothing. Just the dark and the hum of the overhead lights, the sound of your own breathing, which was embarrassingly unsteady. You couldn’t hear him moving. You didn’t know where he was in the room, whether he was close or far, whether he was watching you or turned away.

Then his hand was in your hair for a little moment, fingers threading through and then withdrawing before you could lean into it, gone as quickly as it had come.

More silence. Long enough that you started to wonder if he had walked to the other side of the room, or to the door, or out entirely and left you there kneeling on the floor of an empty lecture hall with his tie around your eyes like a stupidly poor decision you manifested into reality.

Then his breath was at your ear.

“You’re trying so hard to catch my attention,” he said quietly. His fingers brushed the back of your neck, one slow pass, and disappeared again. “I can tell.”

“I’m not —” you blurted out so quick that tried to erase how right he was.

“You are.” His voice came from in front of you this time, closer than you expected, close enough that you instinctively tilted your face up toward it. “You’re trying to figure out if I notice you.” his thumb traced the line of your collarbone. “Humiliating yourself in front of the class just to get a reaction from me.”

His words were so embarrassing to hear, your own behaviors on display like that was definitely something you wanted him to notice, but not to say back to you.

But why, even through all the embarrassment, you felt yourself getting wetter? Why were his words so harsh but so, incredibly, totally driving you crazy? You needed to hear more, you wanted more.

Joel's hand came to rest on your shoulder and you felt him crouch down behind you until his mouth was level with your ear. “You’ve talked too much lately. Be quiet now.” His hands slid slowly down your arms from shoulder to elbow, and stayed there. Your whole body felt him, he was making you feel his hands, his breath, his words everywhere, making sure that even if your eyes couldn't watch, your skin would be shivering anyway — or maybe even more knowing what your gaze was missing.

“You can listen, I see.” he said, against your ear. The pain on your knees starting to feel really uncomfortable, but you couldn't give a single care, your worked up and mush brain could only think that you would have stayed there the whole day if he told you to.

You heard Joel move around you slowly, then suddenly you felt something cool and smooth tracing your lower lip, you couldn't understand what it was.

“Open.”

You opened your mouth and he slid it in slowly, you closed your lips around it and waited. He didn't move it, just left it there, resting on your tongue, "Do you know what it is?"

You shook your head, barely.

"Think."

You concentrated. It was cool, smooth, cylindrical. A pen. His pen, probably.

“A pen.” You managed to whisper.

"Yes" he said, and you could hear from his voice that he was in front of you now, close, looking down at you. "So you know how to answer my questions, what are these?" His fingers replaced the pen, two of them sliding in without warning.

"Hands," he said without even giving you time to reply. The taste of his fingers again, oh, the ache in your core was starting to be troublesome, you had to release it, it felt like just his fingers in your mouth could make you come, honestly.

"You were doing so well," he said. His fingers pressed down on your tongue, which made a little whimper escape your throat. "Don't ruin it now." His fingers suddenly out of your mouth. 

Your mind was absolutely gone at this point, you could anticipate what was about to happen though, and that made you so desperate you were scared of yourself.

A moment of silence, you could feel he was moving. The sound of the belt opening, you were pretty sure. Then you felt something warm tapping on your face, he didn’t say anything at this point, the tap of his warmth on your lips was enough of a command that you did open your mouth.

You felt everything, so sudden. The scorching temperature of him when he moved his cock inside of your mouth, the weight on your tongue, the stretch of your jaw adjusting to his size, the saliva you had to consciously swallow because of the intrusion.

Words couldn't describe how much you were waiting for him to use your mouth like this.

Joel made a low sound above you, not quite controlled as usual, and it undid you instantly. You had spent so long wanting to crack that composure, now you could hear it and you couldn't even see his face, it was making you go insane how cruel this felt.

"You have no idea," he said, "what you look like right now."

You made a faint moan around his cock, involuntary moving, and felt his hand come to your jaw.

"Stay still."

You did. Your hands trembled slightly at your sides, the effort of keeping them there, and your breathing had reduced itself to something shallow and careful. Every sensation arrived without warning and left you with no time to recover before the next one.

"Good girl," he said softly, taking it hardness out for just a moment, making you catch a breath.

Then, without any warning he slid his cock back again, not giving you time to adjust to the length, to the width, to the movement.

That was something you had learned about him, he rarely warned you about anything, and you had stopped expecting it honestly. You felt him take your hair in his hand, gathering it slowly at the back of your head, and then the pressure on it, gentle at first, then firmer, tilting your head back slightly, repositioning you exactly where he wanted you.

The new position made his cock go deeper in your throat, making him groan above you, he was using your head and mouth in whatever way he wanted to, and you were fine with it.

Your balance shifted, on your knees like that and with his hand in your hair, you had nothing to hold onto, and instinctively your hands came up and found his thigh, gripping the fabric of his trousers just to stay upright.

He didn't tell you to move them, silently allowing you you keep them there. Somehow, in all of that, you felt like the most intimate thing that had happened with him was that he let you touch his thighs like this. You were going insane, surely.

"You answer me in class next time," he said, you could feel his breathing becoming heavy. "Correctly. Not whatever waste of voice you were using with me." His grip tightened in your hair. "Understood?"

You couldn't answer, your mouth so full you were about to gag, so you made a sound around his cock instead that he seemed to accept as sufficient.

"Every time I ask a question," he continued, while fucking your mouth in faster pace. "you're going to remember this, you're going to answer properly."

Your eyes were burning behind the blindfold, your knees were absolutely killing you, you couldn’t even breathe properly. You felt a tear running down from your face but you let him keep going. You stopped trying to do anything other than hold on his thighs. Your fingers were twisted in the fabric of his trousers, your only anchor, and you let him set the pace entirely. He made another sound of pleasure above you, and your warmth throbbed. 

"You take it well," he said, and you were sure the way he said it was not entirely a compliment. You could feel it had an edge to it, something that implied he'd expected less of you and was mildly inconvenienced to be wrong. His grip in your hair tightened again as he kept moving your head against his hips, sinking in your mouth. "Considering you couldn't manage a simple answer in class."

You moaned around him, while feeling him tilting your head to make his cock go even deeper, something you weren't even sure you could take until now. It was overwhelming, but fuck you would go on for hours, just to hear him say those things to you, find pleasure with your body like this.

"All that time sitting in third row," he continued, "looking at me like that." Another groan from him, controlled as much as he could. "And you couldn't — put a fucking sentence together. Wasting — my time."

His pace increased slightly and your hands gripped harder as you felt another tear escape from under the blindfold.

"Pathetic," he said softly. You could feel he was close to coming by the way he was talking, his voice less firm every time he told you something. And you were right, just at the moment you thought you couldn’t bear it anymore you could feel his warm cum dribbling in your throat and his pace slowing carefully, he was throbbing as he released his climax into you.

Your hands were still twisted in his trousers so you uncurled them slowly, one finger at a time, like releasing something you didn’t want to let go. His hand loosened in your hair, letting it fall. You said nothing, all you could do was catch your breath, the oxygen in the room finally finding its way in your lungs.

You could feel his hands moving, the sound of the belt again, dizzy as you were. Joel then leaned down to you and loosened his tie, pulling it free from your eyes. You watched him from the floor, your jaw still aching and your eyes burning from the tears. He folded it once, and then crouched down in front of you, holding it out in front of your eyes, close enough that you could see the fabric, the texture of it.

"Open your mouth," he said.

You did.

He folded it again and placed it gently between your lips, you closed them instinctively around it, and he looked at you for a moment with that expression that you decided to call 'satisfaction'.

“Maybe this will help you keep quiet.” His hand came to your hair one last time — making you realize how hard it was to not lean on it. "Next time" he said, "I expect a proper answer. You can follow instructions when you want to."

Joel moved back to his desk after letting you there with his tie in your mouth.

"Same time next week," he said, without looking up. "Fix your hair."

You reached up and took the tie from your mouth slowly, and stood there holding it for a moment, not entirely sure what to do with your hands or your legs or the version of yourself that was going to have to walk back out into the corridor.

So you just got up and your knees ached, a lot. Jaw was sore, your throat was burning, and you were desperate to release the knot of pleasure that he created in your lower body. You smoothed your skirt down with one hand and with the other wiped your face quickly. Your eyes were dry by the time you found your bag. Your hair was fixed, you didn't remember doing it but you had, automatically, because he told you to. You picked up your things and looked at the tie once more before folding it carefully and putting it in your bag without looking at him. You crossed to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the corridor.

You couldn't believe your childish and petty plan actually worked, your heart was hammering against your ribs as you walked toward the bathroom thinking that he now wouldn't forget about you.

author's note: oh myyy thank you guys so much for the love! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know if you want!! thank you for reading my work 🖤🖤

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Chapter Five. ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ The bookstore.

You woke up in a good mood, which was not exactly something you'd find yourself feeling on long exhausting college weeks. You also got up before your alarm, which never happened, too.

You lay there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, like nothing ever happened.

The apartment was empty that morning, so you moved around lazily putting on some video on your laptop while making breakfast. You made coffee properly, the slow way, instead of whatever desperate version you usually managed between waking up and running out the door.

You stood at the counter while drinking it and looked out the window at the street below, grey morning light, a few people walking dogs, people chattering on the sidewalk and the usual traffic.

Your mood, you knew, had something to do with Friday. You knew that. You weren't going to think about Friday right now because thinking about Friday led to thinking about him and thinking about him led to that crazy spiral you were trying to keep away on a weekend morning.

But something changed, after that day. You felt…lighter? Like after months of anticipation of something you never thought would happen — it happened, and he knew. In that moment, you didn't think of how embarrassing it would be to come back to class that very next week, knowing that he saw you grinding so helplessly on his thigh, telling him that it was true, you were begging for his hands on your body.

You showered, took your time about it. Stood in front of your closet for a few minutes actually looking at your clothes, you found yourself being really attentive on what to wear. But this morning, you put on something comfortable, just for yourself. You weren’t going to meet him anyway on a Sunday in the middle of New York. 

“We’re leaving at twenty.” Your phone lightened up with an Addie text.

You were about to spend a day with your friends, something your Professor clouding your mind stripped away from you. He was literally crowding every single cell of your being.

That day, after the office, you were so incredibly confused that you had to cancel your appointment with Addie, which she found weird, of course. You just texted her that everything was alright with Miller. You knew she’d probably ask you about it today and you had enough time to calm down about what happened that afternoon.

But he liked you enough to do that.  

You were aware this was possibly delusional, and you were choosing to be delusional about it, but the thing was he didn’t exactly seem indifferent to you. In that office, with his voice saying those things and his hands doing what they did, there had to be something there.

What if that didn’t mean anything to him? No, it meant something for sure. Maybe you were reading too much into a situation that another person would have filed away immediately without all this internal fight.

For now, on a Saturday morning with good light coming through the window and a nice day with your friends ahead, you were going to allow yourself the small luxury of thinking that to Joel Miller, you were not entirely unremarkable. It felt nice, and you were going to let it feel nice, at least for today.

Addie showed up at your door twelve minutes late, which was early for her, with Eric already a step behind her looking like someone who had been dragged out of bed under false pretenses.

"You said coffee first," he said maybe too loudly.

"I said maybe coffee first," Addie said. "There's a difference."

You fell into step beside them and let the conversation go on. Eric was complaining about a seminar he had on Monday. Addie was only half listening, she was probably thinking about something else while getting only bits of Eric's endless complaints.

You talked enough that no one of the two complained, especially Addie. Eric was still crying about getting some coffee, so before doing anything you were supposed to do, he brought you two to the café near college. It was the usual one; had mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu with not much to offer and coffee that was never quite as good as you wanted it to be but you kept ordering anyway because the atmosphere was good enough to let you forget about it.

"Can I say something?" Addie said, after she ordered a coffee and something for Eric to eat.

"You're going to anyway", Eric said.

She ignored him. "You seem better. Like, genuinely, the last two days you've been actually alive. I thought you were going crazy. " She tilted her head slightly. "You didn’t tell me much but I guess everything went well with Miller."

You opened your mouth to say something — anything, but Addie didn't give you the time.

"I'm taking that as a yes," she said. "See? I told you. You just needed to go in there and say something instead of sitting with it and spiraling."

"I wasn't spiraling." You say again, like you didn’t have the same exact conversation two days ago.

"You were absolutely spiraling, she told me about it. Honestly you've been a ghost lately " Eric said, taking a small sip of his coffee.

"The point is," Addie continued, her was totally satisfied, her advice worked and she was happy about it, "you talked to him, you sorted it out, and now you're finally feeling like yourself again. " She smiled. "You're welcome."

"Honestly though," Eric said, "I don't know how you're surviving that course. I've heard things."

You looked at him, totally oblivious. "What kind of things?"

He shrugged. "Just people who've taken it before. Apparently it's one of those courses that's genuinely good, like people come out of it actually knowing something, but he destroys everyone in the process. Someone told me he sent back a work with more red ink than the original essay." He laughed a little. "I also heard he's failed people who other professors would have passed without thinking twice. He made students cry.”

"Sounds fun," Addie said ironically.

"The material is good though," you said, before you could stop yourself.

They both looked at you, and you felt a little embarrassed because for some reason they looked like you said: "He was good enough to almost fuck me against the door to understand the assignment."

"I mean, from what I've read so far. Kafka, Sartre…" You looked at the coffee to escape their eyes. "It's interesting."

Addie gave you a look that lasted a little too long.

"Sure," she said. "Kafka and Sartre." Sarcasm's national day it seems.

You laughed a little despite yourself, just a small sound.

"I don't get it, honestly," Addie said,shaking her head. "I've seen him around campus. Half the girls in the department act like he's some kind of event. He just looks like a man who grades harshly and has opinions about semicolons."

"I mean, he is objectively good looking," Eric offered, eating his pancake.

"Sure, if you're into that," Addie said

"Into what, being attractive?" Eric said, amused.

"Into that specific kind of attractive. The whole" she gestured vaguely, "tortured intellectual with a good jaw thing. Boring."

You said nothing, how could you?

“You’re very quiet.” Addie looked at you, smiling. “Are you the one of the girls attracted to his southern accent and french intellectual vibe?” she laughed.

You looked at her, unsure of what to say. “Well you wouldn’t get it anyway.”

Eric nodded, “She has a crush on her creative writing professor. Shut up Addie”

“What. Mrs Ellison?" You looked at Addie. "You didn’t tell me about it.” You chuckled, looking at her.

“What about it. She’s hot and she knows a lot of stuff.” she pouted.

“No shit she is a teacher in a college.” Eric giggled. “But back to Miller. I know some things.” He leaned on his chair. "Some people told me that apparently Miller was at Columbia before this. Left, or was asked to leave, depending on who you ask, nobody seems to know exactly which. Something happened, some kind of situation.”

You listened without saying a word, trying to not overthink this whole information that slipped out of Eric's mouth. There could be a million reasons why a teacher changes place. You just hoped it was not what you thought it was.

"He killed people I’m telling you." Addie said, completely amused by the situation.

“Can we go?” You asked, without even realizing you were cutting off their talk.

Talking about him like that made you feel uncomfortable, which was weird. You loved when Eric would gossip about teachers, but of course this wasn’t the same thing. 

They both looked at you confused but then accepted your request.

"I want to stop in here," Addie said, slowing in front of a bookstore. "I want to see if there's something that came out last week I've been looking for everywhere."

Eric was already following her in despite his complaining, he hated seeing books on his days off from studying. Addie went straight to the fiction shelves.

"Oh, I loved that one," Addie was saying beside you, pointing at something on the shelf in front of her. "Eric, didn't I make you read that?"

"You made me start it," Eric said. "Different thing.” 

You drifted away from Eric and Addie, you liked to search for books alone. You could barely hear them arguing in the fiction section, with a comforting noise in the bookstore. Not too many people, not too empty. 

Your eyes followed the stack of books in the classics section, your mind trying not to drift to your conversations back at the cafe.

Though your peace was broken. You saw him.

He was in the back, near the non-fiction shelves, concentrated on the books like the rest of the world was just background noise.

A grey flannel shirt, untucked. Jeans. Two books in one hand, held loosely at his side, and in the other a cigarette he wasn't smoking — just holding, turning it slowly between two fingers the way he would turn a pen when he was thinking.

He looked different. The feeling in your gut made you disoriented, you felt like seeing something you were not prepared to see. He was not just the man you were used to seeing, behind a desk with his shirt, the fucking tie that made you go crazy every time you’d see him, or the tailored trousers. You picked the nearest book and opened it.

You were feeling like the world just stopped. Every single time he was close enough, your brain would short circuit. He was angling toward the light to read the back of one of his books, flannel shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow.

Oh God.

You noticed that in the way you noticed everything about him, against your will, with complete attention, filing it in your mind so you could return to it later. The cigarette moved between his fingers. He turned a page. Your heart skipped a beat.

He hasn’t seen you, calm down. 

But then he looked up at that exact moment.

He saw you.

For a moment your eyes met across the aisle, in a way that there was no question, no ambiguity, no possibility of mistaken identity. He knew exactly who you were. You knew he knew. He looked back on his book.

He stayed for a while, long enough that you drifted to different shelves, picked up things you didn't read, put them back. You waited. You didn’t know what you were waiting for, but you waited. Then he moved toward the front of the store, now three books in his hand and the cigarette still unlit between his fingers, and he passed so close that you caught that scent, that warm masculine cologne mixed with tobacco, and he didn't stop, didn't slow down, didn't acknowledge that you existed in any way whatsoever.

Like you were furniture. Truly, not even a book, he would've payed more attention to that.

You stood there holding a book you hadn't read a word of, until you heard the small bell above the door announce that he'd left. Then you put the book back on the shelf, in the wrong place, and stood there for another moment.

What did you even expect? He ruined your mood in 10 fucking seconds, again. Not even bothered to say hello, to throw a half smile. You felt a knot building in your stomach, the day just started and you already wanted to get into your bed and fall asleep like all of this was a dream.

Too much. Calm down. You took a deep breath, you heard Addie and Eric getting close so you didn’t want to look like something was bothering you.

"Found anything?" Addie said.

"No", you said, your voice came out completely normal, which felt like a small miracle.

“Eric wants to go to that boring art exhibit I talked to you about. You in? I can’t survive this alone.” she chuckles.

“Sure.” You smiled a little. 

When you arrived home the apartment felt smaller than usual, you kicked off your shoes and dropped your bag somewhere near the entrance, not bothering to check where it landed.

The evening with Addie and Eric had been a good distraction but now, alone in the quiet, there was nothing left to distract you.

You replayed it again, the way his eyes had moved past you in the bookstore, indifferent, like you were something he had already forgotten.

You poured yourself a glass of water you didn’t really want and stood at the kitchen counter for a moment, staring at nothing. You made it to your bedroom eventually, but sleep didn’t come easy. You lay on your back staring at the ceiling, and somewhere between the dark and the quiet your mind started doing the thing you had been trying to stop it from doing all evening. You thought about his classroom. You thought about the students watching him.

You imagined being there waiting for the moment his eyes would find you across the room and stay the way they had before. But even in the fantasy you couldn’t quite hold it together, because you already knew how it ended. He would look at you the same way he looked at you in that bookstore. Indifferent. You pulled the blanket up anyway and closed your eyes, and the world, which felt so full just that morning, pressed down on your chest with a weight you hadn’t asked for and didn’t know how to put down.

Next day. History class, you couldn’t skip another lesson so you just went to college without thinking about it too much, even if staying in bed was the only thing you would want to do.

Joel was standing just outside the main building, one shoulder leaned against the brick wall, a cigarette between his lips. You slowed your pace without meaning to, your bag suddenly heavy on your shoulder, his eyes somewhere in the middle distance while the smoke curled up and disappeared into the morning air. He didn't notice you yet. You thought about crossing to the other side of the path, taking the long way around, pretending you had a reason to.

But your feet kept going, traitors. It was only when you were almost past him that his gaze moved, landing on you for just a second before sliding away again — same look as yesterday. You kept walking. But something tightened in your chest and stayed there, and you found yourself thinking — not for the first time — that it was almost cruel how often you seemed to run into him now. Before, you could have gone weeks without crossing his path. Now, it felt like New York had quietly rearranged itself just to keep putting him in front of you.

The day you had to attend his class came faster than ever.

You had told yourself it was about Fitzgerald. That was the only reason you were sitting in the third row of a lecture hall you had no more reason to be in, your notebook open to a blank page, you had to pass his exam, nothing more.

He started talking and for a while you almost believed in yourself. He was saying something about Gatsby, about the green light, about the kind of fool who spends his whole life reaching toward something that was never really there. You wrote down two words and before you realized you were looking at him.

He was wearing a dark shirt, buttoned to the top, the sleeves rolled up a little. His hair still looked soft with a hint of grey, and it curled just a little at the nape of his neck. You remembered, without wanting to, the exact feeling of his hair so close to your neck. The way he looked at you in his office. The memory sat warm in your chest before it morphed into something else entirely.

Because now he was gesturing toward the whiteboard, quoting Fitzgerald and not once did his eyes move to where you were sitting. You were three rows back. You were right there. And he talked about illusion and desire and the agony of wanting something just out of reach — but somehow managed to look at every corner of that room except yours.

You weren’t angry at him, you decided. You were angry at yourself, for coming. For paying attention to his hair. For remembering his office at all. For the fact that you let yourself get into that situation with him. But you knew deep down, this wasn't true.

Then he turned to the class and asked a question. Something about Nick Carraway; whether he was a reliable narrator or simply a man too in love with Gatsby to see him clearly.

A few hands went up, attempts that he didn’t appreciate that much, and you could see it. He waited, letting the silence in the classroom stretch until it was almost uncomfortable. You didn’t raise your hand, but you answered anyway. Your voice came out calmer than you felt.

Wow, a second miracle. You’re getting good at pretending everything is fine.

You said something about how Nick’s narration wasn’t unreliable but just partial, shaped by admiration and a kind of longing he never fully admitted to himself.  He looked at you then. For the first time all morning, he actually looked at you.

“Good.” he said, and moved on.

When the class ended, you were the last one left. You were taking your time gathering your things, maybe to be close to him more than you should’ve. The other students had filtered out in twos and threes, their voices fading down the corridor, now the lecture hall was quiet except for the sound of him collecting his papers at the front. You stood up.

“Your answer earlier.” He said it without looking up. “About Nick Carraway.”

You stopped, your heart flipping in your chest. “What about it?”

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a question. You told yourself you were walking toward the whiteboard because you were curious, because it was a reasonable thing to do when a professor asked you to, because there was nothing strange about any of this. You told yourself that all the way to the front of the room.

He had written something on the board — before the class started — a quote by Fitzgerald. He stepped up beside you, then slightly behind, and raised one hand to point at the last few words.

“You talked about Nick’s longing.” His voice was close, too close. Just behind your ear, low. “But you stopped before the most interesting part.” His hand came to rest on your back, his fingers moving. It was not much, just enough to feel it, like he was gently tracing your skin through the fabric of your shirt. 

You were probably stiff as a block of ice, his hand on your back was making your body feeling things you had way of stopping…at all.

“Which is?” you managed to let these two stupid words out.

“That he keeps reaching anyway.” He paused for a moment. His fingers on your shirt moved slightly. You were sure, that he was looking at you, but your eyes were glued to the board. “Even knowing.”

Fuck. What is going on?

The moment you felt like just turning to him and get closer, get exactly what your body was begging for, Joel stepped back, and picked up his jacket from the chair. His face, when you turned to look at it, was exactly as composed as it always was.

“Think about it,” he said, and walked out.

You stood there for a moment in front of the whiteboard, the ghost of his hand still warm against your spine, the words were spinning around your head. Your legs felt weak. You were absolutely, completely furious. Hot, for two completely different reasons, your body and your brain fighting it each other. And you were already thinking about the next class.

author's note: Thank you so much for the support already! Just wanted to say to keep in mind this will be a long fic, as I said in the first chapter, there are already more than 20 chapters written. So if you're not in for a long story with plot (and a lot of porn) you can ask me to remove you from the tag list. No hard feelings at all! 🖤

taglist: @miserysinferno, @oldermenmakemeweak, @ifall4dilfs, @snakebitesweetie, @whattheflipsiesss, @bearbo28, @newsfl6sh, @yesjazzywazzylove-blog, @luvforbills, @myasmarbles, @speaktothehandpeasants, @pok-neffie, @goonersquad101, @pheebsgx, @tigerpascal, @paddythesorcerer, @ashhlsstuff, @nothinglefttogive

Chapter Four. ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ The door.

Addie was already at the cafe near the college building when you arrived, two coffees on the table and her bag taking up the chair beside her. She pushed one cup toward you without looking up from her phone, then looked up.

"You look terrible," she said, her voice filled with affection.

"Thank you," you said sarcastically, sitting down.

She put her phone face down, which meant this was going to be a conversation, whether you wanted one or not. "Okay. What's going on?"

"Nothing." you murmured, sipping on your coffee.

"You've said nothing like seven times in the last two weeks and I'm starting to find it really suspicious." She wrapped both hands around her cup. "You're skipping Harmon's lectures and never do that…"

"I've been tired." you said, which — even under these circumstances — was the truth.

You professor wasn't letting you get a good sleep, and you lived with this awareness like it was his fault. Even if he was not doing anything to you but teach you.

"No, you've been on another planet" she said. "There's a difference."

You looked at your coffee. It was easier than looking at her, because Addie had a way of looking at you that made lying feel more effort than it was worth.

"It's Miller," you said finally.

She waited for you to continue, her eyes never leaving you.

"He keeps tearing apart everything I write. Every essay, there's always something wrong, something underdeveloped, something I'm not committing to." You turned the cup in your hands. "I don't know. I'm starting to think I'm just not good at this. Like maybe I've been wrong about the whole thing and he's the first person honest enough to say so."

Addie was quiet for a moment, thinking about what you just said.

"Or," she said carefully, "he's just crazy strict and you're taking it personally."

"Maybe both."

"Hey." Addie set her cup down. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"your voice was a murmur, almost too low for the noise in that damn place.

"That thing you do where someone criticizes you once and you immediately decide they're right and you've been wrong about yourself for years." She said that sentence so many times since you've known each other, you knew it by heart now. "You know how to write. I know you know how to write because I've read your stuff, and I don't say that to be nice, you know I don't do that."

You did know that. Addie's version of supportive had always been closer to logic than comforting.

"A professor's opinion isn't the same as—"

"I've read your stories," she said, cutting you off. "The one about the woman on the train. The one you wrote last summer that you refused to show anyone except me. You know how to write. What you don't know how to do, apparently…is tell this man that his feedback is making you spiral."

"It's not making me spiral."

She looked at you without saying anything, which completely erased your defense.

She was right.

"It's making me spiral a little," you admitted, a little embarrassed.

"So go to his office and tell him." She said it like it was simple, which it wasn't, and she probably knew it wasn't, but said it anyway because that was Addie. She had way more confidence than you when she found herself in these kind of situations. She wasn't scared of this stuff.

"Not aggressively. Just go in there, tell him his comments are making you feel like you don't know what you're doing, and ask him what he actually wants from you. Worst case he's dismissive and you leave knowing he's just like that with everyone." she added.

"And best case?"

She shrugged. "Best case you figure out what he's looking for and you give it to him and you stop skipping Harmon's lectures because your head is somewhere else."

You thought about it for a moment, repeating her advice in your head.

Go to his office. Tell him how things stand. Easy.

"It's scary," you said.

“I know it is, but you have to.”, she said, looking at you with that expression, she was worried. "Is that really all it is?"

No, Addie, it's not. I have a crush on a man twice my age and I feel like I'm going crazy. You wanted to say this, you thought of saying it, but then you didn't. You kept feeling like sharing this was wrong.

"Yes," you said.

“Alright.”, she looked at her phone, “Want to go to the theater tonight? There’s a movie I’m really excited to see.”

“Yeah, why not.” You murmured, drinking some of your coffee.

You'd thought about what she said. Your friend's voice had been in your head all morning. 

Just talk to him, just ask him directly, what's the worst that can happen?

You'd borrowed her certainty because you didn't have enough of your own. You'd rehearsed the sentences during your history lesson, in the lift, on the walk down the corridor. Reasonable sentences. Calm, professional sentences about unclear feedback and inconsistent marking criteria and your right as a student to understand the basis of your grade. You'd said them to yourself until they stopped feeling like confrontation and started feeling like something you were owed.

"Come in."

His voice. The same as always, the same as every session, and something in your chest did something unhelpful that you ignored.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside trying not to go further than that, you stayed close to the door, close enough that it didn't quite shut behind you, a few centimeters of hallway still visible through the gap. You had to feel the awareness that you might need to leave quickly, and that you would like the option to remain yours.

Joel was at his desk, reading, and he looked up and for just a moment his expression did something you couldn't read before it settled back into the familiar professional calm. He reached up and removed his glasses, set them on the desk, and looked at you with that attention you've spent two months trying not to think about too much.

"What do you need?"

And every sentence you rehearsed on the bus evaporated completely.

“Uhm…I wanted to talk to you about the feedback on my last essay.” You said. You could feel your voice trembling a little as you forced yourself to look at something that wasn’t his face.

"I'd be happy to discuss it," he said. "But we didn't schedule anything, and I have students waiting. Be more specific.” he looked at you with the same distant look he always gave you.

"I think there might have been a mistake," you said, quietly, "in the corrections." The phrase came out small, almost broken. Nothing like the sentence you'd rehearsed on the way.

He looked at you for a long moment without changing his expression. Then something happened at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, he would never smile, and he tilted his head very slightly to one side.  "A mistake," he repeated.

You nodded. Yes, fuck, a mistake. Why is he looking at you like you're the dumbest person in the building?

“Well, the argument is coherent," he responded. "The sources are adequate. The structure is fine. And yet." He folded his hands on the desk. “It reads as a work of someone that isn’t quite there during the writing. Which makes me wonder.”

“I was focused. I’ve read and listened to your corrections every time.” This is the only thing that you could get out in that moment.

Joel looked at you, “Since you insist — no,” he said, “You weren’t paying attention.” He leaned forward, his elbows now on his desk. 

“You’ve been whoring around.” 

What? The shock made you finally look at him, more like a scared stare. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.” he continued in the same flat tone, totally stripped of any implication of having said something inappropriate just now. “The skirt last week. The blouse the time before that, the one with the two buttons undone at the top." He said it without inflection, without embarrassment. "You wore it again the following session. Three buttons off that time." 

"I noticed." He looked at you constantly. "You dressed like that and then sat across from me. Expecting me to talk about essay structure." 

Stop, just stop, this is not what you expected at all.

"And now you come in here to tell me there's a mistake in the corrections." His eyes moved over body briefly and then came back to your face. 

You opened your mouth but nothing came out of it. The worst part of this all is that he was not wrong. You did do all that on purpose.

“Tell me what you think about”, he said, “When you’re writing.”

You swallowed, his look — everything was making your brain short circuit. “I think about the notes, the argume—”

“No, you don’t. I want to know what you’re actually thinking about.” Joel's voice was so calm it was infuriating you. But then he moved and your heart skipped a beat. He walked just enough to be in front of you and the door, making you instinctively take a step back towards it. He pushed it shut, you heard the latch catching softly, and there you were, your shoulders against the wood of the door, him in front of you. You didn’t say anything, unsure of what was about to happen, having him so close to you made your nervous system go crazy.

But then — as if you were not already about to die — his hand came to rest on your hip, over your clothes, still looking at your face.

“You couldn’t say it.” He whispered, his voice gentle, “That’s alright.” His thumb moved, just slightly, tracing the hem of your shirt through the fabric and you just stayed frozen; you’ve learned to be falsely still and calm all those times in his office, except now it costed considerably more.

What were you supposed to do? What are people supposed to do when your professor is touching you like this? Even if you wanted — needed — this, your anxiety was reaching inhumane levels.

"I've been wondering," he continued, "what you think about when you're supposed to be listening." His hand slid to your back. "I think you think about this." 

You exhaled shakingly and kept saying nothing, you couldn't. You were a mess, and you knew he could feel it.

“And this.”  His other hand came up to your jaw, just his fingers, tilting your face up toward his without any real pressure, giving you every opportunity to pull back.

You didn't pull back. 

"You think about whether I'd be careful with you," he continued quietly, "or whether I wouldn't." He shifted his weight forward and slid his thigh between yours and stopped. Just stopped there…like it's a perfectly reasonable thing to do. It felt like he was waiting to see what you'll do with it. You did absolutely nothing. You were incapable of doing nothing, even if your body was feeling a million different emotions without your permission, you didn't move.

"Still nothing to say?" he asked. His voice was so very low now, close to your ear, and it sounded almost like every other time he's spoken to you in this room except that his thigh is pressed between your fucking legs and you could feel the warmth of him through both layers of fabric. You kept your hands flat against the door behind you because you really didn't trust them anywhere else.

You shook your head, very slightly.

"That's what I thought," he said.

Then the pressure between your legs suddenly increased. Slowly, just enough, and the sound that escaped you was involuntary, completely mortifying. What?

Silence in the room, didn't he want this from you? What the fuck is going on.

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, and the expression he had is one you've never seen on him before, not the calm, or patience, or professional distance you hated so much. Something different from all of that, finally surfaced. His jaw was tight. 

"Finally a sound coming from your mouth, do that again." he said quietly while pressing his thigh forward again, slightly moving it, then moving his hand on your waist. Fuck. Then again, upward, tracing your chest. "You've been coming in here every week. Sitting across from me." he said conversationally — like he wasn't touching his own student in his own office. His thumb found the edge of your bra through the fabric and stopped there, right on your breast.

"Did you think I didn't notice?" You couldn't answer. His thigh moved once more and your breath caught audibly. "All those essays," he continued. His hand moved to your chest, slow, cupping you through your shirt, and the casualness of it, the way he did it like he had every right, made your knees uncertain. "You're a good writer when you want to be. You just need the right motivation."

“That’s not—” you started.

“I didn’t ask you a question now.”

His thigh moved again and the world dissolved when you heard that. He leaned in until his mouth was close to your temple, his breath warm against your hair. "You've been doing all that imagining, and I've been sitting right here. Doesn't that seem like a waste?" His hand slid under the hem of your shirt, finally skin on skin, at your waist. It sent a shiver up to your spine almost immediately, and a wave of heat down your center.

You were not sure if that was all a dream or you were actually hallucinating it all.

"Tell me," he said, "what you want." His thigh kept its slow pace, while his hand kept resting there, warm, against your skin — under your shirt, his mouth still close to your temple. Your answer came out as barely anything, more exhaled than spoken, your eyes closed and your head tipped back against the door.

"I want you to touch me." Your chest was rising and falling way too fast, your hands still flat against the door because you still didn't trust them. You were not sure you trusted anything about yourself in this moment except the fact that you meant it, have meant it for months, and now it was out in the room between you.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His thigh stilled, just for a second, enough to make you aware of the absence of movement, and then his hand moved down further, to the hem of your skirt, his fingers finding the edge of it and stopping there.

"Here?" he whispered, like he was clarifying something. This felt more like an exam than whatever incredibly wrong this was going on.

You couldn't speak, so you just nodded, barely.

"Tell me."

"Yes," you managed. "There." 

"And here?" His fingertips slipped underneath, pressing lightly against your center through the fabric of your panties, and the touch was so careful and yet so insufficient that you made a sound you immediately regretted. His hand stayed exactly where it was, enough pressure to make your whole body aware of it. You were sure you were soaking wet, so embarrassingly worked up that it felt wrong he could now feel it, after all these weeks.

"Is this what you thought about?" the velvet of his voice wasn't helping.

"Yes." It came out immediately, no hesitation left in you.

His fingers moved slowly in circles, warm against the fabric of your panties, leaving you completely desperate for more. Your core was literally pulsing under his touch, begging to have even crumbs of a real pressure, to release this very ache he created in your lower belly.

Then he…stopped?

"I don't think you've earned it," he said. Just like that, composed.  He said it like it was a perfectly reasonable academic assessment.

"You've been sitting in my office for months, thinking about this instead of listening. Writing essays you could do in your sleep just to have a reason to come back. You've been very selfish about it, actually."

His thigh was still beneath your aching core, his hand moved to your bare thighs again, and the absence of friction was so sudden and so cruel that before you could stop yourself you moved, your hips tilting forward, chasing it — looking for the pressure that was just there, and the moment you did it you understood from his expression that this was exactly what he was waiting for. For a second you suddenly felt so self conscious and embarrassed by what you did that you looked at him without moving anymore.

And he did let himself slightly smile, this one time, out of all the times you've met each other in the last appointments.

"Go on," he said.

You were mortified.

"No, please," he said, softly, with his fucking exaggerated patience, "don't stop on my account." His hand on your thigh didn't move an inch. His thigh didn't move an inch. He was completely, infuriatingly still. "You were doing so well."

"Don't—" you managed.

"Don't what?"

No answer could come out of you, of course.

He was well aware of the fact that you were dying to feel him move again. The fact that he knew it, that he was looking at you like this — he could see exactly how desperate you were and has decided to take his time about it, it should make you angry. Instead it made you press your hips forward again, almost involuntarily, and he watched it happen with quiet satisfaction.

"There," he said softly. "That's better."

Just like that your hips started to move, rolling forward against his thigh with a pace your body found without your permission. The pressure is insufficient and perfect at the same time and also…so fucking humiliating. But you couldn't stop. You were grinding your center against him like you had no dignity left and had decided to make peace with that fact.

 "Just like that." he whispered close to your ear. His lips brushed the shell of it, barely.

"I wonder how many times," he murmured, "did you think about this specifically." His hand slid higher on your thigh, stroking the skin, cupping the curve of your ass. You could feel the warmth of it, feeling the movement of you. "Because you move like you've practiced."

"What—" a broken breath came out of you. You did practice.

This is insane.

"I'm not saying it to embarrass you." He continued, while squeezing your thigh once. "I'm saying it because I want to know." he paused for a second. "Did you touch yourself thinking about me?"

You didn’t answer, though the pleasure that was filling your body couldn't make your hips stop moving and that was enough of a confession.

"That's an answer" he said softly.

"Desperate," he said, almost to himself, like it was an observation that pleased him considerably. His mouth pressed once to the side of your neck. "You've been this desperate for weeks, haven't you."

You tipped your head back against the door and while you kept moving, you stopped pretending any of this was something that was just happening to you rather than something you were choosing, over and over, with every roll of your hips against his thigh. Now you were fighting yourself to not just whimper out loud at the feeling of his lips on your neck.

"Answer me." he murmured against your neck.

"Yes," you breathed. "Weeks."

"Good girl," he said. The exact moment you heard those words you couldn't help but make a sound you couldn't suppress if you tried, a broken moan. Whatever pride you had left dissolved somewhere in the last five minutes.

"Careful, these walls are not as thick as you'd like them to be right now." A murmur against your skin, "The hallway is not empty."

His thumb traced your cheekbone, his touch was so tender, you thought. When his thigh pressed forward just slightly your eyes closed involuntarily. "And you're being very loud for someone who came in here to complain."

"Is that what you want?" he murmured again. "For someone to walk past and hear you?" His fingers moved against your face, tilting your chin up slightly. "Months of coming in here pretending to be a serious student, and now you can't keep quiet for five minutes." 

Every word he said made you feel even more humiliated. You thought it couldn’t be worse than that.

“Look at me." 

You opened your eyes. 

"Are you going to be good?"

You nodded and you tried — you genuinely tried. You pressed your lips together and kept your eyes open and focused on whatever could distract you…something neutral, the desk, the window, the stack of marked essays that started all of this. But his fucking thigh was still there pressing on your center, your hips were still moving and the pleasure has been building for long enough now that it has its own its own logic, completely independent of what you wanted to want.

The sounds started escaping anyway. Small, bitten back things that weren't quite silent. You couldn't stop them, you couldn't stop moving and somewhere in the middle of all of it your hand came off the door without you deciding to let it and found his shirt instead, your fingers curling into the fabric just below his chest, gripping on it because you needed something to hold onto while you were melting away.

Joel looked down at your hand, then straight back up at your face.

"I told you to be good," he said, taking your wrist firmly, moving your hand back to the door. It was now flat against the wood again, but he held it there for a moment under his palm like he was making a point. Like he was telling you — don't touch me.

His free hand came up to your face again, his fingers first resting against your mouth. They hovered just in front of your lips, close enough that you can feel the warmth of them, close enough that if you moved even slightly forward you'd close the distance yourself.

"You really don't know how to listen," he muttered. "I've been thinking that from the beginning." His fingers traced the outline of your lips. "Every appointment. Every correction." You inhaled sharply against his fingers. "You hear what you want and ignore the rest." 

His fingertips finally made contact, just the very tips, on your lower lip, pressing down on it slightly, parting it from the upper.

"Maybe," he said, watching your mouth, "this is more effective."

His fingers pressed a little further, to the edge of your teeth. Before you could register anything his fingers slid past your parted lips. Just two, just to the first knuckle, resting on your tongue, watching watched your face with an attention that you would have died to receive in any other moment. Except now you didn’t even feel like yourself anymore. You were just a mess with flushed cheeks and a throbbing core over him.

"That's better, you have to be quiet." he murmured with a soft voice.

You are nowhere near this office anymore. You were nowhere near this building, this hallway, this version of yourself that came in here forty minutes ago with a rehearsed speech and something to prove. You were just this; your Professor's thigh between your legs and his fingers in your mouth and his eyes on your face, and the waves of pleasure that have been building for weeks. They rested on your tongue, and he watched your mouth close around them with an expression that has finally, completely shed the last of its professional distance.

"Good," he said quietly.

His thigh pressed forward, still steady, as his fingers curved slightly, just enough, and you made a sound around them that you felt in your whole body. It was close, you were coming. Very close, you could feel it building at the base of your spine, your hips moving faster now, less controlled, chasing it. Grinding on him like you needed this to survive.

And then three knocks on the door behind you and you turned to stone.

Everything stopped. Your hips, your breathing, your heart probably.

Joel moved faster than you've ever seen him move. His fingers slid out of your mouth and his palm replaced them immediately, pressing flat against your lips, and he straightened up with a composure that is frankly obscene given the circumstances. He cleared his throat once, quietly. "One moment." His voice coming out completely normal. Calm, the voice you were used to. "Wait for me outside, I'll be right with you."

A beat. Footsteps retreating down the corridor.

He looked at you. You were pressed against the door, his hand over your mouth, your eyes wide with fear, the orgasm that was thirty seconds away now suspended somewhere just out of reach, and an expression on his face is one you would think about for a very long time. Then his free hand found your hip, his fingers curled into it, and he pressed forward, his body against yours, closing every inch of distance. The message was perfectly clear.

Continue. 

His hips rolled against you once, a demonstration, his hand still firm over your mouth, and he raised an eyebrow, like he was waiting for you to do what he wanted you to do. Someone was standing twenty meters away on the other side of that door, waiting for him, and he was looking at you like the only thing worth caring for at that moment was you riding his thigh. You obeyed, not sure why.

It took you a second but then your hips started moving again, his hand staying exactly where it was over your mouth as he watched you find the pleasure again with an expression of complete satisfaction.

Good, his eyes said. Don't stop.

Your breathing was loud against his palm. You were close again. Closer than before, the interruption created something tighter rather than releasing it, your fingers pressed on the door and your hips stuttered. He felt it. You knew he did because something in his face shifted, and he leaned in until his mouth was at your ear, you were melting at the feeling of his hand still firm over your lips.

"Quietly," he whispered.

That's all. Just that one word and you came apart against him in complete silence, your sounds swallowed by his palm, your head pressed against the door, your whole body shaking with the effort of not making a sound while everything you've been carrying for months released all at once in an insanely strong orgasm.

He held you through it. He was still not letting his hand move until the last of it had passed.

Then, slowly, Joel pulled back. His palm left your mouth and he straightened his shirt where you've gripped it, smoothed it flat with both hands, and looked at you. You were flushed and undone still against his office door. Your knees were shaking and you felt dizzy, like this was really all a dream.

"Fix your hair" he waited for you to listen to him.

Then Joel opened the door and you quickly stepped out into the hallway. You could hear his voice, completely normal, completely composed, telling the boy to go in. You walked down the corridor like someone that had somewhere to go. But you didn't — you made it to the stairs before you had to stop. You stood there with one hand on the railing as you tried to calm yourself down. Your legs were unsteady. Your mouth tasted like his fingers. Your hair was fixed now.

What the fuck happened? And why did you listen to him like that?  You went to his office to tell him that you were tired of him over correcting those stupid essays of his. It was just too much to process. You didn’t really know how you could go back to your best friend and act like nothing had happened.

author's note: Thank you for the huge support already! I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Chapter Three. ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ His office.

It was a Thursday evening when your phone buzzed. You were on the couch doing nothing in particular, you'd spent most of your evenings like that lately; your mind was a literal beehive since that day to get busy with anything. You picked it up without thinking.

Grade posted: Comparative Literary Analysis I — Prof. J. Miller

You opened it immediately, before you could talk yourself out of it, or decide you'd rather not know. The number sat there on the screen, and you stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. It was the kind of grade that meant you did understand the assignment…and done it wrong anyway, which was definitely worse than not understanding it at all for you. You scrolled down and found a note at the bottom: 

Students who have received below 70% are required to attend office hours on Friday, 2:00–4:00 PM. Attendance is mandatory.

You read it twice, then checked your grade again as if the number might have changed in the last ten seconds. It hadn't. sixty five percent, sitting there, glowing, making you anxious for god knows what. You put your phone face down on the cushion and looked back at whatever was playing on the screen, not seeing any of it. You weren't sure if the grade or the appointment was the thing making your stomach do what it was doing. Knots.

By Friday afternoon you'd changed your outfit twice and told yourself it didn't mean anything. Surely, he wouldn't notice how you put a skirt just for him? Like it would be easier to access if anything happened.

You knocked twice before you heard him.

"Come in."

The office was smaller than you expected. Books everywhere, stacked on the desk, lining the walls, some open and face down, it looked like he'd put them there some time during work and never gone back. It smelled like paper and something warmer, you recognized that scent immediately, it was his scent.

He was at his desk, typing on his laptop. He glanced up just long enough to register that you were there, then looked back at the screen.

"Sit down, I'll be with you in a moment."   

You sat and looked around while you waited. A half empty coffee cup on the corner of the desk. A copy of Dostoevsky on top of a stack of papers. Post-its on the edge of the monitor — even on the back of it — covered in handwriting too small to read from where you were sitting. The window behind him looked out onto the courtyard, grey afternoon light coming through. You folded your hands in your lap and waited, trying to look like someone who was even remotely fine. After a moment he stopped typing and looked at you.

He saved whatever he was working on without rushing, then pushed his chair back and stood. You watched him move to the shelf on the wall, and scan it for a moment before pulling out a folder. Your essay, and the others probably, all together, printed.

He passed close behind your chair on the way back, close enough that you felt the air shift, caught that scent again and forgot, for approximately two seconds, what you were there for. He didn't go back to his chair. He leaned against the front of the desk with the folder in hand, close enough that if you'd leaned forward even slightly the distance between you would have been unreasonable.

Fuck.

He opened the folder, found your essay, and held it out.

"So, sixty five," he said, like you needed reminding. Didn't even land it to you; he leaned forward and set it down in front of you, flat on the desk keeping one finger on the page to hold it open.

"Here," he said, finger on the page. So close. You had to make a conscious effort to actually read the words he was pointing at instead of just being aware of his hand. His hands. You'd thought about his hands more than was reasonable for someone you barely knew.

"Your opening is decent," he said finally. This was not a great sign for sure. Decent?

"You establish the premise clearly enough. But here…" his finger moving the page, "you lose the thread entirely. Third paragraph. You introduce a second argument without resolving the first, and then you spend the rest of the essay trying to hold both together." He tapped the page once. "It doesn't work."

His tie was hanging forward, swaying slightly with each movement, and your eyes fix on it without meaning to. The fabric. The length of it. The color — red.

How it would feel wrapped twice around your wrists, pulled taut behind your back, your arms rendered completely useless while he does whatever he wants with you. You shifted in your chair. He's still talking, his voice low and infuriatingly calm.

Images keep forming in your mind. You on your knees, wrists bound with that tie, his hand fisted in your hair, his cock pushed to the back of your throat every time you try to speak. No more words at all filling the office, just the wet sound of your mouth and his grip tightening whenever you make a sound he hasn't asked for. You'd take it. You know you'd take all of it. He looks up, then straightens, and the tie falls back against his shirt, and the image dissolves before you've finished building it.

"Are you following?" You nodded, once, your lips pressed together, and say absolutely nothing.

"You write like you're afraid of your own arguments," he said. "You get close to something interesting and then you pull back." He looked at you. "Why?" 

"I'm not sure," you muttered.

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

"So I'll ask again." His voice was the same. "Why do you pull back?" He then continued. "I feel like you're holding back in the writing and," he paused, just briefly, "I suspect elsewhere."

The room suddenly felt suffocating.

What was that supposed to mean.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, which took more effort than it should have and eventually gathered enough courage to answer. 

“What do you mean?” you looked at him, “you said “elsewhere”.”

"I mean," he said slowly trying to find the right words, "that you strike me as someone who knows exactly what she wants and spends a considerable amount of energy pretending otherwise."

Your heart was exploding, literally hammering and threatening to escape from your chest.

"That's a lot to take from a two page essay," you said.

The corner of his mouth moved. A smile? No, close to it. 

"It is," he agreed. He held your gaze for a moment that lasted too long to be professional, his eyes moving across your face like he was reading something there. Then he picked up the folder, and held your essay out.

"Work on the third paragraph," he said. "The argument is there. You just have to commit to it."

You took the paper, "Thank you," you said. He was already moving back around the desk to his chair back to his side, the correct arrangement of things, and he nodded once without looking up. "Work on it before the next one."

"I will." You picked up your bag. 

"See you next week," he said, already looking at his screen.

"See you next week," you muttered back, and left.

The hallway outside was bright and full of students going somewhere, and you stood in it for a second feeling like you'd just walked out of a different atmosphere entirely; your body needed time to adjust, you felt like your heart was about to literally explode inside of you. Next time you will do better. You were not sure if you meant better on the essay, or on whatever your mind decided to come up with anytime he was close to you.

Little did you know those encounters became more and more frequent. Lesson after lesson, his voice measured and patient, your notes filling page after page with things you already know by the time you write them down. Then the essay and always the same result.

“Not quite there, try again, come see me.”

You went back. You sat across from him and he explained, calmly, what you got wrong, and you nodded, you listened and you left with corrections you could have written yourself.

Weeks passed like this.

The essays piled up, red marked and returned, and the cycle repeated with a regularity that starts to feel domestic, it was almost making you mad. Everybody said Miller as a teacher was brutal, but you started to feel like you were the only one messing up that much for him. You knew the walk to his office by heart now, the way the light changed in the corridor after four in the afternoon, the sound his door made when it isn't fully latched. And every time you crossed that threshold, something happened to your mind that you've stopped trying to control.

The first time, you imagined him closing the essay on the desk, turning to you, and telling you quietly that there were better ways to learn. The second time it was worse, his hand was flat on the desk next to yours, and you spent the entire session thinking about what it would feel like on the back of your neck, pressing down and holding you still. Then it was his voice and what it might sound like stripped of all its composure, low and unguarded, right against your ear. Then his tie. Then his hands again, but differently. Each visit was bringing something new, something your imagination created without asking your permission, and you've learned to sit very still and keep your expression neutral while your mind does things that would make the conversation considerably more complicated.

You also knew, by now, exactly how the visit will end, not in his office, but later, alone. It has become as reliable as the failed essay itself. Sometimes you made it all the way home, twenty minutes on the subway with his voice still looping in your head, and by the time you got your keys in the lock your hands weren't entirely steady. You eased the door open first, listening for voices in the kitchen, the television, someone's music punding under a closed door. When the apartment was empty you didn't always make it as far as the bedroom. When it wasn't, you learned to be quiet in ways you never needed to be, the shower running a little longer than necessary, or your door locked on the excuse of a headache, or needing to study. 

Other times the twenty minutes were too long and you didn't even try. You'd find the bathroom closer to his office, it was usually empty in the late afternoon anyway. You would lock the door, hitch your skirt up and get your hand inside your underwear, always finding yourself already wet, like you have been for the last twenty minutes of the session probably, and that fact alone would send a sharp pulse of heat through you. You thought about his tie hanging forward over the desk. You thought about his hand flat on the surface next to yours. Two fingers, then three, your wrist working at an angle you've perfected by now in exactly this context, your forehead tipped forward against the cool of the wall.

And then the other thing, the thing you like least about yourself in these moments but couldn't seem to make you stop: the ring. The gold band on his left hand that you've memorized at that point, that sat there through every session, every correction, every time he says your name. Him with every reason not to fuck you and doing it regardless, his ring still on his finger and his hands on you anyway, his composure finally, completely gone for you.

The idea that you could be the thing that made him stop being careful. It doesn't take long, it never does, not when you're starting from here. You'd come with your teeth pressed into your lower lip and one hand braced against the wall, silent, but still a little ruthless about it. Then you'd straighten your skirt, run the tap, check your face in the mirror. Walk back out into the corridor. His door still closed.

On those nights you were not in a hurry, you took your time, you used your hands first and then you'd reach for the drawer and when you finally pushed the dildo inside you, you were already thinking about him, first the way you imagined he would, slowly, the same way he explained things, with a patience that made you feel like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Then the pacing would fasten every minute more, one hand working and the other twisted in the sheets, chasing something that never felt like enough. It’s a pattern. You would finish and lie there for a moment staring at the ceiling, head empty. And then again, him. You thought about starting over. Sometimes you did. 

Then one day another essay came back marked and you sat with it in your hands for a long moment and thought that’s enough. You read through his notes slowly this time, really read them, and something in your chest tightened that had nothing to do with desire. The corrections were different this time, they were sharper, written in a kind of language that makes you feel like you’d have to change your career path. There's something almost disrespectful in the margin notes, a tone you haven't heard from him in person ever. Enough. It felt like you cleared your mind, thinking about the day it started, and how now this was beggining to feel like a humiliation ritual. Every single week for two months.

Fuck off.

You were losing your mind over this man. You decided that next week, after the lesson, you would go to his office and finally deal with this.