❝ I know it won't work, but make it ache, make it hurt. Keep me a secret, choose someone else, I'm still hanging off the buckle on your belt. ❞ — “Buckle” by Florence and the Machine
Dbf!Joel Miller/Fem!Reader. No outbreak AU. Tags: Age gap (reader is 20, Joel is mid-to-late-forties), daddy kink, spanking, fingering, unprotected pinv sex, sneaking around, overstimulation. Rated E for explicit sexual content. 2.3k words.
In which Joel Miller shows you exactly how he feels about you.
☆ joel masterlist ⋆˚꩜｡ main masterlist ✘ nothing hurts like you do (joel series)
It's a sticky night in Austin, Jurassic humidity sweltering in the air, even after sundown. Fireflies have started to flutter around the high reeds of the overgrown grass in your backyard, stars winking in the night sky. A fire pit roars a few feet from the grill, smoking with burnt hot dogs. Marlboros overfill the ashtray not five yards from where you're sitting on your old tire swing, trying not to stare at Joel Miller.
Joel fucking Miller.
He's your favorite mistake to make again, and again, and again. It started the summer after you graduated college with small touches, stolen glances, and long nights of babysitting his daughter, Sarah for extra cash. Your dad bought Miller Construction and expanded it with Joel, and from then on, the friendship blossomed. You came back from school to find the only person your dad talked about more than you was Joel.
Joel, who changed your tire when you got a flat, and your dad was out of town. Joel, who holds every door for you, even at your own house. Joel, who tried so hard not to cross the line until you crossed it for him one fateful summer night. You tripped into his mouth, honest, but the moment your lips touched, it felt inevitable and so, so right.
The two of you have been promising "the last time" since the first time. That promise, of course, is a slippery slope meant to be broken, like when he said "just the tip" before sinking balls deep into your cunt, bending you over the kitchen counter, hand over your mouth so as not to wake Sarah.
What started as a hurried quickie in his kitchen turned into heated late-night phone calls, your fingers buried in your pussy as he talked you through an orgasm in that honeyed rasp of his. It became almost-dates in a bar far out of town, your panties in his glovebox after riding him in his truck, sinks rattling as he pounded into you in the bar bathroom, fingering you in dark corners next to the pool table. You've worn his Stetson on your head, felt the bite of his belt buckle on the inside of your thigh. You've slept in his bed on nights Sarah went to a friend's. You have your own loofah and body wash stashed under his bathroom sink.
Hell, one week before this party, Joel was eight inches deep when you told him you loved him in the heat of the moment, and you ran out on him like a spooked fawn in the woods. But he hadn't tried to call, and you didn't want to reach out, afraid the spell was broken, and it really would be the last time.
And now he's got a woman with him. Theresa, one of the only women on the crew who's always had the hots for Joel. You clocked that right away when you brought your dad lunch one afternoon on the job site and caught her faking incompetence to get Joel's help. Most of the time, all she does is answer the phone and stare at his ass in his Wranglers.
You hate her for it, for her age-appropriate affection, even if he's never returned it before now. She watches him with a hand on his arm, laughing and pawing at him. You try not to stew as he smiles back at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. His salt and pepper hair gleams in the moonlight, and his amber eyes are like Tennessee whiskey, warm when they pierce you.
You look away first, crossing the yard slowly, with languid stretches of your legs in your cutoff shorts, before you bend over in front of the ice chest, giving him a nice, long look at your ass. You come back up with a Bud Light, taking off the cap with your teeth and spitting it onto the pavement.
"You want another beer, Mr. Miller?" you ask, batting your eyelashes at him with faux innocence. His beer is nearly out, sweating in his fist, but he doesn't move for another. The muscles in his hand tighten around the neck.
"I'll take you home if you want to have another," Tess says, eager to help. "You know, if you can't drive yourself."
"One beer won't do me in," Joel replies. "Sure, kiddo, I'll take another."
Oh, you could throttle him. Kiddo? Who does he think he is?
You pass him a beer, this time, lifting the hem of your shirt a little too high to twist the cap off. You see a muscle tick under his stubble as he clenches his jaw, taking it from you.
"Thanks," he grunts.
"You're welcome, sir," you say, holding his eyes for a beat before stomping into the air-conditioned house, having had your dose of the summer heat.
You live in the basement in an apartment of sorts that your dad and Joel built for you, so you can save money while working through a master's degree in social work. You take the stairs two at a time, shutting your bedroom door behind you, but not locking it. You're baiting him, just to see if he'll bite.
You should know by now that Joel is all teeth.
He storms in ten minutes later, the lock clicking behind him as he slams the door shut. You're sitting on the small sofa in front of the TV, drinking your beer and feigning innocence, stretched out like a cat.
"Yes?" you ask.
His eyes are stone as he crosses the room, planting his feet in front of the TV you weren't watching. "You think you're being cute, all that 'yes, sir' and 'Mr. Miller' crap? The hell are you playin' at? Throwin' a fit after ignoring me all week, making me think I hurt you or somethin'."
"Ignoring you? You never called me!"
Joel doesn't blink, doesn't miss a beat. "I wanted to respect your space. You ran out on me like I spooked ya, didn't even put your panties back on. And now you're glaring at me across the yard like I'm s'posed to know what I did. Was I too rough with you? You're a big girl, ain't you? Use your words."
Use your words, he's told you, when he's had you spread out on his bed like a feast, pussy fluttering around nothing, folds slick with need. Normally, he says it when he wants you to beg. Too bad you're too pissed off for that.
"I was embarrassed," you admit.
"Now we're gettin' somewhere," Joel says. "About what?"
"About what I said."
"What? When we were makin' love?"
Your breath hitches in your throat, catching on your teeth before making it out of your mouth. Making love? Is that what it was? You never stopped to consider it as anything more than sex, his midlife crisis to your quarter one.
"I know I ain't good at this stuff. Words are more your thing, college girl, but I, uh, don't want you to think you gotta be embarrassed for saying what you're feeling if you're feeling it." He leans in, bracing an arm on the couch behind your head, his other hand caressing your face.
"Tess was flirting with you," you say, and it feels so silly, so immature as it comes out of your mouth.
"And?" he demands.
"And..."
"What? You're jealous?" Joel presses.
You close your eyes, heat blooming down your neck as shame fills you. You nod.
"She knows I'm seeing someone," he continues. "Was giving me a hard time about not bringing her to the party tonight. Everyone's dying to meet my girl."
This new revelation is enough to make you spin your wheels, confusion etched across your features. "You... talk about me?"
He nods. "Every now and again. Tommy's got a big mouth, let it slip that I've been happier lately. Your dad never mentioned my mystery girlfriend? Makes me wonder if he knows."
"Girlfriend?" you echo, voice small.
He chuckles. "What the hell else would you be, baby girl?"
"I don't know—"
"Been lost for you since the moment I saw you," he says, then your name comes next, all soft and sweet. "And I've been a little hurt that you left before I could respond."
"I'm sorry." It's all you can say, with your brain short-circuiting.
"You wanna know what I would'a said?"
You nod.
He holds your chin, thumb smoothing across your lip as he makes searing eye contact, locked on you, pupils dilated, stare molten. "I'm in love with you, too, baby girl, and keeping you a secret is just about killing me, but if that's what it takes to have you, so be it."
"You never asked me to be your... girlfriend," you explain, pitifully.
Joel chuckles. "Back in my day, doin' what we've been doin' was enough to make it clear. You're mine, and I'm yours."
"Old man," you tease.
"You done sulking now?" Joel asks, an eyebrow raised.
You lift your chin, a silent yes.
He sighs, smoothing your hair behind your ear. "Naughty little thing, bending over in front of me, actin' like you want a spanking."
"Maybe I do," you confess.
He groans, grip tightening in your hair. "Your daddy's right outside."
You shake your head. "Last I checked, my daddy is right here."
His hand sinks low, cupping your cunt through your shorts. He gives your pussy a light spank, laughing at the way you moan.
"Should take you across my knee for the way you were acting."
"Please," you whimper.
"Please?" he taunts.
"Please, Daddy," you finish sheepishly.
He sits down on the couch, legs spread, pulling his belt through the loops slowly. "Shorts off."
Your hands shake as you undo them, sliding them down your legs. The cotton between your legs is almost translucent with want, your wetness gathering there.
"Those too," he barks.
Your panties hit the floor before you climb over his lap, settling across his knee as he instructed. He doesn't hit you with the belt. Instead, he puts it between your teeth, instructing you to bite.
"Gotta keep you quiet, baby," he says, smoothing a calloused palm across your ass cheek. "Next time, I'll have you count."
His hand cracks hard on your butt. You yelp in surprise, biting down on the leather as instructed. He comes down again, harder this time, sending a sting through the globes of your ass when he spanks you. When he hits you a third time, you gush, and he notices, gathering your slick with his fingers.
"All this for me?" he teases. "Maybe I'll take the edge off, since you've been taking it so good."
He shoves his fingers inside you then, curling them to reach that gummy spot that sends shivers down your spine, pleasure rippling through you. He hits you again, twice more, before switching cheeks. All the while, he scissors his fingers inside your plush heat, working you to the edge.
When he smacks your ass the sixth time, you come hard, gushing around his fingers, but he keeps finger-fucking you, hitting your ass again. You're writhing, body putty in his hands as he slaps you again and again, spanking your ass raw and punishing your cunt with pleasure to match the pain.
As you reach spanking number ten, you come again, and Joel makes sure to ride it out, waiting until the last aftershock to pull his fingers from your pussy. Your ass is sore, and your clit is swollen and puffy, walls fluttering, tears stinging your eyes. He pulls the belt out of your mouth, a string of spit coming with it.
"Can't take anymore," you whisper.
"You will," he promises. "You can take it, baby. You sore?"
You nod.
"Daddy will make it better," Joel coos. "All you gotta do is be a good girl and sit on my cock, yeah? I'll stuff you real good, show my sweet baby how much I love her."
He frees himself from the zipper of his jeans, his thick, hard length smacking against his belly as he guides you onto him.
You feel every ridge splitting you apart as you sink down. You take him so deep he can feel the bulge in your lower belly as he guides you up and down, impaling you on his cock. His kisses are deep and slow as he lazily fucks you, drawing your clit across him with every stroke to create the perfect friction.
He's in your ear as he ruts into you, hips rising to meet yours. "Takin' it so well, baby. You always do. Daddy's good girl, made to take my cock. I can feel you getting close. The way you're squeezing me. Just let go. I gotcha. I gotcha."
"I love you," you pant into his mouth. "Love you so much, Joel."
"Love you, too, baby girl," he assures you. "Come for me. Come all over my cock."
You unravel at his command, and he's close behind you, spurting thick ropes of his cum into your waiting pussy, painting your insides white. You gasp for air, trembling as he eases you off of him. As you recover, he spends his time redressing you, kissing your forehead, your cheek. He's so tender in the afterglow of sex, his love in every gesture, even as he pulls his pants back up, spent and satisfied.
"Wish I could stay and hold you longer," he murmurs.
You nod. "You have to go back out there."
Joel sighs. "After, I'll come find ya. Maybe you can come over." He glances over his shoulder at the locked door.
"We'll tell him soon," you decide.
"Alright," Joel agrees. "Soon."
He kisses you one final time before turning to leave, and before he goes, you catch a glimpse of the indentation of your teeth in the leather of his belt.
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: I know most people hate physics, but I promise Joel makes it hot. Warning: explanation of the Dirac equation as foreplay. 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.”
Summary: Your dad surprises you after work with a brand new bed as a late birthday present. The kicker? Joel is there to help assemble it, leading to a very tense afternoon.
Warnings: no outbreak au, language, smut (18+ MDNI), age gap, phone sex (alluded to), sexual tension, references to masturbation (both), reader's mom is dead, reader has hair (length unspecified), size kink, unprotected piv sex, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), dirty talk, sneaking around, mutual pining, takin' nudes
WC: 6.6K
Part One | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
Let me know when you get home safe
You smirk and collapse into bed.
I've been home for 20 min. What took you so long?
Then...
??
You roll your eyes and burrow deeper into your covers.
I thought you'd text me sooner. I left almost 40 min ago.
You wait anxiously for Joel to reply, staring at your screen for the words to appear. Truthfully, you have no idea what you even want him to say, just that you want to keep him talking.
I had no idea what to say
You grin and before you can reply, another text comes through.
Still don't
Butterflies bloom in your stomach as you type out your response.
Where are you?
It takes less than thirty seconds for him to answer: bed.
You're thinking about me in bed?
You can practically hear his heavy sigh from across the city.
We can't do that again, I told you
Do what?
Don't play dumb darlin - you know what
I just asked a question.
Your old man's got a shotgun in his basement, I've seen it
Your shoulders sag and you relent.
Ok ok.... it won't happen again and I won't breathe a word of it to anyone. Promise.
Good
And you think that's the end of it. After you don't reply to his last text and he doesn't add anything further, you roll over to switch off your lamp and you do your best to focus on falling asleep without thinking of Joel's deep brown eyes gazing up at you while you ride him, all hazy and filled with desire. You quickly find it's impossible not to and it has you tossing and turning while trying to ignore the fresh ache growing between your legs. You skirt your hand down past your sleep shorts with a frustrated huff when, to your delight, your phone lights up again.
What are you wearing?
---
It's Friday, fucking finally. Your entire week at work had been shit. You made one tiny mistake that ended up costing you three hours to fix, a mistake you don't normally make and you just know it's because you've been distracted.
It's been two weeks since you've gone to visit your dad, meaning it's been two weeks since you've laid eyes on Joel. That night you shared should have slowly become a distant memory, but instead you found yourself texting him every single day, making it impossible to forget. Sometimes it was innocent enough, but at one point or another the conversation always turned flirty, which then turned heated, which then evolved to one of you giving in and calling the other so you could whisper filth into the phone with your fingers stuffed inside your pussy, but no matter how much you try, you're never able to get as deep or make yourself feel as good as Joel did.
It's driving you crazy.
So when you arrive home from work Friday afternoon and throw your car into park, you're too distracted to notice a familiar pickup truck parked on the street. To be fair, you live above a restaurant, so there's often cars parked along the street. You've learned to block it out. But when you go to open your door only to find it already unlocked, your heart stutters in your chest and you glance around. That's when you spot your father's truck and you roll your eyes.
"Dad?" you call up the stairs from down below.
"Yeah, honey, up here!"
You close the door behind you and trudge up the stairs, dodging various pairs of shoes you store on the end of each step. Right when you turn to enter your kitchen, you hear your father talking and laughing with someone. You don't have much time to wonder who it is because then you hear his voice, all low and velvety smooth. The very same voice that just the night before was telling you through the phone how much he missed your perfect, soft pussy and then begged you for a picture.
It suddenly became impossible to breathe.
"Hey, Kiddo," your dad says when he steps out of your bedroom. He's carrying large cardboard pieces to the stairs and sweat coats his face. "Me 'n Joel are puttin' your new bed frame together. Almost done."
Him and Joel. Joel. Putting together your bed. Joel is in your bedroom.
Your skin feels like it's on fire and your blood is pumping so fast, it makes you lightheaded.
"Uh, w-what new bed frame?" you stammer, forcing yourself to move out of his way.
"The one I promised for your birthday," he calls over his shoulder from your stairwell. Your eyes rake across the kitchen towards your open bedroom door, but Joel is nowhere to be seen. "Sorry it took so long but I told ya I'd get to it."
"Oh," you say, "uh, t-thank you. You didn't - um - you didn't have to do that."
Your dad emerges from the stairs and your gaze sweeps back over to him.
"Sure I did. It's your birthday present. 'Sides..." He awkwardly rubs the back of his neck and looks to the floor when he says, "felt bad 'bout our fight. Wanted to make things right, check in on ya. Miss seein' you 'round."
"Oh, Dad, it's fine. I'm not mad anymore, I've just been busy with work and stuff," you say. He looks down at your work clothes: a thin blouse half tucked into an off-white pencil skirt and heels.
"Look so grown up," he murmurs softly. You give him a small smile and shrug, temporarily forgetting Joel is just in the next room until your dad says, "Don't my little girl look all grown up, Joel?"
Joel's standing in the doorway to your bedroom, staring at you across the kitchen. You swallow and tighten your fingers around the edge of your counter and you fucking pray your father doesn't read the hungry look in Joel's eyes when he slowly and appreciatively sizes you up and down.
"Yeah," he finally says, voice only a little gravelly. It could be innocent, but you knew better. He clears his throat and tries again. "Look real grown up."
You give him a smile, one you hope looks natural. "Thanks, Joel."
Your dad snorts and crosses the kitchen, heading back towards your bedroom to finish your bed frame. "Callin' him Joel now? Since when?"
Joel locks eyes with you and you see it. You fucking see that heated look he gives you, letting you know exactly what he's thinking about: you, grinding down on his lap and whispering little teases in his ear while calling him Mr. Miller.
"Oh, uh, I-"
"I told her to," Joel says over his shoulder once your dad disappears into your bedroom. Joel's eyes remain firmly pinned on you when he adds, "She's grown now 'n all."
Your eyes widen and you shoot him a look, but Joel just grins and turns back around, back into your fucking bedroom, to help your dad finish up.
Your head spins. This is not the way you wanted Joel in your apartment for the first time. You tiptoe in your heels to peek inside your room, where your father is sprawled out on your carpet with a wrench and Joel is holding your new padded headboard in place. Your dad is murmuring to himself as he focuses on securing the headboard to the rest of the frame but all you can focus on are Joel's massive hands curling around the beige fabric. You bite your lip and lean casually against the doorframe, allowing yourself to fantasize about Joel's grip on that headboard while he's pounding into you over and over and-
"I'm gonna order some pizza!" you exclaim suddenly. Your dad pauses and looks at you curiously but Joel just smirks. There's no possible way he didn't see right through you. Not with that smile and the way his cheeks tinted.
"Alright," your dad says slowly before focusing back on his work. You hurry into the kitchen and place an order from the restaurant downstairs, then anxiously look around. You're lucky your place isn't messier. At least your laundry is put away and the only dishes in your sink are from breakfast.
Still in your work clothes, you wander over to check your fridge, delighted to find that you have a few cans of beer left over from your friends.
In your bedroom, you hear your dad tell Joel he's all done. You hear shuffling and you imagine they are putting your bed back against the wall because next, they pop out of your room and head towards your living room, where your mattress and boxspring are temporarily being stored.
Joel tosses you a wink as he trails after your dad and you have to turn around and do the dishes so they don't see how flustered you are.
Your legs press together when you hear Joel's familiar grunts from somewhere behind you while he and your father struggle to drag your boxspring and then your mattress back in place. You're scrubbing a plate so fucking hard, you're surprised it doesn't shatter in your hands because you can't stop thinking about Joel and all the things you'd let him do to you if your dad wasn't there at that very moment.
"- you listenin' to me?" your father's voice says, causing you to jump and drop your sponge.
"Huh?"
You look at him, trying to ignore Joel next to him as he sheds his flannel and plucks loosely at the black t-shirt underneath, unsticking it from his sweaty chest. Fuck.
"Said Joel's gonna take the trash out and I'm gonna go grab that pizza. How long they say it'll take?"
You blink, blood singing hot in your veins when you mumble should be ready soon, then slowly dry your hands on a towel while your father and Joel collect the trash from your bed frame to take down to the dumpster.
Your apartment is silent for a few minutes after they disappear outside, the only sound coming from your heart pounding steadily in your ears as you wait for the door downstairs to open again.
When you hear the squeaky hinges open and close, then the dull, slow thud of his footsteps climbing the stairs, you remain stock still at your sink. Your fingernails press so hard into the stainless steel, it's a wonder they don't break. You can't bring yourself to turn around when he steps through the door, back into your kitchen. He told you it couldn't happen again and you agreed, but your phone calls the last two weeks spoke otherwise.
Without saying a word, Joel's on you in an instant, spinning you around and crashing his mouth hungrily against yours, driving away that little voice in the back of your head that keeps reminding you just this once, just this once.
You nearly crumple in his arms, feeble fingers digging into his shoulders for something to hold onto. His tongue slips past your lips with a groan and his hands grab eagerly at your blouse, bunching up the fabric in his fists, too fucking crazed and desperate to feel you again.
You whimper and he swallows it down, big hands releasing your shirt to travel lower and grab at your ass confined in your tight skirt. His skin is slightly damp with sweat and he tastes so good and feels so warm that it has you guiding his hand to the zipper of your skirt, encouraging him to pull it down.
"Can't," he mumbles before latching his mouth onto your neck.
You're impatient. You rake your fingers through his tousled hair and he sighs against your throat.
"Y'smell so good," he says, body pressing against yours, pinning your back to the edge of the counter.
"Joel-" you beg, but he keeps talking and his hands keep searching, grabbing for any part of you he can find.
"Been half hard since I got here," he admits, the confession sending a shock of arousal straight through your stomach and down to your core. "Got any idea what it was like for me to be in that room, movin' that mattress, knowin' you were fuckin' yourself right there last night?"
You gasp and claw at his hair, his neck - anywhere - while his mouth drags down the column of your throat. He ruts his hips against your stomach and you squeak when you're reminded of just how fucking big and thick he is. You drop your hand and rub your palm against the soft denim, over his impossibly hard cock caged in his jeans, and you whine in his ear. A wordless plea.
"Can't," he says again, but his hips buck forward, chasing your hand. He pulls you closer, his teeth scrape your jaw, and then his lips are seared over yours once again, smearing whatever remains of your lipstick.
Joel gasps and breaks the kiss but keeps his hips firmly pressed into your palm. He looks down at you like he wants to swallow you whole, his brown eyes so dark they look nearly black. One hand lifts to get tangled in your hair as you both fight every impulse to tear each other apart right then and there.
"I'll ... I'll call you tonight-" he begins, voice sounding pained. You shake your head. His grip in your hair tightens.
"No, Joel, please," you beg. Not another phone call. If you didn't know any better, you sound as if you're on the verge of tears. He sighs and presses his forehead to yours, his wet lips hovering over your mouth when you say, "it's not enough. I need you. Please, Joel, I can't-"
The door downstairs swings open and you fucking fly apart. Joel's eyes, which were just filled with lust, now are wild with panic.
"Go to your bedroom, y-your hair and-" he waves his hand in front of his mouth and you hurry away as he's wiping the lipstick from his own mouth, closing the door behind you. A few seconds later, the door to your kitchen opens and you hear your father's voice. With trembling hands, you unbutton your blouse and unzip your skirt so you can change into more comfortable clothes while you hear plates being pulled from your cupboard. Your dad is telling Joel some story about the customer ahead of him in line who was asking every question under the sun about the ingredients in their sauce as you pull on a soft pair of leggings and an oversized shirt.
Before joining them for dinner, you tug a brush through your hair, taming the mess Joel's hand left behind, and wipe off the lipstick from your mouth and cheek. Once you think you look somewhat normal, although internally you might be on the verge of a fucking stroke, you take a shaky breath in and step out of your bedroom.
"Hey! There she is!"
You give your dad a weak smile and head for the fridge, avoiding Joel's eye but feeling his stare burning into your back.
"Here, I have a few of these," you say, grabbing the cans of beer and putting them on the table. "Some friend left them behind, I think."
Joel is sitting at your small, round kitchen table next to your father with an untouched piece of pizza on his plate. Meanwhile, your dad is nearly halfway through his first slice. You pull a glass from your cupboard and fill it at the sink, using the opportunity to take deep breaths and calm your nerves.
Unfortunately, when you turn around, Joel locks eyes with you and you feel as though you may melt into the floor. His fists clench tight on the table and you wouldn't notice unless you were looking for it, but his chest rises quicker than usual and there's a pink tint to his cheeks.
You sink into the chair across from him and shakily pick a piece of pizza from the box. You're hungry but you're so fucking turned on, it's hard to think about anything else. The pull between your legs is so uncomfortable, it has you shifting your weight in your seat while you take a few small bites of food. Joel must be feeling similarly because out of the corner of your eye, you finally see him slowly unfurl a fist and pick up his pizza.
"You seein' someone?"
Your eyes snap up to your father and you freeze. "What?" you ask breathlessly.
He points to the beers before grabbing one and cracking it open.
"You said a friend left 'em. You seein' someone new?"
Your throat closes up. You shake your head and take a bite of pizza so you can avoid elaborating. Across from you, Joel stiffens but remains silent. Your dad chuckles and he elbows Joel, snapping him out of his trance.
"'Member when we'd sit on the porch, waitin' for her dates to bring her home?"
"That only happened, like, twice," you mumble.
"Boys need'ta learn early on not to mess 'round and have some manners. Kept 'em in line," your dad continues, grabbing another piece of pizza. "Say the word and I can do it again-"
"How about you, Dad?" you ask, cutting him off. You can practically feel the tension radiating off Joel's shoulders from the direction the conversation was heading, and you need to put a stop to it. "Are you seeing anyone?"
The distraction is sufficient. Your dad launches into a ten minute monologue about his dry dating life while you and Joel do your best to act interested. The last fucking thing you want is for your dad to scare Joel off by reminding him of his fierce, protective side. Like he isn't already aware.
But perhaps you were too late because after they both finish eating and say their goodbyes, Joel can't look you in the eye. Something tells you that it isn't because he's trying to hide his attraction for you. You can't put your finger on it. Something about his body language and energy just seem... off. And then sure enough, hours later when you are distracting yourself with television after sending Joel multiple unanswered texts, you think your suspicion is correct.
---
A loud pounding on your door wakes you from a deep sleep. You startle awake with your heart in your throat. Your television is still on, forgotten, just like your phone buried somewhere in your sheets. You stumble out of bed after another knock that threatens to bring down the entire building and squint at the microwave to check the time.
Just past two in the morning. What the fuck?
You are about to go downstairs when logic prevails and you go to your window, instead.
The only car on the street is Joel's truck, right in front of your building.
Shit.
You fucking race to your bathroom and gargle with mouthwash for about three seconds. As you are hurrying down the stairs, you comb your fingers through your hair, hoping you look decent enough but knowing deep down it wouldn't really matter.
When you open the door, a shiver shoots down your spine.
"Joel," you barely get out before his crowding you, pushing you up against your stairs, mouth already devouring yours as he kicks the door shut behind him.
You curse, but it's muffled. His mouth is hard and insistent against yours, almost like he's angry, but not at you. His hands scan your body, over your pajamas, your face, your exposed skin, while his tongue explores your mouth. It's familiar now, for you both, under the cover of night once again, where your secret can remain safe.
It's a miracle you make it up the stairs without falling. You don't remember his mouth or hands ever leaving you as you stumble through your kitchen and into your room.
The television still plays in your otherwise dark room. Flickering lights dance across the walls, soft syndicated laughter is registered in the back of your brain. He untangles one hand from your hair and the other he pulls from underneath your shirt, then he takes a step back. You both drag in air, panting and studying each other's faces. His cheeks look flushed and your skin feels just as hot. Hair equally wild. The energy between you is palpable, crackling like electricity.
"Thought you got scared off," you say, breaking the silence. He blinks.
"Why?"
You shrug, already wishing you had waited til later to bring this up.
"You seemed weird when you left."
His throat bobs and he shakes his head, then his gaze shifts to your chest before finding your eyes again.
"Just needed to get the hell outta here 'fore he noticed somethin' was goin' on."
You nod slowly. Oh. So maybe you're a little paranoid. It doesn't explain the unanswered texts, but you don't feel much like talking anymore.
You dip down, crawling backwards onto your bed and whisper his name, dropping your head onto your pillows with a sigh, then fight back a smile at the greedy way his eyes rake up and down your body.
"Come here," you say quietly. You reach your arms out and wiggle your fingers. His dark eyes lock with yours and you grin.
His hands fall to his belt and warmth pools low in your stomach, deep between your legs. You squirm impatiently when he slowly slides the leather through his belt loops.
"Just..." he begins, pausing when you sit up to toss your shirt over your head, leaving your chest bare to him. He swallows hard and continues. "Just one more time."
You would have agreed to anything in that moment, so you nod while he pushes his jeans down to the floor before lowering himself to your bed. He crawls over you and your legs spread so his hips can settle there, pressing against your aching cunt. His arms tuck underneath your shoulders and just the weight of him pressing against your chest and pushing your legs apart is so fucking exquisite that it has your own hips circling for friction. You moan into his mouth when his lips find yours again and everything feels right, so fucking right, that tears burn the back of your eyes.
"Bad girl," he murmurs against your lips. Your fingers card through his thick, wavy hair and you smile. "Textin' me when I'm out with your old man. Coulda got me killed."
"You - what?" you breathe, tipping your head back so he could leave wet, open mouthed kisses along your throat. He sucks a little mark over your pulse point and then his lips find yours again before answering.
"Went out for a few beers after we left," he says while tilting his head to the opposite side. His tongue glides back inside your mouth and you taste it now, the remnants of the drinks he had earlier. Your fingers in his hair tighten. Relief washes over you.
You decide to ignore how obviously desperate you are for Joel's attention - something you know is a bad sign. Instead, you sigh and rut your hips upwards a little harder, pulling a low groan from his throat.
"Did you have fun?" you ask with a teasing grin. He picks up on it and growls, then palms your hip, squeezing the soft skin there, pulling you closer.
"Not as much fun as I'm havin' now."
You giggle when he pinches you and you try to squirm away, but you're still pinned helplessly underneath his broad frame.
Joel laughs, too, before leaving a trail of gentle kisses across your chest. It feels so loving and sweet that it has your breath catching in your throat even before his mouth latches onto your breast, tongue teasing your nipple with a satisfied hum before doing the same to the other.
"I missed you," you whisper boldly, pulse thrumming fast in your throat as you wait for his response. Is it too much? Maybe. But it's true.
"Was just here a few hours ago," he says. You roll your eyes.
"Not what I meant."
Joel sighs and rests the side of his head against your chest. You're absolutely certain he can hear how fast your heart is racing. He wraps his arms around you a little tighter when he admits, "Me, too."
And it's enough, for now, to know he craved you the same way you craved him.
His hand skids down your bare side, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake, until one finger hooks around the lace edge of your panties and gives them a playful tug. You pull your lower lip between your teeth and lift your hips so he can slide them and your shorts down your legs.
You become very aware you are stark naked underneath Joel Miller for the very first time while he somehow still has on his t-shirt and boxers. He pushes off the mattress and looks down to admire you all sprawled out for him and you feel a rush of embarrassment. That is, until he says-
"So fuckin' beautiful."
His voice is soft and filled with so much awe that you just might believe him. His gaze skims every inch of your exposed skin: your arms, your waist, your thighs. Like he's trying to memorize every little thing he sees.
"I want you," you gasp when his fingers delicately graze the inside of you leg. His deep brown eyes lift and he smirks when his fingers trail closer and closer to where you need him most.
"Yeah?" he asks. His voice sounds deeper and your legs begin to shake. His fingertips brush over your slit and you gasp again, body writhing on your bed - the bed he helped fucking build. You nod and lift your hips.
"Please."
Joel tuts and pushes one thick finger through your folds. He circles over your entrance but doesn't go any further. He just slowly slips his finger through your pussy, dragging it up, up, up until he's pressing down on your clit and you're moaning his name with your eyes squeezed shut.
"This what you want?" he breathes, arousal evident in his voice. You nod enthusiastically, chest heaving as he continues his slow, torturous route. Then he removes his finger and you whine in protest until your eyes reopen. He slips his finger into his mouth with a quiet groan, eyelids fluttering and you imagine his tongue swirling around, collecting your slick and swallowing it down.
You're afraid you may go insane if he doesn't fuck you soon.
"Joel-"
"I gotta- fuck," he moans before dropping onto his hands and settling his shoulders between your thighs. He pushes open your legs, spreading you wide so he can admire your glistening cunt up close. His teeth nip your inner thigh but his eyes remain glued to your center. "I gotta taste you, darlin'," he says, and it's amusing how he actually sounds filled with regret when he says it. You would have laughed if his lips didn't suction around your pussy a second later, tongue plunging through your folds just to flatten and circle your clit with the perfect amount of pressure to make your back arch off the mattress.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you moan his name. Your body is so wound tight, not only from earlier when he had you pinned against your kitchen counter with your father just downstairs, but from weeks without his touch.
"Can't believe how good this tight little pussy takes my cock," he mumbles, face buried between your legs, eyes closed.
Your thighs tremble underneath his hands, which are splayed wide, thumbs parting your lips to make way for his tongue. One of your hands snakes down to get lost in his messy hair, the other grips the sheets for dear life while Joel eats at your center with more enthusiasm than anyone else who has been in his position. By a mile.
His beard burns the inside of your thighs and in the back of your mind, you hope you'll still feel it in the morning. You're so desperate for any reminder of the way he tears you apart that you'll gladly embrace the discomfort.
Every time his warm tongue glides through your folds, he moans. Your face feels like it's on fire when you grind your hips onto his mouth, gasping and dragging in air like you're drowning. He seems to love it. Every roll of your hips causes him to squeeze the meat of your thighs, and when you whimper his name, all rough and needy, his tongue works even faster. He licks and sucks and moans into your cunt, and when he slides two thick fingers inside of you with ease, you curse and dig your heel into his back.
"Fuck," he whispers when he pulls his face away to catch his breath. He stares down at his fingers buried deep, watching the way you stretch for him, suck him in. His eyes go dark when a thick drop of your arousal slips down his fingers, pooling between his knuckles.
"Wish you could see the way this perfect pussy opens up f'me," he murmurs, still entranced.
You don't even think. Your mind is a hazy blur, heart thrashing in your chest at the way he holds you right on the brink of your release. So, you say, "Show me," and point to the Polaroid next to your bed.
Joel's eyes flicker, following your hand, and he grins.
You had been tinkering with it the past few days, trying to fix the blue marks that were showing up on all your photos. After cleaning the rollers and checking the expiration date on the film, you figured out a film shield was the answer and you had been taking test shots in your room since it had the best lighting.
Could he have taken pictures with his phone? Sure. But something about the way he handled the clunky camera with one hand was so fucking hot, you're eternally grateful you abandoned it on your end table.
He takes one picture, then two. The familiar whir of the rollers fills the air, drowning out the television behind him, then the photographs spit out, one at a time. You writhe a little when his attention gets drawn to the pictures and his hand between your legs stall. He waits about thirty seconds for them to develop, then without even showing them to you, he growls and drops them into the sheets. His mouth suctions over your pussy again and you gasp. He sucks and flicks his tongue over your clit while his hand pumps steadily into you, curling his fingers, making you nearly scream if it isn't for how fast and hard you're breathing.
"Joel-" you gasp, "Joel, I'm - I'm gonna -"
You struggle to finish your sentence but it doesn't matter. He knows. Joel hums between your thighs and works faster, devouring your cunt and dragging your orgasm out of you. Your body tenses and you cry out his name, but he doesn't let up. Not until your legs clamp the sides of his head does he remove his fingers to drink down every drop of your release, then he finally lets his jaw relax.
You're seeing stars. You have to be covered in sweat and you probably look insane, with your hair and eyes all wild while you lay there, completely fucked out.
He must enjoy it, though, because next thing you know he's covering you with his body once again. His lips are on yours and all you can taste and smell is you, but you aren't repulsed. In fact, you find you really fucking like it. When it's on him, when your taste and scent is mixed with Joel's, it's intoxicating.
"Shoulda done that last time," he rasps. He leans back to sit on his knees and tugs off his shirt, letting it fall somewhere on your floor. You blink and try to admire his bare chest while he's kicking his boxers off, but it's hard to focus. Then, just as fast as he sat up, he's back on you once again. His breath skips when he glides the tip of his cock through your folds, then rests against your opening. You're still struggling to come back to earth, body lax and sated and so fucking warm underneath him. He groans brokenly into your neck when he presses inside, reveling in how easily you welcome his cock now that he already worked you open with his mouth and fingers.
You make a soft noise and circle your arms loosely around his neck. There's no need to go as slowly as last time. You're so fucking soaked, you're more than ready for him, but he still takes his time. He holds your hip steady with one hand as he feeds you his cock, inch by inch, parting your walls and sighing against your dewy skin.
"Shit," he groans. His teeth pinch your throat when he bottoms out and you gasp. "This what you want? Needed my cock that bad?"
"Yes," you whimper, "Christ, Joel - yes."
He drags himself out and plunges back inside you with a rough grunt. Your legs fall open wider, giving yourself up to him entirely.
His beard is scratchy and it tickles your skin, making you shiver when his mouth traces the edge of your jaw. He fucks you slow and deep, like he wants to make it last, like he wants you to remember. Your lips find his shoulder and you leave a path of open mouthed kisses across his tanned skin. And when your tongue darts out to taste him properly, he groans and rolls his hips deeper.
It's perfect and intense and it's everything you could ever want.
"Jesus, look at you," he says. But you look up at him, instead. He looks how you feel - needy, wrecked, and desperate. Then his eyes fall between your bodies, where his cock slides in and out of you, coated in your arousal, and you groan when you see what he sees.
Look at us, you want to say, but you bite the words back. It feels like it's too much. But you think it. How could you not, when you seem to fit together so perfectly?
With his voice smooth and soft as velvet, he says, "Dirty girl... thinkin' 'bout me fuckin' you like this with your daddy in the room."
Your cheeks burn and you try to swallow, but your throat is too dry. When you meet his gaze, he looks different. He's worked up and his eyes are pitch black. His hips start to pound into you faster.
Your throat tightens.
"I- fuck," you choke out when he brushes up against a particularly sensitive spot. You try again. "Y-you're the one who kissed me whe-"
Joel chuckles and shakes his head, dark curls falling loose across his forehead.
"I saw the way you were lookin' at me 'fore all that," he goads, then leans down to nip at your earlobe before adding, "When we were puttin' together the bed. Tell me what you were thinkin' 'bout."
You whine and pitch your head back into your pillow. You can already feel your hips ache from how fast and hard he's fucking into you now. It has your breath stuttering and your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
When you take too long to respond, his mouth suctions over your breast. His teeth leave a sharp bite on your nipple and you yelp.
"Tell me," he says again. You shudder, breath too shallow and quick to answer, so you grab one of his arms and lift it above your head. You press his hand around the padded headboard and he gets it. The smirk he gives you is deadly when plants his other hand into the mattress for leverage.
Your legs wrap around his waist and he starts to slam into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs. He pushes you further and further up the bed until the top of your head hits the headboard. Joel sees it and he drops to his elbow. The hand that was pushing into the mattress is now cupping the top of your head and you think you might implode from the way his arm curls protectively around you while the other is gripping your headboard so tight, you can see the tendons twitching in his wrist.
"Like this?" he grits out. You nod, mouth agape and brows furrowed. Tears spring to your eyes as you teeter on the edge. He sees them and kisses them away when they fall. Ultimately, it's the hours and hours of pent up frustration that have you coming so hard, your vision goes white. But it's the combination of how rough he's fucking you and how sweet he's holding and kissing you that has your cunt pulsing around his cock, dragging out your orgasm for what feels like an eternity.
"Fuck," he gasps. His fingers tighten around the crown of your head and you feel his bicep flex along the side of your face. "W-where? Where, baby?"
His voice sounds urgent but you still take a second to soak in the word baby before murmuring inside, just like before.
He doesn't hesitate. He comes a moment later, yanking on your headboard for support with a loud groan. You hear it rattle and you plant kisses on the underside of his jaw, hoping to melt away some of the tension being held there.
His hips flex forward erratically, each push paired with a heavy grunt until he finally stills. His hand drops from the headboard and his face tucks into the crook of your neck.
You feel his breath fanning across your sweat soaked skin and you close your eyes. There's no rush, this time. There's no risk. So you lay there and catch your breath with Joel's massive body pinning you into the mattress and heavy cock softening inside you.
"Goddamn," he murmurs in between light kisses to your collarbone. You hum and soothingly run your palms up and down his back with your eyes closed. He shivers when your nails graze his spine and he holds you a little tighter. You swear you could fall asleep, just like that.
Joel begrudgingly lifts himself up to slide out from between your legs. His eyes flicker with something dark when he sees his seed leaking out of your spent cunt, but he blinks it away and rolls onto his back with a tired groan.
"Just need a second and I'll get goin'," he assures you. His forearm is thrown over his closed eyes and you take the opportunity to study his broad chest and soft belly in the glow from your television. God, he's so handsome. How did you not see it before?
"Why don't you stay?" you ask, voice raspy and thick. He peeks at you in surprise and drops his arm to his side.
"Yeah?"
You remember his comment last time, about his house feeling lonely, and it pulls at your heart. "Yeah," you say, shifting onto your side and wrapping an arm around his middle. You nuzzle into his chest and he drapes an arm around your shoulders.
"Okay," he says softly. "But next time, we're figurin' out a way f'you to stay at mine. Want you wrapped up in my bed, feedin' you breakfast."
"Next time?" you repeat, unable to keep the eagerness from your voice. "What happened to just this once?"
The hand drawing aimless circles on your arm stills.
"It... I - uh -"
You lift your chin and shoot him a sly smirk.
He rolls his eyes but you see the corners of his mouth twitch.
"Just go to sleep," he mutters. He sounds annoyed but you know better.
You close your eyes with a smile and his hand resumes stroking your arm.
Deep down, you know what you're doing is so much more complicated than what you're willing to admit within your four walls. Maybe you'll figure it out, maybe you won't. But neither of you are willing to think about that tonight. Because tonight, away from familiar, judgmental eyes, you're just two people seeking comfort in each other.
You’re spending spring break alone at home while your father is five thousand miles away when all of sudden, you fall sick. Enter Joel Miller: your father’s buddy, sent by him to check on you.
Tags: Explicit MDNI, no outbreak, age gap, no mother in the picture but your father has a named girlfriend (sorry), no bra household, dry humping, footjob while watching SpongeBob, oral (m and f receiving)
Word count: 6.8k
“Dad,” your voice is hoarse like it has just come out from a dying goose, and you spend the next five seconds trying to clear your throat.
“So like, I’m… sick, kinda, but it’s not really bad, so—” A train of coughs that feels like they are going to tear your lungs apart. “—sorry about that. It’s nothing. Don’t worry too much, don’t even think about it. I just wanted to let you know.” Another coughing fit. “Okay. Have fun, I love you.”
You click your phone screen and let the voicemail find its way to your father’s ancient block of telecommunication. It’s 11 p.m. for you, 5 a.m. in Tuscany, you calculate with your fingers. You might be wrong. Either way, your father is probably asleep. He had been away for a couple of days with his girlfriend Amy for her nephew's wedding. And they plan to spend another week there, because it’s their anniversary, and Amy had always wanted to go to Italy.
“Will you be okay?” your father asked, apologetic. He leaned onto your bedroom door’s frame while you were unpacking your backpack.
“Yeah, Dad, what am I, eight? Go.” you laughed lightheartedly.
“It’s just you came down here from school and then I go, you know. I wish you’d said yes and come with us.”
“And third-wheeling you and Amy for ten days?” you giggled. “Dad, it’s okay. Come on. We’ll still have the weekend together when you come back.”
You heard Amy call for your father from downstairs, followed by a question about his dress shirt. You grinned, gesturing for him to go.
“Me and Amy will make sure the fridge is full, okay?” he says, voice fading as he steps down the stairs. You shook your head. You’ve survived on dry ramens and day-old coffees in college. You would be okay. Right?
Loud buzzer sound. The game show on the TV you put on to distract yourself from the fever is not doing a good job. You try to focus, but the noises coming out of it sound muffled, and the colors are just so bright and saturated that they make your head spin. You click on mute before slamming the remote on the coffee table, and it lands safely on some crumpled Kleenex. A thermometer is sitting next to the box, the tiny display screen blank. It’s broken, and you make a mental note to scold your father for always keeping faulty things around the house as if he’s going to fix them. A few bottles of pills you fished out of your father’s medicine cabinet to at least ease your aching muscles are toppled next to a half-empty Nyquil Nighttime Relief bottle with its cap screwed but crooked.
You second-guess your decision to let your father know that you’re unwell. But again, he hates surprises, so letting him know that he might find your rotting corpse in front of his TV when he gets back is, perhaps, doing him a favor.
It’s dark in the living room, and the leather couch is sticking to your sweaty leg. You should probably put sweatpants and a hoodie on instead of biker shorts and a stretched out shirt that looks more like a rag than a proper clothing item. But climbing the stairs now? No, thank you.
You shift your body, trying to find the best position to fall asleep in since the wrong angle seems to block your nasal passage. A groan leaves your throat when you can’t pull the fleece blanket to cover your body. You find out you are sitting on both ends of it. To hell with it.
You blink slowly. The Nyquil seems to start working. Can’t sneeze or cough if you’re knocked out, you think. You close your eyes, the colors from the TV somehow find their way in and flash washed-out red, white, yellow behind your eyelids. You’re too tired to reach for the remote.
Maybe you’ll feel better when you wake up.
You jolt when something cold makes contact with your forehead. Within microseconds, you yeet the thing away hysterically, hitting yourself in the process. The thing flies and lands on the wooden floor with a wet, thwap sound.
“Easy, easy,”
If it was just a little bit not so sudden and confusing and designed to constrict your blood vessels until your organs fail, you would have yelped. You nearly snap your neck trying to find the source of the voice, and your tense shoulders fall as quickly as they were raised when you notice the familiar face belonging to a broad frame standing next to the couch.
It’s Joel Miller.
Of course it’s him. Your father likely has him on speed dial.
He and your father go way back. Went to the same school, crushed on the same girls, hit the same bong, and so on. They were even in a band together. Your father has pictures of them from years ago, with greasy hair, earrings, bass and drumsticks in their hands. Cringe.
Well, just your father. Not Joel though.
You haven’t seen him in like, what, a year? And yet he looks good as ever. Well, Joel has always looked good his whole life. When you saw the pictures of him from high school you thought, Oh Fuck, I Would Totally Have A Crush On This Guy. And then you had to sit in silence and ponder, because, well, you are having a crush on this guy. Sort of. Maybe.
He bends over to pick up the thing you just yeeted on the floor, which is apparently a washcloth, and dunk it in a basin on the side table, which is now clean from all the stuff that was previously there.
“Joel,” you chirp. “Hi.”
“Hey.” he smiles as he squeezes the washcloth. Beads of water come trickling down his knuckles back to the basin, gleaming in front of the still-turned-on TV. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. What time is this?” you straighten up, rummaging around the blanket to find your phone to no avail.
“One-thirty. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Your old man asked me to check on you." He folds the cloth in two and dab it before stepping closer and pressing it against your forehead, nice and cold. His other hand supports your head from the back, basically cradling your skull.
“Your front door was unlocked when I came in.” says Joel, as if you are capable of digesting any kind of information at the moment. “You shouldn’t do that.”
“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “And sorry my Dad made you come here. You didn’t have to, it’s not so bad.”
“Come on, it’s only a ten minute drive. ‘S okay. I checked your forehead. Not too bad, but still a fever, y’know. You took the Nyquil?”
The thought of Joel Miller touching your forehead with his palm in the dark while you were asleep somehow makes the neurons in your brain stop interlinking for a second. Were you sleeping with your mouth open the whole time? You knew you did fall asleep that way since you couldn’t breathe through your nose. Man.
“I did.” you nod, shaking the thought away. You feel your lungs tighten, though. Another coughing fit incoming.
“Good,” Joel presses his hand to your forehead again as if trying to make sure the wet washcloth is properly glued onto your face. The soft pressure disrupts your composure and you cough like a machine gun submerged in a container full of Elmer’s glue, hacking up thick mucus up your throat. Joel leaves your side with hurried steps and, within seconds, somehow has a paper cup under your chin for you to spit into.
You try to grab the cup, flustered, but he doesn’t let go and instead helps you sit up straight, patting your back.
“Spit.” he says as you wheeze with phlegm in your mouth like an imbecile. You awkwardly grab his wrist for support and spit the mucus out into the cup. Soon you’ll realize how foolish it is to grab someone’s wrist using the same hand you used to cover your mouth while coughing. The string of saliva takes a ridiculously long time to break free from your lips, but Joel is unfazed. He takes a glance at the mucus, likely checking the color and consistency.
“Thanks,” you blink rapidly, still processing.
“You wanna go to urgent care?” Joel asks.
“Nu-uh,” you shake your head. “I’m okay, I promise. I feel a lot better already.”
“It’s probably just a bug,” he pats your back again before walking to the kitchen to dispose of the cup. “How long has it been going on?”
You wait until he comes back because you don’t think you can speak loud enough for him to be able to hear you from the kitchen without tearing your throat apart. Joel thinks you didn’t hear him the first time and is about to repeat his question when you say, “Uh, it got progressively worse last night.” you realize how serious that sounds and quickly add, “But not like, worse worse. I mean, compared to,”
“And before that?”
“Just a scratchy throat.”
He looks like he’s mentally taking notes with arms folded in front of his stomach. It’s the first time that night you take a full look at him under the glow of the muted TV. You can’t really make the colors out, but he’s wearing a dark t-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt and jeans. He’s keeping his beard kind of thin compared to the last time you saw him, but still the same, well-tended mustache that makes a strong presence over his lips. You can’t help but notice the graying strands of hair that stick out among his dark, messy hair, complimenting him so well. You are pretty sure the ratio between light to dark hair has been shooting up this year. You like it.
And his eyes. They’re rich, and dark, and the fact that he furrows half of the time that it creates permanent dents between his eyebrows just makes him ridiculously hotter.
The mucus factory must be working overtime tonight because you can feel the slight slippery feeling of lubrication where you’re sitting. Fucking stupid, you think, read the room.
All of sudden, a lightning flashes, lighting up your surroundings before the grumbling roar of thunder follows through. For a second, you can make out the shapes and silhouettes of everything in the room like a photograph. Joel fits rightly in the left third of this main piece in your mind exhibition. You wish you could take screenshots with your eyes and keep it to admire later.
Joel glances out the window. Heat lightning reveals the blobs of clouds outside, and the strong wind is starting to blow debris to rattle the windows. He shifts his focus on you again. “Did you eat?”
“I’m okay,” you shrug. Storm is coming, Joel better go home before it gets worse.
He chuckles. “Yes or no?”
That chuckle tickles something deep inside of you. You smile shyly. “Yes, Joel. I’m okay.”
Joel stares at you, and you are pretty sure he senses that you did not, in fact, eat dinner. “I’m starvin’, actually,” he gets up and takes his flannel shirt off, and then tosses it on the couch before making his way towards the kitchen. You scream internally at the sight of his biceps like a deranged fangirl.
“Mind if I take a look in the fridge?” he yells while opening the fridge door. Just being polite. He knows your father will let him dismantle the house and take the pieces home if he wants to.
You free the tangled blanket from around your legs, only noticing now how under your old, sweat-dampened, Marlin Club shirt, your nipples are as erect as fireman’s poles. Was it the temperature, Joel, or both, you can’t conclude.
Joel whistles when he finds that the fridge is full. He grabs a can of beer and pops it open, studying the contents of the fridge and thinking of what he can cook for you as he gulps the beer down.
You follow him to the kitchen, jump to sit on the kitchen island as Joel grabs some produce off the fridge and sets them next to you. He looks at you, blinks a couple of times, then occupies himself with the food cabinet over the counter. You try to be helpful by unwrapping the basil and cherry tomatoes.
“So, how’s school?” Joel breaks the silence as he washes his hands. “And don’t just say okay, please.”
“You got me there,” you laugh. “Nothing really amusing, really.”
Then a few more superficial, classic-catching-up questions while you both prepare the pesto. Joel asks about the trip to Italy, how your father mentioned proposing to Amy soon, what do you think about that. You ask about his brother Tommy, work, and the average cost to renovate a room, to which Joel answers in detail really nicely. Then come the usual do-you-remember-when stories, melting down the strange and awkward atmosphere between the two of you. Laughters fill up the room. It’s fun and familiar.
“Did you remember when you used to call me Uncle Joel?” Joel sneers as he tosses a pan to the sink. “You used to be so nice and polite.”
“I was like six!” You snorted. “And you can’t even pay me to call you that again, Joel.”
Then, the once-your-pops-and-I anecdotes. You’ve heard some of them from your own father’s mouth, but you still listen to Joel’s versions eagerly anyway.
At one point, you start to cough again so Joel instructs you to just sit down on the counter. You don’t complain—it means you can just sit back and watch him from the back and imagine how it would feel to run your fingers through his hair.
When Joel stirs the pasta with the pesto sauce, the weather has gone full-blown insane out there.
“You should stay the night,” you try to sound as nonchalant as possible. His presence is sending arrays of erroneous signals to your reproductive organs, which will most likely result badly if he stays, but how can you let him drive home in this kind of weather?
Joel hands you a fork and pushes a plate of fusilli for you to eat. “Eh, we’ll see,” he shrugs. “I don’t mind drivin’ through a storm, but I can’t just leave you alone if you don’t feel well.”
“Dad told me you got a folded chair smashed through your windshield last summer.” You take a bite, the thick sauce coats your tastebuds and you groan in satisfaction, even though you can’t really taste it to the fullest because of your stuffy nose.
“Oh, yeah, that.” Joel chuckles. “I was lucky it aimed for the shotgun.”
He eats standing up across you, one elbow on the counter. When you both finish the meal, he takes your plate and starts washing the dishes. You tell him to do it later, and then offer your help, and he says no to both. You insist on drying the dishes anyway, standing side by side with him.
After the very late dinner, the two of you retreat to the living room. Joel asks you to take some medication again and you decline, stating that you feel better already.
“Headstrong, ain’t ya?” Joel sighs. “Okay, sleep then. Wanna sleep in your bed?”
“Not really sleepy,” you shake your head. “Feel free to take Dad’s bed, by the way. You have work in the morning, right?”
“Nah, I’m alright by the couch.” Joel scoots to make room for his legs and lies on his back, groaning like every other old person when they finally get to be horizontal. His feet are dangling on one side, his head on the opposite armrest. You take the old recliner that doesn’t even recline anymore near Joel’s feet, facing both the TV and Joel at an angle.
The TV is still on, showing the same game show but already on a later season. You unmute it and watch it together with Joel for five minutes before you realize that none of you has laughed yet, and you ask Joel if he wants to watch a movie instead. He says why not.
You open a streaming service and browse for movies on the home page. Joel probably likes action and other classic old man genre types. You pretend to read some of the summaries and see if Joel perks up at one of them, but he doesn’t seem to really care about the TV.
“I don’t know what to watch,” you admit. “Do you wanna pick the movie?”
Truth is, Joel can’t give a single shit about no goddamn movie. He’s been distracted by so many thoughts in his mind. But he gestures for you to scroll back up anyway. “Let’s see the trending ones.”
You stop at a tally of newly released and currently popular films at the top of the page, giving Joel a chance to read about them before moving to the next one.
“This one looks excitin’.” Joel points at the screen. The poster shows a man in classic Viking attire, staring intently at the viewer with striking blue eyes. Some kind of pelt is draped over his shoulders. His hands are on top of each other, resting on a sword handle, the blade facing the earth. Dried mud and blood are splattered over his face and armor. The Conquest, it says. You don’t recognize the actors listed. The summary says something about revenge, passion, blood, power, blah blah. You click play.
The movie opens with a battle scene. The movie looks like it runs out of lighting budget, and you need to squint to be able to tell what they are actually doing. Nothing can be heard except grunts and blades clashing. You look over at Joel to see his expression, but he’s looking at you. He quickly averts his gaze back to the screen.
Twenty minutes pass, and none of you are really paying attention to the plot. Not until the main guy enters a wooden tub filled with steaming hot water with his asscheeks out, and then a woman enters the scene with nothing but a thin white veil covering her body. She drops the cloth and joins him. The warm light from the torches is highlighting her breasts.
“Woah,” you look at Joel again, but he says nothing, but you can see his Adam’s apple moving awkwardly.
They kiss, and he grabs her bosom with his humongous palms and knead them. Then he buries his face between them, with the woman kissing the top of his head. After what feels like a millenia, he lifts her lower half from the water, and then puts her down to sit on the edge of the tub before performing cunnilingus. She moans.
You start to feel a pool of heat brewing inside of you. This feels invasive of their privacy, somehow, with no soundtrack added, just fire crackling and water splashing and erotic moaning.
Joel clears his throat. “Uh, maybe we shouldn’t watch this,”
“You’re the one who picked the movie.” you say, eyes fixated on the screen.
“Well, it didn’t say nothin’ about eatin’ a lady out in the summary.”
He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, leaving only the sound of rain hitting your window in your eardrums.
“Hey,” you whine. “That’s not nice. I didn’t say yes.”
“It’s late. Go to sleep.” Joel folds his arms over his chest, partly staying warm, partly because he’s so flustered he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He then closes his eyes, knowing damn well he’s far from feeling tired let alone fall asleep.
“We’re both adults anyways,” you mutter, but Joel doesn’t move. He’s probably actually tired.
Your gaze is affixed on him. He surely doesn’t look like he’s sleeping in peace right now but he’s still handsome nonetheless. His old shirt is a tad bit too tight around his biceps. You can see the protruding veins beautifully decorating his arms and hands. His legs are slightly crossing with one ankle on top of another, and his breath is steady. He’s gorgeous.
In your wildest dreams, you would jump to straddle Joel, and he would grab your hips and fuck you to death. Is it bad that your immune system is fighting one of the worst battles in your life, and yet your number one priority is somehow to get laid, by this man specifically? It’s both excruciating and foolish.
The movie you just saw doesn’t help, either. In fact, it makes everything worse. Your mind keeps wandering back to it, the way the man eats the woman out, and then back to Joel, imagining the top of his head would look like when he eats you out. Fuck. You know that if you don’t get to touch this man in the next 30 minutes, you are either going to combust or burn everything in the vicinity.
You close your eyes, try to do the mindfulness practice you once saw in a magazine. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. You repeat “Release me from this earthly desire” in your head like a rookie buddhist wizard trying to cast a spell with a broken wand. You ball your fists in your lap so hard the joints start to hurt.
It’s not working.
Your mind keeps wandering back to different scenarios, different positions, different spots around the house. Low grunts, fingertips pressing your sides, tongue between your lips…
You can’t do it anymore. You need release. You need to at least be able to feel something, a little reward for your throbbing clit. Trying your best to be as casual as possible, you pull your folded legs closer to your body, your left heel even closer to your biker-short-covered cunt, and shift your body weight on it.
The pleasure that has been building up there bursts like a balloon. You sigh.
There are two things that Joel is not: young, and oblivious.
Oh, he is totally aware of what’s happening. You are not doing a good job trying to be subtle. From the non-stop staring, to the constant fidgeting, to the borderline sexual sighs, to the hard nipples, Joel knows you are going through something that is completely different from just being ill.
And he totally understands. He’s been there, done that. There was a time when his back wasn’t hurting and his face hadn’t been ‘graced’ with crow’s feet and age spots yet, when his hormones were at all-time high and his blood liked nothing more than flowing to his cock recklessly at the slightest inducement. He understands what you are going through.
So when you start grinding yourself onto your left heel followed by soft moans, he is not exactly surprised, just mostly in awe of your debauched audacity.
That is too much, even for him. He clears his throat, hoping you’d catch the hint and stop for good. But you don’t, and your eyes are closed and your eyebrows are knitted together in concentration, and your hips are moving slowly, sensually, chasing something, the sight of it stirs something up in his guts.
It is vulgar, and most importantly indecent in every way, but Joel can feel his own arousal creeping up no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that it is not happening.
He calls your name. Your body responds faster than the critically thinking part of your brain and you stop like you just got cursed by Medusa.
You can physically feel your heart drop to your ass. Your neck moves stiffly to find his eyes like a broken animatronic. “Yeah?” you croak.
“Do you think I don’t know what you’re doin’?”
You blink. Deny? Act stupid? Admit? Deny, deny. Wait, deny? No, act stupid.
“What… Do you mean?” you say, and you realize that you chose the dialogue option that actually sounds the dumbest.
Joel clicks his tongue. “Might as well hump me if you want it that much.”
Wait, what? Your eyes light up. “Really?”
Joel stares at you in genuine perplexity before lifting one hand up to massage his temples. He takes a deep breath, and in the softest way possible—like telling a puppy she can’t eat electronic parts—sighs, “No.”
“Oh,” you cover your mouth. “I thought you meant—“
“Yeah, yeah. My bad.” he sighs again, sounding significantly more frustrated. He then uses his hands to support himself to a sitting position, composing himself.
Silence. You don’t dare to look at Joel, but your cunt keeps pulsing like a metal detector. You understand that the beeping—desire—will not die down unless you get the valuable artefact from the bronze age—Joel—in your hand. Is this time to be bold and brash?
“Joel,” you call, and you can swear that was not a sober decision, but the stage curtains have been pulled back, and you are pushed to the stage to play your part.
“Hm?”
“What if… I hump you anyway?” you stand up, and your knees are slightly buckling but you act tough and bold regardless.
Joel’s jaws opens and stays slightly agape for a while before he says, “That fever is really messin’ with your brain, huh? Sit down.”
“You’re bricked up, Joel.” you accuse. You don’t actually know for sure since Joel keeps a hand on his lap to cover his crotch, but Joel gulps. Gotcha.
“Unrelated to you.” he hisses in defense.
You scoff.
“Joel, please,” you grouse, voice cracking and desperate. “I want this so bad.” you whisper as you take slow, threatening steps towards Joel until your crotch is not even an inch away from his knee. “I want you so bad.”
“This ain’t right, kid.” Joel puts a hand on the outer side of your arm, and it’s worth pointing out that he’s shaking. “You know that.”
Joel doesn’t tell you that he’s battling demons in his head, and he’s currently losing. A million impulses are catapulting burning boulders onto the gate of his conscience, and all he got is one bleeding, sickly troop with a chipped wooden sword. But he puts his best stern expression despite the fact that his body is betraying him.
He could leave now. Push you away. Clear his head. Come back later. Or not come back at all.
But he knows he doesn’t want to. He can hear his blood rushing and his heart singing battle cry. Not to mention his cock, hard and nearly burns a hole through his jeans.
A long pause. You want to push him further, but you know you don’t need to. The black marlin printed on your shirt does a worthless attempt at distracting Joel from your hard nipples, putting him into a trance.
Joel takes a deep breath. He knows he has lost. “You can help yourself, that’s all,” he nods, more trying to convince himself rather than talking to you. “Just to make you shut up and get rest. That’s it.”
That’s an unenthusiastic barf-colored green light, but it is a green light nonetheless.
You put your hands on Joel’s shoulder before putting your left knee next to his right leg and lower yourself down onto his thigh, while your other knee rests in front of his crotch and presses onto his raging hard-on. Your cunt pulsates in pleasure upon contact, and you let out a gasp. Joel anxiously places his hands on your sides to keep you steady, one thumb ‘accidentally’ brushing your nipple, earning a whine. You lock gaze with him, and start moving.
The friction sends buzzes up your head. You make each grind count, and every single one feels like heaven despite the layers of fabric between your cunt and his beefy thigh. Moans and Joel’s name spill from your lips indeliberately, and he tightens his grip on your body until his fingertips turn white as if you would fly away with a gust of wind if he doesn’t. If you weren’t so absorbed in your own pleasure, you would’ve noticed how shallow and rapid Joel’s breath has become. It turns him on watching you getting off because of him, using him, how your eyelids flutter and your pupils are having a hard time staying in place.
Joel wants to break free from his denim, badly. While he consciously thought, planned, and stated that he’s doing what he’s doing only for your satisfaction and be done with it, it isn’t exactly nice having your kneecap pushing button-flies shaped caves on his crotch repeatedly. Especially not when his cock, which probably has its own brain, has been begging to be taken care of, too.
You, on the other side, are having the best time of your life. As your climax is building up in your south region, you smile at Joel, who smiles back. His hand leaves your ribs briefly to brush the hair that is sticking to your sweaty forehead away from your face.
“That feels good, doesn’t it?”
You nod weakly. “So good, Joel, so good,”
For a moment there you consider kissing him. His face is merely two inches away from you, and he looks ravishing, all sweaty and blushing. And how you just want to have your tongue inside his mouth, his lips all over yours sloppily. But that feels like overstepping boundaries, like a whole uncharted area you can’t cross, spreading the flu aside. You opt to put your chin on his shoulder instead, trying to focus on your orgasm.
“I want to see your face,” Joel says in your ear, his beard grazing your cheek. Takes you three whole seconds to process that, and when you do, it tingles your core. Before you can answer, he continues, “You’re so beautiful like this.”
You pull back, meeting his gaze with flushing cheeks. You don’t know what to say, and maybe you don’t have to. You continue to be dumbfounded when Joel stops your motion and helps you to stand up.
“Hold on,” he says as he undoes the buttons of his jeans. “I need to take these off.”
He quickly kicks the jeans off his legs, revealing a dark gray boxer briefs under. A wet patch adorns the bulge right in the center. He then manspreads and gestures for you to come back onto him, to which you comply. “C’mere,” he says, “I need to feel you on me.”
You straddle him, positioning your cunt right on his cock, and on everybody and their mother, it feels good. No, it feels right. Joel lets out a groan that cuts into a gasp when you start to grind. “Fuck, yeah,” he grabs your ass, helping you settle on a rhythm.
The contour of Joel’s cock, albeit still covered by the fabric of his boxer briefs, touches every last nerve ending of your cunt in such a different way that his thigh did. You pick your pace up, getting the pleasure to build up again.
“Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan, voice quivering. You rake your fingers through his hair, your noses almost touching.
“Keep going, baby,” he says through a smile. “Don’t hold back. You sound so pretty.”
The encouragement is shooting up fireworks in your lower belly, and you start making more sounds. You’re close. So close.
“Makin’ me so hard all night, you,”
You whimper as you come, hips convulsing. Time slows down, and it feels like your cunt is pulled towards a strong gravitational force within your own body as you are sinking down a quicksand, all while pleasure forces your brain to reboot itself.
“That’s it, that’s it. There you go. You’re so good.”
Joel holds the back of your head while you’re laying on his chest, limp. When you pull yourself away from him, he presses a palm to your cheek, smiling. “Attagirl.”
When you finally gather yourself, you pull away from Joel, leaving a huge wet spot on where you just had your cunt on, and scoot to the spot next to him on the couch. You are about to lean onto his shoulder when he stands up and picks his jeans up from the floor. He sees the wet trail of arousal you left on the fabric in the thigh area and snickers.
“Damn, kid, you’re practically a snail,” he points to it. “Poor thing.”
You wince. “What are you doing?”
“Puttin’ my pants on?” he answers in the exact same tone, fixing the position of his boxer briefs.
“But you haven’t even come yet!” you protest. “What the fuck? Take them off!”
“That’s not what I agreed to, remember? I help you come so you’ll shut up and sleep. You’ve come, now shut up, and go to sleep.” he lays it out like basic math while you press the base of your palms onto your eyelids, confounded.
“You’re a sick person,” you shake your head, and then point to his crotch. “You’re literally still hard.”
“That has nothin’ to do with anythin’.”
You stare at the open space, like you’re trying to break the fourth wall in a sitcom. Can you believe this guy?
“Joel, your line is ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard.’ Now let’s start again from the top.”
Joel, who’s struggling trying to fit his bulge back in the jeans without hurting it, stops fussing with his button-fly shortly to push your head back—softly—to the couch. “Sleep,” he drags his palm over your face to close your eyelids.
“Joooooel,”
“Your line is ‘Yes, Joel, good night.’”
“Yes, Uncle Joel, good night, Uncle Joel,” you mock as you swiftly jump from the couch and pull his jeans down to his ankle and force him to step out of it. You hear Joel yelling hey, hey, hey as he tries to simultaneously fight you and not hurt you. You throw the pair of pants across the room with all your might and it lands with a loud thud.
“What are your pants made of, steel?”
“What is wrong with you?” he takes a step to fetch it, but you stand up and push him back to the couch. Joel is for sure going easy on you, because if he wanted to, he could definitely launch you through the walls. Instead, he just accepts his fate and stares at the ceiling, defeated.
“Nobody sleeps with jeans on, Joel,” you reach for the TV remote again. “Now let’s watch something again and then sleep.”
“We’re not watching the viking movie again.”
“We’re not watching the viking movie again,” you repeat. “We’re watching SpongeBob.”
Joel groans.
“What, you don’t like SpongeBob?”
“Not my era,” Joel says. “I watched Gumby. Tom and Jerry. The Muppet Show.”
“No wonder you act like the heckling old guys.”
“I don’t, but, sure,”
“Oh, you’re more like the eagle. So serious all the time.”
Joel rolls his eyes. You play the first episode of the first season of SpongeBob Squarepants, and the familiar intro begins. You take a look at Joel in the corner of your eyes, how he has one of his forearm on the top of his head, bicep almost as thick as his head. The other hand is resting on his thigh, and you can tell that he’s at least still half-hard. You wonder how he looks under those boxer briefs.
On the screen, Squidward and Mr. Krabs are climbing a post with a sea of raging anchovies under them. Joel’s lips slightly turn upward. Ha, eat that, Mr. Old Cartoon Head.
You shift so that you’re on your back, legs resting on Joel’s lap. He gives you a look, but doesn’t say anything. Minutes later, totally absorbed with SpongeBob pestering his neighbor with a reef blower, he has a hand on your ankle, caressing it without much thought.
They would have written about you in a Greek tragedy the way you’re consumed by greed and lust. When your toes stroke Joel’s bulge, totally by accident and not precalculated at all, you pretend like you’re captivated by the TV. It’s hard and you can definitely discern the ridge of possible veins and the head of his cock.
Joel exhales, sounding so done and tired. “I know you were going to do this,”
But he doesn’t push you away. And that excites you.
You don’t say anything or look away from the screen, but you keep rubbing the outline of his cock, which is now more visible and grows slightly larger, with the space between your big and index toe. Your brain automatically puts the ice clinking in a vase while SpongeBob is getting dry under Sandy’s treedome as background noise to amplify Joel’s restrained grunts.
You like this. You like having Joel wrapped around your finger. Soon after, you withdraw your legs and sit up, causing him to open his eyes over the sudden halt.
You stare at him, bold. “Would you like my mouth?”
Joel nods.
You don’t even wait for a second. Joel helps you take off his boxer briefs, the length of his hard-on springs out like jack-in-the-box. You admire how it looks, how the tip is totally sticky and glistening, before lowering your tongue. Joal lets out a sound akin to a whimper as you let your saliva ooze down the underside of his cock and quickly retrieve it into your mouth using your tongue. He tastes slightly salty, like sweat. And if you could smell better you’d see how hypnotizing his scent is, like calling you to stick his cock down your throat until the world collapses.
“That’s it,” Joel says, out of breath. His cock is now grazing the soft wall of your cheek, and he wonders how experienced you actually are because you definitely don’t act like an amateur. You use one elbow to support yourself, the other one taking turns massaging his balls and the base of his cock.
The only downside of this is that Joel can’t really look at your face. He craves the sight of you, how your lips are wrapped around his cock, and how your cheek is bulging like a squirrel full of him. One of his hands crawls up your back under your shirt, rubbing it before it finds a new target: your breasts. He kneads on one, thumb flicking the bud. You can’t help but moan and take him deeper, sending vibrations from your throat to his cock.
Joel knows he won’t last much longer, and he would very much like to keep this thing going as long as possible. So he asks you to stop, averting your disappointment by lifting up your shirt and sucking on one nipple. He’s surprisingly tender with it, taking his time. You reach a hand to his cock again, trying to at least get him off with your hand, but he pulls your wrists back and locks them on your sides.
“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck me. Please.”
“No can do,” Joel answers as his lips are trailing down to your stomach, where he peppers kisses all over. You scoot backwards and like reading your mind, he tugs the hem of your shorts down to your ankle before yanking it away, revealing your throbbing, desperate cunt. He then dives down, nose pressing against your mound as his tongue explores the new treasure island.
Just like in the movie.
You try to grab on something, anything, but the leather couch does nothing but squeaks, and Joel instinctively laces his fingers with yours. The view of the top of your head is exactly how you imagined it would be. The moans released from your lips are rather loud, especially when Joel creates a suction cup with his lips right on your clit.
“Joel, Joel,” you grasp his hands with all your might. “This is fucking unfair, I’m so— I’m gonna—”
Before you get to finish your sentence, your body already decides that it’s time for another release. Your heels are planted firmly against the couch as your hips lift to the air, and Joel lets go. He kneels before your cunt, pumps himself to oblivion and comes all over you before you get to collect yourself, staining your stomach and breasts. Later you’ll realize that the first spurt went a little bit rogue and landed on your hair.
“Fuck you, man,” you complain, sticking out a middle finger at him. “I was supposed to make you come.”
Joel rests his head on the couch armrest, eyes closed. “You did.”
“I meant technically,” you attempt to nudge him with your leg, but he dodges and stands up to grab the washcloth he used to compress you with earlier. He then wipes your stomach and breasts with it, the cold water making you squirm.
“What now?” you ask when he hands you your clothes.
“Sleep. It’s four in the mornin’.” he says as he puts his stained, sticky, wet boxer briefs on and sits on the recliner. So you can’t drive me mad anymore, he says.
You whine, but you realize that your eyelids are actually very heavy. “Blowjob first time in the morning?” you offer before letting yourself drift off.
“Thought you were s’pposed to be sick.” Joel shakes his head. But he grins.
summary: you’re drunk, and calling your dad’s best friend to pick you up in the middle of the night. joel’s always been careful and always kept his distance. but when you flirt with him in his truck, wearing a dress you know he’s staring at, everything changes.
warnings: SMUT, age gap (reader is young but legal, joel is late 40s), unprotected p in v, creampie, fingering, virginity loss, dirty talk, praise kink, soft dom!joel, multiple orgasms f!receiving, kinda slow burn, drunk!reader (both are sober when the smut occurs), masturbation m!receiving, voyeurism, aftercare, fluffy ending, lmk if i missed any!
a/n: in honor of it being joel miller season/month
Your thumb hovers over the screen, Joel’s name lit up in the soft blue light of your phone. You shouldn’t be calling him. You know that. But the room’s spinning a little, your friend ditched you for some guy upstairs, and the boy who offered to drive you home just winked in a way that made your stomach turn.
You hit dial anyway.
It’s late—well past midnight—but Joel picks up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Joel…” Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. A little slurred. “I—I know it’s late, I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”
His voice tightens immediately. “You alright?”
You bite your lip. “Can you come get me?”
A long pause. Then: “Where are you, baby?”
You tell him.
He doesn’t hesitate.
⸻
The street’s quiet when his truck pulls up—big, dark, familiar. You’re sitting on the curb, knees pulled up, heels kicked off into the grass beside you. It’s warm out, the kind of humid Texas summer night that clings to your skin and makes the air feel thick.
Joel slams the truck door and walks toward you fast, his boots hitting the pavement like thunder. His face is hard to read in the dark, but his jaw’s set and his eyes sweep over you like he’s checking for bruises.
“You okay?” he asks, crouching in front of you.
You smile, lazy and tired. “Joel Miller. My hero.”
He huffs, not amused. “Jesus. You’ve been drinking.”
“A little,” you admit, swaying slightly where you sit. “I’m fine.”
“You’re barefoot.”
“I couldn’t walk in those shoes. Evil. Made by Satan.”
He shakes his head and then—without a word—he scoops you up.
“Joel!” you giggle, arms automatically wrapping around his neck. “What’re you doing?”
“You can’t walk. I’m not lettin’ you trip in a parking lot and crack your skull.”
His chest is solid against yours. He smells like soap and sweat and that old cologne you’ve never had the courage to name. You rest your head on his shoulder and feel the muscle in his jaw tick.
“You always take care of me,” you murmur. “I like that.”
“You’re drunk,” he mutters.
“I still mean it.”
He doesn’t say anything.
In the truck, you slump against the window, feet in his lap, body heavy with warmth. You trace your finger over the seam of the seat, stealing glances at him. His hand rests near your ankle, careful but steady, his fingers flexing every few seconds like he’s remembering you’re there.
“You ever think about me?” you ask quietly, voice hushed under the hum of the highway.
He doesn’t look at you. “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”
“That’s not a no.”
He finally glances your way, sharp and tired. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. Sleep it off.”
You pout. “I’m not a baby.”
“No. But you’re nineteen. You’ve had God knows what to drink. I’m not talkin’ about this with you right now.”
You shift slightly, letting your toes brush his thigh. He flinches.
“Go to sleep,” he says again, rougher.
But you hear it—the edge in his voice. The way he swallows hard when your fingers skim over the denim of his jeans.
He’s not unaffected.
You just don’t know yet how hard he’s trying not to be.
The house smells like him. Clean laundry, coffee, pine wood. You’ve only been inside a few times—back when your dad helped him with the new deck, or when they’d watch football and you’d pretend to care. But the guest room is empty now, clean sheets turned down like he knew you were coming.
Joel sets you down carefully on the edge of the bed, and you fall back with a soft thump, smiling up at him.
“Comfy,” you say.
“Good.”
He kneels to pull a blanket over you. You watch the way his brows furrow, how focused he is even now. He adjusts your pillow, stands to turn off the light—but not before you reach for him.
“Joel.”
He pauses in the doorway.
“Stay?”
He doesn’t turn around. “You’re drunk, baby. Go to sleep.”
“Just for a minute.”
His hand flexes on the doorframe.
“You’ll feel better in the morning,” he says softly. “Sleep it off. I’ll be right down the hall if you need anythin’, alright?”
The door closes gently behind him.
⸻
The clock glows red. Your mouth’s dry. Your head’s clearer than before—just heavy, not spinning. Your bladder aches.
You sit up slowly. Bare feet touch cool hardwood. You pad down the hallway toward the bathroom. No lights on, just the low creak of the old house as it settles into the night.
And then you hear it.
Low. Muffled. Not a voice exactly—but breath.
You pause at the door across the hall.
Joel’s door.
It’s open just an inch.
You should walk away. You should keep moving.
But your feet betray you.
You lean forward—just enough to see through the sliver of space.
And your heart nearly stops.
Joel sits on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, shirt off, sweatpants pushed down low on his hips. One hand is on his knee. The other…
He strokes himself slowly. Long, deliberate, like he’s savoring the tension.
You’ve never seen anything like it.
He’s thick. Bigger than you imagined. His hand barely fits around him.
Your lips part before you can stop them.
His breathing is uneven now. You hear him exhale, jaw clenched.
And then—
Then your name.
Barely more than a whisper. “Fuck… baby…”
You freeze. Breath caught. He’s thinking about you.
Your hand brushes the door, a tiny shift in weight—and Joel hears it.
His head jerks up.
Your eyes meet through the crack in the door.
He stills.
“Shit,” he mutters, voice low and rough.
You push the door open slowly.
He scrambles to pull the blanket over himself, standing quickly. “What the hell—? What’re you doin’?”
“I had to pee,” you whisper, stepping inside. “I heard you.”
His eyes are wild. Like a cornered animal. “You’re not supposed to—you shouldn’t be—fuck—”
“Joel,” you say quietly. “Were you thinking about me?”
He looks like he’s in pain. “You need to go back to bed.”
“I’m not drunk anymore.”
“I don’t give a damn if you’re stone cold sober,” he says, voice low. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re my best friend’s daughter.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No,” he admits. “You’re not.”
Silence thickens the space between you. Joel stands with the blanket bunched in his fists, his chest still rising and falling from before. You can see the conflict written all over him—desire warring with restraint.
“Why’d you say my name?” you ask.
He closes his eyes. Runs a hand through his hair.
“Because I’m weak.”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”
“I’m not asking,” you say. “I’m telling you I want you.”
His eyes open, dark and dangerous.
“Don’t,” he warns. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I do.”
A pause. His knuckles are white where he grips the blanket.
“If I touch you,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “I ain’t gonna be able to stop.”
You tilt your head up. “Then don’t stop.”
He’s breathing harder now. You can feel the tension between you, thick and electric.
He steps closer still, towering over you, heat rolling off his bare skin.
“Sweetheart,” he says hoarsely. “I’ve tried so goddamn hard not to look at you like this.”
Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then stop trying.”
Joel’s chest rises with every breath like he’s struggling to stay grounded. You’ve never seen him look like this—unraveled. His hair’s messy, sticking to his forehead, mouth slightly parted like he’s been holding in every word, every look, every thought for months.
“Do you even know what you’re doin’, baby?” he says, voice hoarse.
“I know I want you.”
He lets out a bitter, breathless laugh, like that hurts worse than anything.
“You shouldn’t.”
You take a step forward, heart pounding.
“But I do.”
Joel’s jaw flexes. “This ain’t right.”
“Then why does it feel like it is?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches you, breathing unevenly, the blanket still clutched in front of his hips like some kind of shield.
You move closer.
His hand reaches out—automatically, instinctively—fingers brushing your arm like he’s checking that you’re really there. That you mean this. You tilt your face up toward him, waiting.
When he speaks, it’s quiet. “I’ve thought about this,” he confesses, almost broken. “God, I’ve thought about it so fuckin’ much I hate myself for it.”
“Then stop hating yourself.”
His eyes close. You’re close enough now to feel his heat, smell the sleep-warm skin and old spice lingering on his neck.
“I’m not a little girl, Joel,” you say. “I’m not your friend’s kid tonight. I’m just me.”
He groans—soft and low—like it physically hurts to hear.
And then his hand lifts slowly to your cheek, brushing your skin like it might burn him.
“You tell me to stop,” he rasps. “You say it, and I will. I swear to God.”
You don’t.
Instead, you lean forward, press your lips softly to his.
It’s the lightest kiss—barely a touch—but his body jolts under it, and the blanket slips a little lower on his hips.
His hand curves around your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he kisses you back, finally, slowly, like he’s memorizing your mouth. He kisses you like he thinks he’s going to hell for it.
Maybe he is.
But he’s going anyway.
You gasp when his other hand drops to your waist, pulling you in gently, and you feel it—him. Hard against the fabric. Thick and hot and real.
He breaks away, panting.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t be doin’ this.”
“You already are,” you breathe.
He looks down at you, brows drawn tight with emotion. “This your first time?”
You nod.
Joel’s face breaks.
“Christ.” He steps back like he’s been slapped, dragging a hand through his hair. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
You freeze. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” he snaps. “No, it ain’t that. It’s just—” He paces a short line across the room. “You really want me to be the one? For this?”
You walk toward him slowly, nodding. “It’s always been you.”
That cracks something open in him.
His hand is back on your cheek again, reverent. Like he’s holding something fragile.
“I’m gonna go slow,” he tells you, voice trembling. “You tell me if anything feels wrong. You tell me, and I stop. No questions.”
“I trust you.”
He swallows hard. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust myself when you look at me like that.”
You reach for the hem of your oversized sleep shirt—the one he gave you to wear, from his drawer—and pull it slowly up and over your head.
His breath catches.
You’re not wearing a bra.
He just stands there for a moment, staring at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. You start to cover yourself on instinct, arms folding up—but he steps forward fast and gently grabs your wrists.
“No. Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Don’t hide from me.”
You nod.
Joel’s hands are warm, rough as they slide up from your elbows to your shoulders, then down to your sides, memorizing the shape of you. His palms span your waist like they were made to fit there.
“You’re so damn pretty,” he mutters. “You don’t even know.”
You blink up at him, flushed. “You can touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you.”
“No—I mean really.”
His eyes darken. “Sweetheart. If I start, I won’t stop.”
You step closer until your bare chest presses against his.
“Then start. Please.”
That breaks him.
Joel groans softly, his mouth crashing into yours, and this kiss is different—deeper, desperate. He lifts you easily by the backs of your thighs, carrying you to his bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He lays you down gently, reverently, hovering over you like he’s not sure he deserves this.
His hand runs down your thigh, back up your stomach, over the soft swell of your breast. You arch into him.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “More than okay.”
He leans down to kiss your neck, your collarbone, the slope of your breast. His mouth is warm and soft and so careful. You’ve never been touched like this. Not even close.
“God, you’re soft,” he mutters against your skin. “Could stay here all night.”
Your thighs squeeze together.
He notices.
Joel moves his hand lower, dragging it slowly down your belly to the waistband of the borrowed sleep shorts.
He pauses.
“Can I?”
You nod, breath caught in your throat.
He slips a hand beneath the waistband, sliding over the front of your panties, pressing softly.
You let out a breathy sound, thighs trembling.
“Shit,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”
You hide your face in your arm, embarrassed.
Joel pulls it gently away. “Hey,” he says, soft but serious. “Don’t hide. It’s a good thing.”
“I’ve never… I didn’t know it’d feel like this.”
“You ain’t even felt anything yet,” he says, kissing your cheek.
He slips your panties down, slow and patient, then settles between your legs, letting his hand come back—this time, skin on skin.
His fingers slide between your folds, slow and steady, circling your clit in featherlight patterns.
You gasp.
Joel watches your face carefully. “That okay?”
You nod quickly, hand fisting the sheets.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
That makes your stomach flip.
He keeps working you, slow and unhurried, until your hips are grinding against his hand and your breaths are ragged.
“I got you,” he whispers. “Just let go for me.”
You come hard—whimpering his name, thighs trembling around his hand.
Joel leans over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your shoulder. He holds you like you might float away.
“That’s my girl,” he says softly. “Takin’ me so good already.”
You’re blinking up at him, dazed, panting.
And he hasn’t even fucked you yet.
You’re still catching your breath, trembling from the orgasm Joel coaxed out of you with nothing but his fingers and words. He’s hovering over you now, breathing heavier than before, watching every inch of your face like it holds the answer to some question he’s been asking himself for years.
You reach for him.
“Your turn,” you whisper.
Joel shakes his head slightly, brushing a knuckle down your cheek. “This ain’t about me.”
“But I want it to be.”
His throat bobs. “You sure, baby?”
You nod. “I want you inside me.”
His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.
“You say shit like that and I swear to God…” he mutters.
You reach down to tug the blanket away from his hips. Joel doesn’t stop you this time.
His cock springs free, thick and heavy, flushed deep at the tip. Your lips part instinctively. You knew he’d be big—you just didn’t know he’d look like this. Your thighs clench on instinct.
Joel watches your expression with something like worry.
“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs, leaning over you again, kissing the edge of your mouth. “We don’t gotta do this if you’re not ready. I’ll be fine just holdin’ you.”
You swallow hard. “I want it, Joel. I want you.”
His face softens, thumb stroking your cheek. “Okay, baby. Okay.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his body pressing closer—naked skin to naked skin, heat wrapping around you like a second blanket. You feel the weight of him between your legs, heavy against your thigh.
“I don’t got a condom,” he murmurs.
You look up at him, cheeks burning. “I’m on the pill.”
His eyes close. He breathes out slow.
“Christ.”
Then he’s lining himself up, fist wrapped loosely around the base of his cock. His other hand slides under your knee, guiding your legs open wider.
You feel the blunt, warm tip at your entrance—barely there.
“Deep breath, baby,” he whispers. “Just let me in. Little at a time.”
You exhale, and he pushes forward.
Even just the head makes you gasp—it stretches in a way you’ve never felt before. It doesn’t hurt, but your body tenses anyway, overwhelmed by the sudden fullness.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Joel murmurs. “You’re doin’ so good.”
You grip his shoulders, eyes squeezed shut as he presses in another inch.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “fuck.”
You whimper softly, and his mouth is right by your ear in an instant.
“You okay? You tell me if I need to stop.”
“No,” you gasp. “Don’t stop. Just—slow.”
“I got you,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
He moves so carefully it almost hurts—inch by inch, letting you adjust, kissing your jaw, whispering how good you’re doing.
When he’s finally all the way in, he pauses, buried to the hilt, both of you shaking a little.
You’ve never felt anything like it.
The stretch, the fullness, the warmth of his body pressing into yours—it’s overwhelming in the best way. You feel completely taken, completely safe.
Joel brushes your hair back, kisses your temple.
“You’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he mutters. “Feels like heaven.”
Your hips shift slightly, instinctive.
He groans.
“You tryin’ to kill me?”
You smile, breathless. “Want you to move.”
He pulls out just a little, then rocks back in—slow and deep, making sure you feel every inch.
Your back arches. “Oh my God—”
“Yeah?” he murmurs, thrusting again, just a little faster. “That feel good, baby?”
You nod fast, nails digging into his back. “Feels so full—I’ve never—fuck.”
He chuckles low. “That’s it. Take me. You’re takin’ me so well.”
Each thrust is careful, deliberate. He doesn’t fuck you—he makes love to you like it’s killing him not to lose control, like he wants to savor every second of being inside you.
“Never gonna forget this,” he whispers. “Never had anything this good.”
His forehead rests against yours. The bed creaks softly beneath you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit, and you jolt.
“You gonna come again, baby?” he says, voice rough and loving. “Can feel how close you are.”
“Joel—” your voice breaks, high and helpless.
“Come on, pretty girl. Let go for me. One more.”
You come with a sharp cry, clenching around him, your whole body trembling.
Joel groans, pulling you tight against him, and you feel it—the stutter in his hips, the hitch in his breath.
“Fuck, baby,” he gasps. “I’m gonna—can I—?”
“Inside,” you whisper, desperate. “Please.”
His thrusts stutter once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you, warm and thick, a deep growl ripping from his chest as his head drops to your shoulder.
You lay like that for a while, tangled together, hearts racing.
Joel doesn’t pull out immediately. He strokes your hair, kisses your neck, holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, bliss-drunk. “More than okay.”
He smiles against your skin. “You wrecked me.”
You giggle, body still twitching from aftershocks. “Good.”
Joel finally pulls out with a soft groan, and you whimper at the loss. He murmurs apologies, kissing your knee, then your hip, before grabbing a towel and gently cleaning you up.
You watch him through heavy-lidded eyes.
“You take care of me,” you whisper.
Joel glances up, eyes dark but tender.
“Yeah, baby,” he says. “Always.”
⸻
You wake slowly.
It takes you a few seconds to remember where you are, and even longer to remember why you’re naked, wrapped up in warm sheets that smell like him.
Joel.
His bed.
Last night.
Your whole body aches in a way that’s new — good ache, heavy and slow and real — but your heart is a little frantic.
You shift slightly, glancing down at yourself under the blanket, bare legs tangled with his. His arm is still around you, strong and sure, like he never let go.
You turn your head.
Joel’s awake.
He’s just been watching you, quietly, eyes soft and unreadable. His hair’s a mess, and his voice is low and scratchy when he speaks.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you whisper.
His fingers brush your cheek, knuckles grazing you so gently it makes your chest ache.
“You feelin’ okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. Just… sore.”
Joel gives a small, guilty smile. “Yeah, that’s on me.”
You laugh, nervous.
The silence stretches. Warm. Careful.
You press your face into the pillow, hiding. “Is this where you tell me it was a mistake?”
Joel stiffens.
You feel his arm curl tighter around your waist.
“No,” he says. “No, sweetheart. This ain’t a mistake. Not to me.”
You blink at him.
“I just…” You swallow hard. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”
Joel sits up slightly, resting on his elbow so he can look down at you. “Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
“I didn’t fuck you just to forget you,” he says, voice rough and serious. “That ain’t who I am. And that ain’t what you deserve.”
Your eyes sting.
“You sure?” you ask, small.
Joel cups your face with one big, warm hand. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
He leans down, kisses your forehead.
“I’ve wanted you for longer than I’m proud of,” he admits quietly. “Tried to bury it. Push it down. Told myself you were off-limits, too young, too sweet. I tried so damn hard not to look at you like that.”
“But you did.”
“I do,” he says. “And now that I’ve had you…” His eyes close, thumb stroking your cheek. “There’s no goin’ back for me.”
You blink fast, heart thudding.
“I mean it,” Joel says. “You want me? You got me. But not just in bed. I want all of you, baby.”
You whisper, “You already have me.”
He lets out a quiet sound — half groan, half sigh — and pulls you into his chest, burying his face in your hair.
You lay there in silence for a long time, just breathing.
After a while, Joel murmurs, “You’re still gonna have to face your dad.”
You groan. “Don’t remind me.”
He chuckles softly.
“But I’ll be there,” he adds. “Whatever you want me to be. Whatever you need.”
You look up at him. “You really mean that?”
He nods. “I don’t half-ass nothin’. Especially not with you.”
Your hand slips over his chest, resting where his heart beats under warm skin. “So what now?”
Joel kisses your knuckles.
“Now,” he says, “I make you breakfast. Then maybe we do this whole ‘you wear my shirt and kiss me in the kitchen’ thing before we start figurin’ out what the hell we’re gonna tell your daddy.”
You laugh. “He’s gonna kill you.”
Joel smirks. “Yeah, but it was worth it.”
You roll your eyes.
He leans down, kisses your lips sweet and slow.
Then he murmurs:
“First time you called me, you were drunk, wearin’ that little dress, flirtin’ with me in my truck. And I told myself I wasn’t gonna touch you. That I was gonna be a good man.”
You blink up at him.
“I ain’t a good man,” he whispers. “But I’ll be yours if you’ll let me.”
You nod.
“I want that.”
Joel smiles.
And in the morning light, tangled in his sheets, still sore and buzzing from everything he gave you — you realize you’ve never felt safer.
You and Joel try to patch things up with your father while starting a family of your own. A Thanksgiving oneshot in the Stranger in a Bar universe.
^This is how I pictured this Joel as I was writing, with his lil tie on. Sorry not sorry.
Pairing: DBF!Joel x Female Reader (from Stranger in a Bar)
Length: 3.8k
CW: BREEDING KINK. Unprotected P in V for obvious reasons. Planning for pregnancy. Age gap (Joel is 20 years older, reader is 35 and Joel is 55.) Reader's dad is kind of a dick. No outbreak AU. Can be read as a stand alone fic with the understanding that Joel was reader's dad's bestie and he and reader are living together after dating years prior. No use of Y/N, minors DNI 18+ only.
A/N: Here's something to read while you navigate your own Thanksgiving dinner situations which are, hopefully, less awkward than this one. Happy Thanksgiving!!
“I mean it,” you said, clutching the casserole dish of mashed potatoes tightly to your stomach. “Best. Behavior.”
“When am I ever not on my best behavior?” Joel asked, his hand on the small of your back possessively.
You stopped in the middle of the drive on the mercifully long walk to your parents’ front door to stare at him, incredulous.
“When are you?” You asked, brows raised. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you behave yourself, not once, especially not where my dad is involved…”
“Alright,” he chuckled good naturedly. “I’ll do my best.”
“You’d better,” you said. “He’s just coming around to this, OK? I’d rather not blow it.”
“I know, baby,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ll be good. Promise.”
“Thank you,” you said, continuing up to the front door.
“Your dad needs to behave too, though,” Joel said, sticking close to you. “Because I’m not gonna just let him say the same shit he always does, I don’t care.”
“Please try,” you said, ringing the doorbell. “If you do, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Really?” He asked, his voice husky. “Dyin’ to know what you mean by that.”
“I mean,” you said, keeping your voice low. “Given how much I want to fuck your brains out, I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating and I can think of all kinds of ways you can try to knock me up - hey Mom!”
“Hey, honey!” Your mom opened the door and pulled you in for a hug. You just caught Joel’s expression out of the corner of your eye, his mouth slightly agape as he stared at you. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” you gave her a squeeze, carefully angling the casserole dish away from her before stepping back. “We come bearing potatoes.”
“So you do!” She said, taking the dish before turning to your boyfriend and taking a deep breath. “Joel. Always good to see you.”
You looked to Joel and saw him collect himself for half a second before smiling to your mom.
“Good to see you, too,” he said. “Been a while.”
“Yeah,” she smiled a little bigger and reached out to give his arm a squeeze. “It has.”
You gave Joel an encouraging smile as the two of you followed your mother into a kitchen that was overflowing with dishes.
“Can I help?” You asked, laughing a little as you looked around.
“Oh…” she sighed, looking around before she laughed, too. “Yes, yes please. Your father has been utterly useless, just wandering around, muttering to himself. Not that he’s the most helpful in the kitchen but he’s not completely incompetent…”
“He’s good on the grill,” you said. “Kitchen… eh.”
“Well, yes,” she giggled conspiratorially. “But I try to give him credit where it’s due. Usually I’m not on my own for a holiday but this year he’s been… something.”
You just hummed in agreement and started in on the green beans because you were pretty sure you knew the reason why your dad was acting strange and that reason was currently asking your mom how she wanted the cucumber cut for the salad.
Joel and your father had barely spoken in the six months since you’d moved back to Austin and gotten back together with Joel.
Not that you were too surprised about that. He was, after all, one of your dad’s closest friends and was much closer to his age than your own. You hadn’t exactly expected the news of your relationship to go over well but it had been even worse than you’d anticipated.
You’d arranged to talk to your parents in public when you decided to tell them. Neutral ground, as it were. Plus, you were pretty sure your father would be less likely to punch Joel in the face if you were in public.
It ended up not making much of a difference.
“You’re what!” Your father stood up so fast that his chair fell over, the sharp clatter of the wood on the tile restaurant floor and violence of his tone plunging the once bustling room into silence.
“Dad,” you said gently. “It’s not a big deal…”
“The hell it’s not!” He yelled, looking between the two of you. “When the fuck did this start, hm? When the hell did you start fucking my daughter!”
“Why don’t you sit down and…” Joel began, but your dad didn’t let him finish.
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do,” he put his finger inches from Joel’s face. “She is a child!”
“I’m 35!” You gaped at him. “Dad, you’re being ridiculous!”
“You’re already in hot water,” he snapped at you. “So keep your damn mouth shut while…”
“Don’t talk to her that way,” Joel said, standing up with too much force, his voice hot. “You got a problem with me, handle it with me, don’t take it out on her.”
“Don’t you tell me how to treat my own fucking kid!” Your dad yelled. “I’ll handle her however I damn well please!”
You weren’t sure who threw the first punch but it devolved quickly then, your mother pulling your father away while you dragged Joel back, both men bloody and panting for breath.
You kept your distance from your father after that. You talked to your mom regularly - she was smart enough to give up on trying to talk you out of your relationship quickly and, eventually, was even happy for you - but your father took some time.
After a while, he was willing to talk to you. Your mother must have given him strict rules - he didn’t try to talk you out of your relationship or question Joel’s integrity - but it was stiff and awkward.
Thanksgiving had been your mom’s idea. Joel was hesitant but - after you conspired with Sarah (you and Joel’s daughter becoming fast friends once you moved past the awkwardness of your closeness in age) so she would stay in Dallas to go to have dinner with her boyfriend’s family - he’d agreed eventually.
“If this don’t prove how much I love you, woman,” he’d grumbled as he tied his tie that morning.
“You? Love me?” You asked, adjusting the knot under his chin. “News to me…”
“Uh huh,” he smiled a little, just enough to make his cheek dimple.
“Never said it,” you had to fight to hold your smirk back. “Definitely not 20 times while you were inside me last night…”
“That don’t sound like me at all,” he teased back before going to kiss your cheek. “You look beautiful, baby.”
“Well, I do have a hot date.”
“Really? When’s he showing up?”
You glared at him and he laughed before giving you another kiss.
“Let’s go before I lose my damn nerve,” he said. “Gonna be the most awkward Thanksgiving ever.”
For a little while, there in the kitchen with just Joel and your mother, you almost forgot how awkward this was supposed to be.
You and Joel moved around each other in tandem now. You’d been living together for months and you’d fallen into sync so fast it was almost strange when you stopped to think about it. When you’d moved in with your ex, it took what felt like a small eternity to really understand the flow of his life, to subconsciously recognize where he was going in the kitchen when you were cooking side by side, to remember to consider him when making decisions big and small. With Joel, it was almost instantaneous. There had been no odd fumbling around each other as you went through your lives under one roof, no putting one brand of peanut butter back to pick up the one you suddenly remembered he preferred, no confusion or frustration when you came home from the office to find him not back yet. It all clicked, like you’d been built to do this alongside each other all along. Even in the unfamiliar space of your parents’ kitchen, his hand found the small of your back as he moved behind you to get a serving bowl and you just knew which knife to pass him from the block beside you when he went to reach for it.
Things shifted when your sister showed up about an hour and a half before dinner, her arrival finally coaxing your father out from wherever he’d been hiding since you and Joel had gotten there.
“Hey Dad,” you smiled at him after he finished greeting your sister and he stood, hovering awkwardly in the kitchen. “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, princess,” he said pulling you in for a quick hug.
He turned his attention to Joel then, looking him up and down like he would an adversary.
“Joel,” he said, nodding once.
“Hey man,” Joel said, holding his hand out. Your father’s jaw twitched but he shook Joel’s hand all the same. “Good to see you.”
Your father just grunted before going to the fridge and getting out a beer. Joel followed him and you and your mother exchanged worried glances.
“Think the Cowboys are gonna pull out a win this year?” Joel asked.
Your dad held his beer for a moment, looking like he was considering just not responding but then seemed to think better of it.
“We’ll see,” he said. “With their record, I’d settle for not getting our asses handed to us.”
Things were easier after that. Your father and Joel disappeared to the living room and you heard the telltale sounds of football follow immediately after.
“I still can’t believe you’re fucking Dad’s weirdly hot friend!” Your sister said, just quiet enough that your mother was out of earshot. “Or that you were for years, forever ago! Seriously, there are rules about holding back to your sister like that.”
“You don’t need to know everything I do, you know,” you said.
“No but I need to know everyone you do,” she said. You snorted. “So… you think it’s going to last?”
“Well, we’re trying for kids,” you said, putting the last of the shredded cheese on the mac and cheese. “So it’d better.”
“What!” She yelped.
“What?” Your mom ran over. “Everyone OK? Did you burn yourself?”
“We’re good,” you smiled. “Just catching up. Sister shit, you know.”
“Yeah,” your sister said. “Sister shit.”
Your mother went back to the other side of the kitchen and your sister mouthed oh my God at you and you fought the urge to laugh. Your dad might hate your boyfriend but at least you could count on your sister to be your sister.
Eventually, the rest of the family came over, too, and everyone settled around the overly full dining room table, Joel sitting beside you with a reassuring hand on your knee as he made small talk with one of your uncles.
Dinner went surprisingly well, at least until everyone was a few glasses of wine deep and your father decided to pick a fight.
“So, Joel,” he said, setting his wine glass down with a little too much force. “Not sure if I should thank you for getting my daughter to move back home or if I should blame you for her obsession with being a failed musician for a living.”
“Dad!” Your sister gaped at him. “What the fuck!”
“Language, please!” Your mother said.
“Just seems to be real clear to me now,” he said. “Doubt she’d be so stuck on playing that damn guitar all the time if it weren’t for your bad influence.”
“Bad influence?” You laughed. “Dad, I’m almost middle aged, I’m not some impressionable teenager. I love my work, I don’t consider myself to be a failure just because I do music therapy instead of being a rock star, I…”
“You could have actually done something with yourself, you know,” he cut you off. “Instead, you decided to drive your life into the ground with this man and some bullshit career path…”
“Watch it,” Joel said sharply. “Not gonna let you talk to her that way. You will treat her with respect or I will make you treat her with respect.”
“Respect?” Your dad asked, his eyebrows raised. “You’re gonna sit there, in my house, at my table and lecture me about respect when you decided to take up with my daughter?”
“Stop it!” You shoved your chair back, throwing your napkin on your gravy smeared plate. “Both of you! Dad, stop acting like your my keeper and that I don’t have any goddamn agency because you raised me! Joel, stop acting like I need you to defend my honor! Just… fucking stop it!”
“Baby,” Joel said but you ignored him, stalking off to the guest room at the back of your parents’ house, needing some space from everyone.
You let yourself cry for a minute, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at an old family photo of you with your parents and sister, back when you were just 10 years old. Your hand drifted to your lower stomach. You weren’t pregnant yet - at least, not that you knew - but you couldn’t imagine your child doing anything that would make you as mad at them as your father seemed to be at you loving Joel.
There was a soft knock at the door and you wiped your eyes on the backs of your wrists.
“Yeah?”
“S’me,” Joel said quietly. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” you sniffed.
He came in, closing the door gently behind him before sitting next to you.
“You OK?” He asked after a moment.
“I will be,” you sniffed again.
“I’m sorry baby,” he said, reaching out and cupping your face, his thumb tracing the arch of your cheekbone. “Know I promised to be on my best behavior but… Look, him being a dick to me is fine, I can handle that. I just can’t watch him say that shit to you. But that don’t mean I should get… aggressive and…”
“It’s not your fault,” you said. “I’d do the same thing if I were you, I can’t really blame you for it. And I appreciate that you care about me…”
“I love you,” he smiled a little. “More than just about anything else. But that means I need to take care of you in the way you want me to, not just the way I want to do it.”
You smiled tightly before leaning in to kiss him. Joel kissed you back, gentle at first but, before long, something shifted, the kiss becoming hot and needy.
“Baby,” Joel said, his voice low. “Should… should probably get back out there…”
“They can wait,” you said, panting a little. “I want you.”
He groaned, nipping at your lower lip but still hesitating.
“Please, Joel,” you breathed, pressing yourself closer to him. “I need you. Let’s make a baby.”
“Fuck,” he said, his tone shifting, and then he was on you. His tongue plunged into your mouth as he lay you back on the bed.
He didn’t bother taking your panties off, just tucking them to the side and tugging the low v-neck of your sweater down to expose your cleavage.
“Christ, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he groaned, cupping your sex with one hand and tugging your breasts free of your bra with the other. He mouthed at your nipple, licking and sucking over your breasts as he ground his palm against your clit, one thick finger slipping inside your seam to your already dripping entrance. “Don’t deserve you, baby.”
“Yes you do,” you whispered. “You deserve the world.”
He just moaned in response, kissing you again, one large hand cupping your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple.
It wasn’t long before he shoved his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock and he jerked himself a few times with the hand that had become coated in your wetness. He notched himself at your entrance, his head thick and large and swollen, and pressed inside, a moment of resistance before your channel stretched over him and he buried himself within you.
He pulled his lips from yours, his head falling to the bed over your shoulder as he panted for breath.
“Goddamn you feel good,” he said, voice tight and hot in your ear. You rolled your hips up against him, making him moan.
“Good,” you said. “Love making you feel good, sometimes that’s all I want to do.”
“Fuck, you think your daddy hates me now,” he said. “If he knew what you do to me he’d shoot me.”
He started to fuck into you then, keeping his chest pressed tight to yours while his cock worked you hard and fast inside, his head finding that soft and tender place within you that built your orgasm fast with every stroke. He ground his cock against you there, his hips on your clit, making every ounce of need inside yourself gather tight and low.
“Fuck, Joel,” you panted. “I’m gonna come, you’re gonna make me come, I…”
“Good,” he growled. “Come for me, come while I get you pregnant, c’mon baby and come all over me.”
You had to bury your face in his shoulder to keep quiet, your orgasm hitting you hard and fast, your center fluttering over his thick length as he held himself inside you.
“Oh you like hearin’ that, huh?” He asked, breathless, starting to move again, already building your next orgasm as he did. “Like hearing how I’m gonna put a baby in my baby, that it?”
“Yes,” you groaned, your second climax growing quickly. “Yes, please, please, please, please…”
“You don’t gotta beg for it baby,” he said, pulling back from you enough to look you in the eyes as he spoke. “I’ll give you everything, as many babies as you want, fuck, gonna give you my baby right now, gonna make you pregnant, fuck!”
He buried his face in your neck and pressed himself so deep inside you as he came, the heat of him spilling into you in thick, heavy pulses.
“Fuck,” he said after he finished, kissing your neck before pulling back from you to kiss your lips, too. “Didn’t mean to come that quick, wanted to get you off one more time first.”
“It’s OK,” you said, panting, even though it was kind of a lie. You’d been so close to coming again that you felt tight inside your skin, an energy rippling over you that you knew you wouldn’t be able to shake until you came again once you got home.
“No, it’s not,” he said, sitting up and slowly, carefully pulling his softening cock from you. “Got you all worked up, not taking care of you the way you deserve if I don’t finish the job.”
You felt some of his come slip out of you but he caught it with the tip of his cock, pressing it back inside before tucking himself away in his underwear and cupping your swollen, aching sex.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said quietly. “Take care of you the rest of my life.”
He worked your clit, slow and gentle circles at first before his touch grew firmer, drawing your orgasm back to the surface in the way that only Joel seemed to know how to do. You came to his touch, feeling his thick come inside you as you did, like your body was trying to pull him even deeper inside.
“There you go,” he said, his eyes locked on your dripping pussy. “Fuck, so pretty, every damn inch of you.”
You panted for breath, relaxing down into the bed before suddenly remembering that your entire family was down the hall.
“Fuck,” you sighed. “We should get back.”
“We should,” Joel said, tugging your panties back in place and helping you cover your chest again before chuckling. “Think your daddy really might shoot me if he found us like this.”
You laughed and sat up, looking at Joel for a moment. You trailed your fingers through his hair and he smiled a little, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Really not sure why you think I’m worth all this trouble,” he said. “But I sure am thankful I have you.”
You smiled back.
“I’m thankful for you, too.”
You kissed him and he helped make sure your hair and makeup didn’t look like you just got fucked within an inch of your life before you emerged, the party having moved to the living room, your mom and aunts on one side of the room, your dad and uncles on the other, an uncomfortable silence falling when the two of you walked in.
“Joel,” your dad said, getting up and walking over with a sigh. “Look… not sure I’ll ever really be OK with this but… my daughter could do worse than a man seems to adore her and is willing to stand up for her.”
“I do adore her,” Joel said. “I love her. I want to do everything I can for here as long as she’ll let me.”
Your dad nodded slowly.
“Think I can live with that,” he said. “But you hurt her? I will kill you.”
Joel laughed a little.
“I expect nothing less.”
Joel and your dad seemed a little more like the friends they’d started out as after that, laughing and talking and watching football. When the two of you left for home, your father and mother walked you out, containers of leftovers in hand.
“It was so good to see you both,” your mom smiled, giving you a squeeze. “We’ll have to do this again. Soon.”
“We will,” you kissed her cheek before turning to your dad. “It’ll be nice.”
“It will,” he said before looking to Joel and holding out his hand. “Welcome to the family.”
Joel smiled a little, taking his hand and shaking it.
“Thanks for letting me in it.”
You smiled the whole drive home, Joel’s hand on your knee.
“So,” he said, looking at you conspiratorially as he pulled into the drive way. “Think the family will be even bigger next Thanksgiving?”
“I sure hope so,” you smiled. “But I think we’ll have fun trying either way.”
“Think we should try again now?” He asked, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. “Because, you know… if you’re ovulating, should probably do it again. Seems like the smart move.”
You laughed, already adding pregnancy tests to your mental shopping list.
“Well we can’t start out our lives as parents doing the dumb thing,” you said and he laughed before the two of you went inside to try again to grow your family.
How were you supposed to know that your much older boyfriend was your dad's best friend?
MASTERLIST
*****
You didn't know who Joel really was when you met him. You hadn't realized that your dad's buddy from work was the same man you were seeing privately.
Joel didn't realize that the girl he was seeing, that he was fucking, was his best friends daughter. He hasn't known that when he joked about how good your mouth is, he was joking about it with your father.
Your poor father hadn't known that he wasn't the only man you called daddy.
But now it was all out in the open.
Both you and Joel lay together in bed, silent save for your heavy breathing. The thin sheet had been kicked down to the end of the bed. The blankets were lost somewhere on the floor. Sweat clung to your body, your face, and your neck. Joel threw an arm across your torso, and you groaned at the sticky heat of him.
"Joel," you grumbled as he tried to pull you into him.
"Come closer," Joel ordered with a mumble. His face was pressed into his pillow, muffling his voice.
"'S too hot, I need to shower."
"Shower later, cuddle now." You laughed at your boyfriend's little pout.
"I hate you," you said as you rolled into his embrace.
"'S not what you were sayin' a few minutes ago, darlin'."
If Joel heard the response you grumbled under your breath, he didn't let on.
The late afternoon sun shone golden rays through Joel's bedroom window. This late in August, you could already see a few red tipped leaves outside, an early sign of autumn's approach. It was pretty, but it was also a reminder to you that Joel's two week long summer vacation was coming to an end.
"Two more days of your vacation left." You said as you turned to look into Joel's dark eyes.
"Fuck, don't remind me."
"I wish you didn't have to go out this afternoon."
"I know, I'm sorry, but I promised my buddy I'd go to his place for a barbecue ages ago." Joel paused, taking the moment to wiggle in closer to your body. "You could always come and meet my friends from work."
"Do you really want to introduce your friends to your much younger girlfriend on such a large scale?"
"If it means showing you off, yeah." Joel answered.
"Well," you said as you trailed a finger up Joel's naked chest. "As much as I love showing off, I think I'd rather do it on a smaller scale."
"You can text me if you change your mind."
"I know," you answered with a quick kiss. "I think I'll visit my parents' place tonight, I'm getting low on toilet paper so I think I'll steal some from them."
Joel's grin was as bright as the sun shining in through his window. "My little thief. I can buy you toilet paper if you need it."
You shook your head. "I know, I could easily buy it myself too. But it's not as fun as stealing it from my parents' supply closet."
"Well," Joel said with a yawn as he stretched. "I'm glad you'll be amusing yourself when I'm out."
"You'll come by my place after your barbecue?" You asked as you slipped out of Joel's embrace.
"Of course, darlin'." Joel answered as you slipped your underwear back on.
"Good." You leaned over Joel and gave him a quick kiss before spinning away to throw the rest of your clothes on.
---
You were surprised to find the gate to your parents backyard wide open.
After leaving Joel, you ran a few errands before driving to your parents' place. You almost thought you had the wrong house when you heard such a commotion coming from the open backyard. Music, laughter and the smell of barbecue accosted you.
Your dad yelled your name as he saw you appear around the corner of the gate.
"Hey there sweetheart," your father greeted.
"Hey," you answered as you gave your dad a quick hug. "What's going on?"
"Your mother and I are throwing a little barbecue get-together with the guys from my work." Alarm bells began ringing in the back of your mind. "I didn't think you'd want to hang around my buddy's much. Otherwise, I would've invited you."
"Oh, that's okay."
"But now you can stay for the meal and I'll introduce you to some of my friends."
Before you could answer, a pair of arms slid around your waist. You knew who they belonged to, and you knew what was coming, but everything happened too fast for you to stop. You were spun around to meet a giddy Joel who was quick to lean down and kiss you.
Right in front of your dad.
"So glad you made it," Joel said as he pulled away from your lips. "How'd you get the address?"
"Joel," you gasped. You looked between your father and Joel with wide eyes.
"Miller," your father spoke with an edge. "Whatcha doin'" He asked all too casually.
"This is be girl I've been tellin' you about." Joel said all to proudly. It wasn't until he finally looked away from you and at your father's fuming gaze that he realized he was missing something.
"You mean to tell me that the girl you've been seeing, the one you've been sleeping with, is my daughter?"
"Dad," you gasped as all the colour drained from Joel's face. "It's, we uh-" you stammered, unsure what you could say that wouldn't make the situation even worse. "We didn't know." You said. Your gaze flit between Joel, your father, and the other party goers, wondering if any of them had clued into the absolute shit show that was happening in the middle of the backyard.
"She's half your age!" Your father hissed at Joel. His hand gesturing between the two of you.
"I know, but listen-"
"Listen?" Your father cried. You could see out of the corner of your vision that a few people were picking up on what was happening now. "You want me to listen to how you seduced my daughter into your bed, Miller? About how my daughter, who's half your fuckin' age, has been fooling around with one of my best buddies from work? Is that it? Is that what you want me to fucking listen to?"
"Listen daddy-" you tried. Both sets of eyes landed on you.
"I got it,"
"Absolutely not!" Joel and your father said at the same time.
"Oh my god," you cried, your hands flew to your face in shame, absolutely mortified. "I'm, I'm going," you said before hastily turning around and rushing from the backyard. Two sets of voices called your name, but you didn't turn around, instead moving faster out of the backyard and towards your car. You could feel the onslot of tears coming. Your vision grew blurry as you yanked your car door open and threw yourself behind the wheel. You blinked back the tears as you grabbed for your seat belt, determined to race out of there and possibly never return. You were stopped from pulling out of the driveway by your passenger side door opening up.
Joel slid into the passenger seat with a great commotion. "Baby," he began as he leaned towards you, hid hand reaching out for your own.
"Stop," You pulled your hand from his reach and grabbed the steering wheel. "I need to leave, Joel. Now!"
"Drive then," he ordered.
You didn't bother arguing with him about leaving his car behind before you pulled out of your parents' driveway.
"I'm fucked," you said about five minutes into your drive home. "Absolutely fucked, Joel!"
"No-"
"Yes!" You cried. As you came to a red light, you took the chance to rub at your eyes like a sleepy infant.
"My dad knows we're together! He knows we're sleeping together!"
"I know," Joel answered calmly.
"He thinks you seduced me!"
"I know."
"Why aren't you upset?" You cried. A few more intersections to drive through, and you'd be turning onto your street.
"I am, but not in the way you are, darlin'."
"What?"
"Just drive," Joel said, pointing to the lights up a head. You were almost home. "We can sit and talk once we get inside, yeah?"
"I don't think I can sit still right now." You answered honestly. "I'm, I'm like buzzing," you explained weakly.
"I'm sure you're anxious and stressed, darling. Look," Joel said as you pulled into your driveway. "Let's get inside,"
You practically raced inside, determined to sort through the days absolute shit show. "He's gonna make us break up," you said as you paced across your living room carpet. "That or my parents are going to disown me."
"They won't-"
"Then they'll make us break up!"
"They can't make us do anything." Joel answered.
"Oh my god," you moaned in utter mortification. "Everyone from your work saw that today! They all heard how you're dating the slut that's your best friends daughter!"
"Hey!" Joel interrupted harshly. "You're not a slut, and it fucking pisses me off that your father would insinuate something like that to you. You're a grown adult," Joel's hands came up to cup your face. "We're in an adult relationship, one where we're both happy and consenting. We haven't done anything wrong."
"I know," you answered. "And it never felt like that before, like what we were doing was wrong. But now, with my dad's reaction," you trailed off. Unsure if you really wanted to voice how your father had you doubting your relationship.
"I know. But do you really want to let others control our relationship?"
"No."
"We can talk to your parents, yeah? Explain that this isn't some fling between us. That we really care for each other."
You paused, taking a moment to look into Joels dark eyes. "Not a fling, huh?" You asked, some of your spark returning.
"Not a fling, darling."
"You really care for me?" You asked as you settled yourself on Joel's lap. His arms circled around your back.
"More than you know." Joel answered. You met in the middle for a kiss, your body going lax in his arms. But just as Joel deepened the kiss, your phone rang out. You turned around to see a call from your dad coming through. You leaned over, picking it up from the coffee table to show Joel. "Let it go," Joel told you. "We can talk to him later."
"Not now?"
"No," Joel answered as he maneuvered you to lay across the couch. "He needs time to cool off. And you, darling," he said with a smirk, his head tilted down so he could press a soft kiss to the side of your neck. "You need a distraction."
You tossed your phone somewhere on the carpet. Moving to your hands underneath Joel's shirt, trailing along the muscles in his back. "Okay," you answered. But Joel gave you a look that you knew all too well, one that had you correcting yourself. "Okay, daddy."
