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covetsauvignon · 2 years

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as it stands - chapter two

associate professor joshua x university staff member reader genre: smut, angst if you squint overall warnings: use of the word "war", afab reader, oral (f), fingering

series: intro - chapter one - chapter two

tag list (open): @hynjnhwng | @cloudyhoonie

this chapter pairs well with the following music: dido and aeneas, z. 626 / act iii: when i am laid in earth beverage: cavaliere d’oro campanile pinot grigio delle venezie 2018

it's finally here! shoutout to anyone who catches my three fun easter eggs. also sent this to my high school bestie while drunk and he proofread it brb dying of embarrassment!!!

Clove

“As it stands, any relationships of a sexual or romantic nature between faculty or staff members within the same school, department, or college are strongly discouraged, except in certain circumstances, usually those extenuating from a relationship existing prior to the employment of one or both parties.”

It’s just talking. It’s not a relationship. Over the course of the past month, you’ve spent nearly as much time in Joshua’s office as you’ve spent at home, opting to visit him for a few hours while he grades papers or reviews lesson plans when you’re finished with work rather than leaving campus right away.

You don’t go on dates. You don’t even see each other outside of the classics building.

You don’t mind. It’s easier like this.

Simpler. Cleaner.

When you’re together, you talk about anything. And everything. He wants to know about where you grew up. What do your siblings do? Who are you more like: your mother, or your father? Did you grow up religious? What do you believe now? What’s your favorite book, movie, tv show, menu item at McDonald’s, place you’ve visited? Have you seen any of the natural wonders of the world? Did you know that ravens can talk? Did you know humans have studied more of space than the ocean? What’s your favorite constellation? Snow or rain? Sunshine or clouds?

You learn that he likes the color blue, he’s an only child, he was raised a devout Catholic, he can play guitar, his favorite animals are rabbits (he has a pet bunny named Hannie), and he’s never been good with asking other people for help.

In return, you tell him some of the useless facts you know. Such as: blobfish are actually normal looking fish at their natural deep sea pressure, declawing cats removes all but the last knuckle of their toes, and, speaking of toes, Viggo Mortensen broke his when kicking that helmet in The Two Towers.

He takes to the habit of collecting shooters and miniature handles of liquor, bitters and syrups and other cocktail ingredients small enough to hide behind the books of his office (it is a dry campus, after all), so that he can learn how to make cocktails. Sometimes, he asks you to teach him something new. Other times, he shows off with his own research. His brands and blends are a bit wrong, sometimes, but you never say anything. He’s trying, and it makes you warm from head to toe.

Then, there are the other times. More and more frequent, as of late, one question in this direction branching off into dozens, each more suggestive and salacious than the last.

First kiss? How many relationships have you been in? Have you ever been in love? What’s your favorite position? How often do you pleasure yourself? Do you ever think about someone in particular while doing so? Have you ever thought about me? Will you think about me tonight? If we didn’t know each other through work, if we met at a bar, would we have slept together by now?

For better or worse, it’s not long until the space between you becomes so wrought full of tension and desire that you can scarcely stand to be in the same room with other people around out of fear that anyone will be able to tell something’s happening between the two of you just by looking. The lounge and hallways become a war zone full of mines in the form of students and other faculty and staff. You find you’re beginning to avoid people.

Not that, in either of your offices, you have ever truly been alone together. Your office, especially, is not private; either the lobby door or the chair’s office door or both are open, meaning anyone is welcome to enter at any point. Part of the reason you speak so softly in the sanctity of Joshua’s office is because students tend to come and go with questions or late assignments every so often, so his door is always open, too.

The pair of you have never been alone behind closed doors.

Until now.

You didn’t see him talking to a student down the hall as you slipped into the storage room, and he didn’t see you pass by on your way. You don’t bother turning on the lights; the window at the far end of the room lets in enough cloud-covered sunshine to guide you comfortably. The room is decently sized, filled with dozens of filing and storage cabinets, rows of shelves, and the old faculty and staff lounge couch that was now shoved into the far corner.

It’s dark and quiet, close and familiar. You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear the door open unexpectedly.

“Jesus, you scared me,” you laugh, looking away quickly, turning your attention back to the cabinet of supplies you’d just opened. What you’d been searching for, however, is lost on you. You haven’t the faintest idea why you came here in the first place.

All you know is that now Joshua is here with you. Alone.

“Out of staples?” You ask. It’s an innocent question, to be sure. But, in this context, any question - any attempt at communication - serves only to stir the feelings and urges you’re both trying desperately to suppress.

“I honestly can’t even remember,” he answers, laughing softly. His voice is quiet and gentle, as ever, but slightly tense.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you begin organizing the storage cabinet instead of pulling items from it. Straightening a box of paper clips here, re-stacking a set of index cards there. Your hands are fitful, nervous and flighty like a baby bird trying to get off the ground for the first time.

It’s the proximity. And the light. Or, rather, the lack of light. It’s the way the hint of poplar wood you glean from his cologne is wrapping itself around you like a python, creeping through your veins and making you think about making regrettable decisions. Regrettably delicious decisions.

“That’s unfortunate,” you reply succinctly.

“Somehow I sense that I’m not alone in suddenly feeling lost,” he murmurs. There’s a soft metallic sound, one you recognize as him fidgeting with his wristwatch. He does it when he’s deep in thought. Or nervous. Or both.

“Is it that obvious?” You sigh, carefully closing the creaky metal cabinet before turning to face him. He’s hovering by the door, one hand worrying with his watch, his eyes moving from the floor to your face as he senses your movement. You can’t decipher his expression. Your own gaze flickers to the door handle.

You notice it has a lock.

That lights a flame in your stomach, the hungry sort that only grows stronger the more you try to blow it out.

“Not really, I’m just getting better at reading you,” he answers. You’re both quiet for a moment. Anxious. Tempted. “Are you afraid?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Of what?”

“Of getting caught.”

You swallow hard. Something is buzzing in your chest and your fingertips. “We’re not doing anything,” you say cautiously.

“That could change. If you want it to.”

You look at him, and he looks at you, and the weight of this moment, the gaze you’re sharing, and all of its implications makes your head spin. “What if someone comes in?” you ask. He turns slightly, looking at the door handle for a moment before delicately clicking the lock into place. “What if someone finds out?”

“They won’t,” he assures you softly, taking the smallest of steps towards you.

Your heartbeat begins to quicken. Your lips suddenly feel dry. You lick them. You don’t think you’ve ever been so nervous. “I need this job. I can’t get fired.” He’s close enough now that beneath his cologne you’re beginning to detect notes of his aftershave. It smells like mint. You wonder if, perhaps, you could taste it on your lips if you kissed along his jaw.

“No one’s going to fire you,” he shakes his head. “If we get caught, which we won’t, I’ll take the blame.”

You frown. “I don’t like the idea of that, either. I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

“Oh?” The corner of his mouth curls into a slight grin. “And what about what I want?”

“What is it that you want?”

In another two agonizingly slow, careful steps, he closes the distance, and for the first time you realize how tall he is, how fully his presence enraptures you. “Permission,” he says at last.

You feel like all the air has been sucked out of your lungs. You look up at him, into his eyes, so kind and caring and sweet and warm, and it’s all over. “Please,” you whisper. “Joshua, please.” He raises his hand, running the back of his knuckles so gently across your cheek you’re unsure if you’re imagining it or not.

“Please what?”

“Kiss me.”

The hand by your face turns, and his palm comes to rest along your jaw, thumb running across your cheek while his fingers curl beneath your chin to tilt your head up as he softly presses his lips to yours, his other hand coming to ghost over your hip, guiding your body just slightly closer to his.

At first, it’s chaste. Bubblegum pink, glitter suspended in liquid around the edges. Soda flavored lip gloss and mood rings and Lisa Frank folders. The warmth in your chest stays there, innocent and nostalgic. It makes you think of your very first kiss with your best friend, Ricky, in eighth grade, outside the auditorium as you wait for your sister to get out of drama club.

Certain elements come back to you, replacing your senses in the present with the memories of your past. Your backpack, weighed down by at least three textbooks and covered with Pokemon pins. The Hello Kitty bandaid on your knee pulling slightly at your skin. The cloyingly sweet vanilla ice cream perfume you wore at the time filling your lungs.

Then, the tip of Joshua’s tongue flickers against your bottom lip, and you find yourself wrenched from your very first, far in the past, to the new first you’re experiencing now.

This first could not be more different.

It’s a deep burgundy, the color of wine, and you’re already drunk on the feeling of it, the taste of him. You open your mouth, eager and pliant, and his tongue finds yours. The hand on your hip tightens, the other on your face moving to your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt as he pulls you up against him. You’re vaguely aware of the fact that when your body meets his, when you feel him already growing half hard in his khakis, that a moan escapes you, one which he devours intently.

Your own hands can’t stay still, running up his arms and over his shoulders and down to his chest, his heart beating wildly against your palm. You let your fingers flit over his collar before sliding up the nape of his neck and tangling in his hair. It’s as soft as you’d imagined, and the contact makes him pull away, a breathy groan escaping him before he begins pressing kisses along your jaw. When he reaches your neck, his tongue and teeth begin gracing your skin just as much as his lips. His bites are gentle, soothed instantly with a swirl of his tongue, and you find yourself letting out the tiniest, neediest sounds.

A wildfire rages inside of you, your bones becoming ashen branches licked and burned by flames so hot and intense you wouldn’t be surprised if your skin was scorching to the touch. You’re so filled with want - so much, so fully, it’s almost unbearable. You’ve never needed anyone like this, and you’re not quite sure what to do about it. Desire blossoms like roses within your core, the edges of their petals singed by the heat that roils inside of you.

“Not enough,” you pant quietly, eyes clamping shut as his teeth do the same along your throat.

“What do you need?” he murmurs against your skin.

“More. Touch me more, please, I want-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before he’s steering you back, gently pinning you to the cabinet you’d been sorting just a few moments ago. One of his knees slides between your legs, parting them, the hem of your skirt rising, his thigh gently nudging against your already sensitive clit as he settles in close to you. It’s enough to make you whimper, but not enough to sate you. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

He pulls away from your neck to look at you, leveling you with a gaze honey-dipped in lust, his eyes still sweet and soft, but achingly hungry. “May I?” he asks, running his thumbs over the collar of your dress shirt. You nod, eyes flitting to the locked door.

“Hurry.”

He smirks. “That can be arranged.” Then, with a harsh movement so sudden and sharp you don’t see it, he rips your shirt open, the topmost button popping straight off and clattering to the floor. You gasp, but he wastes no time, pulling the remaining fabric out of your skirt and clutching your ribs as he dives to your collarbone. He picks up where he left off, kissing and nipping and licking your skin until he reaches the center of your chest. His breath is hot against your sternum as his hands glide up to the back of your bra, delicately stroking the fabric there.

“Yes, please, yes,” you insist before he even gets the chance to ask. His nimble fingers make quick work of it, unlatching your bra and then moving his hands to your shoulders, pulling the straps and your shirt down, flinging them off your arms and onto the floor in one smooth motion.

Within the next moment, you arch your back and his mouth is around one of your nipples, his fingers playing with the other. His tongue swirls and teases, his teeth gentle at first. But as soon as you moan, he’s on you in earnest, pulling your nipple between his teeth until he feels you shudder. His thumb rolls lazily against your other breast until he decides to switch, making you gasp under your breath.

Within moments you find yourself bucking your hips, running your center along his thigh, desperate for friction. Your hands tangle in his hair again, and you’re somewhat certain you’re whispering his name like a prayer. Then, he drops to his knees, his hands moving from your breasts to your skirt, bunching it further up your waist until he’s level with your panties.

“Can I?” He looks up at you, his warm brown eyes simmering darkly with desire, but they’re just as tender and honest as they’ve ever been. His breath fans across your inner thighs, and your hips move forward ever so slightly, yet ever so eagerly in response that you should be embarrassed.

Now, it’s all you can do to whine and nod. But it’s enough for him.

One hand tugs the already soaked fabric of your panties aside so he can lick you, tongue hot and heavy, from your core to your clit, the clever muscle instantly coated in your wetness.

“Fuck,” his voice hitches as his lips wrap around that bundle of nerves, the hand not holding your panties open for him kneading a soothing rhythm into your thigh.

Time has no meaning, now. At first, you’re still somewhat cognizant. You can feel his fingers against your leg, methodical and purposeful. It’s grounding. Especially in comparison to the way his mouth moves against you. Sinful. Heavenly. A dichotomy that threatens to split you asunder, one part of your brain enraptured in pleasure, the other half a little afraid of how much you like it.

But then, his hand leaves your thigh. His fingers are suddenly sliding along your slit, discovering your entrance, coaxing it open with two fingers that he then pushes inside of you with no resistance.

Now, it’s all heat, it’s all so good, it’s all too much. Your stomach begins to knot, but the sensations of him keep going, keep building. The steady pressure of his fingers inside you, the gentle ministrations of his tongue against you. Every time he enters you is a strike of lightning, yet only curling tendrils of smoke and gentle dapples of sunlight play behind your eyelids. The visions are pale and soft and comforting as he drives you ever to your ecstasy in strokes so very determined, so very fervent.

You don’t last long.

“Joshua, I-” You try to warn him, but at the sound of his name he curls his fingers inside of you and you’re coming harder than you ever have before. The satisfaction trickles like melting ice from the top of your head, pooling in the molten center of your hips before shivering down your legs, leaving you shaking slightly and utterly breathless.

Finally, Joshua pulls away, his lips and chin slick with you, and he smiles, pleasant and delicate and so at odds with the way he just made you feel. You’re suddenly a bit light headed, so you let your knees buckle and your back slide down the cabinet until you’re sitting on the floor.

“Are you alright?” Joshua asks, his expression growing a touch worried.

You nod, smiling and sighing and letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Very, very much better than alright,” you answer with a laugh.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says quietly, and when you open your eyes to look at him, he’s still on his knees, licking clean the fingers that were inside of you mere moments ago, the fingers that just made you see stars. The sight of it makes you forget about how spent you are, replacing all other thoughts with one singular desire: him. Him, him, and more of him.

You shift to your knees, fingers flying to the buttons of his shirt as you kiss him, feverishly hot and fast. You can feel him grin, lips twisting away from yours for only a moment, amused by your short-lived exhaustion and renewed enthusiasm. He shrugs out of his shirt, his palms coming to caress your shoulder blades as your own hands run down his chest, skimming across his stomach, touch feather-light, before you begin to busy yourself with his belt.

When it’s unfastened, he pulls away and stands, tugging your hands to bring you up with him. His mouth returns to yours like a magnet, his body turning and guiding the pair of you towards the long-forgotten couch in the corner. When the back of your knees hit the rough old cushions, his hands dip to unzip your skirt. Thoroughly sick of any amount of fabric being between you, you shove it and your panties down your hips and legs, stepping out of them as Joshua does the same with his slacks and underwear. You get on your tip-toes, move to kiss him, but he dodges your advance, hands holding you in place by your waist.

“You can always say no to me, you know,” he murmurs, echoing the sentiment he’d expressed that evening in his office, the one with the golden light and vermouth, the one that set all of this into motion.

“Joshua, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll never forgive you,” you breathe, words hitched with quiet laughter, and he joins you, chuckling softly.

“As you wish.” He kisses you again, and for a moment it’s baby blue cotton candy and friendship bracelets, but as he pushes you down into the couch, lays you out before him and slides lithely between your legs, a curtain falls. Now, you’re midnight and velvet, with fire and ice entwining along your spine, melting you like wax as you shiver.

It’s the first of many times in the coming weeks that you find yourselves like this, vignetted in stolen moments dark and quiet and sacred, drowning together in a bliss so sinful and fulfilling you think it might be your undoing.

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