#Guilt is a big problem for me

[stars-like-lights]

Okay- I know this might be a little weird, but is it normal for hosts to struggle with giving control over? Is it normal to feel like you're a bad host for not being able to? Sometimes I just flat out refuse to let the others front when someone out here is acting unfair because they want to defend me, and I don't want them to get yelled at for doing so. The Sides keep telling me I'm a good host, but are they just sugar coating it? Is there some sort of internal reason people almost never come to the fronting room? I mean, we have a really big and detailed headspace, but sometimes I wonder if the others just don't want to front, or if I'm somehow blocking them subconsciously.

I don't mean to ramble, but it's a little upsetting for me when I remember this stuff. I do have a lot of guilt about the earliest version of my system, (Before we realized we were one) majorly because the only one from that version who I know is still here is Nishira-San, and even she was traumatized by whatever happened. (Or maybe my response to it. She's not very talkative.) I mean, she might've also just been the first one to actually appear and the rest were NPCs, mostly because they never fronted or talked to me in any major way, and Nishira-San appeared when I went through a traumatic event so, I don't even know.

Anyways, I got off topic. I'm sorry. I just wanted to rant and ask if this stuff is normal.

[shanastoryteller]

things that are just so important to me in spn fic

1. sam being That Bitch (a diva is just a female version of a hustler plays whenever he walks through a door)

2. dean having an emotional breakdown over something that isn't his fault (he is neither self aware nor evolved enough to have breakdowns over the things that are his fault)

3. john winchester getting punched (preferably physically, but metaphorically works too)

[some-pers0n]

Feeling. normal! 😁

[oneluckydragon]

got hit with the echo+sora brainrot so i am once more rambling in your askbox about it. because reasons.

anywho i think there is something truly saddening about echo's struggles to make peace within herself and how she truly finds it hard to find that peace when she is so certain that if the truth about her origins were to be revealed to the world, much less to *sora*, everything she achieved, everything she worked for, all of which matters to her most, will crumble away in a moment's notice.

but the fear of losing all your life's work is none compared to the fear of losing sora. the feeling of poison that settled itself within themselves and between each other out of fear and tragedy of what had happened to them is familiar. echo's resemblance to dusknoir was already enough to set the two off because of how much it had all hurt to see someone you love and yourself turn into a mockery and a splitting image of someone who had pretended to care yet showed he never did at all, but this poison is louder. it hurts to bare, to carry, and to have none but yourself to be its sole holder.

but this poison, this feeling of heartache is different. because whereas the previous pain was something both of them felt, sora was lucky enough to not have known the truth about the person who she cares for so dearly.

echo knows that she used to be darkrai. and it haunts her to have known that her previous incarnation was so *cruel*, all for the sake of it just feeling right. wishing to engulf an entire world in darkness, solely for whatever desire she used to have.

and for how much she knows, how much she will hammer it into her own head that she is *not* like that anymore, that she looks at her past with sneer and disgust and that she will not be the barer of evil anymore, it will not matter in the slightest when she will have to look at sora if she were to ever find out.

how afraid, angry and dejected she would look when finding out, and how she will go on the defense/offense because of how much this will overwhelm her.

because when echo looks at her own shadow, she sees herself for what she is. she knows what she is, be it out of shame or guilt.

but when sora will look at it, she will see a tall, contorting and menacing shadow, towering over with a bright cyan eye doing nothing but looking at her, as if tempting her to make the next move.

and she defends herself. from someone she knows will not harm her. she raises her arms up in self defense from a hand that would never hurt her more than the world has already did.

she knows echo will not hurt her. and thats why she is afraid.

Oh my oh my OH MY, Sinnoh!!! YES YES YES!

HOW!!! IN THE WORLD!!! Are you so good at crawling into my head and creating these vivid analysis/snippets on my OCs??? I've barely shared ANY information about Echo and Sora because I've been wanting to hoard most of my stuff for when my fic is finally finished... but... I think you've broken my resolve a bit, if I'm entirely honest.

You know what? I'm so inspired by your accuracy and eagerness to talk about my girls that I'm gonna forgo my crippling anxiety regarding my writing skills and instead post a snippet of my WIP fic here as a treat for you. A teaser, if you will. Since I have no idea when the fic in question will actually be done and ready (or when I will be satisfied with it, cause the thing is currently 36,000 words and still slowly climbing). And now you've got me eager to share SOMETHING of my fic with you and anyone that might want to take a peek at it.

Please enjoy this conversation between Dusknoir and Echo. The topic deals a lot with what you'd described up above!! c:

[Note: this is an unedited part of my fic because I am still in the process of writing and it may change in the future, so please be gentle w/ me but I'd love to read any thoughts/comments that pop up while reading!! pls send asks or replies or anything really cause I love you guys]

+++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++

“I’m going to tell you something now, and you are going to listen.” Echo commands with a sharp bite in her voice that Dusknoir cannot fathom ignoring. He pauses and then offers a slow nod, waiting, wondering what she could possibly desire to tell him at a time like this, of all things.

Minutes pass as Echo remains rooted in place, still as her own shadow, and her eyes dart around as she stares at the patches of dry grass and sand beneath her paws. Her claws clench and unclench, digging into the earth like daggers as the wind of the forest (it’s trees so close, just behind them, a looming sort of presence that could engulf them whole) whistles through the surrounding branches, carrying stray leaves of many bright greens through the chilling breeze. Dusknoir watches them dance around Echo, twirling, floating down, down, down… but it’s quiet, too quiet, and Dusknoir feels a shiver pass through him when Echo’s voice finally rings out through the silence.

"When I evolved, Sora was petrified," She says, nearly a whisper, an admission that melts away her confidence and appears to bring her a flood of both shame and regret. Her face twists up then, strangely, like she’d felt a twinge of pain from somewhere deep inside the very fabric of her own soul and was unable to quell it. "She couldn’t even bring herself to look at me most days. At first, my appearance… well, it reminded her too much of you. And eventually of someone I used to be.”

Someone I used to be. At that, Dusknoir’s immediate reaction is to recall Echo’s previous life as a human, as the miserable shell of a creature surviving alongside Grovyle that he’d relentlessly hunted in the dark future. A human made of contempt and anger and apathy, who never smiled or laughed or cried or screamed like the old legends said humans would-- an entity that simply existed rather than lived. An echo of a life long dead and buried. But, judging by her tone, by her voice, by some uneasy intuition itching in the back of his mind like a swarm of pestilent Ninjask… he knows that she means something else entirely. Something that she isn’t willing to share. And frankly, that concept utterly terrifies him.

Someone I used to be. Dusknoir wants to speak, to break his own silence, wants to ask the myriad of questions bubbling up in his throat because this isn't the first time she's hinted at another life beyond being human, but those questions die at the source like a flame doused in water. And always the coward, coward, coward, instead he takes the easy way out by doing nothing at all. Whether Echo notices his surge of inner conflict or not-- the nervous wring of his hands and the tremble in his spine that he cannot control under her gaze-- she does not react.

“I’d take a step and Sora would flinch away.” Echo confesses, her markings flickering with light before going dark and dead, as if her body wished to snuff them out entirely, a deep seated rejection, a self-loathing so strong that Dusknoir cannot help but recognize it and empathize, and his heart aches, “It took ages for her to stop shaking when I’d speak. To stop looking at me like-- like I was going to…” 

Echo grimaces like she’s enduring waves of grueling torture and doesn’t finish that string of thought, but it’s not hard to make an educated guess on what went unsaid. Like I was going to betray her. Hurt her. Break her heart. She’s been through so much already and I couldn’t bear to be another influence in the history of her suffering. I hate myself because of how I made her feel. When her eyes went wide in fear and through them I could see myself staring back like some sort of burden, some sort of curse.

“I am not my past.” Proud and true, Echo straightens up and holds her head high, a spark igniting in her eyes, a glint of determination, a will to keep going and going despite such circumstances and strife, despite this horrid, unspeakable past that haunts her so, “And I am definitely not you. It’s taken a while, but I know that much now. I’ve accepted it.”

I am not my past. And I am definitely not you.

A sigh, a breath, and Echo glances at him with a certain sorrow that cannot be described, a sorrow that lingers even through the veil of her tenacity, "But no matter how I feel, no matter my conviction, my shadows still find ways through the cracks. Every time I think I'm getting a grip and that I might finally understand myself… I change all over again." She admits, sounding more angry and tired than defeated now-- like a mirror of her old self, her human self that had clawed and damned and cursed him, despised him more than anything. "I hate it. I hate that I never truly know who I am. That I have to learn about my past through stories others tell me, or through fragments of twisted, broken memories that I wouldn't wish on anyone. Through conflict and pain and… and..."

"Echo," Dusknoir murmurs her name softly, an offering, a potential escape if only she would wish to drop the subject and forget this conversation had ever happened-- if she'd overstepped and needed an excuse to back out, a diversion, an understanding. And briefly, Dusknoir wonders why she is opening up about this particular information, why she would delve into something so vulnerable, so personal. Why she would bring up this hurtful history when it obviously brings her great discomfort.

And then, he gets an answer.

“You’re lucky, Dusknoir." There it is, that wildfire burning in her eyes again. A spark that’s new and bold and startling. But lucky? No, never. He'd have to disagree, accounting the mountain of evidence that was his life and regrettable deeds.

"You already know exactly who you are and what you’ve done, and most importantly why. You have more than a tattered picture of yourself that reflects broken answers. And you can change with that knowledge. I see you trying.” She tells him, searching, looking for something so deeply and Dusknoir wishes he knew what it could be so that he could give it to her, because he would, he would gladly give it to her without a second thought if it meant they could be close again. But he isn’t a fool, and he’s wise enough to know they’ll never be like they were before. “And if somehow I could change, even as half-assed as I have. Well, then what’s your excuse?”

You can do it, say her unspoken words, I believe in you.

[sageblus]

fighting the urge to leave my parents’ place a day early and go back to the peace and quiet of my own home

[meu-meu-kissy-ceutie]

Thinking about it, we've had quite a few pokemon rivals go from "I want to be a champion" to "I want to be a researcher", I want the opposite to come up in the next game. I want a rival that starts off taking the gym challenge so they can get strong enough to go to harsher environments and study stronger pokemon, and in the process discovering they like battling more, eventually leading to them (as i think should happen way more) becoming the champion before you! I know some people don't like rival champions because its like "How can they be the best if I am" but that ignores that 1. Strong trainers (like blue) come back in future games for fights and 2. In any actual competition no one is the best forever, maybe you're better than someone today but maybe not next time. There could be something about this even with a hint at the rival talking about traveling and getting stronger so they can meet you, and for post game battles randomizing their team (aside from their starter) with a ton of new pokemon they captured and trained during the interim! Neway, this became waaaay longer than i thought, but, maybe ya'll agree, i know this would be hype as fuck for me.

[miraculouslumination]

Boy oh boy am I so glad I use my online space how I want and have the wherewithal to not cave into guilt trippy posts about how you should always all day every day 24/7 subject yourself to the horror of the world wide news and also make your entire blog about it

[ablednt]

Granted I have the overall geographical and cultural knowledge of a 4th grader but from what I can tell the nuclear family model really does seem to be a white colonial invention

Different cultures have different approaches but I mainly hear about either large family units where multiple generations support each other and raise their children and grandchildren together or an "it takes a village" approach where children are raised somewhat communally

And I can't really speak on it much or claim that these families were free of abuse or that children aren't often an oppressed group basically everywhere I know of but the way ownership of your children is so engrained into white society is so bizarre

Like once you notice it you can't unnotice it even the most loving well meaning parents don't know what to do about it because everyone is so isolated from their own families and their own communities so you wind up with 1-2 parents who have full legal ownership of their child and are raised in a culture where you don't have personhood until you're 18 and all attempts at self actualization before them are seen as clueless rebellion. Like our culture is so divorced from the concept that a parent is someone who is helping mentor and care for their child so they can thrive as a fellow human being and it's actually so alarming

And ik this problem isn't unique to white and colonized people but it's honestly really soothing to hear about how other cultures approach and view parenting and community as a whole and to internalize it doesn't have to be this way

[in-tua-deep]

I think I may just have to accept that my mum had absolutely buckwild manic pixie dream girl game back in the day

[c0rpseductor]

my mom asked me to Get a spider and when i went to try to scoop it into a plastic container to take it outsidesies there was no spider in the location she specified. so I told her before she drove off to work that she might’ve imagined the spider or mistaken something else for the spider and she was like “Oh no. There was DEFINITELY a spider.” so now when she gets home from work she wants to use the front door and then do like a spot check of the area. for the spider. i fully understand she’s arachnophobic and can’t help it and i try not to be a jerk but man i don’t like spider hunt

[kthologue]

the end times — gojo satoru

synopsis. gojo satoru thinks he’s going to die because you’re giving him the silent treatment. (aka your first big fight with gojo).

contents. hurt/comfort, ooc, lovesick!gojo, you give him the silent treatment and he goes crazy, he is so pathetic in this one, tw obsessive behavior (he makes it EVERYONE’S problem), gojo’s pov

notes. loosely inspired by that one scene from yakuza fiance. not proofread whats new

Gojo knows he’s screwed up the second he steps into the common area of Jujutsu Tech’s dormitory. The air feels thick, wrong. And then there’s you, curled up on the couch, a book open in your lap, but your eyes aren’t moving.

His grin falters for half a second before he masks it with his usual bravado. “I always knew you had a little freak in you, but reading your erotic books out in the open? Who knew my girl was such a perv.”

The joke usually earns him a laugh, a shove, maybe even a teasing retort. But tonight, the silence that follows is deafening.

The pit in his stomach grows.

“Sweetheart?” He tries again, waving a hand obnoxiously close to your face.

You finally react, swatting his hand away, but there’s no playfulness in the motion. Your eyes don't even meet his.

“You’re late,” you say flatly, still staring at your book. “Again.”

Gojo scoffs, irritation bubbling. Not at you, never at you, but at the damn book that’s getting more attention than him.

“Ah, you know how it is. Got held up in Kyoto,” he says with a shrug.

The words leave his mouth too easily. He doesn’t realize his mistake until you finally, finally look at him.

And it’s nothing like usual.

There’s no warmth in your gaze, no sparkle of amusement or exasperation. Instead, you pin him with a look so sharp it strips him bare, leaving nothing but the hollow weight in his chest.

“You missed our date.”

His breath catches. His throat goes dry. “I–”

“I’m not mad about that.”

Relief floods him too fast, too soon. His shoulders sag as he leans down, tilting his head for a well-earned kiss. “You’re the best. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.”

You pull away before he can touch you.

Gojo freezes.

“[Name]?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You know, it’s funny.”

There’s nothing funny about this moment.

His pulse thrums as you continue, voice eerily steady. “That your mission was in Kyoto. I mean, we have a whole sister school there, full of sorcerers ready to handle a first-grade threat. So why would they need you, specifically?”

His stomach drops.

He’s never been good at guilt, not when he’s spent his whole life believing he’s untouchable. But now, standing before you, unable to meet your eyes, it sits heavy in his gut.

And you don’t let up.

“Of course, I asked around. Thought maybe I was overthinking it.” A humorless scoff escapes you. “Imagine my surprise when I found out my boyfriend was too busy meeting with his future bride.”

Gojo’s mouth opens, but for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to say.

“That’s–” he starts, then stops because, shit, you’re staring at him like he’s a stranger. Like he’s someone you can’t trust. The realization makes his stomach churn.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” you say bitterly, arms crossing as you lean back into the couch. “I mean, I’d love to hear how you were going to explain this one, Gojo Satoru.”

Full name. That’s how he knows he’s really fucked up.

“It’s not–It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, voice unusually hoarse. His usual bravado, his charm, none of it is coming to him. He doesn’t even know where to start. “I wasn’t–I wasn’t hiding it. I just–”

“You just forgot to tell me that your clan is arranging a marriage for you?” you cut in sharply. “That slipped your mind?”

“No! Yes—Fuck, that’s not what I mean,” he groans, pushing a hand through his hair. He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s scrambling for footing on uneven ground. “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter, sweetheart. I wasn’t ever going to go through with it. You know that, right?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Do I? I mean, Suguru seemed shocked when I didn’t know that these were recurring dates set by your clan.”

Gojo falters.

“You didn’t even think to tell me, Satoru,” you say, voice quieter now, but somehow even more devastating. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

His heart clenches. That’s not–God, that’s not what this is.

“Of course you deserve to know! But I—” he exhales sharply, trying to gather his words. “I just—Fuck, I thought it was stupid. I thought it wasn’t worth mentioning.”

You shake your head, looking almost tired now. “Right. Because I’m just supposed to assume you’d never go through with it. After your multiple dates with her. Because I’m supposed to read your mind, just like always.”

The weight of your words crashes into him, and Gojo suddenly realizes that this isn’t just about Kyoto. This isn’t just about one lie, one mistake. This is about every time he’s brushed things off, every time he’s let silence speak for him, every time he’s sat through those excruciating meetings, knowing he would never go through with it, but never once thinking about how it would feel for you to find out this way. This is about every time he’s expected you to just get him without him ever having to say a word.

This is about how, even after everything, you still don’t know how much he loves you.

And now, looking at you, Gojo is terrified that he’s already lost his chance to prove it.

“I’m going to sleep,” you stand up from your place on the couch. 

Gojo tries to follow you, “Listen, baby–”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now. I need some space.” you turn around to send him a teary glare and that stops him in his tracks. He had never seen you cry. And it tore him apart knowing that he was the cause. 

The sound of your door slamming echoes in Gojo’s mind. 

Gojo Satoru is the first one in class the next day.

He drums his fingers against the desk, restless in a way he can't explain, but he knows it has everything to do with the fact that he spent the entire night not sleeping. His mind was too busy replaying the way you had looked at him, no, the way you hadn’t looked at him.

He had left you alone and upset. He had made you feel like you were second to someone else. And worst of all, he hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.

“This must be a first.”

Gojo glances up as Suguru enters, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Gojo Satoru, on time? It must be the end times.”

He knows it’s a joke, but it might as well be the end times. Gojo doesn’t respond, just presses his lips into a thin line as he goes back to mentally reciting the apology speech he’s been revising in his head all night.

Then the shoji door slides open again.

You walk in with Shoko, your head tilted slightly as you whisper something to her, something he’ll never get to hear because you don’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead, you take a seat at the farthest desk, as if he isn’t even there.

A part of him withers away.

But Gojo Satoru isn’t one to give up.

If words won’t get your attention, he’ll just have to be Gojo Satoru about it. He leans back in his chair and stretches obnoxiously, before loudly exclaiming, “Yaga-sensei! Are those grey hairs from your recent divorce?”

He grins, waiting for the familiar sound of your laugh, for that little shake of your head, for you to scold him like always.

But you don’t even look at him.

Instead, he’s met with Geto and Shoko’s twin expressions of abject horror, and before he has a chance to register what’s happening–

BAM!

Yaga’s palm collides with his head, sending him face-first into his desk.

Even through the throbbing pain, he can only think about one thing.

You didn’t even react.

“And how exactly is she ignoring you?”

Shoko’s grumpy voice echoes through the morgue, where she’s been attempting to practice her technique. She’s clearly unimpressed that Gojo Satoru has decided to spam-call her instead of dealing with his own problems.

“She’s ignoring me, Shoko,” Gojo groans dramatically from the other side of the Jujutsu Tech campus, rubbing the fresh bump on his head as he stands in front of your door. “I’ve been knocking for an hour. She’s in there. I know she’s in there, but she won’t answer.”

“Maybe she finally got tired of your bullshit,” Shoko says dryly. “Honestly, I don’t know why it took her this long to hold you accountable. She’s let your bad behavior slide for way too long.”

“Why are we talking about me like I’m some kind of dog?!”

Shoko ignores him.

“From the sound of it, you really messed up. I mean, who keeps a marriage a secret from their girlfriend?” She pauses, then adds with a smirk in her voice, “Oh, right. You.”

Gojo groans, pressing his forehead against your door. “You and I both know that’s not what happened. But she doesn’t. And she won’t even give me the time of day to explain.”

Shoko sighs. “Give her time to cool down.”

“And what, let her decide she wants to run off and marry some other guy? Move to a cute little beach town in Enoshima, start a family, have three kids, and leave all Jujutsu sorcery behind?”

There’s a long pause before Shoko makes a disgusted sound. “O-oi. Keep your weirdly detailed fantasies to yourself.”

“I’m just being realistic,” he insists, clutching his flip phone dramatically.

Shoko promptly hangs up on him.

Gojo stares at the device for a moment before slowly lowering it, exhaling hard.

Then he rests his head against your door again, defeated.

But Gojo Satoru was never one to admit defeat, so he tries again. He returns to your door the very next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

“[Name]!” he chirps. “I bought us some parfait! Let’s talk things over, yeah?”

Silence.

Not even the sound of movement.

But Gojo Satoru is not easily discouraged.

So Gojo Satoru comes again the next morning.

“[Name]!” he knocks again, this time balancing a slice of strawberry cake in one hand. “This is all my fault, so come out and let me apologize properly!”

Nothing.

Gojo sighs, leaning against the doorframe, about to knock again when—

Your phone rings.

His breath catches as he presses his ear to the wood.

“Hi, Suguru?”

His heart stops.

“Yeah, we’re still on for the movie. I’m just about to leave right now.”

For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru understands what people mean when they say they feel like they’ve been punched in the gut.

Because you’re going to Suguru.

You’re not just ignoring him, you’re choosing someone else.

His fingers twitch at his sides as a feeling he doesn’t like at all creeps into his chest. It’s something ugly, something unfamiliar. Something that feels a lot like jealousy. Was that how you felt?

He wants to knock again, wants to demand that you open the door, look at him, let him fix this before you walk away from him any further.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he presses his lips into a thin line, shoves his hands into his pockets, and forces himself to step away from your door.

Forces himself to give you the space you deserved.

You don’t know why you relent so easily.

You shouldn’t. Not after the way he lied, the way he kept something so important from you.

And yet, when you hear him pacing outside your door, his nervous energy practically seeping through the walls, you feel something crack.

He’s been outside your room for the nth time this week. Every day, like clockwork, he’s knocked. Brought your favorite snacks. Talked to you through the door, filling the silence with his ridiculous banter, even when you refused to answer.

You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your blanket a little tighter. You should stay angry. But you can't.

You sigh, pressing your forehead to your knee.

Maybe it’s time to stop punishing the both of you.

With a deep breath, you stand, crossing the room to the door. When you open it, Gojo nearly stumbles forward, mid-step in his pacing.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and filled with so much desperate hope it makes your chest ache.

And the way his face lights up like you’ve just handed him the entire world tells you that, maybe, you were never going to be able to stay mad at him forever.

But you’re here, leaning on your door frame with your arms crossed, your nails digging into your skin as you glare at the man who has spent the last ten minutes tripping over his words, looking wrecked in a way you’ve never seen before. His hair is messier than usual, lips are parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know where to start.

Finally, you scoff, breaking the silence. “If you don’t have anything to say, I’m going back into my room.”

“No!,” Gojo steps forward instinctively, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. And after everything, he is. “I screwed up.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Oh, really?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, yeah, I really fucked up.”

Silence.

You should say something. You should demand an explanation, yell, maybe even cry, but you’re so tired. You’ve spent days twisting yourself into knots over this, convincing yourself you never meant as much to him as he did to you.

And then Gojo says it.

“I should’ve told you.” His voice is hoarse. “I should have told you after the first meeting. After the first second they brought it up.” He swallows hard. “But I was stupid. I thought if I ignored it, if I went through the motions, if I waited for the right moment… then it wouldn’t matter. That it would be over before you ever had to know.”

You shake your head, letting out a hollow laugh. “Satoru, do you even hear yourself? Do you get what it was like for me to find out from someone else? To hear that the person I–” you cut yourself off, but the damage is done. You see it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you.

“The person you what?” he asks softly, pleading.

You clench your jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

Your shake your head. “You lied to me.”

“I know,” he says, and the sheer brokenness in his voice makes your throat tighten. “I know, sweetheart. And I swear to you that I never meant to. I never wanted to hurt you.” he exhales shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear on everything, I was never going to go through with it. I never even showed up to any of the dates, so they kept ambushing me under the guise of missions! I sat through every single one of those goddamn meetings thinking about how ridiculous it was, how there was only ever one person I wanted.”

He stops himself, inhaling sharply.

And then, quieter, almost afraid:

“How there’s only ever you.”

The words hit you like a fist to the chest.

Gojo watches you carefully, breathless, waiting. Hoping. He’s given you the truth, raw and unfiltered, and now it’s up to you.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the way he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in his world that makes you believe him.

For the first time in a week, your lips find his, and Gojo swears he can finally breathe again. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers curl slightly as if grounding yourself in him. It’s enough to make him melt.

"You’re so insufferably cheesy, Satoru," you murmur against his lips, your breath warm, teasing. "It makes me so angry that I love it." A pause, a soft exhale. "But I forgive you."

His grin is instant, smug and shameless. "That was good, huh?" He tilts his head, cerulean eyes twinkling. "I’m willing to bet your heart skipped a beat."

You roll your eyes, but you kiss him again, slower this time, because, damn it, he’s right.

extra!

“I demand some extra loving!” Satoru sprawls dramatically across your bed, limbs hanging off the edge like a defeated king.

You barely spare him a glance, flipping a page in your book as you lie comfortably on your stomach. “And why, exactly, do you deserve that?”

He lifts his head, pouting. “I deserve it after a week’s worth of psychological trauma. Don’t think I forgot that you ditched me for Suguru.”

“Oh… that.”

“Yeah. That.” His voice is thick with exaggerated betrayal.

You finally look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “It was a fake phone call, Satoru. You were just so insufferable camping outside my door that I had to make up an excuse.”

His jaw drops. “Huh?!”

[marvelwitchergilmore]

A Kiss To Change Everything

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier again, he follows you around. Only you. Funny thing is, you and Bucky aren't exactly friends. So why is the Winter Soldier protecting you?

Disclaimer: Fluff, angst, a hint of smut towards the end, a brief mention of a sex dream, flirting whilst sparring, multiple kisses, love bites, swearing, the Winter Soldier protects the reader, reader watches over Bucky, one bed trope (kinda). Enemies (to friends) to lovers. A little mutual pining. Not fully proof read.

Four days. Four days, twelve hours and twenty six minutes. 

That was how long Bucky had been watching over you. Or rather, The Winter Soldier. 

“Four days!” you exclaimed quietly to yourself. “Four damn days.”

As you turned around, you jumped, nearly scattering everything off your desk. 

You swore under your breath, “What is your problem? Make a damn noise, or something!”

Four days of hell. 

For everyone. 

You had been in a meeting when Bucky had gone on the mission with Sam and Natasha, so the points were unclear. The main thing you knew was that Bucky left for the mission, but the Winter Soldier returned. 

And he hadn’t left your side since touching wheels to tarmac from the jet. And, it would make sense, Bucky watching over you. But the thing was- 

You and Bucky had never even been friendly with each other. If you ever did talk to one another, and that was a big if, it was mostly sarcastic comments and threats thrown to each other's throat. 

None of it made sense. 

Shuri had been called instantly and she had checked Bucky over. He was definitely the Winter Soldier, but he wasn’t a killing machine. He was still Bucky. Bucky was held behind a wall of memories. 

But the one thing he didn’t do was attack. It was almost like that part had been conditioned out of him. Instead, he was this looming bodyguard that never left you alone. 

Not for a minute, not even for a second. 

You never heard him, but you could feel him. Watching you, following you, part of him studying you. 

It was creepy. 

As you entered the kitchen, you turned around on your heel quickly. The Winter Soldier didn’t flinch. He just stopped walking and looked at you. 

“Alright, no. I can’t keep doing this. Sam told me not to, but, please. I am begging you. Stop following me!”

He didn’t move. He didn’t even speak. 

You ran a hand down your face and sighed. 

“Fine. If you’re not gonna leave me alone, then sit.”

You pulled out a chair and pointed to it. 

“I’m gonna be here for a while and I already don’t like people in the kitchen with me. So, sit. Or fuck off.”

He was silent. And then he moved. One slow blink before he turned his head and looked at the chair. He looked back at you and you nodded. 

Then he walked over to it and sat down. But his gaze remained focused on you. 

It wasn’t much, but it was breathing space. 

“Thank you.”

Trying your best to block him out, you started pulling out different bowls and ingredients from the cupboards. You heard the creak of the chair when he watched you climb onto the cabinet to grab the flour from the highest shelf. 

“No!” You shouted. “You move from that chair and I swear to god, Barnes, I will follow through with my promise about buying a military grade magnet. Sit!”

The chair creaked again after a short minute. 

For the next three hours, he remained sitting in that seat. People walked in and out constantly, but each time you heard a creak you’d just shoot him a look and he’d sit back down. 

“Any word from Shuri?” You asked Wanda as she walked inside to snack on your cupcake sprinkles. 

She shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe he sees you as his commander.”

You scoffed, but a pang of guilt struck your chest. “Please, when he’s him he never follows my orders. Does the opposite, actually.”

Wanda shrugged and looked over at Bucky whose eyes hadn’t left you. “Maybe he just really cares for you.”

“Now, we both know that’s not true.”

Wanda just hummed. “Who knows? There is a fine line between love and hate.”

You nodded. “Yes. That fine line is my sanity.”

Wanda laughed before jumping off the counter and leaving you to continue your baking. “Stranger things have been known to happen.”

You shook your head, but for a moment you let your gaze land on Bucky in the corner. 

There was still no explanation as to why it was you he’d chosen to follow around. Not Sam or Natasha – the very two who had been with him when it happened. Or even Steve. But you prayed it wasn’t because he saw you as his commander. 

You and Bucky may never have gotten along. You could hate each other’s guts for all eternity. But what he went through as the Winter Soldier…

That was something that nobody should ever have to suffer through. And he did. For seventy years. 

So, after the hours of being watched and guarded. After the nights of walking outside of your bedroom only to run into his back outside your door – the same place you would grab his t-shirt and drag him back into your room and make him sit down on the sofa chair on the other side of your room. 

If he was gonna be watching over you through the night, too, it meant he wasn’t sleeping. He needed sleep. But putting him back into the freezer tank wasn’t going to help anyone. 

And after the days of being followed around everywhere. 

You finally sat him down. 

Everyone had gone to bed hours ago. Most of the lights in the building had been switched off. The only light in the living space was the dim light that floated across from the kitchen island across the room. 

“Why are you protecting me?” 

If Shuri couldn’t get the answers, you were gonna ask the man himself. Maybe he had an explanation. 

But he only replied in Russian. 

“You’re important.”

Your gaze flickered over his. There was barely a hint of Bucky in him. The person sat in front of you was a soldier. A protector. Someone who told you you’re important, the same way he would tell you he had eggs for breakfast. 

“Important?” you questioned. “Important to who?”

You leaned a little closer to him, almost out of instinct. And for a split second, you saw something flicker in his eyes. Something a little softer in the middle of the brambles. But it was gone as quickly as it came. 

Reaching out, you turned his head to look back at you and you swallowed your pride. 

“Bucky,” you said, your voice soft and needing. “I need you to come back to me. I know we’re not friends, but I need you to come back to me. Bucky. Not Hydra’s Perfect Creation.”

You waited in the silence, his eyes fixed on yours. But the only thing that stared back at you as the same deep, if slightly vacant, look that had been staring at you for the last four days. 

Leaning on the edge of despair, you did something you never thought you would ever do. Not with Bucky, and certainly not with the Winter Soldier. 

You kissed him. 

Really kissed him. 

Not the undercover kiss on the cheek, or the fake movie-style kiss that you were forced to watch whenever Steve chose the film for movie night. 

A real kiss. 

And for a moment, there was nothing. No reaction. No movement. Just a stiffness that only ever came from a soldier taking a command. 

But just as you lost all hope, leaning back a little in order to break the kiss, there was a flicker of something. A slight movement from Bucky. 

His hand reached out and laid itself on your leg. 

You didn’t know how – you and Bucky had never even hugged – but you knew it was him. It was Bucky. 

Just for a fleeting moment, you felt him kiss back as his other hand came to hold your hair against the side of your face. 

But the kiss broke. 

Looking in his eyes; for the first time in four days, you saw something other than the soldier. 

You saw humanity. 

Bucky’s voice broke as he finally spoke. “Y…y/n?”

You didn’t realise when you started, but you felt yourself cry. “Yeah.”

Then you watched the panic take him over as he looked around frantically. “Oh, god- no, no, no. What did I- When did- is everyone-”

You cupped his face and forced him to look at you again. “Everyone’s- hey, everyone’s safe. Nothing happened, Buck. Nothing happened. I swear. You didn’t do anything, Bucky. You’re okay.”

There were tears in his eyes and you felt your heart crack. 

“I could have-”

“You didn’t.”

His eyes remained focused on you as he tried to slow his breathing. And for a moment, you placed one of your hands over his heart. His own hand came to cover and cup that very one against his chest.

However, just as he was calming down, you watched something settle over his gaze as he kept his eyes on you. 

“You kissed me.”

Internally, you panicked. Externally, you moved back and tried to keep your voice as level as you could. 

“I, uh, it was getting creepy, you watching over me all the time. I needed to find a way to break you out of it, so-”

“You kissed me,” Bucky repeated. 

For a second, you nodded. But then you stood. “I should- I should go and-”

Bucky reached out for you and held onto your arm gently as you stood from the sofa. Your eyes landed on his own almost immediately. But where you thought he might have chewed you out for what you did…he didn’t. 

His eyes flickered with something you didn’t quite recognise. Not coming from Bucky, at least. 

“Thank you.”

There was something in his voice that told your instincts he wanted to say something else, or something more. But you couldn’t stand there any longer; the feeling of the kiss was still tingling against your lips and his touch was almost burning your skin. 

And not in the way it would have done before. 

So, you nodded with a polite smile and he let you go. 

“I’m just, I’m gonna go and get Steve or- I’ll be back.”

Bucky watched you leave the room, but he didn’t follow. Meanwhile, you rounded the corner and held a hand to the wall in order to balance yourself before the wave of emotions drowned you there and then. 

“F-Friday. Please…” you took a deep breath. “Please alert, uh, Steve and…Sam and, uh, Princess Shuri.” Your voice broke. “Let them know Bucky is back.”

You could hear the alerts down the hallway and you remained standing as they all came out of their rooms and rushed down the hall past you. 

“He’s okay, but he’s shaken up,” you told Sam as the others ran past. Sam took your word for it and followed them. 

Then you slid to the floor, forcing your breathing to steady itself.

The following month was filled with awkward encounters, quiet encounters, medical tests, field research and psychological tests. 

And, although you and Bucky didn’t talk, you didn’t argue either. You tended to remain at least eight paces from him at all times. 

It was like the roles had been reversed. You were now the one watching over him. 

And when he was in med-bay with Banner and Shuri during the day, you watched over him as he slept at night. 

A month ago, you would have had nightmares about helping Bucky. 

But since his turn. Since that kiss – the one that broke him free – you rarely wanted to leave his side. 

But you didn’t want him to know that, so you remained eight paces away. You stayed outside of his hospital room when the others went in. And, when you fell asleep in the chair beside his bed at night, you left before Banner or Shuri could wake and walk inside to find you there. 

That changed, however, when Bucky let you know he was awake. 

You’d just settled yourself in the chair beside his bed, having put away your book, when he spoke. 

“You’re gonna get a bad back.”

You sat up. “You’re awake.”

“Not for long,” he told you, lifting his arm. “C’mere.”

You were slow to move at first, confused if slightly concerned why he was asking you of all people to lay with him. But as you climbed into the bed beside him, you felt a wave of security wash over you. 

“Is this okay?”

Bucky smiled a little as he leaned into you. “It’s okay.”

As you finally relaxed beside him, you could have swore you heard his heart monitor pick up a little before it leveled itself out again. And for the first time, in a long time, you fell asleep almost instantly. 

So did Bucky. 

By the time morning rolled around, you were the first to wake up. And, for the first time, you took a few minutes to look at the sleeping man beside you. 

A few strands of his hair had fallen in front of his face during the night, so lightly, you swept them away and you felt yourself smile. 

When James ‘Bucky’ Buchanan Barnes wasn’t being a pain in your ass all day, he was pretty cute. 

That was when it struck you. Deep in your gut, or maybe your chest. Maybe even your soul…

He’d always been cute. You had always found him cute. Handsome. Sometimes devastatingly so. 

Then you felt the highly structured walls around you crumble into nothing but dust. And for the first time in a long time, you felt truly vulnerable. 

“I-I’ll be back later,” you whispered to him although he was still asleep. 

For a moment, you held onto his hand and pressed a light kiss to the side of his temple before you slowly made your way out of his bed and out of the door. 

But you kept your promise. 

And for three weeks straight, you slept beside him each night until he was finally cleared for duty again and the threat of the person he’d once been moulded into had been eliminated once again. 

That was when things got difficult. Because, not only were you harbouring a rather big secret, but you and Bucky had become friends. 

The bun Bucky had tied at the back of his head was slowly coming loose the longer he spent sparring with you. 

“Why won’t you talk to me?” 

Bucky had been trying to get you to talk to him properly all day. 

“There’s nothing to say,” you replied as you circled each other. Bucky ended up with the advantage. 

“Really? Because you seem distracted lately. And that only seems to happen when I’m with you.”

You could hear the smirk in his voice, despite your back being pinned to his chest. 

“Don’t let it go to your head, Bucky,” you told him as you swung your legs high to flip you both onto the ground. 

Bucky rolled onto the floor and you had him pinned. 

You smiled, a little breathless. “People might start thinking you’ve got an ego.”

That was when you saw Bucky smirk. And when he smirked, you worried. His hand wrapped itself around your thigh and within three seconds, he had you pinned. 

“Oh, come on.”

“You know, I still think about it.” Bucky’s voice was a little breathless as he practically crawled up your body so he was finally face to face with you. 

You were struggling to get out of his hold. After really trying, you gave up. “Think about what?”

“That kiss.”

You stopped moving and your eyes darted to his face. You tried your best to steady your heartbeat, but you could feel the heat crawling over your chest and up your neck. 

“That was nothing.”

“Liar.” 

“I’m not lying.”

Bucky’s blue gaze focused back on yours. “You forget I know you, Y/n. I know when you’re lying.”

Shit.

Bucky added, “You have a tell.”

“I have a tell?”

He nodded. “Your eyebrow. It twitches before you throw out your lie.”

Your brows furrowed as you looked at him, but he just laughed. Only James Buchanan Barnes would have the audacity to laugh. 

“It was just a kiss, Bucky.”

“Then tell me why it felt like more?”

“Maybe that’s your issue,” you fired back. 

He just smiled, and agreed. “Yeah, maybe.”

In that moment, Bucky’s hand left the grip he had against your wrist in order to fix your hair. His touch lingered for a second longer. 

“But I have a feeling it’s not,” he added.

Your breath was gone. Your heart was working overtime in your chest to keep you alive. All the while, Bucky had a smirk resting upon his face as he stood and left you by the mats, only to grab his things and walk out of the gym door. 

But not before he looked back once more with a small chuckle. 

As you watched the glass door slowly close behind him, you rolled from your side and onto your back once more. “Fucking tease.”

For the rest of the week, Bucky watched you. He watched you watching him, whilst simultaneously trying to avoid him at all costs. But it just made him laugh. Even more so when he would catch you looking away when he finally met your gaze across the dinner table. 

But the subtle touches, the sparring sessions and his fucking teasing all added up. And since you couldn’t work the feelings away, they decided to cut you your own 4K, HD movie to play out inside your head as you entered a deep sleep. 

You woke up with a start – then you felt it. The ache in your core, the coolness of air that hit your inner thigh when you moved your duvet away from you, and the dryness in your throat. 

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Twenty minutes later, you were freshly washed and were standing inside the kitchen with nothing more than the kitchen island bulbs lighting up your workstation. You were on your third batch of cakes when Bucky walked inside, looking like he’d had a fight with his pillow and lost. 

You felt him pause by the door and look at you. You didn’t even have to see him to hear the tired smirk on his face. He continued to watch you as he grabbed what he came for and sat down at the kitchen island across from you. 

It was like he was the Winter Soldier again. Except, you could hear the smile on his face as well as feeling the curiosity in his gaze. 

The odd thing was, Bucky felt the same. He could remember what it was like, feeling the need to be beside you, to watch over you, to protect you. He could remember the moments you talked to him, when you thought he couldn’t hear you. 

He could remember it all. 

But one question stayed on his mind. Even though you were, technically, friends. You still wouldn’t talk to him. Not properly, at least. The closest he came was during your sparring session a little over a week ago. 

“What?” You finally asked, looking at him. 

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. You already knew. 

“Because,” you said as you turned back to your cake batter. 

“Because, why?” Bucky stood and walked over to your side. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Whether it was the sleep deprivation, or the fact that snippets of the sex dream you’d just had about him were playing like flashes in your mind as he sat across from you, you blurted out the truth. 

“Because it’s too hard. Bucky-” You sighed, cutting yourself short. Four in the morning was not the time for this conversation. “Nevermind.”

“No, tell me.”

You stayed quiet and kept your eyes on him for a moment. Then you laid the bowl down on the counter and looked away from him. But you felt his hand hold onto yours. 

“Please,” he begged, quietly. 

“Because…we’re us. Bucky, barely two months ago I was chewing you out over how you stocked your leftovers,” you motioned over to the fridge. “And then…” You looked at him, but you couldn’t form the words. 

So he did it for you. “You kissed me.”

You nodded, your voice quiet as you finally spoke. “I kissed you.”

“Do you still think about it?”

You watched as  his fingers intertwined and danced with yours. “Thought you already knew the answer to that.”

“I need to hear it from you.”

Finally, you looked at him. 

Somehow, it was easier in the kitchen. Easier in the dim light of the kitchen island. Easier when it was just you and Bucky. 

“I still think about it,” you admitted. 

A steady blue gaze held yours as Bucky’s hand came to rest against your face, his thumb rubbing back and forth on your cheekbone. Then he leaned in, kissing you like it was the last opportunity he would ever get. 

Leaning in closer to him, he bumped against the kitchen island but managed to hold you closer. You felt his arms wrap around you completely as you kissed him back. 

 A few hours, one burnt cake and plenty of hickeys later, you were standing in your bathroom finishing your make-up whilst also trying to cover up the love bites on your neck. All the while, Bucky had just turned off your shower and in a billow of steam, wrapped a towel, low on his hips, after quickly rubbing his hair dry. 

Bucky stood behind you, moving your hair out of the way. You watched him do so as the mirror began to fog up once more. 

“Buck, you’re still dripping,” you giggle softly, trying to wriggle away from him. But the smile he gave you just knocked you to your knees. 

“Only for you, doll.”

You rolled your eyes and plucked another towel from the rail before throwing it at him. “Dry off.”

He chuckled, drying his hair and neck once more. But as you cleared the mirror again and continued to apply your make-up, Bucky stood behind you and smiled proudly to himself. 

“You owe me some more concealer. I hope you know that.”

In the mirror, you watched him lean down with a breathy chuckle as he pressed light kisses to your exposed shoulder and neck. “Worth it.”

“What are you doing?”

Through his dark lashes, he met your gaze in the mirror. “Missed a spot.”

You melted under his touch. Closing your eyes, you leaned into his kiss as his hands pushed under your top and dipped under the hem of your pants and underwear in order to flush you against his body. 

You moaned a little, feeling him harden against you. “Buck- You’re gonna make me late for work.”

Bucky disagreed. “All you’re doing is filling out case files today. Cases that we’ve finished. They can wait.”

Turning you around quickly, Bucky kissed you until your lipstick was smudged enough to warrant a whole new look, along with fresh sheets for your bed, and some new towels for your bathroom. 

[sceletaflores]

GIVE IT TO HER LIKE A MAN!

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ requests ꩜ taglist ꩜

｡𖦹°‧➵ pair: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ wc: 5.1k

｡𖦹°‧➵ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, no ellie, joel’s pov, swearing, age gap (52/23), semi-public sex (more of a semi-public ALMOST over the pants handjob?), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, hair pulling, spit kink, degradation, pussy spanking, creampie, fucking in your childhood bedroom RAAAHHH, one (1) single line about joel wanting to slap you, one (1) single use of the word daddy, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ nat’s note: hi babies! i'm back! did you miss me? cause i missed you and oh em gee i'm so excited to be rejoining the party. this actually wasn't what i planned on posting but the angsty joel fic is kicking my ass so hard that i had to take a break from it. i just needed to word vomit some raunchy, freak-nasty porn to cleanse my palate! i don’t normally go for the dbf trope but it's just so joel i couldn't not dip my feet in these waters. it's also more like dad's-close-but-distant-acquaintance-joel because in my head that man has little to no friends honestly. hope you love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel gives the best graduation gifts...

Joel isn’t the type to get invited to these kinds of things.

Graduation parties for Ivy League brats. Champagne in fancy crystal flutes and catered hors d'oeuvres getting passed around on silver trays. Men in loafers and pastel polos calling each other “old buddy” without any irony. It’s a far cry from his usual crowd—his mangy old t-shirt and stained blue jeans stick out in the place like a damn sore thumb.

The invitation came from a distant friend, someone he used to work with before his career took him in an entirely different, much shiner direction. He was here more as a favor than anything else. Tommy’s been worried about him, says he needs to get out more.

“Meet some new people, drink a few beers.” He’d said with his hand clasped on Joel’s shoulder. “It ain’t healthy to spend every weekend fixin’ shit around the house, Joel.”

Joel doesn’t see the problem. He’s fine the way he is. But somehow, he still got roped into going when he could have used any excuse to pull out at the last second. He could have faked sick, faked busy, faked like he had anything else to do besides sit at a fancy oak table on a back porch bigger than the whole first story of his house, decorated in Yale blue balloons and streamers. 

He regretted giving into Tommy the second he pulled up in the driveway—a too-big Craftsman style place in West Lake Hills, all clean laid brick and perfectly manicured lawns. Joel couldn’t for the life of him remember why he said yes in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt of worrying his brother. Maybe for the decent catered food and overpriced beers he knew would be there when he first got the address.

What he hadn’t expected—what hit him in the goddamn chest when the door swung open after he knocked—was you.

And Christ, did you look smug about it.

It had been months ago. The only reason Joel was even in Connecticut was to meet with a client, a big time East Coast entrepreneur who wanted a new add on to his ten car garage and was fine slinging around the money to pay for a round-trip flight and a cushy hotel room.

He hadn’t planned on going to the bar that night, but after hours of back-and-forth about permits and material costs, he needed a drink. Just one, maybe two—enough to take the edge off before heading back to the hotel.

It was a shitty little dive about ten minutes from where he was staying. The beer was cold, the lights were low, and he wasn’t supposed to be making decisions with his little head. But then he saw you across the way, right in the middle of the dancefloor.

You were in a circle with a few other girls, your dress riding up higher and higher each time you’d roll your hips to the heavy bass blaring from the overhead speakers.

Joel watched you like that for a while, leaned up against the bar lazily sipping at his beer. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it, just sat there and enjoyed the view. But you’d caught him looking, and instead of turning away and pretending not to notice, you’d smirked.

Joel should have known right then that he was in trouble.

It wasn’t long before you left your little group and made your way over, slipping on the stool beside him like you belonged there, like you’d already made your mind up about what was going to happen next. You’d leaned in close, close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever perfume you’d rolled over your throat before heading out—something rich and heady that damn near made his head spin.

“Hey, cowboy.” You’d said with a tilt of your head, the long column of your neck dewy with a light sheen of sweat he wanted to feel under his tongue. “You’ve been watching me?”

There was no accusation in your voice, just a quiet sort of amusement, like you already knew the answer.

Joel had huffed a laugh, he didn’t see the point of denying it. He was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Yeah.” He’d admitted, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. “What about it?”

Your eyes dropped down the length of his body, studying him, and he’d let you. Let you take your time looking, even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.

“Buy me a drink?” You’d asked, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.

That was all it took.

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and then you were leaning into his space like you were made to be there. Your index finger teasingly tracing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered something filthy in his ear that had all the blood in his brain rushing down south.

Joel really shouldn’t have let it go any further than some goddamn footsie under the bar and a few dirty words whispered over the rims of shiny glasses, he was too old for shit like that. But you were just so damn tempting—confident and sharp and pretty as all hell.

Before Joel knew it he had you pressed up against the side of his truck, giggling into his mouth, fingers tugging at his belt like you couldn't get it off fast enough. You’d tasted like the fruity cocktails he bought you and something sweeter underneath, something distinctly you, and Joel had to have more.

You let him have it too—fisting his shirt and dragging him into the backseat without a care in the world, all eager hands and breathless laughter as you straddled his lap.

It was supposed to be just that. A reckless decision with a pretty young thing as the cherry on top of his trip. A one-night deal he’d let himself have because, fuck, it had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

Joel tried his damndest to think how he should’ve, tried not to let some one off fuck turn him all sorts of ass backwards. He tried his damndest to boot you out of his mind the next morning when he was boarding the flight back to Austin—but you stuck anyway, like a burr in his goddamn brain. 

The way you’d looked sprawled out under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips parted, or the way you’d moaned his name like it was a prayer you needed him to hear. The way you’d rode him nice and slow, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. The way you’d kissed him after, lazy and sweet, before sneaking off into the night like a goddamn thief.

Joel could've sworn he saw God that night, a smudged silhouette in the fogged up windows of his truck.

And now you’re here, standing in the doorway of some polished, high society home, looking like sin wrapped up in tulle and pearls.

Joel wasn’t a man who spooked easy, but seeing you again, surrounded by people who had no goddamn idea what you’d let him do to you in the backseat of his truck all those months ago, knocked him on his ass harder than a sucker punch.

The recognition was damn near instant, your eyes shining just as much as the sparkly sash that read “GRAD!” in big glittery letters. The initial shock gave way to a tiny, secret smile as your gaze slid up and down his body shamelessly, like this was some kind of funny inside joke. 

Joel was seconds away from turning tail, walking back down your ridiculously long driveway and getting in his truck to get the hell out of there, but then your father was walking up behind you with a big grin on his face. He clapped Joel on the shoulder roughly and introduced his “Old buddy Joel Miller from his blue-collar days!”

You were all coy smiles and wide eyes. A sugared, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for coming…” passing through your glossy lips.

The same lips that left shiny red smudges along the skin of his cock when you slid him down your throat, peering up at him with glassy eyes. The memory alone was enough to get heat stirring deep in his gut, and the way you looked at him now—all demure and polished, like you were some angelic scholar fresh off a podium—only made it worse.

Joel is too damn old for this.

“Very top of her class,” your father boasts, swishing his beer bottle through the air towards you flippantly. “Can you believe it? Just think of what we were doing at her age, brother. She sure as hell didn’t get any brains from me, that’s all her mother.”

Joel tries to chuckle with him, but it sounds strained, forced. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knee bouncing restlessly under the table. You’re looking at him again, hot and persistent against the side of his face. The heavy weight of your gaze practically begging him to look back. He doesn’t.

This dinner is it’s own form of torture, because of course, you just had to sit in the empty seat next to Joel—close enough that he can feel your knee bump up against his every few minutes.

He’s done a good job avoiding you until now, always walking the other direction when you waltz into the same room, not making eye contact when your gaze would sweep over the crowd hoping to catch his, trying for once in his life to be a good man.

A good man that suffers through this damn party without doing something he'll regret, that leaves at the end of the night and never has to see you again.

“Yeah,” he says, nervously starting to pick at the label of his own beer. Some snobby, imported New England brewery, probably sixty bucks a six-pack. “Good times.”

Joel can see you lean forward out of the corner of his eye, the neckline of your dress sliding down an inch as you stare at him, attention rapt. “What were you like back then, Mr. Miller?”

Joel nearly winces, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer hard enough to turn the skin around his knuckles white.

‘Mr. Miller’ echoes in his ears lewdly, blaring like church bells. Your voice is nothing but a honey-sweet mockery, so syrupy he can nearly feel it trickling down his throat to add to the warmth settling low in his stomach. 

Your father snorts over the lip of his bottle, answering you before Joel could open his mouth. “Joel didn’t go to college, honey. He went into the trades right after graduation,” he takes a long sip, Joel feels your knee bump against his again. “That’s how we met.”

You hum, nodding your head languidly. “You’re an architect too?”

Joel shakes his head, not looking at you as he answers. “Carpenter.”

Your father launches into some story about his old work days with Joel, about how back in the day, they were “real men” with “real jobs,” but Joel can barely process any of it. He nods along absently, lets out some half-hearted chuckles when he needs to.

Joel nearly puts his knee through the table when he feels your barefoot brush up against his ankle, hiking his jeans up ever so slightly. He shoots you a glare as subtly as he can.

It’s a look so sharp, so warning, that it should be enough to make you back the hell off from whatever game you’re playing. You’re not even looking at him anymore, eyes glued to your father as you nod along to whatever story he’s telling now. 

But there’s a knowing little smile on your lips as your hand creeps beneath the table and falls into his lap, the pads of your fingers pressing against the inside of his thigh.

Joel goes still. Rigid as his breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Christ, you’re trying to kill him.

Your father’s voice pulls him out of the silent panic and heavy arousal waging a war inside of him. “How’s business, Joel?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “You and Tommy still running things at a hundred miles a minute?”

Joel barely registers the question as your hand inches higher and higher. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his cock, already half-hard in his boxers from some goddamn heavy petting like a wet behind the ears teenager. 

“Yeah, we–” Joel pauses, willing his voice to steady with a quick cough to clear his throat. “We’ve been pretty busy with Summer rollin' around.”

Your father hums in agreement, cracking open another beer. “Of course, my schedule��s been a killer too this season,” he brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Joel are in the same boat. Only your fathers boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing for blue-print meetings with big shot celebrities and architectural digest interviews. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?”

Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow stroke, your palm grinding roughly over the tip through the tented denim.

“Yes, daddy.”

Your voice has gone all light and airy around the edges, almost melodic as it buries itself in Joel’s ears. At first, Joel thinks you’re talking to your father, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re looking at him—your eyes half-lidded and sparkling with something dangerous as your fingers tug at the tab of his zipper.

Joel’s hand flies to your wrist, squeezing tight enough to stop your pawing at his now fully hard cock. “Alright if I use your bathroom?” he asks sharply, his voice a little too loud. He tosses your hand away and stands abruptly from his chair before he’s got an answer.

“Of course,” your father says easily, thankfully not noticing the tension at the table, or the way Joel’s trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch. He turns his attention towards you, “Would you show Joel where the downstairs bathroom is, honey?”

Your smile only widens as you slip your sandal on and calmly stand from your own chair. “Sure,” you say breezily, but you’re not looking at your father, dark eyes still glued to Joel’s. “Follow me.”

The flowy fabric of your dress swishes behind you as you walk through the yard, Joel hot on your heels. He waits until you're both in the house, stepping through the open sliding glass door and out of view before his hand flies to your arm and squeezes hard.

Joel hears you wince softly, but you don’t try to fight your way out of his grip. He leans down closer, his lips inches away from your ear. His voice is low and rough as he grits out, “Take me to your room, now.”

You lead him through the kitchen and up the stairs silently, but Joel can still see the smug smile on your lips as you turn the corner. The need to slap that bratty shit right off your face wracks through him like thunder, anger burning hotter in his chest with every step.

You push the door to your bedroom open and step inside, barely turning to face him before Joel slams the door shut behind him and stalks past you. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of rage and want as he stares you down.

“Do you think this is a goddamn game?” His voice is teeming with fury, the calm facade he scarcely maintained at dinner now entirely gone. “That you can do whatever the hell you please because your Daddy’s sittin' across from you?”

You bite your bottom lip, leaning against the door with your arms crossed behind your back coyly. “You didn’t bring me a present.”

It’s a taunt if Joel’s ever heard one, and it finally breaks him.

He crosses the room in three large strides, pinning you against the door. His hands on either side of your head, caging you in. Joel cranes his neck down, his face inches away from yours. He can smell your perfume this close, it’s different than what you wore at the bar—something soft and girly and sweet that has his cock straining in his boxer.

“You’re real fuckin' proud of yourself aren’t you?” he spits roughly, watching the way your pupils dilate, eyes going glossy under his intensity. “Does your old man know how much of a tramp his precious little baby girl is? That she’s got such a greedy fuckin' pussy she can’t help herself from rubbin' his buddy Joel’s cock under the table like a desperate slut.”

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, all the attitude draining from you at the drop of a hat the second he gets a little mean. Your eyes are stuck on his lips and, after a beat, you start leaning in, like you’ll die if you don’t kiss him.

Joel stops you with a hand fisted in your hair, keeping you still a few centimeters away from his lips. A pitiful whine falls from your slack mouth, wide eyes flicking back up to meet his with a pleading look.

“You want me to kiss you, princess?” he asks, mean and condescending. Your breath puffs over his lips, hot and needy as you nod your head as best you can. Joel laughs, dark and cool as he shakes his head slowly. “Whores like you don’t get kissed baby, they get fucked.”

It does something to you—Joel can see it in the way your lashes flutter, in the way your thighs press together, like you can feel his words between your legs. He watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, the way your lips part as a little breathless sound escapes them, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

Desperate. Squirming. Ready to let him ruin you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, low and almost reverent, but the wicked curl of his lips betrays the softness in his tone. “Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod, your chest rising up to press against his with every breath.

“Words,” he demands, voice sharp as a needle. Your thighs twitch at the sound of it.

“Yes,” you breathe shakily. “I’ve been wet since you got here.”

That has Joel groaning, jaw ticking as his cock twitches heavily in his boxers, pre-come oozing into the cotton.

He doesn’t waste another second. He drops your hair to grab your shoulders, pulling and pushing until you’re tumbling onto your old bed. You let out a sharp gasp as your back hits the mattress, the force of it bouncing you a few times.

Joel looms over you, watching you, finally letting himself get a good look at the picture you make. Splayed across dainty floral sheets, chest heaving, staring up at him with need written all over your pretty face. It practically pumps off of you in waves, he can almost taste it.

Without another word, Joel reaches for his belt, his heavy gaze never leaving yours. The metal of his buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the room, underscored by the quick pants of your breath. It snaps with how hard he yanks it out of his belt loops, the leather cracking in the air menacingly.

"You wanted this," Joel mutters, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a sharp hiss. "You practically fuckin’ begged for it."

You make a desperate little sound at the sight of his cock finally being freed from the confines of his jeans—thick, heavy, and leaking when it slaps against his stomach. Your legs spread wider like an offering, like you need it in you now.

Joel huffs out a laugh, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed, making you squeak in surprise. He climbs on the mattress, his body completely blanketing yours so you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

His hand drags down your body, over the swell of your breasts, over your ribs, the curve of your hip, until he’s gripping the hem of your dress. Joel slips his hand under the skirt, rough palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs before gripping the meat of them hard enough to bruise.

The thought of you finding the marks tomorrow, pretty shades of purple and yellow branding your skin as a reminder of this moment, of what Joel did to you—it makes his stomach flip with a sick thrill.

It doesn’t take much for Joel to push the bunched fabric around your hips the rest of the way up, exposing the barely-there scrap of lace covering you.

He makes a sound low in his throat when he sees the little damp spot blooming along the powder blue fabric. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, tracing his middle finger along the wet seam of your pussy, featherlight, teasing. “Can’t even sit through one damn dinner without beggin’ for my attention like a two-bit truck stop whore.”

You nod frantically, lips trembling, pupils blown wide as you blink up at him.

Joel tsks mockingly, raising his palm to give your clothed pussy a sharp slap that has you crying out. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Joel.”

Your voice is so soft, so wrecked. And Joel feels himself get impossibly harder, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed against your stomach, blurting pre-come onto the delicate pink tulle of your dress. He can hardly wait any longer.

Joel hooks a finger into the leg of your panties, dragging them down hard enough that he hears a rip. He can’t find it in himself to care, he just pulls them far enough that they pool around your ankles uselessly.

He finally takes himself in his hand so he can drag his cock through the wet mess of your pussy, bumping it up against your hole but not giving you a damn inch. A devastating noise falls from your lips, slow and sweet as molasses, your hips buck up off the mattress, trying to take him in. He presses one heavy hand down on your stomach, keeping you still.

“Ask me for it,” Joel whispers darkly, slapping the head over your glistening clit. “Beg for my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets, frustration and desire burning in the inky black of your pupils. “Please, Joel. It’s all I can think about, can only think about you,” you ramble senseslessly, voice breathless. “About you fucking me. About your cock stretching me open. Please fuck me, please, want it so bad.”

Fuck, he loves hearing you beg.

Joel grips your hips, holding you steady as he presses inside, slow at first, just enough to make you gasp, enough to let you feel how thick he is stretching you open. He curses, head falling forward as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.

Your hands scramble along the length of his back, nails scratching uselessly as you try to adjust to the sudden fullness. Joel knows he’s too big, the stretch too much all at once without prep. He knows it. He just doesn’t give a damn.

“I know, it’s a big stretch ain’t it?” Joel coos, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the skin of your hips. “You can still take it, darlin’. It’s what you wanted, wanted me to lose my goddamn mind and ruin this sweet little pussy.”

You nod desperately, a loud cry bursting from your chest as he pulls you back until his hips are flush with your ass. Your velvety heat feels scalding around him, snug and perfect, like it was made for him—made for his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt—forcing you really feel the full, aching stretch before he starts to move. He drags his cock out to the tip, almost all the way, before slamming forward again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “That’s it—take it all, just like that.”

Joel sets a brutal pace, fucking you so deep he swears he must be in your goddamn guts. His grip is merciless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses them to pull you back against him, meeting every punishing thrust. The dirty sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the slick squelch of your pussy as it tries to suck him back in each time he pulls out, the pretty soft gasps and moans you’re struggling to keep quiet the cherry on top of it all.

It’s so loud, a symphony of lewd sounds bouncing off the walls enough that Joel would be worried that someone might overhear if your house wasn’t such a maze.

Joel watches you writhe beneath him, your back arching, hands grasping at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks into you with ruthless precision. Every thrust sends a shockwave through your body, makes your breath hitch, your legs trembling where they’re locked tight around his waist.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, voice a low rasp in your ear. “Too dumb to talk now, huh? Just layin’ here, takin’ it like a good little whore.”

Your eyes roll back in your head when he tilts his hips, the new angle forcing his cock to rub up against your sweet spot with every thrust. “Joel–”

Joel leans over you, breath hot against your ear as he mutters, “This what you needed, baby? Needed Daddy’s friend to hike your pretty dress up and fuck you good and hard like this?” He speeds his hips up fast enough to get the bed shaking on its frame. “Actin’ like a spoiled little brat all night just so I’d drag you up here and teach you some fuckin’ manners?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck—” Your words slur together, breathy and high-pitched, your fingers twisting in his hair as he keeps up that relentless pace.

Joel reaches up to snatch your jaw in a tight grip, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Open your mouth,” he growls, fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks meanly. When you don’t, too fucked out of your mind to listen, he shakes your head back and forth like a bad dog. “Open it.”

The command breaks through the pleasure filled haze clouding your mind, and your mouth falls open obediently. Your slick lips parting enough for Joel to see the enticing pink of your tongue. A groan claws its way out from deep in his chest, and he leans down close to spit into your mouth.

Your moan is a high, choked whine as your eyes flutter shut, your pussy squeezing around his cock impossibly tighter. 

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ swallow,” he says, fucking into your clenching heat harder. “Hold it right there.”

You open your eyes to stare up at him like he’s some kind of God, your lashes clumped together and glossy with unshed tears—gaze glazed over with a kind of bliss that makes something dark and satisfied wriggle to life in his chest.

“Good girl,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like a sack of bricks. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans low in his chest. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider so he can watch the way his cock disappears into your puffy pussy, shining with your slick every time he pulls out. “Look at that. Fuckin’ made to take cock, aren’t you?”

You moan around closed lips, nails digging little crescent moons into his shoulders so hard that he can feel his shirt ripping under the force of it. Joel can tell you’re getting close, your whole body trembling violently as the coil of your orgasm winds tighter and tighter.

“Go ahead and swallow for me, baby girl.” Joel needs to hear you, needs to hear you say his name when you come on his cock. “Wanna hear that pretty voice.”

The sound of you swallowing is music to Joel’s ears, his hips stuttering as he watches your throat work.

“Please,” you gasp, fat crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks. “Need to come, need you to make me—”

“Yes,” he hisses, his thrusts turning sloppy for a beat before he regains his rhythm. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock nice and good?”

His words push you right over the edge. Your entire body tenses, pleasure rolling through you in a white-hot wave as your climax crashes over you, stealing your breath. You sob Joel’s name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body shuddering beneath him as you clench down so fucking tight he can barely move.

Joel groans, his jaw going slack as he watches you fall apart, losing himself in the feel of your pussy milking his cock. He grits his teeth, hips snapping erratically as he chases his own release. 

“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gonna fuck you full of me, make you mine.”

With one last thrust, Joel spills inside of you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, warmth flooding your core as spurt after spurt of come paints your insides, thick and hot. His body shakes with the force of it, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm.

Joel just stays there, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

For a moment, both of you are too overwhelmed to move. You just lay on the mattress tangled together in the aftermath, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat. Joel smooths his hands up your sides, grounding himself as you both come down from the highs of ecstasy.

When you finally stop shaking, Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, to take in the wrecked, spent look on your face. He brushes his knuckles over your sweaty cheek, softer than before. “Still think I didn’t bring you a present?”

You let out an amused huff, pushing your hands up under the back of his shirt so you can trace the column of his spine with gentle fingers. “Trust me, it’s the only present I’m getting that’ll be worth a damn. Money can’t buy this, Miller.”

Joel chuckles, low and smooth as warmth blooms in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You earned it, baby.”

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[littlcdarlin]

Event Horizon

summary: When you start university to do your master’s in physics, you are more than surprised to meet your professor: Joel Miller, an old friend of your parents' who moved away years ago. word–count: 15k warnings: professor kink, power imbalance due to Joel being reader's professor, illegal relationship (overage & consenting), dbf!Joel, big fat age gap (unspecified but written with early 20s & mid 50s in mind), unprotected piv, just overall daddy issues (no use of the word daddy)

note: Okay, time to tell you I am a big nerd and studied physics in uni. Truth is, I quit to pursue a career in the arts, so my knowledge of masters level physics is...a little rusty. Please be lenient with me if I messed anything up. Also, I know most people hate physics, but I promise Joel makes it hot. Warning: explanation of the Dirac equation as foreplay. Also, I'm European and have no fucking clue how the American education system works but I don't care enough to do research. Enjoy <3333

event horizon noun ASTRONOMY a notional boundary around a black hole beyond which no light or other radiation can escape. a point of no return.

Uni felt different at eighteen, when everything was about moving out, drinking beer at frat parties, and kissing boys who didn’t grow up in the same town you did. It was an exciting time, the degree itself fading into the background of all sorts of new experiences, but now that you’re doing your masters, you plan on focusing on your your grades more than on partying.

You enrolled in a new university, farther away from home, with a better physics program, and although you’ve grown up considerably, you still feel that tingle of anxiety you did when you first walked to your dorm, fresh out of high school. This time you won’t have to share with another student, spending your saved money on a bit of privacy that is a single dorm room, but still, you wonder if you’ll make friends here, or if you’ll spend your night hauled up alone, watching trash TV and crying because you’re lonely.

The room is small, blank, but functional with a bathroom you share with another student and a small kitchenette, and immediately you dream of all the ways you could decorate it. You didn’t bring much, just a big suitcase and a few boxes your Dad dropped off earlier. You feel slightly guilty for leaving your parents behind, but the relief outweighs the guilt – you won’t have to come home every Sunday for dinner, visits will be scarce. You love you parents, but the distance is much needed.

You get to unpacking your clothes, reveling in the fact that you can listen to music without headphones in your very own space. You could do it in your underwear, or naked, you could sing and dance along, and nobody would be bothered by it. It’s going to be a tough two years, the program you chose more than challenging, but a childish sort of giddiness fills you – no roommate to be considerate of, no parents to visit and take care of every week. This time in your life is about you, and only you – your career, but also your well-being. You promise yourself to do what makes you happy, instead of looking out for everyone else all of the time, and you’ll start by ordering Thai food and watching the trashiest movie with the hottest actors you can find on the little flatscreen you brought with you.

***

Your first lecture is Computational Physics – the one you’re looking forward to the least. The reason you decided to study physics at all was the predictable logic behind each problem, but the more you studied, the more complex the problems got, until they were impossible to solve analytically. Now you get to solve fluid dynamic equations and simulate quantum systems on a Monday morning instead of having a peaceful cup of coffee and taking a walk around campus.

The lecture hall is big, and you pick a seat that is neither too far away to be able to read the professor’s notes, nor close enough to immediately be pinned as an over-eager teacher’s pet. In the end, you plop down next to a girl who’s sitting alone, something about her shaved head and countless earrings making you think she wouldn’t make fun of you even if you didn’t understand a single thing all lecture.

"Okay if I sit here?", you ask somewhat timidly, trying hard not to sound too much like an eleven year old Ron Weasley boarding the train to Hogwarts.

"Please," the girl answers, "I don’t know anybody here."

"Did you move here, too?"

"Yeah, I’m from New York."

"You look it," you say with a smile, eyes drifting over her clothes and jewelry.

"Thanks…I guess?", she answers, her grin revealing a charming gap between her front teeth. "I’m Alva."

You introduce yourself, thankful to have found someone you can stick to already. Throughout the lecture you find out that apart from being much cooler than everyone else in the room, Alva has a biting sense of humor, and a near endless knowledge of computational physics. You make a mental note to ask her to study together, her explanations much easier to understand than the professor’s.

The two of you spend your lunch break together, and you tell her a little bit about yourself, but way too soon it’s time to go already – you have Advanced Quantum Mechanics in a different lecture hall. This you find way more interesting, basic quantum mechanics was one of your favorite lectures during your bachelor’s degree. As Alva and you sit down, you find yourself hoping you’ll be able to help her out this time, or you’d feel like a leech for making her help you with Computational. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps babbling happily about a band she recently discovered.

"– Britpop, but they only put out two albums. I think they were like a student band or something? They’re wildly underrated, I’ll send you a song, their debut is called The Sun Is Often Out."

Your thoughts start to wander off a little, eyes drifting over the old-fashioned chalkboards, when the door at the front of the lecture hall opens, and a tall man walks in – a man you recognize.

"Holy shit," you whisper, interrupting Alva’s rant about the Longpigs, and she turns her head to look at what you’re staring at.

"Damn," she says with a grin, "if I wasn’t gay, I’d want a piece of that."

"No," you snort, "I know him. He’s my Dad’s friend."

Alva opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Joel Miller steps forward, checking to see if the microphone is working, and introduces himself to the hundreds of students in front of him. His voice is deep, and as warm as you remember it, but that’s where the accuracy of your memories ends – your childish brain failed to register the tanned forearms and rolled up sleeves, the carelessly styled curls, the perfect side-profile. He’s got grey streaks in his hair now, which should send you into a crisis about time passing and your own little life being finite, but instead it makes your stomach swirl with something dangerous. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller, who organized backyard barbecues with your father and bought your favorite vegan sausages when your Dad rolled his eyes at you, who made strawberry lemonade instead of lemon, because he knew you preferred it, who helped you with your physics homework when you were graduating high school and didn’t rat you out when he caught you smoking at seventeen – he’s handsome.

There’s still a familiarity about him, the way he moves and talks, although it’s unsettling to see him in such a different environment. You’re used to band-tee-Joel, beer bottle and tongs in his hands, a breezy smile on his face. He looks different here, in a white button-down, with a stern expression on his face, as he’s reading the names on his list to check attendance. When he calls Alva’s name and she raises her hand, his eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn’t look at you. Still, your stomach lurches. If you listen carefully, you can detect that southern twang in his voice you’re sure most people would miss, and it fills you with satisfaction to know you’re the one who knows him best in this room – you’re sure half the lecture hall must see how attractive he is.

When he reads out your name, there’s a surprised lilt to his tone, and your heart threatens to skip a beat.

"Here."

Your eyes meet, and although his expression doesn’t change, he holds your eyecontact for a second too long. Alva nudges your side and grins.

Your plans about outshining Alva and returning the favor of helping with a lecture are quickly buried by Joel Miller’s beautiful hands – thick fingers holding a piece of chalk almost tenderly, twirling it around when he isn’t writing on the chalkboard. You vaguely register him introducing the Dirac equation, but as interesting as you would normally find it, your thoughts are stuck between memories of barbecues and the realization that you will have to call the man who taught you to drive Professor Miller.

If Alva notices your wandering mind, she doesn’t comment on it, which you’re thankful for. You do notice her throwing you a couple of knowing glances, as you copy down what Joel is writing down, mixing up gamma, delta, and the Dirac spinor.

"Alright, so you all know how Schrödinger’s equation works great for quantum mechanics, but it doesn’t play nicely with Einstein’s relativity, right? That’s a problem because electrons move fast, sometimes close to the speed of light, so we need an equation that respects both quantum mechanics and special relativity. That’s where Dirac steps in."

He’s still got that warm way of explaining things your Dad never managed when you needed help in high school, like he enjoys clearing things up for people. He’s a born teacher, patient when you panicked in the car because you confused the clutch and the break, persistent when you wanted to throw your physics book against a wall. Look, kid, think of it this way: Push harder, it moves faster. Make it heavier, it’s harder to move. If you apply a force F to an object with mass m, it will accelerate a. That’s why your Dad’s car takes longer to stop than your bike. Even now, he manages to make a far more complex equation than Newton’s second law tangible.

"Dirac's equation is like the grown-up version of Schrödinger’s equation. It explains how particles with spin-half, like electrons, behave when they move at relativistic speeds. The gamma mu matrices make sure the equation works in four-dimensional spacetime, meaning three space dimensions plus time. The psi is a spinor, which is just a fancy way of saying that an electron isn’t just a simple wave function, it actually has spin built into its nature. Now, can anyone think of a situation where we would need to use this equation instead of the regular Schrödinger equation?"

Nobody raises their hand, most people still busy with writing down Joel’s complicated notes, and as if on cue, his eyes are on yours when you look up from your notebook. He raises an eyebrow, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. Then, he calls your last name, a formal Miss dripping off his tongue as if he hasn’t called you kiddo for most of your life. It’s almost like he’s making a joke only the two of you are able to understand, and the thought thrills you to your bone. Two can play this game – you smile back.

"Sure, Professor Miller. You’d use it for studying high-energy particles, like electrons in particle accelerators, because it accounts for relativistic speeds. It’s also needed for situations where particles are created or destroyed, which Schrödinger’s equation doesn’t cover."

Again, his eyes linger on yours, and his slightly amused smile turns into a more genuine one at your answer. You let out a relieved sigh.

"Exactly," Joel answers, his attention on the rest of the class again, "Someone payed attention during Basic Quantum Mechanics. Now, here’s where it gets wild. When Dirac wrote this down, he realized it naturally predicts antiparticles, meaning for every electron, there should be a mirror-image particle with opposite charge, which we now call the positron. That was a huge deal because it wasn’t something people were expecting, it just fell out of the math."

For the rest of the class, Joel doesn’t continue that little game between the two of you, but whenever he asks a question, his gaze flickers over you, and your stomach gives an embarrassing little jump. Alva grins whenever this happens, but for most of the class she’s busy following Joel’s explanations.

"I want you to read up on today’s lecture," Joel says at the end of the lecture, and writes down a few page numbers on the chalkboard, "and solve the problems I mentioned earlier. Attendance isn’t mandatory, we’re all adults here, but I urge you to come if you’re interested in graduating in the next three years. Trust me, it’s easier to just do the work here than in your dorms. Now, enjoy the weather, see you Monday."

You and Alva pack up your things, and before she can ask you which class you have next, you pick up your backpack.

"I’m gonna say hi to him," you tell her, nodding in Joel’s direction, "my Dad and him go way back."

"Sure," Alva says, a cheeky smile on her face, "it’d be rude not to."

"Meet you outside?"

"I’ll be at the vending machine. Go get him," she jokes, and you snort.

Joel is packing up his course materials when you make your way down the steps and to his desk, but he looks up when he hears you coming towards him, and immediately his face splits into a smile. If you were anywhere else and ten years younger, he’d probably ruffle your hair.

"Good lecture," you say, "Dad didn’t tell me you’re teaching again."

Joel puts his piece of chalk into a tin box and nods.

"I don’t think he knows. You know how it is, we never get around to callin’ and I haven’t been home in a while."

So this is a new development, perhaps even Joel’s first semester back at university, too.

"What about the contracting? Don’t you miss the…pipes?"

He chuckles at your lack in basic contracting knowledge, his eyes not moving from yours.

"Ah, that was always Tommy, he just needed a little help. Company’s doin’ well now, though, so he’ll manage without me."

You think you remember Tommy – a man good-naturedly chasing you and the rest of the giggling neighborhood kids with a harden hose – but the memory is too vague to be sure it’s really him.

"You’ve grown up," Joel says, almost accusingly, and you shrug and smile. "Doin’ your master’s already. How come you’re familiar with Dirac?"

His accent is much thicker now that it’s only the two of you, and you notice a hint of pride when he asks about your correct answer to his question during the lecture. The satisfied feeling it gives you is still the same as when he high-fived you after your drivers test, or when he patted your back after you solved a problem for school without his help.

"Summer reading," you admit, trying hard not to sound like a nerd, "Basic Quantum Mechanics was my favorite lecture as an undergrad."

Joel smiles at you, and puts his notes into his leather bag. He slings it across his shoulder, and nods towards the door.

"How would you like to grab a coffee and tell me all about what’s been goin’ on with you and your old man?"

Your eyes flicker briefly over his hand, gripping the strap of his bag, and you raise an eyebrow.

"What’s the policy for staff having coffee with their students, Professor?"

Joel holds your gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I’m actually not sure, Miss, I’ve never had to check before."

He’s playing along, and it feels dangerously blurry – yes, he’s your Dad’s old friend, your childhood neighbor, but it feels like more than just joking around.

"Does that mean I’m your first, then?", you ask, voice sweet and close to flirting now. The smile freezes on Joel’s face, and his gaze becomes almost calculating.

"Am I yours?" he asks you softly, and the double-meaning behind his question isn’t lost on you. You feel a thrilling pang in your stomach – Joel Miller is flirting with you.

***

You do end up getting coffee after you tell Alva you’ll meet her later, Joel reassuring you it won’t get him into trouble, and you’re fascinated to see he still drinks it black. What fascinates you even more is that you remember how he takes his coffee, and you wonder why your brain filed this fact away as important, not to be forgotten.

"So, when did you graduate? Sorry I missed it."

There’s honest regret in his voice, which surprises you. Joel was always a warm person, but you figured he cared for you as much as he would have for any kid living across the street.

"Last June," you tell him, dropping a sugar cube into your cappuccino. "I spent the summer working, and now I’m here."

"How d’you like it so far?"

You give a nervous chuckle, torn between the honest truth and pleasant small talk. You opt for the former – this is Joel, after all, not some stranger.

"To be honest with you, I oscillate between enjoying my freedom away from Mom and Dad, and being scared shitless by starting over somewhere new," you admit, looking at your coffee. You haven’t told people about your fear, and it feels good to finally admit it – the grip your parents have had on you makes your newfound freedom almost uncomfortable.

"What d’you mean, startin’ over?", Joel asks, his voice strikingly gentle. You sigh, and shrug.

"I know the distance is good for me, but it was comfortable, just doing what my parents expected of me. I had good grades, nice friends, and just the right amount of drunken nights for them not to worry about my social life too much," you explain, "and now it’s like…there’s so much room to be someone else, cause they won’t see it anyway."

You look up, embarrassed to have spilt your guts like this, but Joel looks thoughtful, his thumb moving along the handle of his coffee cup.

"Sorry," you mutter, "I know they’re your friends, but they can be…"

"Overbearing?"

You smile at him gratefully and he smiles back.

"Look, I know your parents pretty well. They love you to bits, but as an adult I imagine it must be stiflin’.“

"Yeah," you sigh, grateful for his understanding, "I feel like I don’t know who I am when I’m not…their kid."

Joel nods, and sips his coffee, apparently pondering what you said.

"I promised myself I would only do what makes me happy while I’m here," you tell him sheepishly, as if it’s a secret, and Joel laughs.

"Well, I’m not expectin’ you to hand in any homework, then."

You grin, too, and shake your head. It’s surreal, Joel being your professor, and you wearing your heart on your sleeve for him.

"Don’t worry, Professor Miller, I’m not dropping your class."

"You’d better not, it’d really hurt my feelings," Joel says, eyes trained on yours. Again, that blurriness set in motion by the change of his role in your life: neighbor to professor to – what?

"What about you, though? This your first semester here?"

"Second," he tells you, "but I still don’t feel at home. Once a Texan, always a Texan, I guess."

You cock your head and watch him drain the last of his coffee, the cup tiny in his hands.

"What?" he asks you, curiosity evident in his voice.

"You look so different," you say, and Joel scoffs.

"Well, that’s real nice. Know I’m not thirty anymore, but geez–"

"No," you say with a grin, "it’s not that. I don’t know, I’ve just never seen you teach before. Or dressed this nice – I remember you mowing the lawn in a Fleetwood Mac shirt, not checking attendance in a button down."

Joel’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he scoffs again.

"Well, I can’t show up here in a band tee, can I? Gotta dress the part," he mutters.

"I get it. You suit it," you tell him, if only to see that blush appear on his face again. He looks up at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds, then he shakes his head.

"What were the odds of us meetin’ like this, huh? I gotta call your father and tell him."

Something about that bothers you, you’d prefer for your parents not to know. You like sitting here with Joel, reminiscing the old times, without anybody getting a peek in.

"Or not," he says gently, seeing the expression on your face.

"Sorry," you say, "course you can tell him."

"You apologize a lot," he tells you, and you fight the urge to say sorry once again. "It’s okay, I’m not tellin’ anyone, kid. ’S just you n me."

That pang in your stomach again, and you nod.

"Alright," you answer, "just us."

You get a refill for the two of you, and a blueberry muffin to split, which feels strangely intimate, but Joel pats his stomach and jokes about keeping an eye on his figure, so you grin, and ask the barista to cut it in half. Joel asks you about your friends, and you tell him about Alva.

"Oh yes," he says and swallows a bite of the muffin, "that punky lookin’ kid who sits next to you?"

"Yeah, she’s nice. Haven’t really met anyone else."

"Geez, I’m not keepin’ you from findin’ frat boys to hook up with, am I?"

You laugh, the idea of sitting here with a twenty-something year old kid named Cole or Josh instead of him so absurd, you can’t help it.

"No," you tell him, "I’m honestly enjoying the fact that I don’t have to have someone else in my dorm anymore."

"Well, that’s a relief to hear," Joel says, "they’re all dipshits."

You remember him telling you something similar about the boys in high school, and it makes you smile. He’s still got that protective streak, then.

"To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here," you say quietly, "if I’m not making any friends, I can come crying to you."

Joel watches you for a couple of seconds, not laughing as you intended, but taking your words seriously.

"Course you’ll make friends. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll have forgotten all about physics cause you’ll be skippin’ classes left and right to hang out with people."

You don’t tell him, but you think it’s very unlikely you’ll skip any of his classes. Still, you appreciate his words and how confident he seems to be in your ability to open up to people.

"Well, will you give me the answers to your exams if I skip your class?"

"No way," he says with a cheeky smile, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. "I don’t do preferential treatment. You wanna split another blueberry muffin?"

You grin.

"Thought you were watching your waistline."

"I am, that’s why I’m only eating halves."

***

Your afternoon with Joel leaves you on a high for the rest of the day, feeling much less lonely now that you’ve had a conversation beyond the usual so how many siblings do you have? and where did you do your undergrad?

You start spending your lunch breaks with Alva and some friends she made in another lecture, all of whom are very nice. In the evenings you all go to see a movie or have dinner together in any of your dorm rooms, and although you walk around campus holding out one eye for Joel, you don’t see him for the rest of the week. There is always a nudge of disappointment in your stomach, when you glance in the direction of his office, and the door is closed, but you’re so busy, you don’t dwell on it too much. The days pass in a blur of new lectures, swapping music with Alva, and evenings spent as a group of six, and suddenly it’s Sunday again. You aren’t too sad the weekend is already over, and you know exactly why you’re looking forward to Monday, but you don’t allow yourself to think about Joel any more than you can help.

In the afternoon, while you’re doing Joel’s assignment for the next class, your mother calls, and you answer the phone with a mixture of feelings.

Hi, my darling, how are you doing?

"Hi, Mom. I’m good, just doing my work for tomorrow. How are you?"

Good, good. How was your first week? Did you meet anyone nice?

Hah, if she only knew. It feels deceptive, not telling her about Joel, but you like that for now, he’s just yours.

"Yes, this girl called Alva. We and some guys hang out a lot, there’s a cinema near by, but the lectures are pretty hard, so we only have the evenings off."

Well, I’m glad you found some nice people! Dad says hi, he’s making dinner. Anyway, baby, we miss you terribly. Do you know when you’ll be coming home?

"I just got here, Mom."

You sigh so quietly your mother can’t hear it, guilt already nagging at your heart. Sunday is the day you would usually be coming home for dinner, and you know it’s no coincidence your parents called you now.

Of course, you’re right. It’s just not easy for your Dad and me, you know? You’ve never been this far from home, and you’re our baby.

Yeah, you think, your adult baby. You sigh again.

"I don’t know if I’ll come this month, I’m still sort of settling in. But I’ll let you know if there’s a free weekend next month, alright?"

Sure, that sounds great. Will you send us some pictures of your friends, and your room?

"Sure," you say, but it bugs you that you’re giving in. Already, you’re breaking the promise you made yourself, and letting your parents further into your life here than you’re comfortable with.

"Mom, I gotta go, I’ve still got some problems to solve and I’m meeting Alva for dinner soon."

Okay, darling, enjoy your night! And make yourself heard. I love you!

"Love you, too! Talk soon."

Your kind, clingy mother, whose greatest pain is not knowing if you’re safe. In a way you miss her, and you feel guilty for being annoyed. Still, you know you have to gently nudge her away from you, or she’ll suffocate you one day. It makes you angry with yourself, because you know your Mom would have liked nothing more than to hear all about your week, but as soon as she asked you a question, you felt like your seventeen year old self again, getting yelled at because you stayed up past your curfew, and your parents didn’t know where you were.

Tears of frustration spring to your eyes – the mix of feelings too much for you to handle. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, breathe in shakily, and try to focus on your assignment again, but now you’re riled up, and the tears won’t stop.

It’s hard for you to deal with disappointing your parents, forcing them away when they would like nothing more than to know everything that’s going on in your life. So, instead of preparing for Joel’s lecture, you cry on your bed, feeling lonely and angry with yourself for hurting them. You know your reaction is disproportionate, but everything you kept buried while you lived close to your parents comes bubbling out of you.

You call Alva, tell her you have cramps because of your period and just want to stay in bed. She’s understanding, asks you if there’s anything she can do, even offers to bring you takeout or a hot water bottle, which makes you feel all the worse for lying to her. You decline her offer, tell her you’ll meet her Monday morning. In the evening, you regret not letting her bring over a real meal, eating cold pasta in your underwear, tears still running down your face and making your head pound.

***

On Monday, you feel slightly better, your headache is gone and your face isn’t as puffy as you expected it to be. Still, you’re in a solitary mood, and are glad to find Alva is able to keep up an entire conversation virtually by herself – you just grunt from time to time, or give noncommittal movements of your head in vague agreement. You hope if she notices your bad mood, she just thinks it has to do with your period.

Computational Physics is hell – you dislike it on the best of days, but guilt ridden and tired, you’re barely able to pay attention at all, and the professor’s handwriting is so bad, you end up copying down Alva’s notes instead. She’s kind about it, slides over her notebook at an angle that makes it easy to read, and you make a mental note to thank her for being so kind to you while you’re offering nothing but a scowling expression all day. Maybe you’ll cook for her, or make a mixtape of your favorite songs, just to show her you’re interested in being actual good friends.

Lunch passes easily, as always you sit with Alva and the guys, and there’s enough people for you to stare at your mashed potatoes and repeatedly stab them with your fork instead of eating them. They taste like flour mixed up with water, and you dream up your father’s Sunday dinner instead, but it does little to help with the taste.

"So, you lookin’ forward to flirting with Miller in front of the whole lecture hall again?" Alva asks you, as you’re making your way to said room. You glare at her, but can’t help the corners of your mouth twitching.

"Wasn’t flirting with him," you answer, kicking a pebble, "I grew up across the street from him, I’ve known him practically my whole life."

"Whatever you say, grumpy," Alva teases, nudging your shoulder with hers. You’re overcome with a rush of gratitude for the way she treats you, persistently kind and humorous. You chuckle, your mood lifting slightly.

"He’s probably been waiting for you to turn legal," she continues, and you groan.

"Gross, Alva, he’s not a creep."

"I’m just saying, if your little connection gets you the answers to his tests, you could sell them and become rich."

"I already asked him, he said no," you say darkly, thinking of the nights you’ll have to spend studying to pass his exam. This makes Alva laugh her brilliant laugh, and you can’t help but smile, too.

"Damn," she grins, "I’d try if he wasn’t a guy."

You snort.

"You try with Professor Carter, I need the answers to Computational," you suggest, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

"You’re joking, but I bet once you get her out of her frumpy cardigans, she’s a real–"

"Okay, stop," you grown, the image of Professor Carter taking off her cardigans worse than her keeping them on – if possible. Alva giggles.

"I’ll help you with Computational," she says, "if you help me with Quantum Mechanics."

"You’re good at both," you argue, and Alva shrugs.

"Not like you, though. I spent like four hours doing Miller’s assignment last night."

You want to tell her you didn’t do it at all, but before you can open your mouth, she spots a friend in the crowd, grabs your arm and drags you over to him.

The three of you sit down together, closer to the front than the week before, which gives you a direct line of sight to Joel’s desk. When he walks in, your stomach jumps – he’s wearing a tie today, a dark burgundy or blue, you aren’t sure from this distance, flecked with specks of white. Again, his hair is styled in that carelessly disheveled look you like so much, and the image of him putting gel in it makes you smile. He gets out his materials for the lecture, and looks up, his eyes finding yours – you smile and he gives a small nod. Again you’re struck by how different he acts in front of the class, how serious he seems. You think of his laid back manner when you had coffee, and struggle to make the images align. Joel clears his throat, and the chatter around you stops.

"Quiet, please, everyone. Thank you. So, last week, we found out that Dirac’s equation predicts the existence of antiparticles. But instead of just accepting that, let’s think deeper—mathematically, what feature of the equation forces this conclusion?"

Joel jumps right into the lecture, and just like last week, nobody raises their hands – you curse the people around you for their lethargy, because sure enough, Joel’s eyes land on you. Before you can shake your head to signal to him not to ask you, he calls your name.

"If I remember correctly, you were already familiar with Dirac’s equation last week. What would you say, what does the existence of negative-energy solutions tell us, and why couldn’t we just ignore them?"

You wish you could answer him, know he asked you because he was sure you’d know the answer, perhaps hoped your enthusiasm for the subject would get the rest of the students to participate more, but you didn’t do the assignment, and you’ve already half forgotten his question. You swallow.

"Um…I…I’m not sure, Sir," you say, watching the way his brows furrow, and looking down at your notes. Alva shoots you a curious look, and when she sees your expression, she raises her hand. You’re thankful to have Joel’s attention diverted, feeling like a fool in front of hundreds of students you’re trying to make friends with.

"Dirac’s equation gives positive and negative energy solutions, and at first, the negative ones didn’t make sense. Dirac suggested they represent antiparticles, like the positron, which he predicted. The idea was that electrons could, like, jump into these negative-energy states, creating a hole that looks like a positron, which was later confirmed experimentally," Alva explains instead of you.

"You're close, but electrons don’t actually 'jump into' negative-energy states. Instead, Dirac proposed that these states are already filled, forming what he called the Dirac Sea. A positron isn’t an electron jumping down, it’s actually a 'hole' left when a negative-energy electron gets excited to a positive-energy state. That distinction is important because it explains why positrons have the opposite charge. Good answer, though, thank you Ms. Bennet."

Joel’s eyes flicker over to you again, but you show no reaction, and he continues with his lecture without asking you another question. Alva glances at you inquiringly, and you sigh.

"I wanted to do the assignment yesterday, but my cramps were really bad," you explain quietly, and she nods sympathetically.

"Call me next time, I’ll send you my answers," she whispers, and you smile gratefully. It seems you really hit the jackpot in friendship when you sat down next to Alva.

***

After Joel’s lecture, you and Alva make your way over to the vending machine, because it has the sour patches she likes, and in her own words she’ll combust if she doesn’t eat some right fucking now.

"Shit," she curses, "they’re stuck."

"Let me," a voice comes from a behind you, and when you turn around, Joel is smiling at the two of you. "Took me a while to figure this thing out, too."

Alva steps aside, and Joel bangs his palm against the side of machine. You jump, but the sour patches make their tumbling way down to the dispenser.

"Great! Thanks, Professor Miller," Alva says, ripping the bag open and offering it to the two of you. To your surprise, Joel takes her up on it, and Alva grins at you.

"You were quiet during today’s lecture," Joel says tentatively, when he’s swallowed his sour patch "everything alright?"

You glance at your shoes.

"Um, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and I left your assignment for last, so…I didn’t do it."

Joel’s expression grows worried, and Alva glances between the two of you.

"Hey, I’m meeting Max for coffee," she tells you, "see you later?"

"Yeah," you answer, grateful she’s granting you this time alone with Joel, "see you, Alva."

When she’s gone, Joel is still looking at you with that worried look on his face, and you sigh.

"Sorry about the assignment," you say, "won’t happen again."

"I’m not worried about the assignment," Joel says earnestly, but then he turns his head, and you know he doesn’t want someone listening in. Sure, you can be seen chatting in the university cafe, but this conversation is rapidly blurring the lines between scholarly and – something else.

"I…have some materials in my office that might make it easier for you to catch up with the lectures again," Joel tells you, and you understand the underlying meaning. Let’s talk in my office.

"Thank you," you say, relieved, and Joel nods, eyes still glued to yours, brows still furrowed. You walk to his office making smalltalk about the lecture, which to anyone listening in would seem like a normal conversation between a professor and an interested student.

Joel opens the door to his office for you, and lets you step in first. It’s small, cramped bookshelves on the walls and a sturdy desk in the middle that is littered with notes, pencils, books, and a couple of old coffee mugs. You notice he put part of his books sideways onto the shelves, which you find weirdly endearing. This is the Joel you know – clutter and warmth.

He closes the door behind you, and you turn around to watch him drop his bag and walk over to the kettle in the corner of the room.

"Coffee?"

"Please," you sigh, "if you don’t have anything stronger."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer, just turns on the already filled kettle, and gets two clean cups for the two of you.

"I only have drip coffee," he tells you, "I don’t drink that crap the machines brew up."

"That’s fine, I enjoy the medieval feel of it."

"Watch it," he answers, a smile tugging on his lips, "don’t insult my coffee filter in front of me."

You grin, and walk over to his bookshelf to have a look.

"So, what’s going on?" he asks you while pouring the boiling hot water over the coffee grounds. Again, the Joel you remember – empathetic, but unusually direct. You sigh, turn around and shrug.

"Mom and Dad called yesterday, and I could tell they missed me, but I just…I cut them off after two minutes."

Joel places the cups on his desk, and leans against it. His sleeves are rolled up again, and when he crosses his arms, you feel that familiar pang in your stomach.

"And now I…I don’t know, I feel so guilty, Joel. They’re not even being dicks about it, but I just know they’d prefer for me to check in with them more…and the worst thing is, I know it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it, they’ve got a good life without me constantly in it, so I don’t know why my stupid brain can’t just let this go, you know? One I miss you, darling, and I’m reduced to this pathetic mess, instead of just, I don’t know, getting my shit together."

You shake your head and clench your teeth, once again embarrassed to come crying to Joel about your parental issues, but he’s the only one you can tell. Sure, Alva would probably listen, but you don’t feel like explaining your family to a near stranger. Joel just gets it. Joel knows you.

He’s looking at you, arms still crossed, and for a second you worry he might not want to hear about your little breakdown, but then he sighs.

"You have your shit together all of the fuckin’ time, kid, I think that might be the problem," he tells you quietly. "You’ve always been so hard on yourself."

He’s right, once again he sees what you struggle to show the world, and his words make tears spring to your eyes. You will your eyeballs to suck them back in, but of course, Joel sees.

"Hey now," he says, taking a tentative step towards you. One tear drops from the end of your lashes and down your cheek, and the dam is broken again – they come spilling in floods. Joel crosses the room in a second, and there is a slight moment of hesitation between the two of you, before you bury your face in his chest, and let your restraint fall. You cry quietly, feel him wrap his arms around you, as he rocks you back and forth.

"You’re alright," he tells you, "Shhh, it’s okay, you’re alright."

"S-s-sorry about the assignment," you manage, and Joel’s hand starts stroking your back.

"Jesus, kid, stop worryin’ about the fucking assignment," he tells you, voice low and worried. "You don’t gotta be so strict with yourself. You’re doin’ just fine."

He smells so much like home, you think you might never stop crying.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," you hiccup, "One week here and I’m a mess already."

You feel Joel rest his chin on your head, and his arms tighten around you.

"There’s nothin’ wrong with you, you hear me? You hold yourself to high standards. Creates pressure, kid."

As always, he’s right of course – you want to excel academically, you don’t want to hurt your parents, you want to stay true to yourself and do what makes you happy, you want to make friends without compromising your grades. It’s impossible.

You breathe in shakily, your eyes closed, face buried in Joel’s chest, and for a second he is all that exists – just Joel, all around you, pulling you to the earth. Slowly, your breathing calms, Joel still rocking you soothingly, holding you close.

"There we go," he mutters, when your chest stops shaking, "that’s good."

When you pull away from him, he puts his hands on your shoulders to really look at you, and although you’re embarrassed by your outburst, you’re glad he doesn’t shy away from you.

"I want you to start being a little more lenient with yourself, alright? You don’t need to worry about an assignment on top of everything."

His hands are rubbing your shoulders, his eyes are kind and warm.

"Maybe not about yours, but I have like five other lectures –"

"Okay, so try to stop worrying about my assignments, just mine. Won’t bite your head off if you don’t do them, and I’ll only ask you questions when you raise your hand, alright? In fact, for the rest of the term, I want you to hand them in late."

Despite yourself, your lips pull up in a small smile.

"That’s silly, Joel," you say softly, but he shakes his head.

"It’s not silly, it’s practice to get you out of your comfort zone."

You consider his words for a moment. You do keep a pretty tight reign on yourself, and just the thought of doing every assignment late makes your skin crawl with anxiety. But when will you get another chance to step out of your comfort zone as safely as now, with Joel? He’s offering you a way to try it without actually risking your grades. And who knows, perhaps it actually will take a little bit of pressure off of you.

"Okay," you answer, staring up at Joel with puffy cheeks and teary eyes. "Alright."

He smiles at you, but he still looks worried and you wish he’d pull you close to him again. It’s such a relief to have this sort of human contact with someone who really knows you.

"Feel better?"

You sigh, and nod.

"It’s just a lot, you know, uni and my parents, and every social interaction feels like such a chore, cause I don’t know people yet. I feel like I’m not even relaxed when I’m asleep."

Joel hesitates for a moment, before he speaks, but when he does, he sounds determined.

"Come over tonight, I’ll make us somethin’ to eat, and you don’t have to worry about talkin’ to anyone. We’ll watch whatever you’d like. You still enjoy those crappy horror movies?"

You smile at the shared memory – Joel letting you use his living room to watch slashers your parents didn’t want you to see. One summer, when the heat was so stifling you barely went outside, you practically lived at his place, and when you’d seen all the DVDs he owned, he got you more from the video store.

"I do," you say quietly, the fact that Joel remembers more important to you than his proposal to spend the evening together. You feel significantly less alone, all of a sudden.

"Alright, then. Be over at seven,“ Joel tells you, and you nod, wiping your wet face with the back of your hand.

"Thank you, Joel," you say, and hug him again, because you don’t know how to tell him in words what you’re feeling, and his big, warm body against yours feels more than soothing.

"Course, kid. Just don’t tell Alva, or they’ll fire me."

You smile, your arms still wrapped around his neck, as he holds you.

"But I don’t wanna get you in trouble, what if–"

"No," Joel interrupts you, "no what ifs. No worryin’. I forbid it."

And you accept it, leave it to Joel, because he tells you to – because you don’t have any room in your head for more worries, and because you trust Joel not to do anything reckless. You trust him, period.

***

You text Alva you’re having dinner alone, that your cramps are still acting up, and you do feel slightly bad for lying, but you would never risk Joel’s job. The idea of having dinner with him at his place should make you nervous after your change in feelings about him, but you’re just looking forward to having a meal with someone who knows you, and lets you be yourself.

Joel asked you to be there at seven, so you spend the rest of the afternoon in your dorm room, wondering if you should change your outfit or if it would seem desperate – in the end, you keep the jeans but change into a blouse instead of a sweater. The part of you that stares at Joel’s forearms during class now wants to look pretty for him, so that he’ll ask you over again. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop you from putting on your nicest perfume.

You’re ten minutes early, so you sit in your little second hand car and try not to panic. You know Joel is merely trying to be a good…friend? Ex-neighbor, Dad’s best friend turned professor? There’s no real etiquette to cling to in this situation, for either of you, and although you’re positive Joel doesn’t have any ulterior motives with you despite his flirting, you know he could lose his job if someone finds out you went to his house. Even if you just watch slashers together the way you did ten years ago. It makes you anxious to know he’d risk something clearly important to him for just that – he moved to a different state, quit his old job, started over completely, and is now willing to endanger that new life just because you’re stressed. At the same time it seems ridiculous anyone could forbid the two of you to spend time together after having known each other your entire life. The thought is absurd, and still, you need to be careful.

You get out of the car before you start to hyperventilate, and ring Joel’s doorbell – it feels strange for him to live in a new house. He opens the door with a smile, and absurd relief floods your veins when you realize he’s wearing an old Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of worn jeans. This is your Joel.

"I come bearing gifts," you announce, stepping into the house.

“Christ, where did you get this?”, Joel asks, taking the six pack of beer from you, so you can take off your jacket. “I didn’t know they sold Shiner Bock outside of Texas, I’ve been survivin’ on Bud”.

“Brought it with me,” you explain, “figured it’d help if I got homesick, you know, in multiple ways.”

You grin, and Joel shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Old enough to drink, well I’ll be damned. I remember when you begged your Dad to let you have a coke and he asked me if I thought the caffeine would stunt your growth.”

“Did it?”

“It might’ve,” Joel says with a chuckle, “but he didn’t let you have it.”

“Well, he isn’t here now, so let’s put those in the fridge.”

“No," Joel mutters, “no, he ain’t.”

While Joel puts the beer away, you take a look around his living room – despite your reservations about the new house, it reminds you of his old place. It’s got the same masculine and warm feel to it, dark wood, books all over the place, no bells and whistles. Joel is a practical man, and it’s charmingly etched into every part of his life – except for his new work-look. The room isn’t as cluttered as you remember Joel’s old house back in Texas, but you assume he hasn’t had time to accumulate clutter yet. No old newspapers are lying around, no birthday cards stacking up. You wonder if he’s lonely here, teaching all by himself, hundreds of miles away from the place he last grew roots in.

“Do you miss home?” you ask him, when he comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He looks at ease, much more himself than back at university. His jeans are faded, his shirt a little too big on his already broad frame, and his hair is clean and curly the way you like it – no gel twisting it into all sorts of un-Joel-like styles. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of him taking a swig of his beer. His crowfeet are a little more pronounced, and his hair has more grey strands than it did back home, but he’s still got that distinctly warm, no-nonsense feel to him.

“Sometimes,” he answers, offering you the second bottle. Your hand brushes his when you take it from him. “But I’m pretty busy here, you know, got a whole lotta lectures to plan, papers to grade and that sort of stuff.”

You nod, and sip at your beer.

“Have you…you know, met people? Made friends here?”

Joel plops down on the couch, and smiles up at you.

“You worried about my social life?”

You shrug, and smile almost timidly.

“You know me, kid, I like bein’ by myself.”

That’s true, for as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been alone. You know he has nieces and nephews who adore him, and your Dad mentioned a woman once, but it must have been at least twenty years since they were together. You wonder why Joel doesn’t seem to want that sort of a domestic life, surely many women would be happy to let him put a ring on them.

You walk over to the window, and watch a blackbird tug at a writhing worm.

“Have you met someone at uni you wanna be by yourself with?” you ask with a small grin, turning back to find Joel already watching you. “I heard Professor Carter’s still single.”

“She’s very intelligent,” Joel says earnestly. You give him credit for not laughing about his colleague, and suddenly you feel bad for calling her frumpy with Alva. “But I think I’ll leave her to her simulations. Why am I bein’ interrogated?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, and glance out of the window again, “just making conversation.”

“Your turn, then,” Joel answers, and takes another swig of beer. “Any frat boys catch your eye? Or frat girls?”

You glance at him, a smile on your lips, and raise your eyebrows.

“Hey, I don’t discriminate. I thought, maybe Alva…”

“No,” you answer, feeling fond of him for considering the possibility. “Alva’s a friend. The guys are…well, they’re frat boys.”

 Your voice carries enough disgust for Joel to laugh.

“Right,” he says, and his eyes are warm when they meet yours again. “Just us two loners, then."

“Cheers,” you say with a smile.

“Cheers.”

***

Joel’s cooking is a mystery to you – he loves to eat, and when he does cook, it’s always delicious, but he only ever makes one of five dishes. Again, that practicality shining through. Why try something new if you’ve perfected your routine? He made pasta for you, wasn’t sure if you’re still vegetarian and makin’ your Dad’s hair fall out, and you smile into the neck of your beer bottle, when you watch him drizzle dressing onto a carefully arranged side-salad. Throughout dinner, you tell him how much you love it at least five times, because you can tell he put effort into the meal. You know it’s not technically a date, but having a dinner he made just for you, in his home – it feels like one.

You steer the conversation away from heavy topics like your parents. Although Joel offered you this evening to make you feel better, you want to spend it with him rather than in your head, so you ask him about books and music, about his lectures, about Tommy and the kids. You like watching how his face lights up whenever he talks about something he particularly loves. Joel is a quiet man, but you found out years ago it isn’t shyness, but a disinterest in most mundane topics – he doesn’t like gossip or superficial small talk. When he tells you Tommy made him godfather of all of his children, the pride is evident in his voice, and you don’t have to fake your enthusiasm, although it amuses you, too – Tommy loving his big brother enough not to consider anyone else.

"She calls me uncle Joe," he tells you with a chuckle, "Can’t pronounce her Ls yet, but I’ve considered legally changing my name."

When you’re done eating, you help him clear the table, but when you reach for the sponge to do the dishes, Joel shakes his head.

"Let me do that later, kid. You wanna watch a movie?"

So the two of you plop down on the couch with a bag of M&Ms and another round of beer, and Joel hands you the remote.

"Go wild," he says, chuckling when you excitedly turn on he TV to open Netflix.

"Wow, a streaming service? I thought you’d just hoard DVDs for the rest of your life."

Joel huffs, and instead of answering, he leans forward, and reaches for something under his couch table. When he turns his head, he’s got glasses on his face, thick-rimmed and black, and so startlingly sexy, you almost drop the remote.

"You…you’ve got glasses?"

"Yeah," he answers, his eyes meeting yours, and you swallow. "When your eyesight deteriorates, that’s when you know you’re gettin’ old."

You hum but don’t answer, just hold his gaze for a second and look back to the screen. You try to ignore the familiar pang in your stomach at the sight of Joel in his new glasses, and skip through movie after movie, mumbling seen it, seen it, that one sucks, seen it, until Joel reaches over and snatches the remote from you.

"Hey–"

"I can’t read anything if you skip through them that quickly."

"You’re not supposed to read, you’re supposed to go with the vibe of the cover."

He glances at you with furrowed brows.

"Okay, sorry, didn’t know you’re a filmbro," you grumble, but it’s almost entirely fake – you couldn’t be annoyed with him, not when he pushes his glasses up his nose, and carefully considers which button to press on the remote.

"I don’t know what that means," he answers, and starts reading the description of a romantic comedy about Christmas.

"I’m not watching that."

"You don’t even know what it’s about."

"It’s September, Joel."

He huffs again, but finally reaches the horror movies. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take the two of you long to pick one, and the thought of two hours of brainless, scary entertainment on a couch with Joel makes you practically melt into his couch.

You can feel Joel’s eyes on you during the opening credits, so you glance over and he smiles.

"Comfy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from relaxation.

"Yeah," you answer, and smile when hands you a blanket. He’s not exactly close to you, but it still feels a little intimate when you spread the blanket out and offer him the other end. He moves over a little, so that the blanket covers his legs, and when you concentrate you can feel his body heat next to you, so you try hard not to – and instead get lost in the movie.

It’s not particularly good, but the story does get under your skin a little, and when there’s an unexpected shriek, you violently jump and instinctively move closer to Joel. He chuckles, but doesn’t give any reaction to your arm suddenly pressing against his. He doesn’t move away, either, so you don’t, fear suddenly not being the only thing bubbling up in your stomach.

"Jesus," you mumble, the creeping music making you anticipate another jumpscare. You’re right, it does come, but prepared though you are, you still wince, and turn away from the screen slightly. Out of sight, out of mind. Joel turns around, too, and when he sees your widened eyes, he grins.

"How’s that Christmas movie lookin’ now?"

"I’m not scared," you say, and there is some truth to it, "I’m just not good with jumpscares."

When the next one comes, you can’t help it, you clutch his arm next to you, your nails digging into his firm muscle, and Joel glances at you again.

"Sorry," you say quickly, letting go of his forearm now marked with five tiny crescent shapes. "Jesus, Joel, sorry."

"It’s fine," he says, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "you sure you’re into this? There might be some cartoons–"

He stops talking when you glare at him, but his mouth is twitching under his beard. You’re determined to watch the entire movie, and you try not to let any reaction show, wanting to prove Joel wrong.

There is one particularly scary scene – it’s not necessarily violent, but the music and shaky camera movements make your pulse race, and you turn your head slightly, so as to look at something else. Joel glances at you again, but he doesn’t laugh this time, just puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s grounding, the warmth of it, how his thumb digs into your muscle and his fingers spread out over your back and neck.

"You don’t gotta force yourself to watch this, kid," Joel says gently, all teasing humor gone.

"No," you say stubbornly, but move even closer to him. His touch is a welcome distraction from the movie, and although you know it’s stupid and reckless, you lean into him, and Joel puts his arm around you. It’s closer than you’ve been to him except for hugging, and your heartbeat starts to quicken for all the wrong, non-horror reasons. When you flinch, Joel tugs you against his side, and it feels natural to hide your face in his shoulder.

He was never touchy with you, or anyone for that matter, so something must have changed. You wonder if he’s trying to comfort you, or if you might not be the only one who can feel that strange pull between the two of you.

When the movie ends, Joel regrettably removes his arm from around your shoulders to switch off the TV, and although you’re slightly disappointed, you scold yourself for expecting something else.

"Not bad," Joel says with a small smile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Very brave."

You scoff, but feel the corners of your mouth twitching, too.

"I used to be less of a wimp, but I guess you soften with age."

"You’re twenty-three," Joel argues, "that’s young."

Yeah, too young. Too young to lean over and kiss him, or climb into his lap, or expect anything other than paternal care when he’s got his arm around you. You look at your lap, all of a sudden feeling stupid and silly for having dreamed up an absurd fantasy about the man in front of you.

"Hey," Joel says gently, "what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, "nothing, I had a really great evening. Thanks, Joel."

You can tell you’ve confused him, but he nods, doesn’t question your sudden change of mood, and stands when you get up from the couch.

"Anytime, kid. You call me if you’re havin’ a bad time, alright? My door’s always open."

He’s so kind, so recklessly, stupidly, lovingly kind, and all of it is directed at you. You curse yourself for it, but again you feel that familiar burn in your eyes. Joel reaches out and easily pulls you towards his big body, hugging you the way he did in his office just this afternoon. He doesn’t ask you what brought on your tears, just lets you cry into his Led Zeppelin shirt that smells so much like home, like a childhood you won’t get back to. You remember whiffs of that smell when you were watching movies on his couch while he was at work, too pissed off at your parents to spend the summer at home. This scent was there when you attended a neighborhood barbecue after fighting with your father and Joel grilled some vegan sausages for you without comment or question. He’s always looked out for you like this, quietly, without demanding an explanation, just a solid, comforting presence in your life.

Your tears stop after a couple of minutes, and you take a step away from Joel, wiping your face. He looks so worried again, brows all furrowed and arms hanging limply at his side. Didn’t he flirt with you, though? Didn’t he prepare dinner for you the way a date would, ask you about your dating life, ask you to coffee? You don’t think you would be able to handle another evening like this one not knowing what Joel really thinks, so in a moment of hazy recklessness, you lean up.

His eyes meet yours, all warm and strangely unguarded, but before your lips brush his, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Without saying something, you move away from him, and nod to yourself, his reaction all the information you needed.

"Sorry," you say very quietly, not managing much else now that you’ve humiliated yourself in front of the only person you really know in a six hundred mile radius. Joel runs a hand through his soft hair, and inhales deeply.

"No," he says, his voice a little strained, "no, don’t be. I just…Jesus, kid."

He rubs his palm over his beard in such a familiar way, your chest aches a little. It’s ridiculous how much you want to touch his face, to feel him again, skin on skin. So you don’t turn and run the way your embarrassed heart is telling you to, just watch him collect his thoughts, standing in front of him like a wet and beaten dog.

"Look," he begins, "I won’t say I’m not flattered, but that’s…it’s a bad fuckin’ idea. It’s…it’s chaos, and on top of that most people would argue it’s wrong."

You swallow. You know all of this, have turned it over in your head ever since you stared at Joel’s rolled up sleeves for two hours on that first Monday, but hearing him say it makes your stomach churn.

"Yeah," you mutter, and trace Joel’s shadow with the very tip of your foot, "yeah, of course. Sorry I put you in that position, wasn’t right."

Your face still feels puffy, and you know you’re probably all red and pathetic looking, begging Joel for scraps of his attention, but all of a sudden, he lifts his hand up to your face, and cups it in his broad palm. His thumb strokes your cheek, and when you meet his eye, the expression on his face is tender.

"It’s alright," he tells you softly, "I can see you worryin’ at the speed of light in that pretty head of yours."

Something in your chest flutters at his words, at the rough and warm cadence of his voice. He reads you so easily, one turn of your head and he knows you’re lost to your thoughts.

"I shouldn’t have let myself toy with this idea," he continues, and your stomach flips. "I should’ve realized you’d pick up on it. It’s on me, alright? It’s on me not to start anythin’."

You can hear the implication – I’m the adult here. It’s not what you want to hear, but just the mention of Joel toying with this idea, as he put it, is enough to lift your spirits. So you weren’t crazy.

"I’m an adult," you say weakly, never having felt more like a child. Joel nods.

"You are, but I’m still in a position of power here. Be wrong, to abuse that."

His thumb is still moving over your cheek slowly, making it hard to think straight.

"So dinner and a movie doesn’t abuse it?"

You don’t want to argue, you don’t know why you keep disagreeing with him, and the way his face falls, you wish you hadn’t said it.

"No, it…it does, you’re right. Jesus, of course it does. I don’t blame ya for bein’ ang-"

"I’m not angry," you say softly, and tentatively turn your head in Joel’s hand. You press a kiss to his palm, his warm skin pressed right against your mouth. "I’m not your student, Joel. I mean, of course I am, but I know you. It’s different."

Joel’s eyes are glued to your face, and he looks so conflicted you wish he’d just throw you out of his house, if only to solve his dilemma.

"It’s still wrong," Joel mutters, his eyes glued to your lips since they brushed his skin "even if you take away the fact that I’m your fuckin’ professor. Your Dad…"

"My Dad is half a continent away and finds a way to be unhappy with whatever choices I make, so I might as well make the ones I want to."

The very first day, before you even met Joel, you decided to do what makes you happy while in university, and although this certainly wasn’t what you had in mind, you know it’s what you want. The only thing you want, in fact.

Joel sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Joel, I’m not trying to…look, if I’m wrong about this, just tell me, but I feel…I just wanna be close to you all of the fucking time," you say quietly, "and it’s okay if you don’t, really. I just…I want you to know it’s not nothing to me."

Saying I don’t just want to hook up with you would feel too straight forward or crass, but you think Joel gets the gist of what you’re trying to say, and he closes his eyes briefly. You study his face behind his glasses, the wrinkles and freckles from years in the sun. You do feel anxious about his answer, but whatever it is, you’re glad you told him. It’s out in the world now, the way you feel when he holds you, and he can do with it what he pleases – you’ve handed him the reigns.

"I…I know what you mean. Me too," he says very quietly after a beat, his eyes open and looking directly into yours again.

A triumphant pang of affection pulses through you, and you put your hand over Joel’s, which is still resting on your cheek. He looks conflicted, but his other hand holds your waist now, and tugs your smaller body closer to his again. He’s solid as a brick wall in front of you, and you figure you’re allowed to touch, so you rest your hand on his shoulder.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Joel mutters, and strokes your lower lip with his thumb. If you had more guts, you’d let it slip into your mouth, but you’re still afraid he’ll pull back if you make a wrong move, so you just let him caress your mouth tenderly.

"Whatever you’d like," you answer just as quietly, and you know it sounds sexual, but you mean it in every way – if Joel wants to be nothing but your professor, you’d take it, and if he wants to keep you here in his house indefinitely, you’d let him. Joel keeps looking at you, taking you in as if he’s considering whether the risks outweigh whatever magnetic or gravitational pull the two of you have between you.

"Stay," he say after a while, and although his face looks slightly regretful, his voice is determined, "just…sleep here tonight. I like havin’ you here."

You want him to kiss you, to pull you onto his lap on the couch, to take you upstairs right now, but Joel seems to be restraining himself, so you just nod.

"Me too," you whisper, echoing his words back to him, and for just a second, his thumb digs into your lip a little harder, but then he pulls away.

"Testin’ my goddamn restraint," he mutters, and takes a step away from you. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."

***

Joel gets you one of his band tees you love so dearly, and just the idea of being enveloped by something that smells like him all night makes it a little easier when Joel tells you he’ll take the couch instead of inviting you to sleep with him in his bed.

"No," you say softly, "it’s fine, you just sleep in your bed, Joel. I’ll take the couch."

He looks critical, so you offer him a soft smile.

"I don’t know if your back could take it," you tease, and he seems torn up between laughing and frowning. In the end, he just shakes his head, mutters something that sounds a lot like bad fuckin’ idea, and gets you a blanket and pillow.

He brings you a clean toothbrush and towel, let’s you use his bathroom (you look at the shower the entire time you’re brushing your teeth, trying hard not to think about what Joel looks like using it in the mornings), and when you’re done changing, you unlock the door again.

He’s there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes trailing over your form in his much too big shirt. It’s long as a dress on you, coming down to your naked thighs. Joel visibly swallows and gets up from the bed.

"You got everythin’ you need?"

"Yes. Thank you, Joel."

There’s a beat of silence and you almost think Joel’s about to cross the room, but he just runs his palm over his beard the way he always does, and nods.

"Alright. Just shout if there’s…well, you know. I’ll be here."

"I will."

"Alright. Okay…goodnight, kid."

"Night," you almost whisper, voice soft, and right before you reach the door, Joel clears his throat.

"I…you were right about dinner and the movie. I wasn’t just tryin’ to be friendly," he says quietly, and your stomach swirls. Before you can walk over to Joel and do something about it, he sighs.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

***

You wake to the sound of something dripping, and when your eyes flutter open, you can see Joel’s back from the kitchen. He’s wearing his work outfit again, a white button down and dark pants, sleeves rolled up. It smells like coffee, and with a smile you realize he must be brewing his beloved coffee – no machine, just a filter. He looks broad, even from your spot on the couch, and you enjoy peeking in on him. You study his movements, the way he reaches for a cup, how his fingers absentmindedly drum on the kitchen counter while he waits.

When he turns around, his eyes find yours, and he smiles.

"Mornin’. Did I wake ya?"

"’S fine," you yawn, pulling the blanket up to your chin, not yet ready to get up. "I have classes at ten anyway."

"’S eight," Joel tells you, "Coffee?"

"Yes please," you answer, and stretch your limbs under the blanket.

Joel brings you a cup, complete with a little bit of milk and sugar, and you move your feet so he can sit down on the couch.

"Sleep well?"

You sip your coffee, let it burn your tongue and close your eyes at the taste. When you open them, Joel’s gaze lingers on your face.

"Yeah," you answer, "thank you for…you know."

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s very quiet, and you feel anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.

"Joel, do you want me to leave? It’s fine if you do," you ask him softly, not wanting to make things awkward for him. It would be rational of him to ask you to leave, the smart and ethical thing to do.

"No," he answers quietly, still not looking at you, "I want you to stay."

Stay? On a Tuesday morning, after you almost kissed him and he told you he couldn’t do that, after you spent the night on his couch? When you have classes in two hours, haven’t showered yet, are half naked and wearing his clothes, on his couch under his blanket? When you’ve got friends wondering where you are and probably ten unanswered messages from Alva?

"Alright," you say, agreeing as easy as breathing.

Finally, he looks up, and his expression is so conflicted you reach out for him. Your hand finds his and you squeeze it. He keeps looking at you, his hand limp in your grasp, as if any movement of his muscles would incriminate him.

"You shouldn’t," he tells you earnestly. "Stay, I mean. You shouldn’t stay."

"I know."

You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t move his away.

"It’s a really, really bad idea," he adds, and you’re not sure who he is trying to talk out of whatever this is. "It’s risky. Could blow up both our lives."

"Yeah," you say, and watch him sip his coffee, "okay."

Then, a tentative flex of his fingers against yours, and finally, he’s squeezing your hand just as tightly, and before you can process what that means, Joel is leaning over you, dangerously close. Your breathing quickens, you register how soft his hair looks, how strong his hand is. He leans in further and you sit up a little, still cocooned in his blanket. His face is close to yours, his eyes fiery with something you can’t pinpoint, and you sigh, when he closes the gap between you.

He tastes of coffee and toothpaste, and you wish you’d gotten the chance to shower, but the thought disappears almost immediately when you hear Joel groan. His kisses you languidly, deeply, and your fingers come up to his beautiful arm, barely wrapping around half of his biceps. He cradles the side of your face, pulls you closer, makes your stomach clench with need. It feels inevitable, the way he touches you, like you only exist in a physical form to be touched by him.

His free hand peels the blanket off your body, lets it slide to the floor without ever stopping his the kiss, and you moan softly, when his hand touches your waist. The sound makes him break away, stare down at you, pupils blown wide.

"Fuck, you look good in my clothes," he mutters, nudging your jaw with his nose, and pressing a kiss there. "You should really, really go home."

Your head falls back slightly to give him better access to your neck, and he brushes his lips over your pulse point. Your heart skips a beat.

"I – I know," you breathe, fingers digging into his arm. His beard scratches your skin deliciously, and it takes everything in you not to whimper or beg. Joel’s hand slips under your shirt – his shirt – and instead of finding your waist again, he digs his thumb into your hip, stroking the fabric of your cotton panties. The fire in your stomach burns brighter, and you almost buck up into him. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller who until recently had a key to your childhood home, who lent it to you whenever you forgot yours inside – he’s sucking bruises into your skin, and toying with your panties. It’s dizzying, his familiar voice when he hums in satisfaction, even rougher than usually.

His fingers trace the waistband of your panties towards the front, until they find a small, silky bow, and Joel groans. He doesn’t take your underwear off, doesn’t even touch you where you need him the most, just keeps playing with the little bow, until your hips twitch without your permission. A little lower, and he would be able to feel how wet you are, how wet you have been all night. You didn’t do anything about it, not while you were a guest in his house. It would have felt wrong. You can’t imagine anything feeling more right than Joel’s mouth and hands on you, though.

"Jesus," Joel curses, "I should stop bef–"

"No," you whine, all dignity turned to hot air by Joel’s fingers, "please, Joel, please don’t stop."

He curses again, and moves his big body so that he’s not just hovering above you, but actually on top of you, your thighs falling open for him easily. At the movement, his shirt hikes up your thighs, and you know you’re basically on display for him, your soaked underwear leaving little to the imagination. He’s still fully clothed, his perfect button down all wrinkled now.

"Look at you," Joel breathes, lightheaded with desire, "this all for me?"

So he saw, when you moved to accommodate his broad form, saw how soaked you are, knows you ruined your panties just because he kissed you.

"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please–"

Before you can beg further, his finger presses down on your clit, and he watches your face contort in pleasure, as it shoots up your spine. You whimper, staring into his eyes, and he stares right back, as you start to grind your hips against his palm.

Your head feels blissfully empty, all worries about this relationship, uni, your parents, gone from you with a simple, practiced movement of his hand. The whimpers keep falling from your lips, and Joel curses.

"So beautiful," he mutters, "tell me what you need, angel."

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

"I – fuck, I need you i–inside," you groan, and Joel’s lips find yours again.

"Yeah? Need me to fuck you good, even though they’ll throw us both out?"

It shouldn’t turn you on. You’re jeopardizing both your own and Joel’s career, and he’s turning it into dirty talk. Still, your pussy doesn’t lie, and the way it throbs for him, aching to get him inside, makes all doubts disappear from your mind.

"Yes," you answer, unable to say much more as Joel keeps drawing tight circles into your clit.

Your hands drift from his arms towards his front, and Joel curses, when you paw at his belt buckle. It takes you a second, but then it’s open, the sound of the metal exciting you – it sounds like a promise.

Joel finally tugs your panties down, and for a second you’re self–conscious about not being clean shaven, but the second he sees you bare and glistening for him, his fingers dip into your folds, gathering your wetness with no hesitation.

"Fuck me," he groans, bringing his hand up to his face and tasting you, holding eye–contact the entire time, "prettiest pussy I’ve seen in my life."

You twitch under him, dragging your gaze away from his eyes and to his fingers. A moan escapes you, your hands have gone slack on his waistband, and Joel smiles down at you. Then, he does the same motion again, drags the tips of his thick fingers through your sticky arousal, but instead of sucking them clean himself, he holds them up to your mouth. His eyes burn, when you wrap your lips around them without a moments hesitation, and he feeds you your own slick.

"Taste so sweet, huh?"

You don’t answer, just swirl your tongue around his fingers, and suck on them. Joel watches your mouth intently, lets you take your time.

"Good girl," he praises you, and you clench around nothing, "so fuckin’ needy for me."

He drags his fingers from your mouth, and finally pushes into you, the stretch much tighter than with two of your own. Your head falls backwards, and Joel curls his fingers.

"No, baby, look down here," he orders, and immediately you lift your head again, and watch him pump two thick digits in and out of you. It’s dizzying to think it’s the same hand that waved to you from over his fence for years and years. You feel a coil building in your stomach, and you moan.

"Fuck, Joel," you moan, his name leaving a delicious aftertaste in your mouth. His beautiful forearm flexes with every movement, your slick is dripping down his fingers, and those damn sleeves are still perfectly rolled up.

With a few more curls of his fingers, you gush around him, barely having time to warn him, and he praises you, calls you his good girl, drags his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you until you see stars.

When he slips his fingers out of you and holds them up to your face again, you clean them up with your mouth as Joel watches with bright eyes. To think that he’s the same man who taught you Dirac not twenty-four hours ago – already, you want him inside again. When you’re done, he fumbles with his own clothes, and you watch him this time instead of helping.

"You look so good like this," you mumble, eyes raking over his broad form, "Professor."

His eyes snap up to yours, and you grin.

"Fuckin’ Christ, kid," he mutters, popping open the buttons on his shirt, "you can’t say shit like that."

"You don’t like it? You know, I watched you during your lectures and dreamed about…well, about this."

His expression is unreadable, but if you’re not mistaken, his hands move even faster now, and then he shrugs out of his shirt. You almost moan at the sight of his naked torso, so broad and solid.

"You need to pay attention in class," Joel answers, as he opens his pants. Your breathing grows a little shallow when he reveals his boxers underneath, his bulge huge.

"Can’t," you mumble, "not with you looking like this."

He chuckles at that, at the honesty and need in your answer.

"Don’t worry," he says softly, "I’ll fuck it outta you. Won’t be needing’ me in class, not if I’m still leakin’ out of you."

Your lips part, your pussy clenches – a smile tugs on the corners of Joel’s mouth at your reaction. He drags down his boxer shorts, and your eyes snap towards his cock, so thick and dripping in precum. You whimper, you can’t help it, and Joel’s smile widens.

"We’ll make it fit, baby," he says, reading your mind, and then bends down and kisses you again. You try to tug your shirt upwards, but Joel’s hands find your wrists and he holds them tight.

"No, want to fuck you in it," he breathes against your lips, and you press your hips upwards until he groans. He pumps his fist over his cock a couple of times, and aligns it with your entrance.

"Deep breath, baby," he mutters, and you obey, staring up at him as he starts pressing into you. It’s tight, much tighter than his two fingers, and your eyes glass over with pain, but Joel goes slow. His hand strokes your tummy, helps you relax, while he pushes on consistently. You feel like he’s punching the air from your lungs, eyes wide with the stretch of him, as he nips at your jaw and neck to distract you.

"Know it’s a lot, but you can take it, angel."

"Y-yes," you moan, and screw your eyes shut, "please don’t stop, Joel."

 Joel’s breathing is ragged with restraint, and suddenly his hips snap forwards – and he’s fully buried inside of your tight body, nestled right against your cervix.

"Back to Joel, are we?" he teases, and gives you a couple of seconds to get used to him. You whimper and claw at his arm.

"I – ah – I’ll call you Professor Miller ’f you want," you slur, as he starts dragging his cock out of you again. You tremble under him, the feeling almost more intense than when he pushed inside of you.

"Yeah? That get you off? Or – fuck–  is it the fact that I’m friends with your parents?"

It really, really should be a turn off, to be talking about your parents right now, but the way Joel says it, the way he points out just how debauched it is what you’re doing – you can’t help but moan. You blush, too, can feel the heat in your face, but you’re tired of being ashamed of wanting him the way you do.

"Both," you answer, and this time Joel groans, his hips snapping into you at a rougher pace. The head of his cock hits your spot every time, and you let out little sounds of pleasure with every drag of his cock, unable to form a coherent sentence. Joel’s hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his other one pressing down on your stomach.

"Feel that?" he asks you, and you do, you feel him all up in your guts, "you take it so well baby, take all ’f me."

"Yes," you answer, eyes glassy with pleasure, "want all of you, Joel."

He bites your shoulder, keeps rutting into you, and soon you feel another orgasm building.

"Close – ah – so close," you whimper, and Joel speeds up his thrusts just slightly. You clench around him, right on the edge.

"Come for me, angel, give it to me."

You do, your hips bucking, back arching.

"Ah – fuck, Joel, Prof–"

"Say it," Joel orders, fucking you through the waves of pleasure.

"Professor."

He comes, too, twitching deep inside of you and spilling rope after rope of come. It feels right, like you’re his. His groan is rough, his thrusts sloppy, and you feel your pussy spasm around him in a third, weaker orgasm, or maybe it’s just aftershocks from your second. You’re limp underneath him, letting him use your body how he needs to.

"Fuck," he curses, "did so good for me."

He slips out of you, and you can feel his spend drip out of you. You’re weak, soft like jelly, sweaty and entirely satisfied.

"Jesus," you breathe, when he falls down next to you, his couch mercifully being big enough.

"Yeah," he answers, "Jesus."

***

Turns out, Joel Miller is a dirty talking bastard during sex, and a big softie afterwards. He makes you tea, strokes your hair while you sip it, then carries you up to his shower and gently washes your body his his sponge. Throughout, he’s quiet, and you wonder if it was too much, the mention of him being your professor, of your parents, but you’re too afraid to ask. He brushes your forehead with his lips when he dries you off, and pulls another of his shirts over you head. Your panties are entirely ruined, it’s all you’re wearing.

When you’re clean again, and relaxed, Joel pulls you onto his bed, wrapping you up in his arms.

"Did you…was that too much?" he asks you softly fingertips tracing over your thigh lazily.

"It was just right," you answer quietly, and he hums.

"You didn’t feel like you…I mean when you called me Professor, you wanted to do that, right?"

You look up at him, and press a soft kiss against his jaw.

"Of course, Joel. Wanted everything we did, I promise."

He nods, but you can tell there’s still something bothering him.

"You know that’s not what you are to me, though, right?" Your voice is soft. "You’re just Joel."

He brushes the top of your head with his lips.

"I mean it," you press on when he doesn’t answer, "it’s like a costume, Joel. I know it’s your job, but it’s…I don’t think of you as like, an authority figure or something. I just thought you looked hot in that slutty shirt."

"Slutty–?" he sputters and you laugh.

"Sure, you know, with your sleeves rolled up, and that first button popped open."

"’S not slutty."

"You showed your forearms. Half the lecture hall felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time."

Joel makes an exasperated sound, half amused and half offended.

"I mean it," you say again after beat, humor gone from your tone, "and it’s not just sex to me. You know that."

"Yeah," Joel answers slowly. "’S more to me, too."

It’s a hell of an admission.

"What are we gonna do?", you ask quietly, and Joel sighs.

"You’re gonna go to class," he says, voice dark, "and I’ll try very, very hard not to call your father and tell him I’m fallin’ for his daughter."

You bury your face in his chest. With anyone else, it would be too much, too fast, too intense. But this is Joel. It’s not fast if you’ve known him your whole life, is it? You kiss his chest, and he seems to understand.

"We’ll figure it out," Joel says quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

For a second you do want your parents to know, want them to see that someone does treat you like an adult, want to look them in the eye and say I’m with Joel now and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have my own life now and it includes this kind man. It’s childish, you know it is. You lean up, catch Joel’s mouth in a kiss.

"Yeah," you answer, “We’ll figure it out, Professor.”

[cod-bin]

you think i don’t notice?

part 2 to don’t tempt me

fuckboy!simon x nerdy!reader

wc: 6.7k

cw: slight mentions of sex, heavy swearing by simon, angst (only a little), angry!simon (not at reader), jealousy

Simon doesn’t leave your room.

Not after he kicks her out. Not after she slams the door like it’s you she’s mad at and not herself for getting caught.

He just… stays.

Sits on the edge of your bed like he has any business being there, like he hasn’t spent the last six months pretending you don’t exist. You, with your messy ponytail and hoodie sleeves stretched over your hands and tissues peeking from under your pillow like some kind of sick gremlin.

You don’t know what to do. What to say.

So you just sip the tea he brought you. Let the silence stretch.

“I thought you hated me,” you say finally, voice still raw.

Simon huffs a quiet sound. “Didn’t say I liked you.”

That makes you smile. Barely. But he sees it.

His gaze flicks to you — sharp, unreadable — and then just stays there. Watching.

You clear your throat and look away, suddenly too aware of how small your bed is. How close his knee is to yours. How he’s still here and hasn’t gone back to texting whatever girl he’d probably had lined up for tomorrow.

Your stomach flips.

You hate him a little. For making you feel like this. For confusing you. For being decent when he’s supposed to be a total ass.

“You can go, you know,” you whisper. “I’m not gonna, like… die or something.”

He doesn’t move. “Didn’t ask.”

“You’re not staying out of guilt, are you? ’Cause of what she said?”

Simon’s jaw ticks. That muscle again.

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“Then why are you—?”

“Because you’re sick,” he says. “And you looked like you were about to fucking cry, and I didn’t like that.”

You blink. Hard.

“Oh.”

That’s all you manage.

Simon runs a hand through his hair and exhales like you’ve exhausted him, like you’re the problem, not the girl who stomped in and insulted you in your own goddamn room.

“You ever gonna tell me?” he says suddenly.

You frown. “Tell you what?”

“Who hurt you.”

Your blood freezes.

“What—?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he says, low. “You flinch every time someone raises their voice. Every time someone touches you. Even when it’s me.”

You look down at your tea.

“It’s nothing,” you lie.

He doesn’t believe you. You can feel it.

But he lets it go.

For now.

You should feel relieved. But something in your chest twists, tight and aching.

You’re not sure when it started — the wanting.

Maybe it was when he wiped your nose without laughing. Maybe when he kicked out that girl without hesitating. Maybe it’s been building under your skin this whole time, slow and sharp like a splinter.

Whatever it is, it’s worse now. He’s too close. Too real.

You curl into yourself, trying to disappear.

Simon shifts. Leans back against your headboard like he lives there.

“You always this quiet?”

You shrug.

“Figured you’d be the type to never shut up.”

You glance at him. “Why?”

He smirks. “Glasses. Big words. You know. Nerd shit.”

“You think I’m a nerd?”

He grins wider. “Don’t play coy. You literally labeled your tea mugs.”

You flush. “I was sick. I didn’t want to—”

“You’re adorable when you’re defensive.”

You blink.

Did he just—?

Simon doesn’t look at you. Just casually tosses it out there like it’s not going to haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.

You sink deeper into your blanket.

Then—

Your phone buzzes.

You grab it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen before your fevered brain catches up.

Simon doesn’t move, but something shifts in the air.

“You texting someone?” he asks.

You glance up.

His voice is too light.

You hesitate. “It’s just— this guy from class. He was asking how I’m feeling.”

Simon’s eyes darken. Just slightly.

“This guy.”

You nod, oblivious. “Yeah. He brought me cough drops once. He’s nice.”

Simon doesn’t respond. Just stares at the wall like it insulted him.

You scroll. Smiling faintly.

Simon’s hand twitches.

“What’s so funny?” he mutters.

“Nothing,” you say, looking up. “He just said I sounded cute when I was all congested.”

You’re teasing. Sort of.

Simon isn’t laughing.

“He say that before or after he asked if you were alone?”

You pause.

“What?”

“Don’t trust guys like that.”

Your brow furrows. “You mean nice guys?”

“I mean guys who see a girl who’s sick and vulnerable and think ‘oh cool, now’s my chance.’”

Your stomach twists. “You don’t even know him.”

“And you do?” Simon snaps. “What, you think he actually gives a fuck how you’re feeling? You think he’s checking in because he cares? No. He wants something.”

You stare at him.

“Why do you care?” you ask quietly.

Simon’s mouth opens, then closes.

His jaw clenches again.

“Because I’m your fucking roommate,” he mutters.

You nod slowly. “Right.”

Silence.

Then—

“You like him?” Simon asks suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“That guy. You like him?”

You hesitate.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Simon doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Then he laughs. Bitter. Mean.

“He wouldn’t last a day with you.”

Your throat tightens. “What the hell does that mean?”

He turns to you. Finally looks at you.

“You think he’d take care of you like this?” he says. “You think he’d sit here while you look like hell and wipe your nose and make sure you’re breathing okay?”

You flinch. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“I did it anyway,” he says, low.

You don’t know what to say.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters. “Whatever this is.”

You stare at him.

“Then why are you here?”

He looks at you. Quiet. Serious.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I keep thinking about you. Even when I don’t want to.”

Your breath catches.

Simon leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenched.

“I hear you through the walls,” he says. “When you cry. When you laugh. When you talk in your sleep.”

Your cheeks burn.

“I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“You do,” he says. “You said my name once.”

Your heart stops.

“What—?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease.

Just looks at you like he’s watching something fall apart.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to not want you.”

The air leaves your lungs.

Simon leans in.

Not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to ruin you.

“If that guy texts you again,” he says, “you tell him not to bother.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He looks at your mouth.

Then your eyes.

“Because I’m the one who hears you through the walls.”

And then—

He kisses your forehead.

Just once.

Soft.

Barely there.

But it shatters you.

Simon pulls back.

Stands.

Doesn’t say a word as he moves to the door.

He pauses.

Glances over his shoulder.

“You need anything,” he says, “you call me. Not him.”

You nod, speechless.

And then he’s gone.

Leaving behind a mug of tea, a thousand questions, and a silence that sounds a whole lot like the start of something else.

You were feeling a little better.

Not good, not normal, but better. Enough to shower. Enough to pull on fresh sweats and eat half a bowl of soup without gagging. Your nose was still red, your eyes still glassy, but the fever was gone, and you could finally breathe without feeling like your ribs might crack.

Still, you hadn’t left your room.

Not since that night.

Not since Simon kicked the girl out, sat on your bed like he belonged there, and touched you like you mattered. Like he saw you for the first time.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

He’d been distant ever since — not cold, exactly, just… unreadable. No more girls. No more music shaking the walls. He hadn’t said anything, but you could feel him in the quiet. In the way he paused in the hall. In the untouched takeout that showed up outside your door, no note, no explanation.

He hadn’t checked on you again.

And you hadn’t dared knock on his door.

You were curled up in bed, watching some old documentary through one barely-open eye, when you heard it — the heavy thud of boots in the hallway. His door creaked open. Then closed again.

Then silence.

Then your door.

It didn’t open. Just a knock. Once.

Your heart jumped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still scratchy.

The door cracked. And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Gray hoodie. Sweats slung low on his hips. One hand braced on the frame like he might change his mind.

You blinked. “Hi.”

He stared at you like he wasn’t sure why he came. Like he’d rehearsed something in his head and forgot all of it the second he saw you.

You tugged your blanket tighter. “What’s up?”

Simon didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned you — flushed cheeks, hair still damp from the shower, sleeves too long over your hands. You knew you looked fragile. You hated that he was the one seeing you like this again.

He finally spoke.

“You look like hell.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Thanks.”

He stepped inside anyway.

Shut the door behind him.

Then leaned against it like he had nowhere else to be.

“Didn’t say it was a bad look,” he muttered.

You stared. “Are you flirting with me or trying to pick a fight?”

“Why would I flirt with you?”

“Ouch.”

Simon’s eyes flicked to yours, and something there made your breath hitch.

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice rough, “don’t get any ideas.”

You almost laughed. “Believe me, I wasn’t.”

He pushed off the door and crossed the room like it was nothing. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t spent months pretending you barely existed.

He grabbed the empty mug off your nightstand. Frowned at it.

“No tea?”

“I drank it.”

“No shit.”

He turned like he might take it back to the kitchen, but you stopped him.

“Wait.”

He paused.

You shifted awkwardly under the blanket, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “Why are you… here?”

Simon didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just looked at you — really looked — and it made your stomach twist.

“You’re still sick,” he said finally.

“I’m getting better.”

“Didn’t ask.”

You huffed, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to your chest. “You’re being weird.”

He snorted. “You’re the weird one. Sittin’ in here like a damn ghost.”

“I’ve been recovering.”

He looked at you over his shoulder. “From the flu or from getting screamed at by that silicone-sculpted banshee?”

You blinked. “Both?”

He turned back around. Set the mug down. His shoulders were tense.

“You shouldn’t’ve opened the door,” he muttered.

“I didn’t,” you said. “She did.”

He didn’t respond.

Just paced a few steps away, hands on his hips. Like he had too much energy and no clue what to do with it.

“What’s your deal?” you asked, quieter now.

He shot you a look.

You sat up a little. “You’ve been… off.”

“I haven’t.”

“You haven’t brought anyone home in three nights.”

“So?”

“So I’m not complaining, but it’s weird.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker. Frustrated.

“Maybe I don’t feel like listenin’ to some brat whine about thread count while I’m tryin’ to—”

He cut himself off.

You blinked. “While you’re trying to what?”

“Never mind.”

You tilted your head. “While you’re trying to pretend you don’t care about me?”

That stopped him cold.

His jaw flexed. His hands clenched. He turned to face you, slow and deliberate.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, low.

You smiled — tired, knowing. “You keep saying that, but you’re in my room.”

Simon stalked closer, eyes dark. “Because you’re sick.”

“You didn’t care before.”

“I didn’t know before.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Silence.

Thick enough to drown in.

Simon stood over your bed, jaw tight, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You stared up at him, heart thudding. “Why do you care now?”

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then your knees pulled up to your chest. Then back to your eyes.

“You really wanna know?” he asked, voice like gravel.

You nodded.

He stepped closer.

And closer.

Until he was right in front of you, close enough that the heat from his body made your skin prickle.

Then he leaned down, braced his arms on either side of you, and looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that made him feel anything at all.

“I don’t,” he said.

You blinked. Breath caught.

“I don’t care,” he repeated, voice lower now. “You get sick, you get better — not my fuckin’ problem.”

Your chest ached. “Right.”

“But if I hear you cry because of someone I brought into this house again,” he said, tilting his head, “I will lose it.”

You swallowed. “Simon—”

“I’ll lose it,” he said again. “Because I’m not gonna watch someone tear you down when you’re already hanging on by a thread.”

You stared at him. “That… kinda sounds like caring.”

His mouth twitched. “It’s not.”

You smiled. Just a little. “Okay.”

He leaned in closer.

Close enough that his nose brushed yours. That his breath was warm on your cheek.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he whispered.

“You’re worse.”

He didn’t deny it.

And then — without thinking, without warning — his hand reached out. Fingers under your chin. Lifting your face to his.

Not kissing you. Not yet.

Just holding you there, eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to memorize the exact version of you that made him lose control.

“You still feel like shit?” he asked.

“Less like shit,” you whispered.

“Good.”

Then he let go.

Straightened up.

Walked to the door like nothing happened.

Paused there, hand on the knob.

You watched him, heart still racing.

He looked over his shoulder. Met your eyes.

“Don’t go thinking I care.”

Then he left.

And shut the door behind him.

Your room was still too quiet.

You hadn’t said anything since Simon walked out last night.

Not when he brought you soup. Not when he leaned against your doorway and asked, “Need anything?” like it didn’t feel like his voice dragged hot iron down your spine. And definitely not when he stayed longer than necessary, standing there like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to start.

You didn’t answer because you didn’t trust your voice. Or your face. Or the way something was cracking open between you two and he didn’t even seem to notice.

But he did.

You just didn’t know it yet.

You were curled under the blanket now, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, glasses slipping down your nose as you flipped another page of the book you weren’t reading. It was easier than looking at the door.

Because you knew he’d come in eventually.

He always did now.

The shift had been slow — from silence to tension, from passing jabs to something warmer, if not softer. But the edge never dulled completely. Not with Simon. Especially not when he didn’t want it to.

You heard the door creak open behind you.

“Still alive, then.”

His voice was lazy. But there was a tightness beneath it. Like he’d been rehearsing sounding casual.

You didn’t turn. “Barely.”

Footsteps. Closer.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. “House’s been quiet. Almost peaceful.”

You scoffed into your blanket. “Guess your bimbos took the night off.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I haven’t brought anyone home all week.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t like him. At all.

You turned to look at him, and he was already watching you.

Leaning against the frame. Hoodie half-zipped. Hair messy. Eyes dark.

You said nothing.

He stepped inside.

Something about his energy was different tonight. Less cocky. Less put together. Like whatever was usually holding him upright had been worn thin and now you were seeing what was underneath.

You sat up slowly, pulling your sleeves over your hands again.

Simon’s gaze flicked down. Noticed. Something flickered across his face.

“You mad at me?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked. “Why would I be mad at you?”

He didn’t answer.

You swallowed. “You’ve been… weird.”

Simon huffed a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve been weird.”

More silence.

Then he said your name.

Just that.

Soft. Like a question and a warning all at once.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally, because your chest was too full and your head was too hot and everything about him made you feel like you were drowning in something you weren’t supposed to want. “Why are you being nice to me now?”

“I’m not,” he muttered.

You blinked at him.

Simon looked away.

“You’re just…” He exhaled sharply, jaw ticking. “You’re too fuckin’ quiet all the time. And then when you do talk, it’s like you think I can’t hear you.”

You frowned. “What?”

He stepped closer.

You felt the shift in the air immediately. The pull. The way he always managed to fill a room, even without touching anything.

“You think I don’t notice you?”

His voice was low, dangerous in the way a storm is dangerous — not because it’s loud, but because you can feel it coming.

“Every fucking night I brought someone home, you think I didn’t hear you breathing through the wall? You think I didn’t feel it when you went quiet, like you were trying not to exist?”

He leaned closer. You could feel the heat coming off him now, smell the faint smoke of his cologne.

“I see everything, sweetheart. That’s the problem.”

Your heart stopped.

Literally stopped.

“Simon…”

“You think I was ignoring you?” His eyes pinned you in place. “I was. I fucking had to.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I’d come home, see your light on, know you were in here reading some stupid ass book in that dumb oversized hoodie like you weren’t the most distracting fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

You flinched. His voice wasn’t angry. But it was so raw it hurt to hear.

“And then I’d go in my room and I’d hear you—just existing—and I’d get fucking mad.” His tongue ran over his teeth. “At you. At me. At the whole fucking situation.”

You sat there frozen.

Still too sick to fight, too overwhelmed to speak.

Simon stepped forward again. You were face to face now, your knees nearly brushing his thighs where he stood.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You never got it.”

“Then tell me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“I didn’t bring those girls home because I wanted to,” he said. “I brought them home because it was easier than thinking about you. About the way you look at me when you think I don’t see.”

You swallowed. Your voice barely worked. “You’re always so mean.”

His mouth twitched. “Because I didn’t want you to look back.”

Silence.

He sat down on the edge of your bed like the first night, his knees brushing yours. But this time, he didn’t look away.

“I’m not good at this,” he said, almost to himself. “At—feelings. At being… kind.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffed a soft laugh. Ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He looked at you again. And this time, the weight of it was unbearable.

You shifted. “Why are you here, Simon?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then—

“I heard you crying last night.”

You stiffened.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “Just… stood outside the door like a fucking idiot.”

You stared at him. Eyes hot.

“I wanted to come in. But I knew if I did, I’d say something dumb. Or too much. Or not enough.” His voice dropped. “And I couldn’t handle you flinching from me again.”

You blinked fast. “You make it really hard not to flinch.”

“I know.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees. “That’s why I’m trying.”

You stared at him. Hard.

“Do you even like me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled.

Then he said your name again.

Soft.

Real.

“I think I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

You didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare.

Simon looked away, jaw tight. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You shook your head. “That’s not a problem.”

He turned back toward you.

And for the first time in forever, he looked like he believed you.

Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to break him.

Or you.

You reached for him without thinking, fingers wrapping gently around his sleeve. He stilled. Let you.

He looked at your hand.

Then at your face.

“You’re still sick,” he muttered, but he didn’t move.

You smiled. “I’m always sick.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. His eyes softened.

He leaned in just enough to let his forehead touch yours.

No kiss.

Not yet.

Just heat and breath and a storm that didn’t want to pass.

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Okay.”

And for once, Simon didn’t run.

part 3

☆☆☆

☆taglist☆

@little-mini-me-world @h0lydrag0ns @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @pixiellove @fruitymoonbeams-blog @jokerivory @arrowacer @4ri3n @yasmin-003 @charliehunnamsleftsock @strawberrymilk99 @queenoflaflames @xigua2kuai5yijin @arnnf @genea-myers @elixir-of-dreams @turtlegreentia @pinkembodiment @bbygirl9

[agustdtown1]

CLOSER TO YOU [JJK]

PAIRING: nerdy!roommate!jungkook x fem!OF!reader

GENRE: smut, roommates au, nerdy!jk, photography major!jk, friends to fuck buddies.

SUMMARY: After getting various comments about your poor filming skills for your OF page, you finally decided to give in and reach out to the one person that could help you with your problem. However, what started as your roommate just helping you to film your video turned into you begging him to fuck you.

How long would it take for Jungkook to finally give in? After all, all he ever wanted was to be closer to you.

WC: 8,7k

WARNINGS: smut, masturbation, fingering, voyeurism, dirty talk, nerdy!jungkook going from shy to freaky to shy and freaky again. Pet names, jungkook with glasses (that NEEDS a warning idc), jk being completely whipped for reader but also mocking her and being a little shit when he got into it. Use of “good girl” (1), mention of only fans and adult content. If I’m missing something lmk!

A/N: part one is finally out!! I honestly feel nervous to post again and I really hope you guys enjoy this one! lmk what you think in the comments or sending an ask, enjoy ur reading <3!

masterlist

“I need a favor.”

You barging into his room along with those three words were enough to break the quiet and cozy atmosphere that your roommate had going on. He was sitting in his gaming chair, with his headphones covering his ears and glasses slightly falling off the bridge of his nose. Jungkook looked startled, with his big, round eyes staring at you as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t, when in reality a loud and violent video game was the only thing playing on his computer screen.

“H-Hi to you too.” His response and his rapid way of blinking let you know that Jungkook was not expecting you to come into his room unannounced, however, there was not a single complaint flying out of his mouth. More often than not, you would invade his personal space with your overenthusiastic self, chatting his ear off about some new gossip from your class that he was not really interested in, but Jungkook being Jungkook could never tell you to shut up, even when it was needed. “What do you need? Is everything okay?”

A pang of guilt spread through your chest by the way he completely abandoned whatever game he was playing to put his undivided attention on you when he noticed how distressed you were; what you were about to ask him was far from being a serious or urgent matter, but rather something that might bring chaos and awkwardness into your friendship. In all honesty, you weren’t even sure why you decided to entertain the idea of asking for Jungkook’s help. All you knew is that Eunbi, your best friend, was very eloquent while suggesting your roommate as a solution for your problem, and while you weren’t exactly desperate, you didn’t want to spend more time thinking of other alternatives either.

So here you were, hoping that the following minutes would remain the same after you inevitably tell Jungkook the truth.

“Y/n…? Is everything alright?” He asked once again, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Yes, right! It is. I just…” A frustrated sigh escaped your lips. “I need a huge favor, but I don’t know how to tell you.”

“You know you can tell me anything, I’m here for whatever you need.” His tender smile made that guilty feeling become stronger.

You tried to find the words to voice the idea running through your mind without making this situation painfully weird, but nothing could really prevent the inevitable awkward silence that was bound to be installed between you two once you put it all out.

The favor and the help you needed was regarding your line of work, something that Jungkook was pretty much aware of, but never fully involved in. Being a creator for adult content, more specifically for only fans, was already hard enough to explain to him when he moved in with you a few years ago, but somehow you managed to make it seem as if it wasn’t a big deal. You thought that it would be a dealbreaker, that Jungkook would run far away from you and never even consider being your roommate when you told him you made content for only fans, however, after a few days, he willingly showed up at your apartment with boxes full of his belongings and a shy smile, telling you that he was ready to live with you.

That memory was the only thing keeping you from running out of his room and hiding inside your own until the embarrassment subsided, instead, it helped you to follow through with your plan and accept the outcome of this, like the confident woman that you were.

However, the long pauses that you were taking to organize your ideas were starting to worry the brown-eyed boy in front of you. He’s never seen you like this before, hesitating and so unsure of yourself. Your confident demeanor would often throw him off, and the way you so surely carried yourself wherever you went was a stark contrast to his shy and awkward way of living, but that’s something Jungkook was used to, that’s how things worked between you two. You were the easygoing, extroverted friend that would strike up a conversation with almost anyone, while he was the quiet, shy and reserved friend that was ready to lend his shoulder if you ever needed a good cry.

But this, the way you were so notoriously nervous and preoccupied was something new for Jungkook, a new side of you that he never thought he would see.

“Listen, Y/n, you don’t have to tell me right now. I’ll help you with anything you need, but if you feel like it’s too much in this moment, you can talk to me about it whenever you’re rea–”

“I need you to help me film a video for my page.”

There, you said it, it was all set in stone, with no way to go back. No backtracking, no regretting, no way to undo it. Your words hung in the air with a heavy weight falling upon you two. If Jungkook was startled when you came into his room, he was completely dumbfounded after listening to what you needed.

“Co-Come again.” It wasn’t the smartest way to ask you to repeat yourself, but it sure fit into the conversation. “I-I mean, are you seriously asking me to do what I think you’re asking?”

He wasn’t stupid, Jungkook was familiar with your work, and while he didn’t consume your content, apart from a few pictures he looked at while scrolling through your page out of curiosity, the boy knew exactly what your deal was. Posting your whole body on the internet for almost anyone to see was the easiest way to describe your job; making videos, taking pictures that left little to the imagination for the people that came across your profile, even going as far as hosting lives to chat with your followers and sometimes cater to their filthy needs. That’s the kind of job you had, the kind of things you were willing to do, and it was crystal clear how comfortable and okay you were with it.

Jungkook had never judged you or questioned what you did for a living, not once in the years he’s known you, mainly out of respect and because it was none of his business, but also because he didn’t want to think or imagine the things you did in front of the camera. Now, however, he might have to, because what you were asking of him was more than what he was expecting from you.

Asking him to cook dinner, fix your laptop or pick up his clothes from the bathroom floor was okay with him, he could do it in a heartbeat, but filming a video for your secret page was something he was not ready for.

“I know it sounds crazy, believe me. I actually thought about this for a few days, but I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I truly didn’t need your help.” You were almost ready to beg him at this point. It has been weeks since the last time you posted a video and the lack of content was starting to upset your followers. There was really no other option. “I swear I’ll try to make it as normal as possible, but I really need you”

She needs me.

Jungkook had to look away from you, the pleading eyes you were sending his way were starting to affect him more than they should have, and while he was usually willing to lend you a helping hand at any moment, this time he really needed some time to think about it.

“I don’t know, Y/n…” He hesitated, taking his glasses off for a brief moment and rubbing his eyes. “I mean, why me? Doesn’t Eunbi usually help you with that stuff?”

“Yeah, she does, but it’s mainly to help me choose an outfit, makeup or the color of the lights. She doesn’t know about cameras like you do. And lately my followers have been complaining about my poor filming skills.” You finally explained your reasons behind it all. “You’re a photography major after all, wouldn’t you know about angles, settings, and all that stuff better than us?”

You took some cautious steps towards your roommate before making him turn around in his chair only for you to sit on his lap. You were aware that it was an unfair strategy to use on him, but desperate times call for desperate measures, don’t they?

A blaring alarm went off inside of Jungkook’s head the moment you became painfully close to him, invading his personal space. Then again, it was not out of the ordinary for you to be touchy-feely with him, but the boy still had a hard time getting used to your overly affectionate demeanor. His hands were eager to lay on the warm skin of your waist and feel your soft flesh against his, nonetheless, he knew better than crossing that line. If Jungkook wanted to maintain his sanity, he needed to remain still for as long as possible.

“Would you be a sweetheart and help me with this, Kookie?

Fuck, not that nickname.

Jungkook melted right on the spot whenever you called him that or any other short variant of his name. He was weak for you and both of you were aware of it.

“I…” It was a hard decision, but how could he say no to you when you were looking at him as if he was your only saviour. “Okay, yes. I’ll help you, but just this time. I will teach you everything you need to know to make your videos better, but next time you’ll be on your own.”

“Oh my god! Thank you, Kook, thank you so much.” Your arms found their way to his neck, engulfing the shy boy into an effusive hug. “I promise I’ll repay you with anything you want.”

“We can figure that out afterwards, don’t worry about it now.” He assured you with a sheepish grin while his hands finally reciprocated the affection by timidly patting your back.

The more you stayed in that position, the more Jungkook wondered if he was really ready to take such a big step into your dynamic, however, there was no way out. You were already counting on him.

What have I gotten myself into?

The following days were spent trying to figure out the logistics and set a schedule that would work for the both of you. Despite what anyone would think, Jungkook was a very busy guy, between his major, work and tutoring lessons he offered three days a week, he had little to no time to hangout with his friends or even watch a movie with you. Therefore, Saturday seemed like the safest option to film the video. Usually Jungkook would play online games with his friends during the weekends as it was the only time he could actually have some free time for himself, but he was willing to sacrifice one day just this time, especially if it was for you.

The boy was in a constant fight or flight mode during those days, overthinking every single minute of his day about how terribly wrong the whole thing could go. He had a plan from A to Z for any unfortunate situation that might occur, only to prevent ruining your friendship any further. Jungkook was so anxious and absorbed in the predicament that he didn’t even notice when Saturday finally arrived.

In a blink of an eye both of you were already making sure that everything was ready to start filming. You would use his professional camera instead of your phone to enhance the quality of the video; he helped you find the perfect spot in your room, void of your personal stuff or anything that could be used to reveal your real identity. He even showed you the angles that you could use to prevent your face from showing but still giving your followers what they wanted. The setting and ambience was perfect, with the perfect amount of lighting and the right color to make the whole moment more enjoyable for your viewers.

“Whenever you’re ready.” His soft voice echoed through the room while you were doing some touch ups to your makeup. Jungkook was doing a good job with keeping a straight face and calm attitude. It was barely impossible to tell how nervous and anxious he was at that precise moment.

“I’m ready.” You stood up from the chair in front of your vanity, and started your way towards the place where you would be filming. It was a corner decorated with a bunch of pillows and a fluffy blanket to make it comfortable for you. “I should take this off now, shouldn’t I?” A nervous giggle escaped your mouth while pointing to your robe.

It would be the first time you would present yourself like this to Jungkook, at least that you were aware of. The boy had already seen more of your body that he would’ve preferred, thanks to his curiosity, however, this time it was different, it wasn’t a simple picture of you in lingerie or with your bare chest showing. It was you in the flesh, quite literally. Naked and ready to put your body under a plethora of sensations he could only think of —he shouldn’t even think about it in all honesty—, along with sounds that up until this moment were only part of his imagination.

“Do-Do you want me to like… turn around?”

It was an innocent and genuine question, yet you couldn’t help but laugh.

“There’s no point. You’ll have to see me to check that the filming is going right, either way.” You waved him off, trying to ease his worries. “It’s okay, don’t read too much into it, you’re only being a good friend and helping me.”

“Sure… a good friend.”

Why does it bother me so much when she calls me that?

Oh, if only he understood.

“Okay, here goes nothing.” In a swift motion you undid the knot of your robe, taking the piece of clothing completely off to show your body covered in the prettiest set of red lingerie that you owned.

Your tits were engulfed by the soft lace of your bra, adorned with a red bow right in the center, drawing more attention to your cleavage. Your panties left little to the imagination; see through lace covering just enough to tease the viewers and make them crave for more of your beautiful body. In hindsight, it wasn’t the sexiest or most elegant set out there, but you liked the way it enhanced your features just the right way to feel comfortable and sexy with your body. And as it turns out, Jungkook thought exactly the same.

The boy could not tear his eyes, covered with his round glasses, away from your figure, taking his time to let the way you presented yourself before him sink in. So bare and vulnerable, yet so sexy and confident. You looked incredibly stunning, beautiful, gorgeous, delectable… words were not enough to describe what he thought of you the moment your robe fell to your feet. However, along with appreciating your body came the realization that helping you film this video would be the hardest task he would ever do.

How can I do this to myself?

“Does it look good?” A very dangerous question, but it was intended to ease the tension already forming in between the two. The longer Jungkook took to answer, the more you wondered if you chose the correct outfit “Should I change?”

“No!” His answer, then, was definitive. “I-I mean, you don’t really need to change, unless you want to. It looks… good, very good on you.” He used one finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

His cheeks turning red was something you could not ignore, it brought a sweet smile to your face.

“Alright then, let’s get this over with!”

A faint fighting came out of your roommate’s mouth while waiting for you to position yourself in front of the camera. The moment you stepped into the comfortable yet sexy set your whole demeanor changed. Your cheerful smile was replaced with a cheeky smirk; your eyes were charged with this sensual energy that made the boy in front of you swallow harshly; your velvety voice was like a siren chant, luring him to step closer and fall into the trap.

Jungkook was mesmerized by the nonchalant way you executed every single movement, as if it was second nature for you, and it sure was. It was part of your routine, part of your lifestyle. The brown-haired man was only now discovering what it was like, but you’ve been under the spotlight for quite some time. Your hands knew perfectly well the path they had to go through to get to the most sensitive parts of your body. Your fingers knew just the right amount of pressure they had to put into your flesh to elicit those sinful sounds. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts, you knew what to do and you loved every single second of it.

Jungkook was entranced by your performance, hands curled into fists to prevent them from acting on their own; cheeks tinted with a rosy color that got lost in the red lights adorning your room. His eyes were glued to your fingers dancing up and down your sides, stealing faint sighs out of you. He had a love-hate reaction to how long you were taking to strip out of your bra. It was sensual, teasing, yet it made the boy fall into a desperate state, eager to see you fully, in all your glory.

“I’ve missed you guys so much.” Your sultry voice sent a shiver down his spine, but the words coming out of your mouth were a cold reminder that he wasn’t there as a viewer but rather as a helper. “It’s been so long since the last time we saw each other.”

A small gasp fell from your lips when you finally pushed down the cups of your bra to display your bare chest. Your hardened nipples were glazed with your saliva after running your wet fingers over them. Little by little you let loose, forgetting that Jungkook was even there, watching you touch yourself and talk to the camera with the most cliche and nasty lines you’ve mastered up until now. Once again, it was part of your routine, and in that routine you needed to have some sort of interaction with your viewers. But truth be told, Jungkook was loving it. He loved how free you looked, and probably felt. He loved how careless you were, how you never hesitated to take a step further and further until you were fully naked, panting and moaning while your fingers graced your inner thighs with a tender touch. He loved it because you were in your element, you were in full control of yourself and body, and that was beyond attractive for him.

“Shit.” A breathy moan elicited from your soft lips when your fingers ran over your folds with a feather-like touch. “I’m so wet.”

Fuck.

Jungkook mentally cursed himself for getting into this situation. It was so hard to watch you in such a lewd way and not be able to get involved. But then again, even thinking of the possibility of being the reason behind your sinful sounds was beyond wrong. You were his friend, his roommate for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t be thinking of you in that way.

He shouldn’t think of how beautiful you’d look under him, writhing and chanting his…

“Jungkook.”

Fuck, yes.

“Jungkook!”

If only I could make her sound like that.

“Kook!! I’m talking to you.”

Your urgent tone snapped him out of his dirty thoughts. His eyes connected with yours, with a disoriented expression as he fixed his glasses.

“Shit, sorry, I just… zoned out for a bit.” He tried to excuse himself, but the way his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence prevented it from sounding sincere. “Wh-What were you saying?”

You chuckled, deciding to ignore his reaction and cutting right to the point.

“I can’t get into it.”

“What do you mean?”

His tilted head and innocent, round eyes made your frustration lessen. The whole time you let your hands run free over your skin you were trying —almost begging, to get in the mood to continue with the video, but as it turned out, you were nowhere near turned on. It was disappointing — after putting so much effort into it and gathering the courage to ask Jungkook for help, you couldn’t even get aroused.

What is wrong with me today?

With a deep sigh, you sat right up and covered your naked skin with the fluffy blanket next to you. “What I mean is that I can’t get in the mood to, you know… do it.”

“I’m not following.” Jungkook shook his head slowly, trying to comprehend the message that you were sending him. “Do you need anything? Are you uncomfortable?”

“No, it’s not that. I just can’t get turned on.” Plain and simple. He surely would get what you were trying to say.

“You mean that you’re not–”

“Oh my god, I’m not wet enough to continue filming!”

A pregnant silence fell into the room. Neither of you dared to move or say a single thing after that. Jungkook was rendered speechless after your confession and you could not even look at his face due to the embarrassment you were experiencing right in that moment. Maybe it was too much information, but then again, you were literally naked in front of him, voicing out your frustrations to the only other person in the room wouldn’t be that bad, would it?

Well, apparently it was, especially because it was not just anyone but Jungkook. The boy who not only had to endure seeing you touch yourself but also had to listen to your ridiculous complaints about not being aroused.

“Bu-But you just… you said you were…” He couldn’t even finish his sentence. “Fuck, I feel so lost right now.”

The brown-eyed boy was so confused, if your facial expressions and sounds were anything to go by, Jungkook could swear on his life that you were enjoying it. Your frustrated reaction and straightforward confession threw him off; how come he was fighting his own instincts and urges to not come right on the spot while you were faking it all along? Maybe it was due to being the first time in such an environment with you. Would your viewers know when you’re not being genuine and that’s why you stopped? Or was he really that clueless to women’s pleasure?

“I was acting.” You confessed. “Sometimes I talk like that to help myself and get in the mood, but clearly today is not working for me.” A dejected groan flew out of your mouth.

“Can I, I don’t know, help you with that?” He shyly asked, “Maybe it’s because I’m here. Perhaps having another person in the room is making it difficult for you, I can leave…”

You shook your head, “No, if anything, your presence is helping me to feel somehow relaxed.” You thought about it for a second, trying to come up with a quick solution. “Maybe we can try something else.”

“What would that be?”

It took you a few seconds to voice your idea, mainly out of fear and nervousness due to how much it could damage your friendship. In all honesty, involving Jungkook in the filming was already damaging and risky enough, but it was still within the limits you mentally established for this situation. What you were about to ask him, however, was beyond those limits.

“Could you step closer?” You waited a few seconds before developing your whole idea. “I mean, could you film me from a closer angle?”

“Would that really help?” He asked in a shaky voice.

“We could try and see.”

And see he did. Jungkook moved from his position behind the camera, trying to get his equipment and himself as close to you as possible —losing a little bit of his sanity in the process— with the utmost caution and respect. He didn’t want to overstep the boundaries that were established before starting filming, he also didn’t want to do a wrong movement and throw everything to waste. Jeon had the opportunity to see your body from a closer perspective, and albeit unsure, he managed to keep calm and resume his work.

“Is this okay?” Your roommate asked, angling the camera to focus solely on the space between your legs, right where your fingers wished to disappear in. “Tell me if it becomes too much, okay?”

“Will do.”

After listening to your words of approval and making sure you felt comfortable with the new position, Jungkook continued filming you and every single movement you did. It was hypnotizing how you so confidently went back to your previous endeavors to get you in the mood. Your noises sounded sexier, your breathing was heavier, your eyes were closed tighter than before, willing yourself to enjoy the moment thoroughly and push back the feeling of being so exposed to the only man you swore would never see you like this.

Jungkook tried to stay calm and collected, cool and relaxed, even when he felt the air getting stuck in his throat when he watched your fingers dive into your warm walls through the lenses of the camera.

“Fuck…” He breathed out without realizing. The boy was quick to cover his mouth with his hand when he noticed your quizzical look. “Sorry.” Jungkook mouthed and focused on his work as the cameraman.

You continued with your ministrations, ignoring the heat in your cheeks that wasn’t exactly due to finally getting worked up from your touches. Your fingers moved in and out of your cunt, slowly and carefully, as if you were calculating what you were going to do next. A faint moan fell from your lips, eliciting a raspy groan from the boy in front of you.

Right in that moment you noticed how aggravated Jungkook was. Eyes shining in the dark like a pair of beautiful stars but with a glint of lust covering them along with his glasses; lips parted, letting out his heavy breath and small sighs. His hands were twitching at his sides, eager to move and, most likely, to touch what he was not even allowed to taste.

Maybe this was more than he could handle, maybe you shouldn’t have asked him to help you with this video, perhaps this was already creating a dent in your friendship that you were nowhere close to know how to fix, but the way he was looking at you was nothing you had ever seen before, at least not from him. There was hunger, need and desperation mixed in his hard glare, and as much as you wanted to deny and ignore it, his reaction was doing wonders on you. And so a new idea was installed in your mind. Your friendship was already beyond salvation, how bad would it be to make a last request?

“Kook…” You breathed out, “I need you.”

It was so subtle, so fleeting the smugness that covered his face that you barely noticed. His eyes widened and his lips moved like that of a fish trying to survive out of the water, he didn’t know what to do, much less what to say.

“Me?” He whispered, completely clueless of the effect he was having on you in that moment. You nodded, fingers stilling in between your legs. “Wh-What do you mean?”

You sat up, stopping the filming once again. “Exactly what I said, I need you… I-I need your help with something else. You can say no, but… I would be forever grateful to you if you said yes.”

Jungkook was putting to use his 128 IQ score to try and understand what you were hinting at, but none the wiser, he needed the words spelled out to him to get your idea. And so, as softly as possible, you explained what your need was actually about. You noticed the way his body reacted to you and the show you were putting on for your viewers but more specifically for him; it was painfully obvious how much he desired you, and in all honesty, you weren’t any better.

Ever since you two started living together, you swore that you wouldn’t act on the small and silly crush you developed for him after meeting for the first time. It was just a silly attraction that wasn’t worth the hassle of getting involved with your roommate; his built body and big biceps drove you crazy, and you couldn’t turn a blind eye to the intricate tattoos adorning his arm, which was such a stark contrast to the type of man he made himself out to be; the lip ring shining from his mouth was so painfully enticing, and more often than not, you found yourself wondering what it would feel like against your lips while kissing the life out of him. And God bless the person that gets you started on how much you loved those black rimmed glasses that adorned his eyes almost 24/7, giving him a geeky look that would never fail to make you weak in the knees. But all of those features, as well as the lewd scenarios conquering your mind minutes before going to sleep, had made it difficult for you to stay in your lane all this time. Tonight, however, might be your one and only chance to turn your dirty dreams into reality, only and only if Jungkook agreed to your idea.

“I don’t want this to ruin our friendship.” He murmured, looking down at the floor and avoiding your hopeful eyes glaring at him. You reached out for him, your soft hands coming in contact with his covered thighs while you kneeled in front of him. “Y/n… don’t do this to me.” His whole body stiffened, fighting the urge to jump your bones and turn you into a crying mess just like he always imagined.

“You don’t want me like that, Kookie?” You so innocently asked, lashes fluttering against your cheekbones. “Is that the real problem, hm?” Your hands were sliding up and down his thighs, teasing him.

“God, no.” He answered breathlessly, “You have no fucking idea how bad I want you…”

“Then why don’t you show me? What’s stopping you, hm?” Your cheek resting on his jean-covered thigh elicited a soft gasp from your roommate. “It's just a small favor.”

“I… fuck, you’re driving me crazy right now.” He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends while letting out a frustrated groan. Jungkook took off his glasses while rubbing his eyes before looking at you again. “You have to promise… you really have to promise that it will be a one-time thing. No more favors after this, at least not of this caliber.”

You nodded eagerly, looking at him with a spark in your eyes. “I promise, just this time.”

“Okay,” Jungkook nodded, “I’ll help you with anything you need.” One of his hands, albeit shakily, reached out to push away a strand of hair falling into your face.

With a wide grin you pull his hand to get him closer to you. It was a bit hard to get his face and the majority of his body out of frame, but both of you managed. Jungkook sat behind you, with his built back leaning on the soft pillows while yours was resting on his firm chest. Both of his strong arms wrapped around your body while his hesitant hands touched your skin lightly.

In all honesty he didn’t know what to do, it felt unreal to be this close to you, especially under those conditions. Jeon was trying so hard to figure out what to do next that the tension conquering his body was noticed by you.

“Relax, Kook, do what you would do with any other girl.” You tried to reassure him while softly stroking his forearm, but the silence in between you two was making you feel uneasy. “You’ve done this before, right?”

Should he answer honestly? The short answer would be yes, he’s done it before; the long one though, would be that he only did it once when he lost his virginity at a random party his friends at the time invited him to. Jungkook couldn’t even remember the name of the girl or how she looked, all he could recall from that time was the awkwardness and how short it lasted. Jeon wasn’t sure that he could live up to your expectations, and while he was not clueless to how it worked, he doubted his performance would be as amazing as that of all your previous sexual partners, which caused part of his nervousness.

He was reading too much into it whereas you were starting to feel desperate and needy. You had the boy of your dreams right behind you with his hands very close to the place that was basically begging to be touched, but not much has happened. It was a bit disappointing how long it was taking him to act, but you also understood that it might not be an easy task to do, especially if it was your roommate doing it.

“Let’s go with an easy start, okay? I’ll lead.” Your hands reached out for his, guiding his right hand towards one of your tits. “You can explore my body as much as you want, don’t be afraid to touch.” And just as if you were reading his mind, you added, “Don’t think too much about it, I won’t be mad if this doesn’t go as planned.”

“Okay.” With a deep sigh he let his fingers feel your skin up, touching, caressing, pinching even.

His slender fingers wrapped around one of your already hardened nipples, toying with it, which elicited a soft gasp from you. His other hand slowly reached for your other tit, trying to stimulate both at the same time.

“Yes… like that, Kook.” Your praising words were helping him to build up his confidence. The more you praised him, the more adventurous he got, letting his hands explore the entirety of your body.

After a few more minutes of playing with your boobs, his hands finally started to drift south, with feather-like touches here and there before reaching your tender thighs. His big hands looked very attractive against your flesh, like the prettiest accessory. The one that was cladded with a bunch of tattoos started to descend more and more, landing small smacks on your inner thigh.

“Oh…” you breathed out, a bit surprised by the sudden move.

“Sorry, should I not have done that?” Jungkook asked, retrieving both of his hands.

“No, no, no!” You pulled them right back where they were placed before. “Please continue… I really liked what you were doing.”

“Okay.”

With a more confident attitude, Jungkook started to touch your thighs, kneading your skin while his hot breath was hitting the back of your neck. In all honesty, it all felt surreal, you never thought that a moment like this would ever happen, that you would have the same boy that you had fantasized about many times before touching you and willing to please you.

“You can use more than your hands, you know?” You whispered softly, closing your eyes due to how good everything was feeling.

“Are you sure?” He murmured really close to your ear, sending shivers through your body. You hummed in response, leaning more and more into his touch. “So, it would be okay if I do this.” His lips graced your neck with a faint kiss, eliciting a small gasp from you. “Or this,” a firmer kiss was placed right under your ear, Jungkook’s lips moving skillfully. “And since I’m at it, you surely wouldn’t mind me doing this,” His teeth sank into your skin suddenly. “Right?”

“Shit…” You moaned out loud, “N-No, I… I don’t mind, at all.”

A husky chuckle erupted from his throat, “Good.” His hands kept moving in between your legs, now finally reaching your needy cunt. “Are you sure you want me to do anything I want to you, Y/n?” You once again hummed, unable to properly answer due to his touches. “I think I might need to hear you say it, before I go any further.”

If he was trying to get your consent or just teasing you, you didn’t know, but you were sure of one thing, you needed to feel any part of him inside of you. Now.

“Fuck, yes, I’m completely sure, don’t make me wait anymore, please.”

It was the please added at the end that really did it for him, the way your needy and desperate voice echoed through the room was enough for Jungkook to give you what you wanted.

He finally pushed one of his fingers inside your velvety walls, slowly sliding in and out with enough easiness that got you wondering just then how wet you were before he started touching you. Your whole body squirmed, reacting at how great it felt to be touched like that. Curses, moans and gasps were falling from your lips, creating the most sensual cacophony.

“You like that?” His husky voice rang through your ears, earning an effusive nod from you, “You like that I’m touching you like this, hm?” You could feel the smug smile against your skin, right under your earlobe, “Maybe I should try harder, since you’re not answering to me.” With no further warning, Jungkook added a second finger, stretching you out deliciously. He picked up his pace as well, pushing in and out with such vigor that got you sinking your nails into your palms.

“Oh my god!” You breathed out.

Where was this sudden change in attitude coming from? Not a minute ago he was acting shy and reserved, as if he had never touched a woman before, as if he didn’t have it in him to wreck you in the way you wanted. But now, that whole act was left behind and there seemed to be no trace of the innocent and nerdy Jungkook you thought you knew, only this suddenly confident and teasing boy, ready to make you fall apart on his fingers.

“That’s not quite the answer I’m looking for.” Jeon goaded you on to the response he wanted from you. “Come on, pretty, tell me how much you like it.”

“Fuck…” You cursed out loud, “I-I can’t.”

It was difficult for you to concentrate on gathering the words that your roommate wished to hear due to his fingers moving deliciously inside of you. He was hitting the right spots with his long and slender digits, over and over again to the point that tears were pooling in the corner of your eyes.

“Hm, and why is that?” Jungkook questioned with feigned innocence in his voice. “Is it really that difficult for you to speak?”

You nodded desperately, looking into his eyes right through those slutty glasses you adored so much. “I can’t… I-I can’t con… centrate.” You finally admitted.

A mocking chuckle flew out of his mouth, his fingers never relenting, “Poor little you.”

“Ah, fuck, Kook.” Your sounds were becoming dirtier, needier, more naughty and desperate as the familiar hot sensation started to invade your body. You knew your release was coming with such rapidness and ease.

It was astonishing how Jungkook could so effortlessly get you to your breaking point, when it took you several minutes to even get aroused. You wanted to believe that it was all due to your previous touching, but deep down you knew that doing it on your own would never get you the pleasure you were experimenting in that moment.

“Shit, you’re squeezing my fingers so much.” He pointed out, struggling to move thanks to the firm grip your walls had on his digits. “So tight and warm.”

If only he knew that his way of talking was only contributing to your forthcoming release. Your eyes could not look away from his face. His hard features and the way his lustful orbs were looking right down at you got you in a trance, one that you didn’t want to get out. The faint smirk on the corner of his lips, along with the lip ring were once again taunting you, tempting you; threatening you with a good time, and just as you were about to reach and find out if your assumptions were correct, Jungkook leaned down and captured your lips in a harsh kiss.

Kissing you for the first time was life-changing, or so he would say, because despite all the girls –only a few actually– he has ever kissed or been intimate with, Jungkook has never felt like this with any of them, so addicted, so eager to taste more of you; craving you in ways that he probably shouldn’t.Your lips were so soft and sweet, and it was right in that moment that he realized that it would be a living hell to go back to normal after getting a taste of you. The way your mouth was chasing after him when he pulled away briefly due to running out of air, it drove him crazy, making him feel light in the head. Being able to see that look in your face as your orgasm was approaching, while your puffy, red lips were begging him to kiss you more was, in fact, something that Jungkook would never forget.

Kissing Jungkook for the first time felt exactly like you imagined, dangerous and messy. It was dangerous because it was right in that moment that you realized that there was no way to go back to your normal routine after this; it wasn’t only because of the intimate act that you both decided to engage in, but because there was no way in hell that you would let him go on with his life without having him like that again. Your previous words became an empty promise the more his lips devoured yours, kissing and biting as if his life depended on it. The coldness of his lip ring was making you shudder and chase for more; you finally got an answer to your question: it felt amazing while kissing. On the other hand, it was messy due to the both of you being so eager to feel more of one another; saliva coating your lips while his tongue finally made an appearance inside your mouth, making you squirm and fight the urge to burst right in that moment.

“I’m so close.” You announced against his lips, panting ridiculously loud.

“You’re gonna come for me, baby?” It was so strange to hear him talk to you like that, using pet names and saying things that Jungkook would never even think of saying in any other situation. “Wanna come on my fingers, hm?”

“Yes, yes, please.” The begging and whiny voice almost made him come in his pants, but Jeon managed to maintain his composure.

“Go on, let go, baby, but keep those pretty eyes on me.” Jungkook’s free hand came up to lay right under your jaw, squeezing lightly but firmly enough to keep you in place. You didn’t have to be told twice, the moment his hand came in contact with your hot skin you felt the waves of your orgasm crash over you. “That’s it… you’re doing so good.”

Fuck, if only he could talk to you like that all the time.

“Oh my god, Jungkook!” You moaned, closing your thighs tightly, capturing his hand in between your legs. “Shit, it feels… so good.”

“I know, doll, I know.”

Not once did your eyes look away from him, not even when the tears started to spill down your face like the most beautiful raindrops, all due to the overwhelming feeling or your orgasm. You couldn’t even grasp the fact that you just came on Jungkook’s fingers, or that your body was shaking uncontrollably while his hand kept moving rather slowly, going from sliding up and down your soaked folds to rubbing your swollen clit. Even in your post-orgasmic state you recognized that one was not enough; as good as his fingers were, you needed more of him. It was more a want than a need, but you couldn’t finish the day without knowing what his cock felt like inside of you.

Craving.

That’s the best way you could describe this feeling; you were craving his body on top of yours, even under, sideways, it didn’t matter, but you had to have more, even if it was just for the night. Even if it would leave a burning memory in your brain to fantasize about in the solitude of your room, when your hands were the only solace for your lewd desires and obscene scenarios playing in your head.

And so, letting the wild side of you speak, you uttered a sentence that was bound to change the whole course of your friendship.

“Jungkook…” You called for him, getting his attention right back on your face rather than in the space in between your legs. After listening to his humming you added “I want you to fuck me.”

His hand came to a halt, fingers not moving an inch, completely frozen in place. His brown eyes were now coated with a glint of fear and uneasiness. Jungkook had been taken by surprise a lot during the day, but right there in that moment, with you eagerly waiting for his response while looking at him with perfect innocent eyes, it had to be the most unexpected thing that could have happened to him.

A deep silence fell in the room once again, with Jungkook quickly retrieving his hands from your body. It took him several minutes to come up with something to say, something that wasn’t pure stuttering and nonsense coming out of his mouth.

“I-I beg your pardon?” His feeble voice rang through your ears due to the proximity, otherwise you wouldn’t have heard him. “I don’t think you understand what you’re asking me.”

You sat up straight, turning in your place to be face to face with Jungkook. “I’m fully aware that what I’m asking of you might be too much, but I honestly can’t ignore how much I want you, Kook.” You leaned forward, straddling his hips and resting both of your hands on his shoulders. “I thought you liked this too.”

It was funny how minutes ago he was completely into you, adamant on making you come and talking with his sultry voice until you fell apart on his fingers and now he was back to his shy and reserved persona; stuttering while trying to gather his thoughts. There were two sides of Jungkook as it seems. One was simply Jungkook, the co-founder of a comic club at your local library; the boy that spent a whole night trying to recover a document you foolishly deleted the night before you had to submit it. Jungkook who always pulled you close whenever you walked near a group of guys whose eyes were glued to your legs, and the one that didn’t hesitate to go and buy you a bunch of snacks as a way of comfort when a date you were so excited to go on went terribly wrong. That was the Jungkook you knew and adored, the one that was ready to do anything for you, being at your beck and call, but that also would get upset if you interrupted him while watching his favorite show.

And then, there was Jeon Jungkook, the boy that rocked your entire world with a few touches. The boy that spoke to you in such a sensual voice with the craziest sentences that you would never imagine him uttering. The Jungkook that called you baby, doll, pretty and kissed you so passionately that you almost forgot your name. The same man that unexpectedly acted with confidence, sure of himself and what he was doing, moving his skillful fingers in and out of your cunt with an ease that left you beyond surprised. There was the side of Jungkook that you didn’t know, and that was exactly why you needed to have more of him.

“It’ll be just this time, remember? Why not go all the way out and have a little fun yourself?” You reiterated your previous promise, even though you knew it was far from being the last time having each other like this. Without thinking too much about it, you started to grind your soaked cunt on top of his crotch; hips moving slowly to rub deliciously on top of him. “So what do you say, hm?”

You could see his self-control starting to crumble the more you rubbed yourself on him. His hardening cock felt wonderful under your hot pussy, along with the rough material of his jeans, because yes, he’s the type of guy to wear jeans while being home, even if he wasn’t expecting anyone to visit him.

You were getting too lost in the sensation, in the way Jungkook was fighting against his own moans escaping his lips or his hips thrusting up into you that you were startled by the weight of his hands on your hips, stilling you in place and preventing you from moving any further.

“I say,” He began with a husky tone, “that you’re making it really difficult to be nice to you.”

Those words caused a shit-eating grin to appear on your face, and with the most seductive voice you could muster you said “I didn’t ask you to be nice to me.” Leaning in closer to his ear you added “I asked you to fuck me… as hard as you possibly can.”

A hiss abandoned his lips while Jungkook’s hands squeezed your hips deliciously tight.

“Is that what you really want, hm? For me to fuck you senseless.” One of his hands weaved through your hair, pulling you away with enough strength to get you to look right into his eyes. “Didn’t think you would be that desperate.” A mocking chuckle echoed through your four walls, bouncing on every corner and back to your warm ears.

“You clearly don’t know everything about me.” You said through gritted teeth, the harsh grip he had on your hair was hurting you in the right way, making you wetter by the second. “Please say yes… I need you so bad, baby.”

It was the first time you called him that, and Jungkook would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy listening to your sweet voice saying it. He retrieved his hand from your hair, changing his direction to rest his thumb right onto your bottom lip.

“I did promise I would help you with anything you needed, didn’t I?” A playful smirk adorned the corner of his mouth.

“That you did,” You pointed out. “And now you have to keep your promise.”

“Alright, alright. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m not a man of my word.” Jungkook sighed. “But you have to be good, okay? You gotta be good for me.” His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, ever so slightly, making it bounce right into place after playing with it.

An electrifying rush went down your spine by the way his voice tone changed so quickly. Once again, there was no trace of his shy demeanor as it seemed to blend into this smug attitude growing slowly inside of him. A lazy smile took place on his face while his hand continued to caress your tender skin.

“You’re gonna be my good girl, hm? Do exactly as I say?”

A moan flew out of your mouth, not expecting him to say it so confidently. You nodded effusively, though, wanting nothing more than to follow whatever order he had for you.

Hot cute, he thought, admiring the way you were so eager to agree to anything he said.

“I need you to say it, Y/n. Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I’ll be good, I’ll do anything you ask me to.”

“Alright then, let’s see how much you can handle.”

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