summary: When you start university to do your master’s in physics, you are more than surprised to meet your professor: Joel Miller, an old friend of your parents' who moved away years ago.
word–count: 15k
warnings: professor kink, power imbalance due to Joel being reader's professor, illegal relationship (overage & consenting), dbf!Joel, big fat age gap (unspecified but written with early 20s & mid 50s in mind), unprotected piv, just overall daddy issues (no use of the word daddy)
note: Okay, time to tell you I am a big nerd and studied physics in uni. Truth is, I quit to pursue a career in the arts, so my knowledge of masters level physics is...a little rusty. Please be lenient with me if I messed anything up. Also, I know most people hate physics, but I promise Joel makes it hot. Warning: explanation of the Dirac equation as foreplay. Also, I'm European and have no fucking clue how the American education system works but I don't care enough to do research. Enjoy <3333
event horizon
noun ASTRONOMY
a notional boundary around a black hole beyond which no light or other radiation can escape.
a point of no return.
Uni felt different at eighteen, when everything was about moving out, drinking beer at frat parties, and kissing boys who didn’t grow up in the same town you did. It was an exciting time, the degree itself fading into the background of all sorts of new experiences, but now that you’re doing your masters, you plan on focusing on your your grades more than on partying.
You enrolled in a new university, farther away from home, with a better physics program, and although you’ve grown up considerably, you still feel that tingle of anxiety you did when you first walked to your dorm, fresh out of high school. This time you won’t have to share with another student, spending your saved money on a bit of privacy that is a single dorm room, but still, you wonder if you’ll make friends here, or if you’ll spend your night hauled up alone, watching trash TV and crying because you’re lonely.
The room is small, blank, but functional with a bathroom you share with another student and a small kitchenette, and immediately you dream of all the ways you could decorate it. You didn’t bring much, just a big suitcase and a few boxes your Dad dropped off earlier. You feel slightly guilty for leaving your parents behind, but the relief outweighs the guilt – you won’t have to come home every Sunday for dinner, visits will be scarce. You love you parents, but the distance is much needed.
You get to unpacking your clothes, reveling in the fact that you can listen to music without headphones in your very own space. You could do it in your underwear, or naked, you could sing and dance along, and nobody would be bothered by it. It’s going to be a tough two years, the program you chose more than challenging, but a childish sort of giddiness fills you – no roommate to be considerate of, no parents to visit and take care of every week. This time in your life is about you, and only you – your career, but also your well-being. You promise yourself to do what makes you happy, instead of looking out for everyone else all of the time, and you’ll start by ordering Thai food and watching the trashiest movie with the hottest actors you can find on the little flatscreen you brought with you.
***
Your first lecture is Computational Physics – the one you’re looking forward to the least. The reason you decided to study physics at all was the predictable logic behind each problem, but the more you studied, the more complex the problems got, until they were impossible to solve analytically. Now you get to solve fluid dynamic equations and simulate quantum systems on a Monday morning instead of having a peaceful cup of coffee and taking a walk around campus.
The lecture hall is big, and you pick a seat that is neither too far away to be able to read the professor’s notes, nor close enough to immediately be pinned as an over-eager teacher’s pet. In the end, you plop down next to a girl who’s sitting alone, something about her shaved head and countless earrings making you think she wouldn’t make fun of you even if you didn’t understand a single thing all lecture.
"Okay if I sit here?", you ask somewhat timidly, trying hard not to sound too much like an eleven year old Ron Weasley boarding the train to Hogwarts.
"Please," the girl answers, "I don’t know anybody here."
"Did you move here, too?"
"Yeah, I’m from New York."
"You look it," you say with a smile, eyes drifting over her clothes and jewelry.
"Thanks…I guess?", she answers, her grin revealing a charming gap between her front teeth. "I’m Alva."
You introduce yourself, thankful to have found someone you can stick to already. Throughout the lecture you find out that apart from being much cooler than everyone else in the room, Alva has a biting sense of humor, and a near endless knowledge of computational physics. You make a mental note to ask her to study together, her explanations much easier to understand than the professor’s.
The two of you spend your lunch break together, and you tell her a little bit about yourself, but way too soon it’s time to go already – you have Advanced Quantum Mechanics in a different lecture hall. This you find way more interesting, basic quantum mechanics was one of your favorite lectures during your bachelor’s degree. As Alva and you sit down, you find yourself hoping you’ll be able to help her out this time, or you’d feel like a leech for making her help you with Computational. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps babbling happily about a band she recently discovered.
"– Britpop, but they only put out two albums. I think they were like a student band or something? They’re wildly underrated, I’ll send you a song, their debut is called The Sun Is Often Out."
Your thoughts start to wander off a little, eyes drifting over the old-fashioned chalkboards, when the door at the front of the lecture hall opens, and a tall man walks in – a man you recognize.
"Holy shit," you whisper, interrupting Alva’s rant about the Longpigs, and she turns her head to look at what you’re staring at.
"Damn," she says with a grin, "if I wasn’t gay, I’d want a piece of that."
"No," you snort, "I know him. He’s my Dad’s friend."
Alva opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Joel Miller steps forward, checking to see if the microphone is working, and introduces himself to the hundreds of students in front of him. His voice is deep, and as warm as you remember it, but that’s where the accuracy of your memories ends – your childish brain failed to register the tanned forearms and rolled up sleeves, the carelessly styled curls, the perfect side-profile. He’s got grey streaks in his hair now, which should send you into a crisis about time passing and your own little life being finite, but instead it makes your stomach swirl with something dangerous. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller, who organized backyard barbecues with your father and bought your favorite vegan sausages when your Dad rolled his eyes at you, who made strawberry lemonade instead of lemon, because he knew you preferred it, who helped you with your physics homework when you were graduating high school and didn’t rat you out when he caught you smoking at seventeen – he’s handsome.
There’s still a familiarity about him, the way he moves and talks, although it’s unsettling to see him in such a different environment. You’re used to band-tee-Joel, beer bottle and tongs in his hands, a breezy smile on his face. He looks different here, in a white button-down, with a stern expression on his face, as he’s reading the names on his list to check attendance. When he calls Alva’s name and she raises her hand, his eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn’t look at you. Still, your stomach lurches. If you listen carefully, you can detect that southern twang in his voice you’re sure most people would miss, and it fills you with satisfaction to know you’re the one who knows him best in this room – you’re sure half the lecture hall must see how attractive he is.
When he reads out your name, there’s a surprised lilt to his tone, and your heart threatens to skip a beat.
"Here."
Your eyes meet, and although his expression doesn’t change, he holds your eyecontact for a second too long. Alva nudges your side and grins.
Your plans about outshining Alva and returning the favor of helping with a lecture are quickly buried by Joel Miller’s beautiful hands – thick fingers holding a piece of chalk almost tenderly, twirling it around when he isn’t writing on the chalkboard. You vaguely register him introducing the Dirac equation, but as interesting as you would normally find it, your thoughts are stuck between memories of barbecues and the realization that you will have to call the man who taught you to drive Professor Miller.
If Alva notices your wandering mind, she doesn’t comment on it, which you’re thankful for. You do notice her throwing you a couple of knowing glances, as you copy down what Joel is writing down, mixing up gamma, delta, and the Dirac spinor.
"Alright, so you all know how Schrödinger’s equation works great for quantum mechanics, but it doesn’t play nicely with Einstein’s relativity, right? That’s a problem because electrons move fast, sometimes close to the speed of light, so we need an equation that respects both quantum mechanics and special relativity. That’s where Dirac steps in."
He’s still got that warm way of explaining things your Dad never managed when you needed help in high school, like he enjoys clearing things up for people. He’s a born teacher, patient when you panicked in the car because you confused the clutch and the break, persistent when you wanted to throw your physics book against a wall. Look, kid, think of it this way: Push harder, it moves faster. Make it heavier, it’s harder to move. If you apply a force F to an object with mass m, it will accelerate a. That’s why your Dad’s car takes longer to stop than your bike. Even now, he manages to make a far more complex equation than Newton’s second law tangible.
"Dirac's equation is like the grown-up version of Schrödinger’s equation. It explains how particles with spin-half, like electrons, behave when they move at relativistic speeds. The gamma mu matrices make sure the equation works in four-dimensional spacetime, meaning three space dimensions plus time. The psi is a spinor, which is just a fancy way of saying that an electron isn’t just a simple wave function, it actually has spin built into its nature. Now, can anyone think of a situation where we would need to use this equation instead of the regular Schrödinger equation?"
Nobody raises their hand, most people still busy with writing down Joel’s complicated notes, and as if on cue, his eyes are on yours when you look up from your notebook. He raises an eyebrow, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. Then, he calls your last name, a formal Miss dripping off his tongue as if he hasn’t called you kiddo for most of your life. It’s almost like he’s making a joke only the two of you are able to understand, and the thought thrills you to your bone. Two can play this game – you smile back.
"Sure, Professor Miller. You’d use it for studying high-energy particles, like electrons in particle accelerators, because it accounts for relativistic speeds. It’s also needed for situations where particles are created or destroyed, which Schrödinger’s equation doesn’t cover."
Again, his eyes linger on yours, and his slightly amused smile turns into a more genuine one at your answer. You let out a relieved sigh.
"Exactly," Joel answers, his attention on the rest of the class again, "Someone payed attention during Basic Quantum Mechanics. Now, here’s where it gets wild. When Dirac wrote this down, he realized it naturally predicts antiparticles, meaning for every electron, there should be a mirror-image particle with opposite charge, which we now call the positron. That was a huge deal because it wasn’t something people were expecting, it just fell out of the math."
For the rest of the class, Joel doesn’t continue that little game between the two of you, but whenever he asks a question, his gaze flickers over you, and your stomach gives an embarrassing little jump. Alva grins whenever this happens, but for most of the class she’s busy following Joel’s explanations.
"I want you to read up on today’s lecture," Joel says at the end of the lecture, and writes down a few page numbers on the chalkboard, "and solve the problems I mentioned earlier. Attendance isn’t mandatory, we’re all adults here, but I urge you to come if you’re interested in graduating in the next three years. Trust me, it’s easier to just do the work here than in your dorms. Now, enjoy the weather, see you Monday."
You and Alva pack up your things, and before she can ask you which class you have next, you pick up your backpack.
"I’m gonna say hi to him," you tell her, nodding in Joel’s direction, "my Dad and him go way back."
"Sure," Alva says, a cheeky smile on her face, "it’d be rude not to."
"Meet you outside?"
"I’ll be at the vending machine. Go get him," she jokes, and you snort.
Joel is packing up his course materials when you make your way down the steps and to his desk, but he looks up when he hears you coming towards him, and immediately his face splits into a smile. If you were anywhere else and ten years younger, he’d probably ruffle your hair.
"Good lecture," you say, "Dad didn’t tell me you’re teaching again."
Joel puts his piece of chalk into a tin box and nods.
"I don’t think he knows. You know how it is, we never get around to callin’ and I haven’t been home in a while."
So this is a new development, perhaps even Joel’s first semester back at university, too.
"What about the contracting? Don’t you miss the…pipes?"
He chuckles at your lack in basic contracting knowledge, his eyes not moving from yours.
"Ah, that was always Tommy, he just needed a little help. Company’s doin’ well now, though, so he’ll manage without me."
You think you remember Tommy – a man good-naturedly chasing you and the rest of the giggling neighborhood kids with a harden hose – but the memory is too vague to be sure it’s really him.
"You’ve grown up," Joel says, almost accusingly, and you shrug and smile. "Doin’ your master’s already. How come you’re familiar with Dirac?"
His accent is much thicker now that it’s only the two of you, and you notice a hint of pride when he asks about your correct answer to his question during the lecture. The satisfied feeling it gives you is still the same as when he high-fived you after your drivers test, or when he patted your back after you solved a problem for school without his help.
"Summer reading," you admit, trying hard not to sound like a nerd, "Basic Quantum Mechanics was my favorite lecture as an undergrad."
Joel smiles at you, and puts his notes into his leather bag. He slings it across his shoulder, and nods towards the door.
"How would you like to grab a coffee and tell me all about what’s been goin’ on with you and your old man?"
Your eyes flicker briefly over his hand, gripping the strap of his bag, and you raise an eyebrow.
"What’s the policy for staff having coffee with their students, Professor?"
Joel holds your gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"I’m actually not sure, Miss, I’ve never had to check before."
He’s playing along, and it feels dangerously blurry – yes, he’s your Dad’s old friend, your childhood neighbor, but it feels like more than just joking around.
"Does that mean I’m your first, then?", you ask, voice sweet and close to flirting now. The smile freezes on Joel’s face, and his gaze becomes almost calculating.
"Am I yours?" he asks you softly, and the double-meaning behind his question isn’t lost on you. You feel a thrilling pang in your stomach – Joel Miller is flirting with you.
***
You do end up getting coffee after you tell Alva you’ll meet her later, Joel reassuring you it won’t get him into trouble, and you’re fascinated to see he still drinks it black. What fascinates you even more is that you remember how he takes his coffee, and you wonder why your brain filed this fact away as important, not to be forgotten.
"So, when did you graduate? Sorry I missed it."
There’s honest regret in his voice, which surprises you. Joel was always a warm person, but you figured he cared for you as much as he would have for any kid living across the street.
"Last June," you tell him, dropping a sugar cube into your cappuccino. "I spent the summer working, and now I’m here."
"How d’you like it so far?"
You give a nervous chuckle, torn between the honest truth and pleasant small talk. You opt for the former – this is Joel, after all, not some stranger.
"To be honest with you, I oscillate between enjoying my freedom away from Mom and Dad, and being scared shitless by starting over somewhere new," you admit, looking at your coffee. You haven’t told people about your fear, and it feels good to finally admit it – the grip your parents have had on you makes your newfound freedom almost uncomfortable.
"What d’you mean, startin’ over?", Joel asks, his voice strikingly gentle. You sigh, and shrug.
"I know the distance is good for me, but it was comfortable, just doing what my parents expected of me. I had good grades, nice friends, and just the right amount of drunken nights for them not to worry about my social life too much," you explain, "and now it’s like…there’s so much room to be someone else, cause they won’t see it anyway."
You look up, embarrassed to have spilt your guts like this, but Joel looks thoughtful, his thumb moving along the handle of his coffee cup.
"Sorry," you mutter, "I know they’re your friends, but they can be…"
"Overbearing?"
You smile at him gratefully and he smiles back.
"Look, I know your parents pretty well. They love you to bits, but as an adult I imagine it must be stiflin’.“
"Yeah," you sigh, grateful for his understanding, "I feel like I don’t know who I am when I’m not…their kid."
Joel nods, and sips his coffee, apparently pondering what you said.
"I promised myself I would only do what makes me happy while I’m here," you tell him sheepishly, as if it’s a secret, and Joel laughs.
"Well, I’m not expectin’ you to hand in any homework, then."
You grin, too, and shake your head. It’s surreal, Joel being your professor, and you wearing your heart on your sleeve for him.
"Don’t worry, Professor Miller, I’m not dropping your class."
"You’d better not, it’d really hurt my feelings," Joel says, eyes trained on yours. Again, that blurriness set in motion by the change of his role in your life: neighbor to professor to – what?
"What about you, though? This your first semester here?"
"Second," he tells you, "but I still don’t feel at home. Once a Texan, always a Texan, I guess."
You cock your head and watch him drain the last of his coffee, the cup tiny in his hands.
"What?" he asks you, curiosity evident in his voice.
"You look so different," you say, and Joel scoffs.
"Well, that’s real nice. Know I’m not thirty anymore, but geez–"
"No," you say with a grin, "it’s not that. I don’t know, I’ve just never seen you teach before. Or dressed this nice – I remember you mowing the lawn in a Fleetwood Mac shirt, not checking attendance in a button down."
Joel’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he scoffs again.
"Well, I can’t show up here in a band tee, can I? Gotta dress the part," he mutters.
"I get it. You suit it," you tell him, if only to see that blush appear on his face again. He looks up at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds, then he shakes his head.
"What were the odds of us meetin’ like this, huh? I gotta call your father and tell him."
Something about that bothers you, you’d prefer for your parents not to know. You like sitting here with Joel, reminiscing the old times, without anybody getting a peek in.
"Or not," he says gently, seeing the expression on your face.
"Sorry," you say, "course you can tell him."
"You apologize a lot," he tells you, and you fight the urge to say sorry once again. "It’s okay, I’m not tellin’ anyone, kid. ’S just you n me."
That pang in your stomach again, and you nod.
"Alright," you answer, "just us."
You get a refill for the two of you, and a blueberry muffin to split, which feels strangely intimate, but Joel pats his stomach and jokes about keeping an eye on his figure, so you grin, and ask the barista to cut it in half. Joel asks you about your friends, and you tell him about Alva.
"Oh yes," he says and swallows a bite of the muffin, "that punky lookin’ kid who sits next to you?"
"Yeah, she’s nice. Haven’t really met anyone else."
"Geez, I’m not keepin’ you from findin’ frat boys to hook up with, am I?"
You laugh, the idea of sitting here with a twenty-something year old kid named Cole or Josh instead of him so absurd, you can’t help it.
"No," you tell him, "I’m honestly enjoying the fact that I don’t have to have someone else in my dorm anymore."
"Well, that’s a relief to hear," Joel says, "they’re all dipshits."
You remember him telling you something similar about the boys in high school, and it makes you smile. He’s still got that protective streak, then.
"To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here," you say quietly, "if I’m not making any friends, I can come crying to you."
Joel watches you for a couple of seconds, not laughing as you intended, but taking your words seriously.
"Course you’ll make friends. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll have forgotten all about physics cause you’ll be skippin’ classes left and right to hang out with people."
You don’t tell him, but you think it’s very unlikely you’ll skip any of his classes. Still, you appreciate his words and how confident he seems to be in your ability to open up to people.
"Well, will you give me the answers to your exams if I skip your class?"
"No way," he says with a cheeky smile, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. "I don’t do preferential treatment. You wanna split another blueberry muffin?"
You grin.
"Thought you were watching your waistline."
"I am, that’s why I’m only eating halves."
***
Your afternoon with Joel leaves you on a high for the rest of the day, feeling much less lonely now that you’ve had a conversation beyond the usual so how many siblings do you have? and where did you do your undergrad?
You start spending your lunch breaks with Alva and some friends she made in another lecture, all of whom are very nice. In the evenings you all go to see a movie or have dinner together in any of your dorm rooms, and although you walk around campus holding out one eye for Joel, you don’t see him for the rest of the week. There is always a nudge of disappointment in your stomach, when you glance in the direction of his office, and the door is closed, but you’re so busy, you don’t dwell on it too much. The days pass in a blur of new lectures, swapping music with Alva, and evenings spent as a group of six, and suddenly it’s Sunday again. You aren’t too sad the weekend is already over, and you know exactly why you’re looking forward to Monday, but you don’t allow yourself to think about Joel any more than you can help.
In the afternoon, while you’re doing Joel’s assignment for the next class, your mother calls, and you answer the phone with a mixture of feelings.
Hi, my darling, how are you doing?
"Hi, Mom. I’m good, just doing my work for tomorrow. How are you?"
Good, good. How was your first week? Did you meet anyone nice?
Hah, if she only knew. It feels deceptive, not telling her about Joel, but you like that for now, he’s just yours.
"Yes, this girl called Alva. We and some guys hang out a lot, there’s a cinema near by, but the lectures are pretty hard, so we only have the evenings off."
Well, I’m glad you found some nice people! Dad says hi, he’s making dinner. Anyway, baby, we miss you terribly. Do you know when you’ll be coming home?
"I just got here, Mom."
You sigh so quietly your mother can’t hear it, guilt already nagging at your heart. Sunday is the day you would usually be coming home for dinner, and you know it’s no coincidence your parents called you now.
Of course, you’re right. It’s just not easy for your Dad and me, you know? You’ve never been this far from home, and you’re our baby.
Yeah, you think, your adult baby. You sigh again.
"I don’t know if I’ll come this month, I’m still sort of settling in. But I’ll let you know if there’s a free weekend next month, alright?"
Sure, that sounds great. Will you send us some pictures of your friends, and your room?
"Sure," you say, but it bugs you that you’re giving in. Already, you’re breaking the promise you made yourself, and letting your parents further into your life here than you’re comfortable with.
"Mom, I gotta go, I’ve still got some problems to solve and I’m meeting Alva for dinner soon."
Okay, darling, enjoy your night! And make yourself heard. I love you!
"Love you, too! Talk soon."
Your kind, clingy mother, whose greatest pain is not knowing if you’re safe. In a way you miss her, and you feel guilty for being annoyed. Still, you know you have to gently nudge her away from you, or she’ll suffocate you one day. It makes you angry with yourself, because you know your Mom would have liked nothing more than to hear all about your week, but as soon as she asked you a question, you felt like your seventeen year old self again, getting yelled at because you stayed up past your curfew, and your parents didn’t know where you were.
Tears of frustration spring to your eyes – the mix of feelings too much for you to handle. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, breathe in shakily, and try to focus on your assignment again, but now you’re riled up, and the tears won’t stop.
It’s hard for you to deal with disappointing your parents, forcing them away when they would like nothing more than to know everything that’s going on in your life. So, instead of preparing for Joel’s lecture, you cry on your bed, feeling lonely and angry with yourself for hurting them. You know your reaction is disproportionate, but everything you kept buried while you lived close to your parents comes bubbling out of you.
You call Alva, tell her you have cramps because of your period and just want to stay in bed. She’s understanding, asks you if there’s anything she can do, even offers to bring you takeout or a hot water bottle, which makes you feel all the worse for lying to her. You decline her offer, tell her you’ll meet her Monday morning. In the evening, you regret not letting her bring over a real meal, eating cold pasta in your underwear, tears still running down your face and making your head pound.
***
On Monday, you feel slightly better, your headache is gone and your face isn’t as puffy as you expected it to be. Still, you’re in a solitary mood, and are glad to find Alva is able to keep up an entire conversation virtually by herself – you just grunt from time to time, or give noncommittal movements of your head in vague agreement. You hope if she notices your bad mood, she just thinks it has to do with your period.
Computational Physics is hell – you dislike it on the best of days, but guilt ridden and tired, you’re barely able to pay attention at all, and the professor’s handwriting is so bad, you end up copying down Alva’s notes instead. She’s kind about it, slides over her notebook at an angle that makes it easy to read, and you make a mental note to thank her for being so kind to you while you’re offering nothing but a scowling expression all day. Maybe you’ll cook for her, or make a mixtape of your favorite songs, just to show her you’re interested in being actual good friends.
Lunch passes easily, as always you sit with Alva and the guys, and there’s enough people for you to stare at your mashed potatoes and repeatedly stab them with your fork instead of eating them. They taste like flour mixed up with water, and you dream up your father’s Sunday dinner instead, but it does little to help with the taste.
"So, you lookin’ forward to flirting with Miller in front of the whole lecture hall again?" Alva asks you, as you’re making your way to said room. You glare at her, but can’t help the corners of your mouth twitching.
"Wasn’t flirting with him," you answer, kicking a pebble, "I grew up across the street from him, I’ve known him practically my whole life."
"Whatever you say, grumpy," Alva teases, nudging your shoulder with hers. You’re overcome with a rush of gratitude for the way she treats you, persistently kind and humorous. You chuckle, your mood lifting slightly.
"He’s probably been waiting for you to turn legal," she continues, and you groan.
"Gross, Alva, he’s not a creep."
"I’m just saying, if your little connection gets you the answers to his tests, you could sell them and become rich."
"I already asked him, he said no," you say darkly, thinking of the nights you’ll have to spend studying to pass his exam. This makes Alva laugh her brilliant laugh, and you can’t help but smile, too.
"Damn," she grins, "I’d try if he wasn’t a guy."
You snort.
"You try with Professor Carter, I need the answers to Computational," you suggest, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.
"You’re joking, but I bet once you get her out of her frumpy cardigans, she’s a real–"
"Okay, stop," you grown, the image of Professor Carter taking off her cardigans worse than her keeping them on – if possible. Alva giggles.
"I’ll help you with Computational," she says, "if you help me with Quantum Mechanics."
"You’re good at both," you argue, and Alva shrugs.
"Not like you, though. I spent like four hours doing Miller’s assignment last night."
You want to tell her you didn’t do it at all, but before you can open your mouth, she spots a friend in the crowd, grabs your arm and drags you over to him.
The three of you sit down together, closer to the front than the week before, which gives you a direct line of sight to Joel’s desk. When he walks in, your stomach jumps – he’s wearing a tie today, a dark burgundy or blue, you aren’t sure from this distance, flecked with specks of white. Again, his hair is styled in that carelessly disheveled look you like so much, and the image of him putting gel in it makes you smile. He gets out his materials for the lecture, and looks up, his eyes finding yours – you smile and he gives a small nod. Again you’re struck by how different he acts in front of the class, how serious he seems. You think of his laid back manner when you had coffee, and struggle to make the images align. Joel clears his throat, and the chatter around you stops.
"Quiet, please, everyone. Thank you. So, last week, we found out that Dirac’s equation predicts the existence of antiparticles. But instead of just accepting that, let’s think deeper—mathematically, what feature of the equation forces this conclusion?"
Joel jumps right into the lecture, and just like last week, nobody raises their hands – you curse the people around you for their lethargy, because sure enough, Joel’s eyes land on you. Before you can shake your head to signal to him not to ask you, he calls your name.
"If I remember correctly, you were already familiar with Dirac’s equation last week. What would you say, what does the existence of negative-energy solutions tell us, and why couldn’t we just ignore them?"
You wish you could answer him, know he asked you because he was sure you’d know the answer, perhaps hoped your enthusiasm for the subject would get the rest of the students to participate more, but you didn’t do the assignment, and you’ve already half forgotten his question. You swallow.
"Um…I…I’m not sure, Sir," you say, watching the way his brows furrow, and looking down at your notes. Alva shoots you a curious look, and when she sees your expression, she raises her hand. You’re thankful to have Joel’s attention diverted, feeling like a fool in front of hundreds of students you’re trying to make friends with.
"Dirac’s equation gives positive and negative energy solutions, and at first, the negative ones didn’t make sense. Dirac suggested they represent antiparticles, like the positron, which he predicted. The idea was that electrons could, like, jump into these negative-energy states, creating a hole that looks like a positron, which was later confirmed experimentally," Alva explains instead of you.
"You're close, but electrons don’t actually 'jump into' negative-energy states. Instead, Dirac proposed that these states are already filled, forming what he called the Dirac Sea. A positron isn’t an electron jumping down, it’s actually a 'hole' left when a negative-energy electron gets excited to a positive-energy state. That distinction is important because it explains why positrons have the opposite charge. Good answer, though, thank you Ms. Bennet."
Joel’s eyes flicker over to you again, but you show no reaction, and he continues with his lecture without asking you another question. Alva glances at you inquiringly, and you sigh.
"I wanted to do the assignment yesterday, but my cramps were really bad," you explain quietly, and she nods sympathetically.
"Call me next time, I’ll send you my answers," she whispers, and you smile gratefully. It seems you really hit the jackpot in friendship when you sat down next to Alva.
***
After Joel’s lecture, you and Alva make your way over to the vending machine, because it has the sour patches she likes, and in her own words she’ll combust if she doesn’t eat some right fucking now.
"Shit," she curses, "they’re stuck."
"Let me," a voice comes from a behind you, and when you turn around, Joel is smiling at the two of you. "Took me a while to figure this thing out, too."
Alva steps aside, and Joel bangs his palm against the side of machine. You jump, but the sour patches make their tumbling way down to the dispenser.
"Great! Thanks, Professor Miller," Alva says, ripping the bag open and offering it to the two of you. To your surprise, Joel takes her up on it, and Alva grins at you.
"You were quiet during today’s lecture," Joel says tentatively, when he’s swallowed his sour patch "everything alright?"
You glance at your shoes.
"Um, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and I left your assignment for last, so…I didn’t do it."
Joel’s expression grows worried, and Alva glances between the two of you.
"Hey, I’m meeting Max for coffee," she tells you, "see you later?"
"Yeah," you answer, grateful she’s granting you this time alone with Joel, "see you, Alva."
When she’s gone, Joel is still looking at you with that worried look on his face, and you sigh.
"Sorry about the assignment," you say, "won’t happen again."
"I’m not worried about the assignment," Joel says earnestly, but then he turns his head, and you know he doesn’t want someone listening in. Sure, you can be seen chatting in the university cafe, but this conversation is rapidly blurring the lines between scholarly and – something else.
"I…have some materials in my office that might make it easier for you to catch up with the lectures again," Joel tells you, and you understand the underlying meaning. Let’s talk in my office.
"Thank you," you say, relieved, and Joel nods, eyes still glued to yours, brows still furrowed. You walk to his office making smalltalk about the lecture, which to anyone listening in would seem like a normal conversation between a professor and an interested student.
Joel opens the door to his office for you, and lets you step in first. It’s small, cramped bookshelves on the walls and a sturdy desk in the middle that is littered with notes, pencils, books, and a couple of old coffee mugs. You notice he put part of his books sideways onto the shelves, which you find weirdly endearing. This is the Joel you know – clutter and warmth.
He closes the door behind you, and you turn around to watch him drop his bag and walk over to the kettle in the corner of the room.
"Coffee?"
"Please," you sigh, "if you don’t have anything stronger."
He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer, just turns on the already filled kettle, and gets two clean cups for the two of you.
"I only have drip coffee," he tells you, "I don’t drink that crap the machines brew up."
"That’s fine, I enjoy the medieval feel of it."
"Watch it," he answers, a smile tugging on his lips, "don’t insult my coffee filter in front of me."
You grin, and walk over to his bookshelf to have a look.
"So, what’s going on?" he asks you while pouring the boiling hot water over the coffee grounds. Again, the Joel you remember – empathetic, but unusually direct. You sigh, turn around and shrug.
"Mom and Dad called yesterday, and I could tell they missed me, but I just…I cut them off after two minutes."
Joel places the cups on his desk, and leans against it. His sleeves are rolled up again, and when he crosses his arms, you feel that familiar pang in your stomach.
"And now I…I don’t know, I feel so guilty, Joel. They’re not even being dicks about it, but I just know they’d prefer for me to check in with them more…and the worst thing is, I know it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it, they’ve got a good life without me constantly in it, so I don’t know why my stupid brain can’t just let this go, you know? One I miss you, darling, and I’m reduced to this pathetic mess, instead of just, I don’t know, getting my shit together."
You shake your head and clench your teeth, once again embarrassed to come crying to Joel about your parental issues, but he’s the only one you can tell. Sure, Alva would probably listen, but you don’t feel like explaining your family to a near stranger. Joel just gets it. Joel knows you.
He’s looking at you, arms still crossed, and for a second you worry he might not want to hear about your little breakdown, but then he sighs.
"You have your shit together all of the fuckin’ time, kid, I think that might be the problem," he tells you quietly. "You’ve always been so hard on yourself."
He’s right, once again he sees what you struggle to show the world, and his words make tears spring to your eyes. You will your eyeballs to suck them back in, but of course, Joel sees.
"Hey now," he says, taking a tentative step towards you. One tear drops from the end of your lashes and down your cheek, and the dam is broken again – they come spilling in floods. Joel crosses the room in a second, and there is a slight moment of hesitation between the two of you, before you bury your face in his chest, and let your restraint fall. You cry quietly, feel him wrap his arms around you, as he rocks you back and forth.
"You’re alright," he tells you, "Shhh, it’s okay, you’re alright."
"S-s-sorry about the assignment," you manage, and Joel’s hand starts stroking your back.
"Jesus, kid, stop worryin’ about the fucking assignment," he tells you, voice low and worried. "You don’t gotta be so strict with yourself. You’re doin’ just fine."
He smells so much like home, you think you might never stop crying.
"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," you hiccup, "One week here and I’m a mess already."
You feel Joel rest his chin on your head, and his arms tighten around you.
"There’s nothin’ wrong with you, you hear me? You hold yourself to high standards. Creates pressure, kid."
As always, he’s right of course – you want to excel academically, you don’t want to hurt your parents, you want to stay true to yourself and do what makes you happy, you want to make friends without compromising your grades. It’s impossible.
You breathe in shakily, your eyes closed, face buried in Joel’s chest, and for a second he is all that exists – just Joel, all around you, pulling you to the earth. Slowly, your breathing calms, Joel still rocking you soothingly, holding you close.
"There we go," he mutters, when your chest stops shaking, "that’s good."
When you pull away from him, he puts his hands on your shoulders to really look at you, and although you’re embarrassed by your outburst, you’re glad he doesn’t shy away from you.
"I want you to start being a little more lenient with yourself, alright? You don’t need to worry about an assignment on top of everything."
His hands are rubbing your shoulders, his eyes are kind and warm.
"Maybe not about yours, but I have like five other lectures –"
"Okay, so try to stop worrying about my assignments, just mine. Won’t bite your head off if you don’t do them, and I’ll only ask you questions when you raise your hand, alright? In fact, for the rest of the term, I want you to hand them in late."
Despite yourself, your lips pull up in a small smile.
"That’s silly, Joel," you say softly, but he shakes his head.
"It’s not silly, it’s practice to get you out of your comfort zone."
You consider his words for a moment. You do keep a pretty tight reign on yourself, and just the thought of doing every assignment late makes your skin crawl with anxiety. But when will you get another chance to step out of your comfort zone as safely as now, with Joel? He’s offering you a way to try it without actually risking your grades. And who knows, perhaps it actually will take a little bit of pressure off of you.
"Okay," you answer, staring up at Joel with puffy cheeks and teary eyes. "Alright."
He smiles at you, but he still looks worried and you wish he’d pull you close to him again. It’s such a relief to have this sort of human contact with someone who really knows you.
"Feel better?"
You sigh, and nod.
"It’s just a lot, you know, uni and my parents, and every social interaction feels like such a chore, cause I don’t know people yet. I feel like I’m not even relaxed when I’m asleep."
Joel hesitates for a moment, before he speaks, but when he does, he sounds determined.
"Come over tonight, I’ll make us somethin’ to eat, and you don’t have to worry about talkin’ to anyone. We’ll watch whatever you’d like. You still enjoy those crappy horror movies?"
You smile at the shared memory – Joel letting you use his living room to watch slashers your parents didn’t want you to see. One summer, when the heat was so stifling you barely went outside, you practically lived at his place, and when you’d seen all the DVDs he owned, he got you more from the video store.
"I do," you say quietly, the fact that Joel remembers more important to you than his proposal to spend the evening together. You feel significantly less alone, all of a sudden.
"Alright, then. Be over at seven,“ Joel tells you, and you nod, wiping your wet face with the back of your hand.
"Thank you, Joel," you say, and hug him again, because you don’t know how to tell him in words what you’re feeling, and his big, warm body against yours feels more than soothing.
"Course, kid. Just don’t tell Alva, or they’ll fire me."
You smile, your arms still wrapped around his neck, as he holds you.
"But I don’t wanna get you in trouble, what if–"
"No," Joel interrupts you, "no what ifs. No worryin’. I forbid it."
And you accept it, leave it to Joel, because he tells you to – because you don’t have any room in your head for more worries, and because you trust Joel not to do anything reckless. You trust him, period.
***
You text Alva you’re having dinner alone, that your cramps are still acting up, and you do feel slightly bad for lying, but you would never risk Joel’s job. The idea of having dinner with him at his place should make you nervous after your change in feelings about him, but you’re just looking forward to having a meal with someone who knows you, and lets you be yourself.
Joel asked you to be there at seven, so you spend the rest of the afternoon in your dorm room, wondering if you should change your outfit or if it would seem desperate – in the end, you keep the jeans but change into a blouse instead of a sweater. The part of you that stares at Joel’s forearms during class now wants to look pretty for him, so that he’ll ask you over again. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop you from putting on your nicest perfume.
You’re ten minutes early, so you sit in your little second hand car and try not to panic. You know Joel is merely trying to be a good…friend? Ex-neighbor, Dad’s best friend turned professor? There’s no real etiquette to cling to in this situation, for either of you, and although you’re positive Joel doesn’t have any ulterior motives with you despite his flirting, you know he could lose his job if someone finds out you went to his house. Even if you just watch slashers together the way you did ten years ago. It makes you anxious to know he’d risk something clearly important to him for just that – he moved to a different state, quit his old job, started over completely, and is now willing to endanger that new life just because you’re stressed. At the same time it seems ridiculous anyone could forbid the two of you to spend time together after having known each other your entire life. The thought is absurd, and still, you need to be careful.
You get out of the car before you start to hyperventilate, and ring Joel’s doorbell – it feels strange for him to live in a new house. He opens the door with a smile, and absurd relief floods your veins when you realize he’s wearing an old Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of worn jeans. This is your Joel.
"I come bearing gifts," you announce, stepping into the house.
“Christ, where did you get this?”, Joel asks, taking the six pack of beer from you, so you can take off your jacket. “I didn’t know they sold Shiner Bock outside of Texas, I’ve been survivin’ on Bud”.
“Brought it with me,” you explain, “figured it’d help if I got homesick, you know, in multiple ways.”
You grin, and Joel shakes his head good-naturedly.
“Old enough to drink, well I’ll be damned. I remember when you begged your Dad to let you have a coke and he asked me if I thought the caffeine would stunt your growth.”
“Did it?”
“It might’ve,” Joel says with a chuckle, “but he didn’t let you have it.”
“Well, he isn’t here now, so let’s put those in the fridge.”
“No," Joel mutters, “no, he ain’t.”
While Joel puts the beer away, you take a look around his living room – despite your reservations about the new house, it reminds you of his old place. It’s got the same masculine and warm feel to it, dark wood, books all over the place, no bells and whistles. Joel is a practical man, and it’s charmingly etched into every part of his life – except for his new work-look. The room isn’t as cluttered as you remember Joel’s old house back in Texas, but you assume he hasn’t had time to accumulate clutter yet. No old newspapers are lying around, no birthday cards stacking up. You wonder if he’s lonely here, teaching all by himself, hundreds of miles away from the place he last grew roots in.
“Do you miss home?” you ask him, when he comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He looks at ease, much more himself than back at university. His jeans are faded, his shirt a little too big on his already broad frame, and his hair is clean and curly the way you like it – no gel twisting it into all sorts of un-Joel-like styles. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of him taking a swig of his beer. His crowfeet are a little more pronounced, and his hair has more grey strands than it did back home, but he’s still got that distinctly warm, no-nonsense feel to him.
“Sometimes,” he answers, offering you the second bottle. Your hand brushes his when you take it from him. “But I’m pretty busy here, you know, got a whole lotta lectures to plan, papers to grade and that sort of stuff.”
You nod, and sip at your beer.
“Have you…you know, met people? Made friends here?”
Joel plops down on the couch, and smiles up at you.
“You worried about my social life?”
You shrug, and smile almost timidly.
“You know me, kid, I like bein’ by myself.”
That’s true, for as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been alone. You know he has nieces and nephews who adore him, and your Dad mentioned a woman once, but it must have been at least twenty years since they were together. You wonder why Joel doesn’t seem to want that sort of a domestic life, surely many women would be happy to let him put a ring on them.
You walk over to the window, and watch a blackbird tug at a writhing worm.
“Have you met someone at uni you wanna be by yourself with?” you ask with a small grin, turning back to find Joel already watching you. “I heard Professor Carter’s still single.”
“She’s very intelligent,” Joel says earnestly. You give him credit for not laughing about his colleague, and suddenly you feel bad for calling her frumpy with Alva. “But I think I’ll leave her to her simulations. Why am I bein’ interrogated?”
“Sorry,” you mumble, and glance out of the window again, “just making conversation.”
“Your turn, then,” Joel answers, and takes another swig of beer. “Any frat boys catch your eye? Or frat girls?”
You glance at him, a smile on your lips, and raise your eyebrows.
“Hey, I don’t discriminate. I thought, maybe Alva…”
“No,” you answer, feeling fond of him for considering the possibility. “Alva’s a friend. The guys are…well, they’re frat boys.”
Your voice carries enough disgust for Joel to laugh.
“Right,” he says, and his eyes are warm when they meet yours again. “Just us two loners, then."
“Cheers,” you say with a smile.
“Cheers.”
***
Joel’s cooking is a mystery to you – he loves to eat, and when he does cook, it’s always delicious, but he only ever makes one of five dishes. Again, that practicality shining through. Why try something new if you’ve perfected your routine? He made pasta for you, wasn’t sure if you’re still vegetarian and makin’ your Dad’s hair fall out, and you smile into the neck of your beer bottle, when you watch him drizzle dressing onto a carefully arranged side-salad. Throughout dinner, you tell him how much you love it at least five times, because you can tell he put effort into the meal. You know it’s not technically a date, but having a dinner he made just for you, in his home – it feels like one.
You steer the conversation away from heavy topics like your parents. Although Joel offered you this evening to make you feel better, you want to spend it with him rather than in your head, so you ask him about books and music, about his lectures, about Tommy and the kids. You like watching how his face lights up whenever he talks about something he particularly loves. Joel is a quiet man, but you found out years ago it isn’t shyness, but a disinterest in most mundane topics – he doesn’t like gossip or superficial small talk. When he tells you Tommy made him godfather of all of his children, the pride is evident in his voice, and you don’t have to fake your enthusiasm, although it amuses you, too – Tommy loving his big brother enough not to consider anyone else.
"She calls me uncle Joe," he tells you with a chuckle, "Can’t pronounce her Ls yet, but I’ve considered legally changing my name."
When you’re done eating, you help him clear the table, but when you reach for the sponge to do the dishes, Joel shakes his head.
"Let me do that later, kid. You wanna watch a movie?"
So the two of you plop down on the couch with a bag of M&Ms and another round of beer, and Joel hands you the remote.
"Go wild," he says, chuckling when you excitedly turn on he TV to open Netflix.
"Wow, a streaming service? I thought you’d just hoard DVDs for the rest of your life."
Joel huffs, and instead of answering, he leans forward, and reaches for something under his couch table. When he turns his head, he’s got glasses on his face, thick-rimmed and black, and so startlingly sexy, you almost drop the remote.
"You…you’ve got glasses?"
"Yeah," he answers, his eyes meeting yours, and you swallow. "When your eyesight deteriorates, that’s when you know you’re gettin’ old."
You hum but don’t answer, just hold his gaze for a second and look back to the screen. You try to ignore the familiar pang in your stomach at the sight of Joel in his new glasses, and skip through movie after movie, mumbling seen it, seen it, that one sucks, seen it, until Joel reaches over and snatches the remote from you.
"Hey–"
"I can’t read anything if you skip through them that quickly."
"You’re not supposed to read, you’re supposed to go with the vibe of the cover."
He glances at you with furrowed brows.
"Okay, sorry, didn’t know you’re a filmbro," you grumble, but it’s almost entirely fake – you couldn’t be annoyed with him, not when he pushes his glasses up his nose, and carefully considers which button to press on the remote.
"I don’t know what that means," he answers, and starts reading the description of a romantic comedy about Christmas.
"I’m not watching that."
"You don’t even know what it’s about."
"It’s September, Joel."
He huffs again, but finally reaches the horror movies. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take the two of you long to pick one, and the thought of two hours of brainless, scary entertainment on a couch with Joel makes you practically melt into his couch.
You can feel Joel’s eyes on you during the opening credits, so you glance over and he smiles.
"Comfy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from relaxation.
"Yeah," you answer, and smile when hands you a blanket. He’s not exactly close to you, but it still feels a little intimate when you spread the blanket out and offer him the other end. He moves over a little, so that the blanket covers his legs, and when you concentrate you can feel his body heat next to you, so you try hard not to – and instead get lost in the movie.
It’s not particularly good, but the story does get under your skin a little, and when there’s an unexpected shriek, you violently jump and instinctively move closer to Joel. He chuckles, but doesn’t give any reaction to your arm suddenly pressing against his. He doesn’t move away, either, so you don’t, fear suddenly not being the only thing bubbling up in your stomach.
"Jesus," you mumble, the creeping music making you anticipate another jumpscare. You’re right, it does come, but prepared though you are, you still wince, and turn away from the screen slightly. Out of sight, out of mind. Joel turns around, too, and when he sees your widened eyes, he grins.
"How’s that Christmas movie lookin’ now?"
"I’m not scared," you say, and there is some truth to it, "I’m just not good with jumpscares."
When the next one comes, you can’t help it, you clutch his arm next to you, your nails digging into his firm muscle, and Joel glances at you again.
"Sorry," you say quickly, letting go of his forearm now marked with five tiny crescent shapes. "Jesus, Joel, sorry."
"It’s fine," he says, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "you sure you’re into this? There might be some cartoons–"
He stops talking when you glare at him, but his mouth is twitching under his beard. You’re determined to watch the entire movie, and you try not to let any reaction show, wanting to prove Joel wrong.
There is one particularly scary scene – it’s not necessarily violent, but the music and shaky camera movements make your pulse race, and you turn your head slightly, so as to look at something else. Joel glances at you again, but he doesn’t laugh this time, just puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s grounding, the warmth of it, how his thumb digs into your muscle and his fingers spread out over your back and neck.
"You don’t gotta force yourself to watch this, kid," Joel says gently, all teasing humor gone.
"No," you say stubbornly, but move even closer to him. His touch is a welcome distraction from the movie, and although you know it’s stupid and reckless, you lean into him, and Joel puts his arm around you. It’s closer than you’ve been to him except for hugging, and your heartbeat starts to quicken for all the wrong, non-horror reasons. When you flinch, Joel tugs you against his side, and it feels natural to hide your face in his shoulder.
He was never touchy with you, or anyone for that matter, so something must have changed. You wonder if he’s trying to comfort you, or if you might not be the only one who can feel that strange pull between the two of you.
When the movie ends, Joel regrettably removes his arm from around your shoulders to switch off the TV, and although you’re slightly disappointed, you scold yourself for expecting something else.
"Not bad," Joel says with a small smile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Very brave."
You scoff, but feel the corners of your mouth twitching, too.
"I used to be less of a wimp, but I guess you soften with age."
"You’re twenty-three," Joel argues, "that’s young."
Yeah, too young. Too young to lean over and kiss him, or climb into his lap, or expect anything other than paternal care when he’s got his arm around you. You look at your lap, all of a sudden feeling stupid and silly for having dreamed up an absurd fantasy about the man in front of you.
"Hey," Joel says gently, "what’s wrong?"
"Nothing," you say quickly, "nothing, I had a really great evening. Thanks, Joel."
You can tell you’ve confused him, but he nods, doesn’t question your sudden change of mood, and stands when you get up from the couch.
"Anytime, kid. You call me if you’re havin’ a bad time, alright? My door’s always open."
He’s so kind, so recklessly, stupidly, lovingly kind, and all of it is directed at you. You curse yourself for it, but again you feel that familiar burn in your eyes. Joel reaches out and easily pulls you towards his big body, hugging you the way he did in his office just this afternoon. He doesn’t ask you what brought on your tears, just lets you cry into his Led Zeppelin shirt that smells so much like home, like a childhood you won’t get back to. You remember whiffs of that smell when you were watching movies on his couch while he was at work, too pissed off at your parents to spend the summer at home. This scent was there when you attended a neighborhood barbecue after fighting with your father and Joel grilled some vegan sausages for you without comment or question. He’s always looked out for you like this, quietly, without demanding an explanation, just a solid, comforting presence in your life.
Your tears stop after a couple of minutes, and you take a step away from Joel, wiping your face. He looks so worried again, brows all furrowed and arms hanging limply at his side. Didn’t he flirt with you, though? Didn’t he prepare dinner for you the way a date would, ask you about your dating life, ask you to coffee? You don’t think you would be able to handle another evening like this one not knowing what Joel really thinks, so in a moment of hazy recklessness, you lean up.
His eyes meet yours, all warm and strangely unguarded, but before your lips brush his, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Without saying something, you move away from him, and nod to yourself, his reaction all the information you needed.
"Sorry," you say very quietly, not managing much else now that you’ve humiliated yourself in front of the only person you really know in a six hundred mile radius. Joel runs a hand through his soft hair, and inhales deeply.
"No," he says, his voice a little strained, "no, don’t be. I just…Jesus, kid."
He rubs his palm over his beard in such a familiar way, your chest aches a little. It’s ridiculous how much you want to touch his face, to feel him again, skin on skin. So you don’t turn and run the way your embarrassed heart is telling you to, just watch him collect his thoughts, standing in front of him like a wet and beaten dog.
"Look," he begins, "I won’t say I’m not flattered, but that’s…it’s a bad fuckin’ idea. It’s…it’s chaos, and on top of that most people would argue it’s wrong."
You swallow. You know all of this, have turned it over in your head ever since you stared at Joel’s rolled up sleeves for two hours on that first Monday, but hearing him say it makes your stomach churn.
"Yeah," you mutter, and trace Joel’s shadow with the very tip of your foot, "yeah, of course. Sorry I put you in that position, wasn’t right."
Your face still feels puffy, and you know you’re probably all red and pathetic looking, begging Joel for scraps of his attention, but all of a sudden, he lifts his hand up to your face, and cups it in his broad palm. His thumb strokes your cheek, and when you meet his eye, the expression on his face is tender.
"It’s alright," he tells you softly, "I can see you worryin’ at the speed of light in that pretty head of yours."
Something in your chest flutters at his words, at the rough and warm cadence of his voice. He reads you so easily, one turn of your head and he knows you’re lost to your thoughts.
"I shouldn’t have let myself toy with this idea," he continues, and your stomach flips. "I should’ve realized you’d pick up on it. It’s on me, alright? It’s on me not to start anythin’."
You can hear the implication – I’m the adult here. It’s not what you want to hear, but just the mention of Joel toying with this idea, as he put it, is enough to lift your spirits. So you weren’t crazy.
"I’m an adult," you say weakly, never having felt more like a child. Joel nods.
"You are, but I’m still in a position of power here. Be wrong, to abuse that."
His thumb is still moving over your cheek slowly, making it hard to think straight.
"So dinner and a movie doesn’t abuse it?"
You don’t want to argue, you don’t know why you keep disagreeing with him, and the way his face falls, you wish you hadn’t said it.
"No, it…it does, you’re right. Jesus, of course it does. I don’t blame ya for bein’ ang-"
"I’m not angry," you say softly, and tentatively turn your head in Joel’s hand. You press a kiss to his palm, his warm skin pressed right against your mouth. "I’m not your student, Joel. I mean, of course I am, but I know you. It’s different."
Joel’s eyes are glued to your face, and he looks so conflicted you wish he’d just throw you out of his house, if only to solve his dilemma.
"It’s still wrong," Joel mutters, his eyes glued to your lips since they brushed his skin "even if you take away the fact that I’m your fuckin’ professor. Your Dad…"
"My Dad is half a continent away and finds a way to be unhappy with whatever choices I make, so I might as well make the ones I want to."
The very first day, before you even met Joel, you decided to do what makes you happy while in university, and although this certainly wasn’t what you had in mind, you know it’s what you want. The only thing you want, in fact.
Joel sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Joel, I’m not trying to…look, if I’m wrong about this, just tell me, but I feel…I just wanna be close to you all of the fucking time," you say quietly, "and it’s okay if you don’t, really. I just…I want you to know it’s not nothing to me."
Saying I don’t just want to hook up with you would feel too straight forward or crass, but you think Joel gets the gist of what you’re trying to say, and he closes his eyes briefly. You study his face behind his glasses, the wrinkles and freckles from years in the sun. You do feel anxious about his answer, but whatever it is, you’re glad you told him. It’s out in the world now, the way you feel when he holds you, and he can do with it what he pleases – you’ve handed him the reigns.
"I…I know what you mean. Me too," he says very quietly after a beat, his eyes open and looking directly into yours again.
A triumphant pang of affection pulses through you, and you put your hand over Joel’s, which is still resting on your cheek. He looks conflicted, but his other hand holds your waist now, and tugs your smaller body closer to his again. He’s solid as a brick wall in front of you, and you figure you’re allowed to touch, so you rest your hand on his shoulder.
"What am I gonna do with you?" Joel mutters, and strokes your lower lip with his thumb. If you had more guts, you’d let it slip into your mouth, but you’re still afraid he’ll pull back if you make a wrong move, so you just let him caress your mouth tenderly.
"Whatever you’d like," you answer just as quietly, and you know it sounds sexual, but you mean it in every way – if Joel wants to be nothing but your professor, you’d take it, and if he wants to keep you here in his house indefinitely, you’d let him. Joel keeps looking at you, taking you in as if he’s considering whether the risks outweigh whatever magnetic or gravitational pull the two of you have between you.
"Stay," he say after a while, and although his face looks slightly regretful, his voice is determined, "just…sleep here tonight. I like havin’ you here."
You want him to kiss you, to pull you onto his lap on the couch, to take you upstairs right now, but Joel seems to be restraining himself, so you just nod.
"Me too," you whisper, echoing his words back to him, and for just a second, his thumb digs into your lip a little harder, but then he pulls away.
"Testin’ my goddamn restraint," he mutters, and takes a step away from you. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."
***
Joel gets you one of his band tees you love so dearly, and just the idea of being enveloped by something that smells like him all night makes it a little easier when Joel tells you he’ll take the couch instead of inviting you to sleep with him in his bed.
"No," you say softly, "it’s fine, you just sleep in your bed, Joel. I’ll take the couch."
He looks critical, so you offer him a soft smile.
"I don’t know if your back could take it," you tease, and he seems torn up between laughing and frowning. In the end, he just shakes his head, mutters something that sounds a lot like bad fuckin’ idea, and gets you a blanket and pillow.
He brings you a clean toothbrush and towel, let’s you use his bathroom (you look at the shower the entire time you’re brushing your teeth, trying hard not to think about what Joel looks like using it in the mornings), and when you’re done changing, you unlock the door again.
He’s there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes trailing over your form in his much too big shirt. It’s long as a dress on you, coming down to your naked thighs. Joel visibly swallows and gets up from the bed.
"You got everythin’ you need?"
"Yes. Thank you, Joel."
There’s a beat of silence and you almost think Joel’s about to cross the room, but he just runs his palm over his beard the way he always does, and nods.
"Alright. Just shout if there’s…well, you know. I’ll be here."
"I will."
"Alright. Okay…goodnight, kid."
"Night," you almost whisper, voice soft, and right before you reach the door, Joel clears his throat.
"I…you were right about dinner and the movie. I wasn’t just tryin’ to be friendly," he says quietly, and your stomach swirls. Before you can walk over to Joel and do something about it, he sighs.
"Sleep tight, sweetheart."
Sweetheart.
***
You wake to the sound of something dripping, and when your eyes flutter open, you can see Joel’s back from the kitchen. He’s wearing his work outfit again, a white button down and dark pants, sleeves rolled up. It smells like coffee, and with a smile you realize he must be brewing his beloved coffee – no machine, just a filter. He looks broad, even from your spot on the couch, and you enjoy peeking in on him. You study his movements, the way he reaches for a cup, how his fingers absentmindedly drum on the kitchen counter while he waits.
When he turns around, his eyes find yours, and he smiles.
"Mornin’. Did I wake ya?"
"’S fine," you yawn, pulling the blanket up to your chin, not yet ready to get up. "I have classes at ten anyway."
"’S eight," Joel tells you, "Coffee?"
"Yes please," you answer, and stretch your limbs under the blanket.
Joel brings you a cup, complete with a little bit of milk and sugar, and you move your feet so he can sit down on the couch.
"Sleep well?"
You sip your coffee, let it burn your tongue and close your eyes at the taste. When you open them, Joel’s gaze lingers on your face.
"Yeah," you answer, "thank you for…you know."
He nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s very quiet, and you feel anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.
"Joel, do you want me to leave? It’s fine if you do," you ask him softly, not wanting to make things awkward for him. It would be rational of him to ask you to leave, the smart and ethical thing to do.
"No," he answers quietly, still not looking at you, "I want you to stay."
Stay? On a Tuesday morning, after you almost kissed him and he told you he couldn’t do that, after you spent the night on his couch? When you have classes in two hours, haven’t showered yet, are half naked and wearing his clothes, on his couch under his blanket? When you’ve got friends wondering where you are and probably ten unanswered messages from Alva?
"Alright," you say, agreeing as easy as breathing.
Finally, he looks up, and his expression is so conflicted you reach out for him. Your hand finds his and you squeeze it. He keeps looking at you, his hand limp in your grasp, as if any movement of his muscles would incriminate him.
"You shouldn’t," he tells you earnestly. "Stay, I mean. You shouldn’t stay."
"I know."
You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t move his away.
"It’s a really, really bad idea," he adds, and you’re not sure who he is trying to talk out of whatever this is. "It’s risky. Could blow up both our lives."
"Yeah," you say, and watch him sip his coffee, "okay."
Then, a tentative flex of his fingers against yours, and finally, he’s squeezing your hand just as tightly, and before you can process what that means, Joel is leaning over you, dangerously close. Your breathing quickens, you register how soft his hair looks, how strong his hand is. He leans in further and you sit up a little, still cocooned in his blanket. His face is close to yours, his eyes fiery with something you can’t pinpoint, and you sigh, when he closes the gap between you.
He tastes of coffee and toothpaste, and you wish you’d gotten the chance to shower, but the thought disappears almost immediately when you hear Joel groan. His kisses you languidly, deeply, and your fingers come up to his beautiful arm, barely wrapping around half of his biceps. He cradles the side of your face, pulls you closer, makes your stomach clench with need. It feels inevitable, the way he touches you, like you only exist in a physical form to be touched by him.
His free hand peels the blanket off your body, lets it slide to the floor without ever stopping his the kiss, and you moan softly, when his hand touches your waist. The sound makes him break away, stare down at you, pupils blown wide.
"Fuck, you look good in my clothes," he mutters, nudging your jaw with his nose, and pressing a kiss there. "You should really, really go home."
Your head falls back slightly to give him better access to your neck, and he brushes his lips over your pulse point. Your heart skips a beat.
"I – I know," you breathe, fingers digging into his arm. His beard scratches your skin deliciously, and it takes everything in you not to whimper or beg. Joel’s hand slips under your shirt – his shirt – and instead of finding your waist again, he digs his thumb into your hip, stroking the fabric of your cotton panties. The fire in your stomach burns brighter, and you almost buck up into him. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller who until recently had a key to your childhood home, who lent it to you whenever you forgot yours inside – he’s sucking bruises into your skin, and toying with your panties. It’s dizzying, his familiar voice when he hums in satisfaction, even rougher than usually.
His fingers trace the waistband of your panties towards the front, until they find a small, silky bow, and Joel groans. He doesn’t take your underwear off, doesn’t even touch you where you need him the most, just keeps playing with the little bow, until your hips twitch without your permission. A little lower, and he would be able to feel how wet you are, how wet you have been all night. You didn’t do anything about it, not while you were a guest in his house. It would have felt wrong. You can’t imagine anything feeling more right than Joel’s mouth and hands on you, though.
"Jesus," Joel curses, "I should stop bef–"
"No," you whine, all dignity turned to hot air by Joel’s fingers, "please, Joel, please don’t stop."
He curses again, and moves his big body so that he’s not just hovering above you, but actually on top of you, your thighs falling open for him easily. At the movement, his shirt hikes up your thighs, and you know you’re basically on display for him, your soaked underwear leaving little to the imagination. He’s still fully clothed, his perfect button down all wrinkled now.
"Look at you," Joel breathes, lightheaded with desire, "this all for me?"
So he saw, when you moved to accommodate his broad form, saw how soaked you are, knows you ruined your panties just because he kissed you.
"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please–"
Before you can beg further, his finger presses down on your clit, and he watches your face contort in pleasure, as it shoots up your spine. You whimper, staring into his eyes, and he stares right back, as you start to grind your hips against his palm.
Your head feels blissfully empty, all worries about this relationship, uni, your parents, gone from you with a simple, practiced movement of his hand. The whimpers keep falling from your lips, and Joel curses.
"So beautiful," he mutters, "tell me what you need, angel."
It’s not a question, it’s an order.
"I – fuck, I need you i–inside," you groan, and Joel’s lips find yours again.
"Yeah? Need me to fuck you good, even though they’ll throw us both out?"
It shouldn’t turn you on. You’re jeopardizing both your own and Joel’s career, and he’s turning it into dirty talk. Still, your pussy doesn’t lie, and the way it throbs for him, aching to get him inside, makes all doubts disappear from your mind.
"Yes," you answer, unable to say much more as Joel keeps drawing tight circles into your clit.
Your hands drift from his arms towards his front, and Joel curses, when you paw at his belt buckle. It takes you a second, but then it’s open, the sound of the metal exciting you – it sounds like a promise.
Joel finally tugs your panties down, and for a second you’re self–conscious about not being clean shaven, but the second he sees you bare and glistening for him, his fingers dip into your folds, gathering your wetness with no hesitation.
"Fuck me," he groans, bringing his hand up to his face and tasting you, holding eye–contact the entire time, "prettiest pussy I’ve seen in my life."
You twitch under him, dragging your gaze away from his eyes and to his fingers. A moan escapes you, your hands have gone slack on his waistband, and Joel smiles down at you. Then, he does the same motion again, drags the tips of his thick fingers through your sticky arousal, but instead of sucking them clean himself, he holds them up to your mouth. His eyes burn, when you wrap your lips around them without a moments hesitation, and he feeds you your own slick.
"Taste so sweet, huh?"
You don’t answer, just swirl your tongue around his fingers, and suck on them. Joel watches your mouth intently, lets you take your time.
"Good girl," he praises you, and you clench around nothing, "so fuckin’ needy for me."
He drags his fingers from your mouth, and finally pushes into you, the stretch much tighter than with two of your own. Your head falls backwards, and Joel curls his fingers.
"No, baby, look down here," he orders, and immediately you lift your head again, and watch him pump two thick digits in and out of you. It’s dizzying to think it’s the same hand that waved to you from over his fence for years and years. You feel a coil building in your stomach, and you moan.
"Fuck, Joel," you moan, his name leaving a delicious aftertaste in your mouth. His beautiful forearm flexes with every movement, your slick is dripping down his fingers, and those damn sleeves are still perfectly rolled up.
With a few more curls of his fingers, you gush around him, barely having time to warn him, and he praises you, calls you his good girl, drags his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you until you see stars.
When he slips his fingers out of you and holds them up to your face again, you clean them up with your mouth as Joel watches with bright eyes. To think that he’s the same man who taught you Dirac not twenty-four hours ago – already, you want him inside again. When you’re done, he fumbles with his own clothes, and you watch him this time instead of helping.
"You look so good like this," you mumble, eyes raking over his broad form, "Professor."
His eyes snap up to yours, and you grin.
"Fuckin’ Christ, kid," he mutters, popping open the buttons on his shirt, "you can’t say shit like that."
"You don’t like it? You know, I watched you during your lectures and dreamed about…well, about this."
His expression is unreadable, but if you’re not mistaken, his hands move even faster now, and then he shrugs out of his shirt. You almost moan at the sight of his naked torso, so broad and solid.
"You need to pay attention in class," Joel answers, as he opens his pants. Your breathing grows a little shallow when he reveals his boxers underneath, his bulge huge.
"Can’t," you mumble, "not with you looking like this."
He chuckles at that, at the honesty and need in your answer.
"Don’t worry," he says softly, "I’ll fuck it outta you. Won’t be needing’ me in class, not if I’m still leakin’ out of you."
Your lips part, your pussy clenches – a smile tugs on the corners of Joel’s mouth at your reaction. He drags down his boxer shorts, and your eyes snap towards his cock, so thick and dripping in precum. You whimper, you can’t help it, and Joel’s smile widens.
"We’ll make it fit, baby," he says, reading your mind, and then bends down and kisses you again. You try to tug your shirt upwards, but Joel’s hands find your wrists and he holds them tight.
"No, want to fuck you in it," he breathes against your lips, and you press your hips upwards until he groans. He pumps his fist over his cock a couple of times, and aligns it with your entrance.
"Deep breath, baby," he mutters, and you obey, staring up at him as he starts pressing into you. It’s tight, much tighter than his two fingers, and your eyes glass over with pain, but Joel goes slow. His hand strokes your tummy, helps you relax, while he pushes on consistently. You feel like he’s punching the air from your lungs, eyes wide with the stretch of him, as he nips at your jaw and neck to distract you.
"Know it’s a lot, but you can take it, angel."
"Y-yes," you moan, and screw your eyes shut, "please don’t stop, Joel."
Joel’s breathing is ragged with restraint, and suddenly his hips snap forwards – and he’s fully buried inside of your tight body, nestled right against your cervix.
"Back to Joel, are we?" he teases, and gives you a couple of seconds to get used to him. You whimper and claw at his arm.
"I – ah – I’ll call you Professor Miller ’f you want," you slur, as he starts dragging his cock out of you again. You tremble under him, the feeling almost more intense than when he pushed inside of you.
"Yeah? That get you off? Or – fuck– is it the fact that I’m friends with your parents?"
It really, really should be a turn off, to be talking about your parents right now, but the way Joel says it, the way he points out just how debauched it is what you’re doing – you can’t help but moan. You blush, too, can feel the heat in your face, but you’re tired of being ashamed of wanting him the way you do.
"Both," you answer, and this time Joel groans, his hips snapping into you at a rougher pace. The head of his cock hits your spot every time, and you let out little sounds of pleasure with every drag of his cock, unable to form a coherent sentence. Joel’s hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his other one pressing down on your stomach.
"Feel that?" he asks you, and you do, you feel him all up in your guts, "you take it so well baby, take all ’f me."
"Yes," you answer, eyes glassy with pleasure, "want all of you, Joel."
He bites your shoulder, keeps rutting into you, and soon you feel another orgasm building.
"Close – ah – so close," you whimper, and Joel speeds up his thrusts just slightly. You clench around him, right on the edge.
"Come for me, angel, give it to me."
You do, your hips bucking, back arching.
"Ah – fuck, Joel, Prof–"
"Say it," Joel orders, fucking you through the waves of pleasure.
"Professor."
He comes, too, twitching deep inside of you and spilling rope after rope of come. It feels right, like you’re his. His groan is rough, his thrusts sloppy, and you feel your pussy spasm around him in a third, weaker orgasm, or maybe it’s just aftershocks from your second. You’re limp underneath him, letting him use your body how he needs to.
"Fuck," he curses, "did so good for me."
He slips out of you, and you can feel his spend drip out of you. You’re weak, soft like jelly, sweaty and entirely satisfied.
"Jesus," you breathe, when he falls down next to you, his couch mercifully being big enough.
"Yeah," he answers, "Jesus."
***
Turns out, Joel Miller is a dirty talking bastard during sex, and a big softie afterwards. He makes you tea, strokes your hair while you sip it, then carries you up to his shower and gently washes your body his his sponge. Throughout, he’s quiet, and you wonder if it was too much, the mention of him being your professor, of your parents, but you’re too afraid to ask. He brushes your forehead with his lips when he dries you off, and pulls another of his shirts over you head. Your panties are entirely ruined, it’s all you’re wearing.
When you’re clean again, and relaxed, Joel pulls you onto his bed, wrapping you up in his arms.
"Did you…was that too much?" he asks you softly fingertips tracing over your thigh lazily.
"It was just right," you answer quietly, and he hums.
"You didn’t feel like you…I mean when you called me Professor, you wanted to do that, right?"
You look up at him, and press a soft kiss against his jaw.
"Of course, Joel. Wanted everything we did, I promise."
He nods, but you can tell there’s still something bothering him.
"You know that’s not what you are to me, though, right?" Your voice is soft. "You’re just Joel."
He brushes the top of your head with his lips.
"I mean it," you press on when he doesn’t answer, "it’s like a costume, Joel. I know it’s your job, but it’s…I don’t think of you as like, an authority figure or something. I just thought you looked hot in that slutty shirt."
"Slutty–?" he sputters and you laugh.
"Sure, you know, with your sleeves rolled up, and that first button popped open."
"’S not slutty."
"You showed your forearms. Half the lecture hall felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time."
Joel makes an exasperated sound, half amused and half offended.
"I mean it," you say again after beat, humor gone from your tone, "and it’s not just sex to me. You know that."
"Yeah," Joel answers slowly. "’S more to me, too."
It’s a hell of an admission.
"What are we gonna do?", you ask quietly, and Joel sighs.
"You’re gonna go to class," he says, voice dark, "and I’ll try very, very hard not to call your father and tell him I’m fallin’ for his daughter."
You bury your face in his chest. With anyone else, it would be too much, too fast, too intense. But this is Joel. It’s not fast if you’ve known him your whole life, is it? You kiss his chest, and he seems to understand.
"We’ll figure it out," Joel says quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair.
For a second you do want your parents to know, want them to see that someone does treat you like an adult, want to look them in the eye and say I’m with Joel now and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have my own life now and it includes this kind man. It’s childish, you know it is. You lean up, catch Joel’s mouth in a kiss.
"Yeah," you answer, “We’ll figure it out, Professor.”
#4 ONE-SHOT inspired by Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne.
Summary: You have an established but sporadic relationship with Joel, which you keep secret. Tess, Joel's girlfriend, suspects something is going on but he lies to her to cover up the affair. The tension is palpable, and you demand that Joel end his relationship with her, regardless of the consequences.
Tw: +18 mdni, legal age gap, infidelity, Joel is an asshole, possessive!Joel, swearing, rough sex, oral f!receiving, praise, unprotected piv (wrap it y'all), dirty talk, creampie, pinching nipples.
word count: 2977
← Previous songs
There's no other, so when's it gonna sink in?
He laps at you roughly, using his tongue and lips with the same intensity he reserves for his enemies. "Fuck, you taste better than she ever did," he mutters against your skin, continuing his merciless ministrations. His calloused thumbs spread you open wider as he explores with his tongue.
His stubble scrapes against your inner thighs as he hooks his arms under your knees and pulls your legs over his shoulders, opening you up completely to his harsh, punishing kisses. He curses, his fingers digging painfully into your thighs as he drinks from you like a man starving.
He feels you tensing, your body convulsing under his touch as he refuses to let up. He's not gentle, not loving, not sweet. He's brutal, possessive, and angry. He breaks away only to growl, "Turn over," his voice hoarse.
Without a word, you flip over onto your stomach, presenting yourself to him. There's a pause, then he's leaning over you, his chest pressing into your back. His hands grip your hips hard, almost painfully. "Ass up," He demands gruffly.
You comply, lifting your hips and pushing your ass back towards him. He positions himself behind you, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Without warning or preparation, he slams into you, filling you completely in one harsh thrust. "Fuck, yes."
He sets a ruthless pace, pounding into you with all the fury he feels. Each thrust is harder than the last, his anger translating into violent, possessive sex. One hand grips your hip while the other slides under you to roughly palm your breast, twisting your nipple. "Take it, darlin'."
His hips slap against your ass, each inward thrust hitting deep as he relentlessly takes what he wants. The room fills with the sounds of your skin meeting skin and your occasional gasps. His pace quickens, becoming almost savage. "Who does this fucking pussy belong to?"
"To you, Joel." You cry out.
He grows harder at your submission, gripping your hips so tight he might bruise you. "Fucking right it does," he snarls, slamming into you so hard it shifts you up the bed. One hand moves around your front, finding your clit and rubbing firmly, punishingly.
He leans down, his breath hot on your ear. "Come for me," he demands, his fingers working your clit with expert precision. His cock doesn't slow its relentless pounding, each thrust driving you deeper into the mattress. "Let me feel that pussy choke my dick."
His dirty words push you over the edge, your body convulsing as an intense orgasm rips through you. He groans deeply, feeling your pussy clamp down on his cock. "That's it, darlin'," he grunts, not slowing his pace. "Milk my fucking cock."
He keeps fucking you through your orgasm and into another, drawing out your pleasure as long as he can. His fingers continue to torment your clit, his hips never slowing their brutal pace. His other hand reaches up to grab a handful of your hair, pulling your head back.
He looks down at you, his face contorted with lust, his eyes glinting manically. "You take it so well, babygirl" he hisses, his hips rolling forward to hit that spot inside you that makes you whimper. He's not done, not by a long shot.
He releases your hair only to wrap his arm around your throat, pulling you into a chokehold as he continues to pound into you. His other hand moves down to your belly, his fingers splaying out possessively. He's marking you, claiming you all over again.
"No other fucking woman makes me this crazy... not even Tess... only you," He slams into you harder, faster, completely overwhelming you. His fingers move at lightning speed on your clit. "Look at how you take my cock... perfect fucking pussy," His voice drops into a dark whisper, as if telling you the deepest secret. "I would kill for this pussy, darlin'... I would murder the whole fucking world for it." Each word feels like a sharp slap across your skin.
He suddendly grabs you and lifts you up, positioning himself so that when he sits back on the bed, you're straddling him, facing him. "Ride me, babygirl" He growls, his hands gripping your hips and lifting you up so that his thick head can push against your soaking entrance.
His eyes never leave yours as he slowly lowers you onto his cock, inch by inch. "Fucking hell," he groans, his head falling back slightly as you take him fully. "Ride my cock like a good girl." His hands grip your hips tightly, guiding your movements.
He watches your body move above his, his eyes half-lidded. He sees your breasts bouncing slightly with each movement. He growls softly, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts possessively. He sees your hands tentatively reach down between your thighs, and he growls approvingly, his hips bucking up to meet yours.
Joel's gaze remains locked on your fingers dancing over your slick clit, his cock throbbing intensely inside you. "That's it, baby," he murmurs huskily, his grip on your breasts tightening. "Work that pretty little pussy, get yourself off on my dick."
As you continue to toy with yourself, your movements becoming uncoordinated, sloppy with pleasure, Joel's control snaps. He grips your hips with bruising strength, slamming you down onto his lap as he begins to wildly buck beneath you, fucking you with harsh, aggressive thrusts.
His head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as he nears his peak. "You're going to come with me, ya hear me?" He growls, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit, his other hand gripping the back of your neck, pulling you down for a messy, brutal kiss.
He kisses you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth as he continues to thrust upwards, hitting a spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back. His thumb circles your clit faster, more insistently. "Come all over my cock right fucking now," he demands against your lips, his voice rough and commanding.
His demand breaks through whatever was holding you back, and you convulse around him, clinging to him as you come undone. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer as he finds his own release, roaring into the kiss as he fills you with his hot seed.
He holds you there, entwined together, panting and sweaty, his heart racing against yours. He nuzzles against your neck, his body relaxing slowly. Eventually, his breathing evens out, and he lifts his head, his eyes soft as they meet yours. "You should go," he mutters, voice low, unreadable.
"What? We just finished..." You protest.
He shrugs nonchalantly, his fingers still tracing patterns on your back. "You heard me. Tess will be back any minute, and I don't want her catching you here." He tries to sound stern, but there's an undercurrent of something else in his voice.
You pull your shirt over your head, still feeling the heat of his hands on your skin. The room smells like him, like you, like something that shouldn’t exist outside these walls. But the moment never lasts. It never does.
Joel is already fastening his belt, his movements practiced, routine. You know what comes next. He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and glances at the clock. Tess will be here soon. She always is.
There it is. The dismissal, the quiet reminder that this isn’t your place, that you don’t belong here. That as much as he wants you, he still won’t choose you.
And you hate it. Hate the way he does this every time, as if none of it matters. As if you don’t matter.
"You should leave her," you blurt out, before you can stop yourself.
Joel’s shoulders tense, his hands pausing at his shirt buttons. He doesn’t turn around.
"Don’t start."
"Why not?" You cross your arms, stepping closer. "You don’t love her. You don’t even care enough about her to stop fucking me behind her back."
That makes him turn. His eyes lock onto yours, dark, unreadable. It’s that look—the one that tells you to stop, to back down. But you won’t. Not this time.
"She suspects, Joel," you whisper, letting the words settle between you. "She knows."
He exhales sharply, jaw clenching. "She doesn’t know shit."
"You lie to her face, and you keep thinking she's so naive to believe you." You let out a humorless laugh. "How much longer do you think this farce is gonna last?"
Silence. The kind that presses against your chest, thick and suffocating. You know Tess isn’t stupid. She sees you, she hates you, and if she hasn’t done anything yet, it’s only because she’s waiting for the right moment to burn everything down. And Joel… Joel is still caught in this web of lies and excuses he spun himself.
"If you don’t leave her, I’m gone," you warn, and you mean it. Or at least, you try to believe you do.
Joel runs a hand over his face like he’s exhausted. Like carrying this is more weight than he’s willing to bear. And then he says what he always says:
"It’s not that simple."
But it’s easy for him to keep sleeping with you. It’s easy for him to keep living this double life, pretending he won’t have to choose. And you hate that. You hate that despite everything—his indecision, his cowardice, his rough voice telling you he can’t, he shouldn’t—you keep waiting for the day he will.
"At least let me fix my fucking clown appearance".
You step into his bathroom, your chest tightening with frustration. Your fingers tighten around the lipstick in your bag. Maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s childish, but you want to leave something behind. Something she’ll see. Something he won’t be able to ignore.
With quick, deliberate strokes, you scrawl two words on the foggy mirror:
I love you.
And then, without another word, you walk out the door.
The night air in the apartment feels heavy, thick with the unspoken tension that’s been hanging between them for months, but tonight, it feels even more suffocating. Tess walks in after a grueling shift, her body aching, her mind still spinning from the events of the day. As she shuts the door behind her, the first thing she notices is Joel, sitting at the table. The bottle in front of him is half-empty, and he doesn’t even look up when she enters.
"Why are you still awake?" Her voice is calm, almost unnervingly so, masking the storm brewing inside her.
Joel pauses for a fraction of a second before responding, the hesitation barely noticeable but enough for Tess to catch it.
"I can't sleep."
Her expression doesn’t change. She nods slowly, deliberately, as if processing his answer, but her thoughts are already elsewhere. She knows the cause of his insomnia, has known for weeks, but she’s too tired to argue tonight.
Instead, Tess walks past him, her footsteps echoing in the silent apartment. She’s used to his restless nights, to the way he tosses and turns, but there’s something about tonight that feels different. She’s too exhausted to question it right now—her body demands a shower, something to wash away the grime of the day.
But then, just as she’s about to disappear into the bathroom, she hears it. The sharp inhale, the sound of something being held back, followed by a bitter, hollow laugh.
"You really are a piece of shit, you know that?" Tess’s words slice through the silence, biting and full of contempt.
Joel remains unmoving, his gaze still fixed on the table. He knows exactly what she saw—he knows she always sees everything.
Tess steps back into the room, her eyes burning with a fire that has been smoldering for far too long. "Tell me, Joel. Did you even bother to wipe it off, or were you hoping I’d see it? Hoping I’d be the one to end this for you?"
He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, but his eyes remain fixed on the bottle in front of him, unable to meet hers.
Tess doesn’t give him the luxury of silence. She moves closer, her voice low and cold. "You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t seen how you sneak around? How you come back smelling like her?" Her words are calculated, each one more painful than the last, driving deep into the wound he’s tried so hard to hide.
"Tess—"
"Save it." Her tone is sharp, cutting off whatever weak excuse he was about to offer. "You know, I could almost respect it if you had the guts to admit it. But you don’t. You just keep lying, thinking that’ll protect you. That’ll protect her."
Joel grits his teeth, his fists tightening by his sides. "This ain’t—"
"Ain’t what? Ain’t my business?" Tess interrupts, her voice rising in anger. "Let me make it clear for you, Joel. When you sleep in my bed, eat my food, act like I’m still part of your life? That makes it my business."
He exhales deeply, frustration flooding through him. He rubs a hand over his face, the weight of her words pressing down on him. "Tess, I—"
"Don’t." Her voice cracks like a whip, filled with fury. "Just tell me one thing, and don’t you fucking dare lie to me this time."
Joel’s breath catches in his chest. He braces himself, knowing what’s coming.
"Are you fucking that girl?"
The question hangs in the air, sharp and brutal. For the first time, Joel has nothing to say. The silence that follows is deafening, suffocating, and Tess doesn’t need him to speak. His silence speaks louder than any words could.
She nods once, her expression hardening. "That’s what I thought."
Without another word, she turns and walks past him, her shoulder brushing his as she leaves. The sound of her footsteps fades into the distance, swallowed by the dark corners of their apartment. Tess is gone, leaving him alone in the space they once shared.
Joel stands motionless, staring at the spot she vacated, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy fog. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence is all the confirmation she needs. And somewhere, deep inside, he knows that the distance between them has already grown too wide to bridge.
He sits alone at the table long after Tess has disappeared into the night, the half-empty bottle of whiskey now just a symbol of his inability to escape the reality of what’s unfolding. He’s numb, and yet the weight of the silence feels unbearable.
For a moment he stares at his phone, his fingers trembling as he picks it up again. He knows what he needs to say, but the words taste bitter, like acid on his tongue. He unlocks the screen and starts typing.
"Why did you write that in my bathroom?" There’s a long pause. Joel feels every second stretch into an eternity, heart pounding as he stares at the screen, the words hanging between them like an unwelcome truth. He knows he shouldn't have asked. He knows the answer will only make everything worse, but the question lingers, desperate for something—anything—to explain the weight of your feelings.
"Because I meant it. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t." The response hits harder than Joel expected. It’s simple, yet the sincerity behind it cuts through him like glass. His thumb hovers over the keys, unsure of how to respond.
"You shouldn’t have written that. I never asked you to feel that way about me. What you and I have is just sex." The words feel cruel as he reads them, but there's no other way to say it.
"I didn’t say you asked for it. But I’m not sorry for what I wrote. I don’t regret it." Joel runs a hand through his hair, the frustration building. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to drag you into this mess, but the truth is, he’s already in it. He doesn’t want to hurt you, but he also doesn’t want to give you false hope.
"I’m not what you think I am. You deserve someone who’s sure about what they want." His fingers shake as he types.
"You’re right. You’re not what I thought you were. But that doesn’t change the fact that I think you need to get a new girlfriend and that it must be me." You words feel like a punch to the gut.
"Listen, I don’t know how to fix this anymore. I can’t be who you want me to be. We can't continue seeing each other."
"So that’s it, then? You’re just going to walk away? Pretend like you never felt anything?" You quickly reply, feeling the weight of your words.
"I can’t keep doing this to Tess. I’m not good for you. Not right now."
Then there was a little moment of silence.
"Maybe you’re right. Maybe you can’t be who I want you to be. But you know what, Joel? You always come back and I do deserve more than this. Maybe this time, I’m done waiting for you to decide. Maybe it’s time for me to walk away." Joel's heart sinks. The words sting in a way he can’t explain. He wants to stop you, to beg you to stay, but part of him knows you're right.
And just like that, the conversation ends. No more back and forth, no more fighting to stay, no more trying to fix something that’s broken beyond repair.
Joel stares at the screen for a long time, the emptiness in the words echoing through him. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or if the guilt is eating him alive. Either way, he knows this is the end.
#3 ONE-SHOT inspired by Two Princes by Spin Doctors.
Summary: Frankie and Santiago, both retired soldiers, unknowingly find themselves dating the same woman—you. At the men's night out, Frankie casually asks Santiago if he’s dating you, sparking a realization that they’re both involved with you. Tension builds as both men confront the situation, and when you step in their trap, you're left to choose between them.
Tw: +18 mdni, love triangle, petnames (baby, my love, hermosa, cariño), threesome, swearing, possessive!Frankie, possessive!Santiago, oral f and m!receiving, fingering, praise, unprotected piv (wrap it y'all), dirty talk, creampie, pinching nipples.
A/n: this one took me forever but I LOVED every single part of it. First Triple Frontier smut in the series, I hope you enjoy it :) !! word count: 3,228
← Previous songs
The night started like many others—whiskey glasses clinking, low conversations in the haze of a dimly lit bar. Frankie and Santiago sat at a small, round table in the back, their usual spot whenever they found time to catch up. The bar hummed with distant chatter and the occasional burst of laughter, but between them, an uneasy silence had begun to settle.
Frankie leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the room, but his thoughts were far away. He had a vague sense that something was off, something about you. You’d been distant the last couple of times they’d met, slipping out of conversations just a little too quickly, your texts arriving at odd hours. It wasn’t just that, though; it was the way you moved—like you were playing a game neither of them were fully aware of.
Santiago, on the other hand, was quiet, his expression harder to read than usual. He was watching you, too, even though he hadn’t admitted it yet. Every time you’d smiled at one of them, his gaze would shift, just a little too sharply. And each time you mentioned your other plans, whether it was with family, work, or anything that didn’t involve them, it didn’t sit right.
For a brief moment, Frankie could swear that he saw your profile picture when Santiago was texting someone so fondly. He rolled a cigarette between his fingers, brows furrowed. “You ever get the feeling you’re being played, man?”
Santiago took a slow sip of his drink, eyes narrowing slightly. “Depends on the game.”
Frankie exhaled a short chuckle but didn’t look up. “Her name ever come up in your head when I say that?”
Santiago didn’t answer at first. He simply stared at the dark amber liquid in his glass, then sighed. “You talking about her?”
Frankie finally met his gaze. The weight in the air shifted.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Santiago said, but his tone was off—too measured, too controlled.
Frankie smirked and glancing at his phone. “Yeah, you do.”
Another pause, longer this time. Santiago leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “Fuck.”
Frankie laughed, but there was no real humor in it. “Yeah. Fuck.”
The realization settled between them, heavy and electric. The woman they both thought they had something special with—the one who had been slipping between them without a single misstep—was playing them both. And damn if that wasn’t impressive.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Frankie pulled out his phone and set it on the table. “We could call her out.”
Santiago scoffed. “Or?”
Frankie lifted an eyebrow, mischief creeping into his expression. “We could have some fun with this.”
Santiago studied him, then let out a quiet laugh. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Frankie tilted his gaze toward Santiago's phone. “Now that you're having a conversation with her, invite her. Same place, same time, and I'll join you.”
Santiago chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re in.”
A beat. Then Santiago smirked. “Yeah. I’m in.”
Then Santiago hit sent.
The hotel room was dimly lit, the air thick with the kind of tension that could snap in an instant. Frankie sat in an armchair near the bar, Santiago leaning against the window with arms crossed. They had been quiet for the past few minutes, lost in separate memories—kisses stolen in dark corners, whispered words that felt meant just for them. And yet, they had never really been hers alone.
“You pissed?” Frankie finally asked, voice low.
Santiago exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh. “I was.” He turned to look at him. “You?”
Frankie thought about it, then shook his head. “Not anymore.”
Santiago nodded, pushing off the window. “Gotta hand it to her, though. The way she kept us both hooked without either of us noticing?” He let out a low whistle. “That takes skill.”
Frankie chuckled. “Yeah. Kinda impressive when you think about it.”
A beat. Then Santiago tilted his head slightly. “What if we don’t make her choose?”
Frankie’s gaze darkened with something unreadable. “Thought about that too.”
Santiago smirked. “And?”
Frankie’s lips curved into a slow grin. “I think we make the offer.”
A knock at the door.
They shared one last look before Santiago pushed off the wall and moved to answer it. When the door swung open, you stood there—expecting one man, and finding both.
Your lips parted slightly, eyes flickering between them as realization dawned. But before you could speak, Frankie leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“We figured it out,” he said, voice smooth, almost amused.
Santiago leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “And we got a proposition for you.”
You should be angry. Maybe you should be scared, or at the very least, nervous. But instead, there was a strange kind of exhilaration blooming inside you. The thought of being caught between them—the tension of it all—felt like a delicious challenge. Your heart raced, but not out of fear. No, it’s something else, something darker.
Frankie tilted his head, voice dropping. “Don’t look so nervous, cariño.”
Santiago smirked. “You wanted both of us, didn’t you?”
The air in the room shifted, thickened, humming with something almost dangerous.
Frankie held out a hand, inviting. “Then take us both.”
Silence.
The door clicked shut behind you, the sound final, sealing you into this moment with them. A part of you wanted to run, but another part—the part you’ve tried to ignore—welcomed the chaos. There was no turning back now. You stepped into their game, and a shiver ran down your spine as their eyes locked onto yours, a silent promise of whatever it was you were re willing to accept.
“Listen, I…” You hesitated for a moment. “I'm sorry, dating you both separately was wrong but this… is fucked up.”
Santiago's expression softened slightly, his voice gentle but firm. “We know it's unconventional, baby. But hear us out. We both care about you, deeply. And we've… discussed this at length. We want to give you a choice, to be with both of us, fully and completely.”
“More sure than anything else in our lives,” Santiago whispered, stepping closer. “We're not just saying this to get you into bed, hermosa.” He exchanged a glance with Frankie, who nodded in agreement. “Though,” Frankie added with a slight smirk, “if you're worried about how it works...”
Frankie chuckled, his smirk widening. He uncrossed his legs and stood up, towering over you. “Let me demonstrate,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. He looked at Santiago, who already knew what Frankie was planning. “Santiago, come here.”
Santiago moved closer, pressing himself against your back. You were sandwiched between the two men, their hard bodies caging you in. Frankie tilted your head up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, while Santiago started trailing kisses down your neck, his hands roaming your body.
“See?” Frankie whispered against your lips, trailing kisses along your jaw as Santiago continued kissing your neck. “The way you melt between us... it feels right, doesn't it?” Santiago's hands moved to your waist, pulling you firmly against his hardness while Frankie placed possessive hands on your hips.
Santiago whispered against your ear, his breath hot. “No need to overthink it now.” Frankie captured your lips again, then broke away to nip at your bottom lip. “Let us worship you, mi amor. Let us give you everything you need.”
With a low growl, Frankie picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He carried you to the bed, laying you down gently. Santiago followed, crawling over you to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. Frankie started undressing you slowly, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin.
“Just relax, baby” Santiago murmured, his fingers trailing teasingly along your stomach as Frankie finished undressing you. Frankie's hands roamed your body hungrily, squeezing your breasts and teasing your nipples until they hardened. “God, you're gorgeous” he breathed.
Watching them pleasuring you made you bit your bottom lip.
“Don't fucking do that,” Santiago said suddenly. “If you bite that lip, I swear to god, I'll make you pay.” He looked at Frankie, who smirked and bent his head to suck the lip out of your mouth, soothing it with gentle bites and kisses.
“Mmm, you like that, don't you?” Frankie murmured after they quickly heard your sweet sounds, switching his attention to your neck and marking you with his teeth. Santiago watched, his eyes darkening with desire. He started undressing, revealing his muscular chest and abs. “Let's see how you handle us both.”
Frankie undressed slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact with you. His movements were graceful, almost predatory. The dim lighting cast shadows across his powerful body, making every muscle definition clear. Santiago moved to your side, running his fingers through your hair. “Spread your legs, baby,” he whispered.
“Wait!” Suddenly you came back to Earth. “I've never done this before... you know? A threesome.”
“We know,” Frankie said, his voice soft and reassuring. He settled between your legs, pressing gentle kisses to your inner thighs. “We'll go slow, make sure you're comfortable.” Santiago nodded, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Just tell us to stop if it's too much, okay?”
With gentle care, both men explored your body. Frankie focused between your legs while Santiago kissed your neck, breasts, and stomach. They worked in sync, complementing each other's touches perfectly. Frankie's tongue found your clit, making you arch against his mouth. “Fuck, you taste amazing as usual, hermosa” he growled.
It was too much pleasure to handle. They were so skilled each one of them, you always knew that, but together you could feel like moaning even louder than normal.
“God, listen to those noises,” Santiago growled, watching Frankie feast between your legs. He captured your lips again, swallowing your moans. His hands massaged your breasts, tweaking your nipples. Frankie pushed two fingers inside you, making you buck against his hand. “She really likes that,” Santiago murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back further. He claimed your mouth again in a deep, possessive kiss as Frankie continued to worship between your thighs. “Frankie, two fingers, okay?” he asked, breaking the kiss briefly and Frankie nodded.
“Mmm, you're so tight, hermosa. I'm gonna stretch this pretty sweet pussy so good” Frankie groaned against your pussy as he pushed two fingers inside you. His touch was gentle yet firm, slowly stretching you open. You moaned into Santiago's mouth as he continued to kiss you passionately. The combination of their touches was overwhelming but pleasurable.
Santiago broke the kiss, his breath ragged. He looked into your eyes, checking in. “You okay, baby?” You nodded, whimpering slightly as Frankie began to curl his fingers inside you, hitting a spot that made your eyes roll back. Santiago smiled approvingly.
“Mmm, found your sweet spot, didn't we?” Frankie chuckled darkly, maintaining that perfect rhythm with his fingers. Santiago moved to your breasts, sucking one nipple while teasing the other with his fingers. Your back arched off the bed, pleasure coursing through you.
“God, you're so responsive,” Frankie groaned, adding a third finger and increasing the pace. Santiago switched to your other breast, ensuring both nipples were equally flushed and hard. “She's ready, Frankie.” Santiago whispered between breaths. “I'm going to get you properly wet, baby.”
Santiago repositioned himself, settling between your legs alongside Frankie. His tongue joined Frankie's, both now lavishing attention on your soaked pussy. Frankie continued fingering you firmly while Santiago licked and sucked, focusing on your clit. Their tongues danced together, teasing your folds.
The room filled with your whimpers and the wet sounds of their mouths and fingers working in tandem. Frankie and Santiago glanced at each other, smirking wickedly as they heard your pleasure-filled moan. They increased their efforts, tongues flicking faster over your clit while Frankie's fingers pumped steadily. Santiago reached up, tweaking a nipple sharply, the sting contrasting beautifully with the pleasure assaulting your core.
Your hands gripped the bedsheets tightly as the overwhelming sensation pushed you closer to the edge. Frankie felt your walls contracting around his fingers, signaling your impending orgasm. He looked up at you, his face glistening with your arousal, and whispered, “Come for us, hermosa. Let us taste it together.” As Frankie's words washed over you, combined with their relentless attention to your sensitive spots, your orgasm crashed through you spectacularly. Your body shuddered violently as waves of pleasure consumed you. Frankie and Santiago didn't let up, continuing to lap at your dripping pussy, prolonging your climax.
As your orgasm subsided, Frankie and Santiago finally pulled back, their faces covered in your juices. Breaking apart, they climbed up the bed, Frankie on your left and Santiago on your right.
Both men propped themselves up on their elbows, studying your flushed, satisfied face. Their cocks were rock hard, but they took their time, caressing your skin softly. “You alright, mi amor?” Frankie asked gently, trailing fingers through your hair. Santiago leaned in to kiss your shoulder.
“Not scared off yet?“ Santiago joked softly, his fingers trailing down your stomach possessively.
You laughed softly, making both men smile. “No,” you admitted. “This is... surprisingly hot.” You bit your lip again, making Santiago growl.
“Spread your legs again, baby,” Santiago's command was low and rumbling, his eyes locked onto yours.
As you complied, spreading your thighs, Frankie positioned himself between your legs, running his hands up your inner thighs possessively. “Lift your legs up, hermosa” Frankie instructed, his voice firm and demanding.
You lifted your legs, wrapping them around his waist instinctively. In response, he wrapped his arms under your knees, lifting them higher and spreading you wide open. The position was vulnerable, yet incredibly turned on. Santiago leaned in, his hand joining Frankie's to hold your legs apart.
“Fuck, you look so sexy like this,” Frankie growled, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance. Santiago leaned down to kiss you, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you steady. “We're going to fuck you together, baby,” he murmured against your lips.
With a single thrust, Frankie pushed into you, his thick length filling you completely. You gasped into Santiago's mouth, your body stretching to accommodate him. At the same time, Santiago guided his own cock to your lips, pressing the head against your mouth. “Open your little mouth, baby,” Santiago cooed softly, guiding his cock into your mouth. You took him greedily, moaning around his shaft as Frankie began to move inside you, his hips thrusting slowly and deeply. The simultaneous sensations of being filled in both your mouth and your pussy were intense.
“Oh fuck, she's so tight,” Frankie groaned, picking up the pace of his thrusts. His hands tightened on your legs as he drove into you harder, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. Santiago matched his rhythm, fucking your mouth with long, deep strokes.
Tears streamed down your face as you struggled to take both men, your body overwhelmed with pleasure and slight discomfort. Santiago wiped away your tears gently with his thumb before pushing it into your mouth alongside his shaft. “Take it all, baby, I know you can,” he panted, his voice strained with effort.
You managed to relax your throat, taking Santiago deeper. He growled approvingly, his hips snapping forward faster. Frankie watched, his eyes darkening with lust. He released one of your legs, snaking his hand down to rub your clit, making you moan loudly around Santiago's shaft.
“Jesus Christ,” Santiago hissed as your moan vibrated against his cock. Frankie continued circling your clit expertly, making your pussy tighten around him.
The room filled with the sound of wet skin slapping against skin, soft moans muffled by Santiago's thick length in your mouth.
“Gonna come soon,” Frankie panted, his fingers moving faster on your clit. “Want to fill this tight little pussy up.” He looked at Santiago. “You close too, buddy?” Santiago nodded, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “Fuck yeah. She's got the best mouth.”
“Come for us, baby,” Frankie commanded, pinching your clit hard. The sudden jolt of pain mixed with intense pleasure pushed you over the edge. You came with a muffled scream, your pussy convulsing around Frankie's cock, your throat convulsing around Santiago's.
“Shit!” Frankie hissed, his thrusts losing rhythm as your orgasm milked his shaft.
“She's gonna make me come.” Santiago groaned, his hips snapping forward harshly. “Swallow baby. Swallow it when I come... Only the way you know” He warned, his voice hoarse with need.
As if on cue, both men came almost simultaneously. Frankie's hot cum filled your pussy, dripping out around his thick shaft. Meanwhile, Santiago held your head still as he unloaded his own hot, sticky load into your throat. You gagged slightly but obediently swallowed every drop.
Both men slumped forward, draping their bodies over yours as they tried to catch their breath. Frankie's cock slipped out of your pussy with a wet pop, cum leaking out. Santiago stroked your cheek affectionately, his semi-hard cock slipping from your lips. “Fuck that was hot, baby,” Santiago whispered, his thumb gently wiping the corner of your mouth.
Frankie, still propped up on his elbows, leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss on your shoulder. “You okay, hermosa?” Frankie asked, his voice husky from exertion.
You whimpered softly, snuggling closer to the warmth of their bodies. Frankie chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist possessively. “She always gets like this after,” He murmured to Santiago.
Santiago smiled, cradling you against his chest. “I know. Like a kitten,” Santiago laughed softly, nuzzling your neck. “You get all snuggly and whiny, baby.”
Frankie watched as your body went boneless and docile, your eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.
“What are we gonna do after this?” You asked a little bit worried at how things flew. Now they both knew you used to date them at the same time and deep down it hurt you that everything must change now.
“What do you want to do, hermosa?” Frankie asked seriously, his playfulness gone. He sat up, his abs tightening. “You wanna make this a regular thing? Or was this a one-time thing?” He watched your face carefully. Santiago mirrored Frankie's serious expression, waiting for your answer.
“Honestly, I don't know” You hesitated.
“You're not sure if you want to have sex with two guys again?” Santiago asked carefully, his voice unreadable. “Or you're not sure if you want this to be a thing?” He added when you didn't answer immediately. Frankie watched your face closely, his expression unclosing.
“Is it because society might judge us?” Frankie asked softly, his voice gentle. “Or is it because you're not sure about us, personally?” He searched your eyes. “We can keep this a secret if you want, but we both really like you, hermosa. This isn't just about the sex for us. You know that.”
Just as the silence lingered, the iconic strains of Two Princes by Spin Doctors began to play from the stereo, its upbeat rhythm filling the room. You all paused, and then, with a shared chuckle, recognized the ironic coincidence of the song choice. A song about two men competing for the love of one woman—how fitting for the moment. You laughed at the absurdity of it all, knowing that the universe had an odd sense of humor.
i need to straddle his lap as he tells me i'm his girl, only his, as he squeeze my jaw making sure i understand, then we start to softly making out, his scruffy beard scratching my face, but i like it cause he's my daddy, his thick hands gently groping my body cause i belong to him. i'd grind my hips against his bulge as i call him daddy, which only makes him harder, and only breathy little moans would fill the room<3
Summary: Joel, your dad's best friend, went to pick you up from a bar near his home. You were heavily drunk but you begged him to take you to his place instead of yours, since your dad will be pretty mad at you if he sees you in this state. Joel obliges and just when you both arrive, you dance for him and he can't resist you no more.
Tw: +18 mdni, legal age gap, perv!Joel, mention of alcohol consumption, Joel gives you a lot of nicknames (kid, darlin'), swearing, protective!Joel, oral f!receiving, fingering, praise, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv (wrap it y'all), dirty talk, creampie.
A/n: buckle up because this one is longer than the first one in the series. In this opportunity, I didn't wrote only one pov one-shot, so you'll see a back-and-forth exchange from Joel's mind and reader's mind. This time I embraced an omnipresent style of writing (but still in second person). Again, I hope you enjoy it :) !! word count: 2,463
I can see you staring there from across the block with a smile on your mouth, and your hand on your huh! The story of us, it always starts the same with a boy, and a girl, and a huh, and a game. A Love Game.
Joel had always been a steady presence in your life, ever since your dad and he had become close friends. Tonight, though, things were different. After a wild night out, you found yourself stumbling out of the bar, the world spinning around you. Your phone was dead, and you couldn’t bear the thought of your dad finding you in this state. He’d be furious.
When Joel arrived to pick you up, his face hardened with concern the moment he saw you. “I told you not to drink so much, kid,” he said, his voice full of reprimand, but his eyes held a hint of worry.
You turned, eyes locking with his. Maybe he was right. Maybe you shouldn't have drink that much.
“C’mon,” he grumbled, his voice gruff but firm. “We’re getting out of here.”
“What?” you shouted, leaning in, struggling to hear over the music.
He leaned closer, his voice low and intense. “You heard me, darlin',” he growled. “I said we're leaving. Now.” He pulled you gently but firmly towards the door, his hand still wrapped around your arm.
You stumbled a bit, your legs still shaky from the shock of what happened. But even in your rattled state, you knew better than to argue with Joel when he was in protective mode. So you followed him obediently towards the door, your heart thudding wildly in your chest.
He guided you through the crowded bar, his body moving automatically to shield you from the chaos and commotion around you. He could feel your body pressed against his, your soft curves fitting perfectly against him like puzzle pieces. The bar’s chaos faded as you two stepped toward the door, and for the first time that night, you felt something other than numbness.
You tried to push the words out, slurring slightly, “Please… don't take me home...”
He paused, surprised by your request. He had been so focused on getting you out of there that the words hadn't fully registered at first.
“What?” he grumbled, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“Take me to yours instead.” You almost dropped on your knees to beg him for mercy. “Please... My dad… He’ll be so mad…”
He grunted, his mind racing as he considered your request. Taking you back to his place...that was dangerous, in more ways than one. But you were so damn vulnerable right now, and he didn't want you going home to your father in this state either. He let out a heavy sigh, his resolve weakening by the second.
“Fine,” he grumbled reluctantly. “But don't make me regret this.”
You nodded gratefully, leaning on him as he guided you to his truck. He was always the calm, reliable one—the one who kept his cool when everyone else lost theirs.
He opened the passenger door for you, holding your arm as you climbed inside. He couldn't help but notice the way your dress rode up your thighs as you settled into the seat, his eyes roaming over your bare legs for a moment before he quickly averted his gaze.
He slammed the door shut and walked around to the driver's seat, his mind racing with conflicting emotions as he climbed in and started the engine. He was taking you back to his place, where you would be completely alone with him, away from prying eyes and nosy neighbors. The thought made his heart race and his body ache with desire. Thinking about having you, wearing that damn tight dress, all to himself was making his cock twitch in his gray sweatpants.
“You're my hero, Joel,” you mumbled, feeling the vulnerability of the moment. “You always were and always will be…”
He grunted in response, his face flushing slightly at your words. He wasn't used to hearing praise, especially from someone as beautiful and captivating as you. The simple words filled him with a strange mixture of pride and guilt, his protective instincts warring with his desire for you.
“Don't say that,” he muttered gruffly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly. “I'm not a damn hero.”
You just rolled your eyes, but smiled at him at the end. There it was his wall of protection against others.
The rest of the drive was silent, the only sound the low hum of the engine and your soft breathing. He could feel the tension in the air, the silence like a palpable weight pressing down on his belly. He wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension, but the right words eluded him. All he could do was focus on the road and try to keep his thoughts and desires under control.
Finally, you arrived at his house, a small ranch-style home nestled in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. He parked the truck in the driveway and killed the engine, the sudden silence filling the air. He glanced over at you, his eyes taking in your tipsy expression. “C'mon,” he grunted, his voice gruff but gentle. “Let's get you inside.”
He climbed out of the truck and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door for you and offering his hand. You took it, your fingers wrapping around his larger ones. His heart skipped a beat as he felt the softness of your skin against his, the intimate gesture sending a shiver down his spine. He helped you out of the truck and led you towards the front door.
He unlocked the door and ushered you inside, his eyes roaming over your body as he followed closely behind you. The house was dark and quiet, the only light coming from the dimly lit hallway. He closed the door and locked it, the sound of the bolt sliding into place echoing through the silent house.
You didn't want the night to end just yet. You couldn’t shake the dizziness, but you also didn’t want to just sit still. As your eyes scanned the room, you noticed a small music player sitting on the shelf, its speakers quiet. The heavy thrum of a familiar pop tune began to play as you reached for it and turned on your favorite station, suddenly feeling the urge to move and sing along.
Meanwhile, Joel was seating on his couch, observing you carefully. He watched you sing along with the song, his eyes glued to your face. His mind immediately filled with impure thoughts of you, his body reacting to the sound of your voice and the sight of your lips moving across the lyrics. He had to keep his hands in his pockets to keep from pulling you closer and tasting those sweet lips. You were killing him without even trying.
Then you turned around, his eyes following the line of your body, from your bare neck to your exposed back, the fabric of your dress hugging your curves like a second skin. In that moment you felt carefree, like you were giving him a nice private show.
His eyes widened at the way you moved your hips and shaked your ass. Immediately his pants were growing tight and uncomfortable at the thought of how would that ass bounce on his dick while you were riding him. Joel quickly shifted his position, trying to hide his growing erection from you, but he couldn't stop fantasizing about it... Would it wiggle?
“Tease” he grumbled, leaning back on the couch and caressing his throbbing bulge. He was already rock hard to the point it hurt him. After watching your little slowdance, he was desperate to fill you up with his cock, to see that beautiful ass bounce on it. Desperate to feel his engorged cock being choked by your hot and wet walls around him.
You were absolutely immersed in the music, oblivious to the fact that Joel was staring at the sensual movements of your body while he was stroking his cock behind your back. But suddenly, he walked over you from behind and his hands roamed your body, making you whine and gasp. “Joel...” you whispered, his lips were already possessing your neck, giving no room for hesitation and explanation.
“You think you can shake ya booty like that and expect me to stay still on the couch like a good boy?” he grunted, his hand sliding under your dress and feeling the heat and dampness through your panties. “What a fucking bad girl, you're already drippin'. Can't wait to taste ya”, he growled, spanking your ass.
With a swift motion, he picked you up and moved to the couch where he placed you, his eyes never leaving yours as he knelt down in front of you.
You always had a thing about Joel. The mutual attraction you two felt for each other was palpable and dangerous. You couldn't believe that this man was surrender to his desire for you and damn he was so determined to take you.
He ran his hands up your thighs, his touch rough and possessive as he pushed your legs apart, his eyes fixed on your core as he brushed with his fingers the waistband of your panties and pulled them down. “Look at her... So pink and glistening... So happy to see me”. He went straight into it, he buried his face between your legs, his beard rubbing against your slit in the most delicious way.
He tasted you for the first time, his tongue sliding over your folds, and he groaned deeply at the sweet taste of you. It was better than he had ever imagined, and he knew he could never get enough of you now. “She's so delicious. I could eat this pretty needy pussy all day,” Joel smirked against your wet folds. “So wet for me. So desperate for me to fuck her senseless.”
His tongue worked fast and hard, making wet, dirty sounds. He looked up again, watching you throw your head back against the cushion, moaning. “Damn it,” he muttered softly, his fingers digging into your ass cheeks. He spreaded you wider and attacks your pussy with his mouth again.
“Oh, fuck,” you panted breathlessly, combing your fingers through his hair.
“Language, darlin',” he murmured gruffly, his voice rough and low.
He was lost in the moment, his mind consumed by the taste and arousal of your pussy. He doubled his efforts, sucking and licking furiously. His nose buried in your folds, inhaling your scent deeply. Suddenly, he bit down on your clit, hard, making you scream.
“Ahh!”, you protested, but frankly you liked it.
Joel smirked wickedly up at you, thoroughly pleased with your reaction. Slowly, teasingly, he dragged his tongue up your sensitive slit, flicking it rapidly over your clit. “You scream so pretty,” he murmured against your pussy, the vibrations tingling through your core.
His tongue moved in and out of you in deep, aggressive strokes, fucking you with his mouth. He added pressure with his tongue, hitting your most sensitive spot. Every time you moaned, he picked up the pace. But he paused briefly, his tongue buried inside you, then pulled back slightly to look up at you with his tongue hanging out, glistening with your juices. “You know what's about to happen, darlin'? I'm gonna make you cum so hard you'll forgot your own name,” he growls possessively, then dives back in, tongue-fucking you even harder.
You moaned louder his name when he slided two fingers deep inside your soaked pussy, curling them to hit your sweet spot as he sucked your clit hard between his lips. His tongue flicked rapidly over the sensitive bud while his fingers pumped in and out, stroking your inner walls just right. His other hand reached up to play with your breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples through your dress.
“Don't stop, please,” you begged, completely disheveled in his arms.
You started to tighten around his fingers. Your legs shook on his shoulders, and your whimpers became more frequent. He knew you were close. He pulled his fingers out briefly to slap your pussy lightly, then shoved them back inside, curling them hard.
“Come on my fucking face, darlin'... give me all those sweet fucking juices...” He sucked your clit even harder, his fingers curling to match every movement of his tongue. The muscles inside your pussy tightened around his fingers as he felt your orgasm approaching. “That's it...”
This time you moaned louder... So loud it could wake up his neighbors. “Good girl,” he muttered softly as your pussy convulses around his fingers. Your sweet juice flooded his mouth and chin. He lapped it up greedily, his fingers slowing down slightly to let you ride out your orgasm. “I believe you owe me a good ride after this”.
He pulled his fingers out slowly, sucking each one clean before standing up. His face was wet with your juices, and his hard-on is clearly visible through his pants. He quickly unbuckled his belt, pushing his pants down just enough to free his cock. Without warning, he lifted you up, positioning you on top of him. "Wrap those legs around me, darlin'," he commanded in a husky whisper.
“Fuck, you're tight,” he grunted, his face contorting in pleasure as you rode him hard. He reached up to pinch and squeeze your nipples, adding to your stimulation as you bounce on his lap. “I'm gonna fill this pretty pussy up with my cum... gonna mark you as mine...”
“Yes, please, Joel” you begged him. He thrusted up into you harder at your encouraging words, fucking you with wild abandon. His pace quickened, each stroke hitting deep inside you. He squeezed one ass cheek hard while continuing to play with your breasts. “Your pussy's perfect, darlin'... I'm addicted.”
His breathing grew heavy and labored as he felt his own climax approaching. “Fuck, I'm gonna come inside you, babygirl,” he growled, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he pulled you down on his lap with each thrust, trying to get as deep as possible. “Oh god, darlin'...”
You kissed him passionately and you just pulled away for a moment to speak your filthy mind. “Fill me up, Joel.” Your dirty mouth pushed him closer to the edge. He pounded into you harder, almost punishingly. He felt your breasts bouncing with each thrust, heard your loud moans and filthy mouth. He lost it completely.
“FUCK!” he buried himself deep inside you and held still, his hot seed shooting out and coating your insides. His face was buried in your neck, his breathing ragged and uneven as he filled you up just like you wanted. His strong arms wrapped around you, holding you close. He continued to thrust shallowly, drawing out his orgasm as he held you close.
Looking up at you, still breathless from his intense orgasm, Joel managed a crooked smile.
#1 ONE-SHOT inspired by the song Casual by Chappell Roan.
You were always a person determined to fall madly in love with someone. That was your purpose in life, or at least a dream to fulfill. But you would never have imagined that your last situationship would be so controversial. You never told your friends anyway, that's why they kept calling you a loser because you kept hanging around. Without anything concrete.
The situationship has a full name. Joel Miller. You thought that this time was different. He was different. Or at least that's the version of himself he was selling you from the beginning. Maybe it was all in your little head. Who knows?
Deep down you started to believe in those rumours people were telling about you and him. Specifically about the image of you, being just the girl that Joel bangs on his couch. Of course you always thought that he thought of you better, someone he couldn't lose. But after all your facade of a chill girl, you started to feel more and more tired of his determined way to say that he wasn't into commitment.
"We're not together", he would say to you after a kiss, leaving you with anger issues. "Baby, no attachment", he would remind you everytime you come undone in his arms, experiencing the aftermath of your orgasms.
Is it actually casual to be knee deep in the passenger seat, and he's eating you out?
Is it actually casual that two weeks later of hooking up and his mom invites you to her house on Long Beach?
It wasn't casual at all, you always reflected. Still you loved being stupid with him, playing the dumb love he shared you. You daydreamed of moving out together, meeting his friends at the pier. But poorly you knew that he told his friends that you were just a fling. A casual thing.
You stopped worrying about it. One day, you had the guts to put it an end and priorized your self-love over his self-centered personality.
Fully knowing that it could be a looping cycle with no return.
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Hello!! This is my first one-shot of Joel. I hope you like it just the way I enjoyed writing it. I must apologize in advance for any mistake since English isn't my first language :)
I'm planning to create a serie of one-shots inspired by music, so if you have any recommendations i'll be glad to receive them!! Thanks for reading <3
