forthelorewick

[forthelorewick]

Another one couldn’t hurt… right?

Daddy Joel but not in that way

WC 7.8k - Warnings/content: no outbreak!au, domestic fluff, established relationship (Joel and reader are married), husband!joel x wife!reader, some physical descriptions, results of childbearing, mentions of pregnancy, unprotected p-in-v, oral sex (f receiving), breeding kink (even if your eyes are wide open, you don’t need to squint), age gap relationship, reader is 32 & Joel is 46 (met at 19 and 33),

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

You and Joel decide to take your kids for ice cream on a restless night.

Usually the kids were in bed by 9:00pm, but for some reason, the house was wide awake on this particular Saturday night.

Even you and Joel, who usually hoped to be in bed at 10pm since you both like waking up early and enjoying a quiet early morning together.

Your son, who is currently in his “obsessed with daddy” phase (you wonder if any of them would truly grow out of that, seeing as your now 6 year old daughter still favors him over you…. traitors) clings to Joel’s legs as he plays with them, trying to wear off all of the sugar they just consumed.

You watch from the picnic table outside the ice cream shop which happens to stay open until midnight, watching your kids play in the grass. They’re running around and throwing themselves at Joel, who catches them and rough houses with them.

You see him glance over to you as he’s now perched on all fours, his chest heaving from the exertion of playing with energetic kids, the two youngins take this opportunity of distraction to jump on his back. You hear a “humph” of strain from the man who still hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. He smiles that devilish smile, the one you know all too well. The one that made three kids to begin with. You roll your eyes and absent-mindedly bite your lip as your youngest watches her oldest siblings from your lap.

You shake your head as he stands up, sliding the two wily children off of him, and motions the two of you over to join the chaos, your son and daughter his biggest cheerleaders in his endeavor. You set your toddler down gently as she wiggles in defiance, attempting to escape your grasp. She makes a mad dash for it (as fast as a thirty-two month old can realistically dash…) and you chuckle, following her over to the grass.

“How’s daddy doing over here with these menaces?”

“I’m not a menace!” Your son says as he grabs Joel’s legs, attempting to take them out from beneath him.

“No?” You hear giggles erupt from your children. They had now somehow managed to get your husband to the ground, and were stubbornly sitting on his back again.

You tsk your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“I’m fine…” Joel grumbles from beneath them, sighing in faux defeat before glancing back up at you and smirking. He’s recruiting you to help ‘get them off me’, his big, brown eyes plead.

You get into character immediately, the infamous lion they call “mommy” emerges as she grabs each youngling and drags them back to her cave which is just a separate patch of grass,“You’re mine now, what will you do!”

They plead for daddy, whilst giggling infectiously. Your youngest reaches her hands up for her dad who is watching with his hands on his hips and a wide grin. “Alright, c’mon…” he leans down to pick her up and extends a hand to help you up off of the ground.

The giggles begin dying down but your son keeps randomly getting bursts of the giggles… and that’s how you know you successfully wore them out.

“Let’s get you little cubs home.”

You look over to Joel whose eyes are already on you, he gently motions his head to your youngest who is already snoozing against his shoulder as he carries her back to the car. Your four and six year old have managed to climb into the car and you give each of them a kiss on their cheek as you buckle them up in their car seats. “You and daddy are always fun…” your oldest daughter grumbles sleepily.

“Well, we’ve got some fun kiddos like you to keep us young.”

She smiles at this and nods gently, “I’m ready for bed now, mommy.”

“So am I, sweet pea, let’s get home.”

Joel patiently waits in the driver’s seat after getting the youngest into her car seat. You climb into the passenger's seat and let out a sigh. “Wore me out…” you lean your head against the headrest and look over to Joel.

He raises a singular eyebrow “too worn out?”

You shake your head lightly, “I could be persuaded otherwise.”

His hand meets your thigh, squeezing it firmly then sliding it higher and higher… “you’re such a good mama.” His thumb trails circles on your thigh, you hum contentedly at his gentle and soothing touch.

“You’re a wonderful daddy,” and he should know how much you adore him. How much you know his true calling is being a dad to the three munchkins now sleeping in their car seats.

“Can I have another one?”

Your jaw slightly opens in disbelief, “Seriously? Four? Could we even handle that?”

“I mean don’t you like the intervals? Two, four, six….” he tilts his head and a sly smile spreads on his face…. “we’re due for another.”

You playfully swat at his arm. “I’d be forty-six when the last one even reaches high school.”

You watch as Joel calculates the numbers and his eyes light up as he looks back at you briefly with a shimmer of mischievousness appearing in them. “Is that a yes?”

You roll your eyes.

“How about once we potty train little miss Ellie and we can… discuss it,” you knew she was getting close to being fully potty trained. She was rounding nearer to her third birthday and it had been pretty smooth sailing. You wanted to make sure no regression would happen if you and Joel decided to have another. That is why you spaced them out in the first place, even if it was only two years between.

“Whatever you want to do, baby… I can deal without too.” He crooks his finger and motions for you to lean closer so the kids can’t hear what he’s about to say. “Just want to see your tight, sexy pregnant body one more time… it will be the last time, I promise.”

Your face flushes red, reminiscing on the absolute ferality that emerges from Joel when he sees the evidence of the seed he planted deep within you take root and bloom. “You said that last time…” you scold, reaching your hand behind his head, your fingernails finding his scalp, scratching and massaging his head just how he likes it.

You hear a groan of approval and appreciation, quiet enough so they kids can’t hear, but loud enough that you could as you lean in closer.

“I think you’re warming up to my idea, aren’t ya.. I’ll take good care of ya, promise.”

And he does take such good care of you, especially when you’re pregnant… catering to your cravings, your insecurities, even helping you exercise since you can’t stand the recovery your body had to go through with your first one. Now that was a rough pregnancy, and the first usually is.

The other two had been seemingly a breeze in comparison. No tears and no leftover scars, the other natural changes you thought were truly beautiful. Stretch marks, a little bit of loose skin that has slowly been going away as you continue exercising, but you know it will never truly be gone. No one told you how strong your arms, thighs, and back would get, you have pretty defined muscles in those areas due to lugging around children and whatever they came with to their different activities and outings. Even your calves looked crazy to you, like you had gone back to your youthful soccer days.

But you still felt insecure about your body, even whilst knowing the reality of “bouncing back” is a misogynist view on childbearing completely… you wish you hadn’t gained the last twenty pounds, even though they do look good on you.

They filled in your breasts and ass, and Joel… well, he surely had no complaints. Evidence of bearing his children and being a realistic mama who was able to bounce back into shape out of necessity for your job and for the energetic kids who now outnumbered you.

You had been a small thing, really, compared to him at least… he had found that sexy as hell too. Meeting a young thing like you so independent and sure of yourself. Melting him and wrapping him around your finger in a way he had never intended but had no regrets. Your preference for older men was rooted in your need for someone who could hold their own against you, who could handle your spitfire mouth, your need for emotional, mental, and physical enrichment. Could handle the fact that you made more money than he did, that you had the ambition that could drive you endlessly.

He had enjoyed your youth and your energy being solely reserved for him and for the first four years of marriage– until you decided you were ready to grow your family, to expand the love you shared for each other into raising children. Pregnancy really did look good on you in every regard. Even in its rougher moments. Being a mom looked even better on you in Joel’s opinions. Even, especially, in its rough moments. Your ability to handle yourself, yet asking for help when you needed it was so fucking sexy to him.

“Just get me home, daddy,” you never said that word in any way but referring to him in front of the kids, or in the context of making him one… you watched as he shifted in the driver's seat, his pants tightening at your words.

He pulls into the driveway a few moments later, his grip causing his knuckles to turn white as he opens the garage door, pulls the car in, and hastily, yet as calmly as he can as to not rouse the children… begins to unbuckle them to take them to their beds. The faster they’re settled, the faster you two can get some much needed alone time.

“Goodnight my little gremlins, sweet dreams,” you heard him from outside their room. The house was large enough for them to have their own rooms when they wanted them, but even your oldest insisted it helped her sleep knowing her siblings were right there where she could hear and see them.

You think she might have a little bit of anxiety, especially since she was the only child who had experienced a death in the family, at least one that she could semi-understand.

Joel’s mother passed away when Sarah was four, she was curious and incredibly empathetic of her daddy who was visibly distraught and mourning the loss. She didn’t quite understand it, how could she? It was confusing to such a young child, going to a funeral and seeing her grandmother who smelled of warmth and cookies… suddenly cold and in a box. It felt almost cruel to bring her, hoping to distract her with the snacks and treats they had provided the family in the back room.

You didn’t want to shield her from reality, that wasn’t the point, but it wasn’t right to force her into processing death when she was just beginning to process life. Artie had only been two at the time, and though you don’t want to discredit his experience as a baby observing the world— you knew he didn’t process it like Sarah did. And you had been pregnant with Ellie, it felt wrong to receive “congratulations” from relatives you rarely saw or had any real acquaintance with. Celebrating new life and the life of a loved one who had passed on simultaneously.

Regardless, Sarah liked keeping her younger siblings under close supervision, and it warmed your heart to know how close she and her siblings were. What would you not give to have a relationship like that with your siblings? And well, Joel and Tommy, as strained as their relationship got at certain points, they had grown up and were as thick as thieves at this point. Tommy, still the trouble maker, but had redirected his tendency for trouble into kid-friendly mischief and your kids adored him for it.

But it wasn’t his brother on your mind right now, it was the ever-capable, supportive, nurturing, and patient brother whom you had fallen in love with. The strong, broad, and stern man who made your legs weak as you watched his tenderness with your little ones.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him lay your oldest down gently in her “big girl bed”, you can’t help the smile that spreads on your face. You’re sure the term to describe the way you looked at him was ‘dreamy’, wondering how the hell you got so lucky.

He gives each kid a kiss on the forehead and makes sure the nanny cam is on, every night…

As he turns to leave, he catches you staring, he always does, and that cocky smirk of his shows up right on cue.

He quirks an eyebrow then raises them playfully, his hands find your hips as he pushes you backwards, and briefly turns back around to close the door to their room gently, leaving you alone again, finally.

“Think we tired ‘em out, they’re out cold” his voice is low and suggestive, his eyes never leaving yours as his hands grip your waist tighter, your back meeting the wall opposite of their door.

You feel his hot breath on your cheek as he gently presses his lips to it.

“I love you,” he presses kisses down your chin and to your jaw, then proceeds to nuzzle his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. His arms wrap tightly around you.

Your fingers run through his hair, the soft, grey curls at the back of his neck were one of your very favorite things in this whole world.

He hums at the sensation, contentedly remaining where he was in the crook of your neck, you press a kiss to his temple.

“You seem tired, baby,” you say softly, your hands cupping his face and bringing him up to where you could see his eyes.

He smiles sleepily, “No ‘m not.” It was the least convincing denial you’d ever heard.

His eyes are searching yours, the sparkle of adoration so visible in those big brown eyes of his. So soft, so perfect.

“Okay, big brown eyes, let’s go to bed,” those same eyes light up and he complies, allowing you to lead him to the master bedroom.

He gently leads you to the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you as you collapse onto it together. He peppers kisses wherever he can reach, causing you to giggle infectiously. “Baby…” he croons, his arms loosening as his arms start to wander. His fingertips finding the hem of your sweatshirt and slowly… slowly tracing the waistband of your shorts.

You can’t help the little sounds you make as soon as he touches you. It’s an involuntary response that he just adores. His touch is an aphrodisiac to you. Intentionally or not, he melts you.

“Just a… a practice round, yeah?” And those doey eyes looking up at you send a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs, “Please, darlin… I’ll be real good, promise.”

God, and the way he begs. Your hands find his hair and your fingers run through his beautiful greying hair. You pull him to you, his eyes searching yours with that grin pulling at his lips.

“Need to hear ya, baby… you too tired?”

You shake your head, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as he settles between your legs, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your lower belly, causing you to shiver. His eyes enraptured with the sight of his skin against yours.

“Not too tired.” You finally say, perfectly content just watching him.

“What’d’ya say, darlin, wanna get out of these?” His fingers hook under the waistband of your shorts and you nod your head in encouragement, lifting your hips in order for him to slide them down and off your legs.

“Look at’cha… what a mess f’me.” His eyes scan over you as his fingers smooth over the smooth skin of your thighs, humming as he touches you.

He always makes you feel so beautiful.

“Joel, please.”

“Somethin’ ya need, sweetheart? Just enjoyin’ the view.” He leans his head down and presses a kiss to your navel causing you to shudder beneath him. He groans at that, pressing a longer, messier kiss to your hipbone, flattening his tongue against your skin and dragging upwards from your hip.

“Get up here,” your hands cup his face and you’re dragging him up your body. You pull him against you, lips crashing against yours and you groan in satisfaction. His tongue sliding out to open you up for him. You happily oblige, humming contentedly as one hand grips your hip, the other sliding beneath your sweatshirt. You can feel the tension through the denim pressed against your inner thigh and you can’t help but arch into the sensation, but his grip on your hip keeps you flat against the bed.

“I’ll get there, y’know I’ve gotta get’cha ready first, darlin’.” And with that… his hand is trailing down from your hipbone and pushing your legs wider… the back of his fingers teasing up the softness of your inner thigh.

He shimmies down, and looks up at you before dragging his eyes over your spread legs for him.

“Take off your shirt, let me see you…”

You quickly do as he says, sliding off your sweatshirt and your sports bra you had on beneath it.

His eyes immediately drinking you in, his head dipping down to press kisses to your skin again, trailing them up… and up… until he reaches the taut peaks of your nipples, his tongue flicking out to tease them, then gently biting down on one, your body arches into him, unable to help the gasp that rips from your throat.

“Jesus, Joel—” You whisper it like a confession, one hand threading into his hair as he lavishes your breast with his mouth, greedy and unhurried like he’s got nowhere else to be.

He hums low against your chest, dragging his tongue across your nipple before kissing lower. Down your ribs, your belly, every inch of skin he can reach with lips and teeth. You swear he’s trying to devour you in pieces, like if he takes his time, he won’t lose control too fast.

“You’re always so soft here,” he murmurs against the dip of your stomach, hand smoothing over your hip. “Drives me fuckin’ crazy.”

And then he’s settled between your thighs again, pressing a kiss right over your clit before dragging his tongue slowly and deliberately between your folds. You gasp, hips twitching, but he pins you easily with a hand splayed across your belly. His hands are so big compared to you…. covering almost your entire torso below your breasts.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmurs. “Lemme take my time.”

He moans at your taste, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring it. Then he dives back in, tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles before flattening against your clit. Your back arches into him, chasing that sensation, but his grip was firm in keeping you flat against the mattress.

“Joel, fuck…” Your voice breaks as your hand fists in the sheets, the sensation already too much and not enough all at once,

He grunts against you, tongue fucking into your entrance before he pulls back and slides two fingers in deep and slow, like he’s prepping you for something bigger. Which he most certainly was.

“Gotta get you ready,” he mutters, almost to himself, curling his fingers just right as his mouth finds your clit again. “Get this sweet pussy nice and open f’me. Gotta get you good and full tonight.”

You whimper, thighs starting to shake around his head. He feels it, hears it, and doubles down, licking and sucking, practically wringing the orgasm out of you by force. Like he needs it, needs to taste you fall apart before he lets himself have you.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he growls against you, tongue relentless. “I know you’re close. Wanna feel you cum all over my tongue.”

Your whole body tightens, your orgasm crests so fast you barely have time to warn him before it crashes down on you—loud, breathless, soaking.

He groans as you cum, lapping at everything you give him, not stopping even when you’re shaking and whimpering from overstimulation.

Finally, he pulls back, face wet and eyes heavy. His fingers slide out of you slow, gently, and he presses a kiss to your thigh.

“Always so fucked-out just by my tongue…” When he crawls back up your body, you can feel him, hard and hot through his jeans, practically throbbing against your skin.

He’s breathing heavy, mouth slick, eyes wild. He looks at you like he wants to ruin you and worship you in the same breath.

“You’re mine,” he mutters, like it’s a warning. Like it’s the only truth he knows. He presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours as he pants. “You hear me, baby? Mine. Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

You nod in agreement, dazed, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. “Yours. Always.”

That does something to him. He growls low in his throat, almost like he hurts with it, grinding his denim covered erection against your thigh. His hands are frantic now, undoing his belt, dragging his jeans down and stepping off of the bed just enough so he could drag his shirt over his head and kick his jeans off. He crawls back over you, his cock thick and heavy against you, already leaking. He hisses as he rubs the head through your slick folds, not pushing in yet, just teasing, watching how you twitch for it.

“Joel, please,” you whimper, trying to lift your hips. But he pushes you flat again, one hand splayed over your lower belly, right where he’s planning on making his seed stick… right where he’ll watch another baby of his grow inside you.

His grin is dark, his eyes filled with adoration and affection, his voice dripping with possession. “C’mon, baby, lemme hear it. Tell me you want me to fuck a baby into you.”

“Please, give me another baby…”

Satisfied with your plea, he drives into you in one smooth, brutal thrust, forcing a sob from your throat as he fills you to the hilt. So deep you feel like he’s split you open, and he fucking loves it, you love it.

“Christ,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder as your cunt clenches around him. “So tight… made f’me.”

He pulls out slowly and slams back in, grinding his hips against you, deep and punishing. “This is mine,” he hisses, fucking you like he’s trying to carve the truth into your bones. “This pussy, this body, this fuckin’ womb‘s mine.”

You’re gasping, clawing at his back, and he doesn’t slow down. His thrusts stay steady, possessive, deep enough to bruise. Every time he bottoms out, his hand presses into your belly like he’s trying to make room for what he’s giving you.

“Gonna knock you up tonight, baby,” he groans, voice breaking as his pace falters just a bit. “Gonna fill you up ‘til I see it start takin’, won’t stop ‘til I do.”

“Joel, fuck, give it to me, please…”

“I’m going to,” he grits out, slamming into you one last time and holding, grinding, staying deep. “Fuckin’ take it, baby. Take all of it.”

He moans into your neck as he cums, cock pulsing inside you, heat spilling deep. His whole body shudders with it, broken and desperate, like he’s giving you everything he has.

He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t even move. He just stays there, cock still buried inside

“Gonna keep it there,” he mumbles, almost drunk on it. “Keep you like this. Stuffed full.”

—

You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped up in him, the only sounds are your mingled breath and the quiet thump of his heartbeat against your chest.

He’s still inside you, still thick and warm, as you pulse around him faintly. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, fingers stroking lazy paths along your scalp like he’s trying to soothe both of you back down to earth.

“Y’alright?” he murmurs, voice gone gravel-soft, lips brushing your temple.

You hum, barely a whisper. “More than alright.”

Joel smiles against your skin, you feel it before you see it.

“Good girl.” His hand drifts lower, resting over your lower belly. Just resting there, like he’s grounding himself in the possibility of what he just gave you. “You feelin’ it too?”

You nod, breath catching when his palm presses just a little more firmly. “Feels warm,” you whisper. “Full.”

His eyes flick down to where your bodies are still joined, and he groans quietly like the sight alone is going to undo him again.

“Gonna take,” he says, almost reverent. “I know it will.”

You reach up to touch his face, fingers brushing his scruff, “You really want another little one, huh?”

He leans into your touch, eyes going a little soft, a little faraway. “Want another you,” he says simply. “Little baby with your eyes and my stubbornness…”

That makes you laugh, your body shaking against his. “We already have three of those.”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh, curling closer around you. “And I’d take ten more. All of ‘em runnin’ around, lookin’ like you…”

His voice catches there, low and wrecked, and his hand in your hair stills for a moment. “You remember what we said we’d name the next one? If it was a girl?”

You blink up at him, heart lurching. “You remember that?”

“‘Course I do,” he murmurs. “Been thinkin’ about it ever since you told me you’d maybe wanna try again while holding little newborn Ellie in the hospital.”

His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, “Rosalie.”

You feel something tighten in your chest. The way he says it. Soft and hopeful and his.

You whisper it back to him, “Rosalie.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “Rosie,” he tests out the nickname, “God, I’d spoil the hell outta her.”

“You already spoil all of them.”

“Not like I would her,” he says, then adds with a smirk, “She’d be our last. I’d make damn sure she knew she was daddy’s girl. The baby girl of the family.”

You grin up at him, but before you can say anything, you feel him twitch inside you.

He sees the realization on your face and groans. “Shit.”

“What?”

He presses his forehead to yours, “You keep squeezin’ me like that and—fuck, baby—”

Your legs shift around his hips. Just a little. Just enough to make both of you moan at the sensation.

“You gonna fuck another one into me?” you whisper, kissing along his jaw.

His breath stutters, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

This time it’s slower, but not gentle.

He draws back just a bit and thrusts forward again, deeper than before, the kind of grind that feels like he’s trying to fit even more of himself inside you. Your body’s already open, already slick and aching and so sensitive, but he fucks into you like he still needs more. Like his body doesn’t know how to stop wanting yours.

You moan, clutching at his back. “Joel, god, feels so full…”

“Yeah?” He thrusts again, sharp and slow, hips tilting just right. “You feel me there, sweetheart? Right where that baby’s gonna grow?”

Your body clenches around him and he growls, snapping his hips harder.

“Wanna be round with my baby again? Let everybody see what I did to you?” his voice drawls in your ear.

You can’t answer. You’re gone, lost in the rhythm, in the weight of him over you, in the heat and the stretch and the promise of it all.

He kisses you then, slow and filthy, rocking into you like a man in love and in heat all at once. Like he’s not just trying to get you pregnant, he’s trying to become a part of you.

Again. And again. And again.

His tongue brushes yours while his cock sinks in and out of you, slow but heavy. His hands frame your face like you’re fragile, like he’s holding onto something holy.

And still, his hips keep grinding into you, deep.

Your fingers curl into the back of his neck as you whimper into his mouth. “God, Joel, feels so good like this…”

“I know, baby,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You were made f’me, made for my cock to fill you up.”

He pulls back just far enough to look down, to watch the way your bodies move together. The way you cling to him. “Can’t get enough of this pussy,” he murmurs, rough but tender, “All fucking mine…”

His hands slip down to cradle your hips, thumbs brushing the crease of your thighs as he adjusts his angle and fucks up into you just a little harder.

That angle makes you gasp, your body tensing beneath him.

“Right there, huh?” He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Yeah, I know.”

He finds it again. And again.

His cock drags over that spot with every thrust, and you swear you feel him everywhere… not just inside, but in your blood. In your lungs. Under your ribs.

“Joel,” you gasp, hands scrabbling at his back. “I’m gonna… fuck, I’m gonna cum… ”

He shushes you softly, nuzzling your cheek. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

His pace stays steady, deep and rhythmic, and he keeps whispering to you, low and reverent, coaxing your body toward the edge like he’s guiding you through it.

“Let me feel you cum on my cock. Let me feel this pussy milk me dry, baby, fuck, that’s it.”

Your orgasm tears through you like a wave, blinding and loud, your back arching off the mattress as you cry out his name. Your body clamps down around him and he swears, eyes rolling back.

He groans, fucking you through it. “Goddamn, y’feel that? Y’feel what ya do to me?”

You’re still trembling when he starts to lose it, his thrusts get rougher, deeper, more desperate. His mouth presses to your neck, open and hot, biting down gently like he’s trying to anchor himself to you.

“I’m gonna cum,” he grits out, hips stuttering. “Gonna fill you up again. Gonna fuck you full—shit—”

You reach up and cup his face, forcing his eyes on yours. “Cum inside me, Joel…” you whisper, pulling his lips to yours and swallowing his moans.

That’s all it takes.

He slams into you one final time and stays there, buried deep as he groans through clenched teeth, spilling into you again with so much force you feel it. Heat floods your core, thick and warm and relentless, and he keeps rocking through it— slow, possessive, like he’s grinding it further inside, fucking his spend further inside you, urging it to stick.

When it’s over, his whole body goes slack on top of you, chest heaving. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t even think of pulling out.

Just buries his face in your neck and breathes you in.

You both lay there tangled in each other, the room thick with sweat and heat and the scent of sex. His cum already starting to slip from you, and yet he stays, hand over your belly like he’s already guarding something precious.

“I hope it took,” you murmur after a while, dazed and raw.

He kisses your cheek, “It did.”

You smile at the ceiling, tears prickling your lashes from the high of it all, “You sound so sure.”

“I am.” His voice is hoarse, but warm. Certain. “’Cause I want it too bad for the universe not to give it to me. And I’ll fuck you full ‘til it does.”

You both lay there for a while, tangled up in silence, his weight warm and grounding on top of you, cock still nestled deep where he left himself. His hand strokes gently over your belly, thumb moving in soft circles like he’s already trying to calm the baby that might be forming there.

After a few minutes, you speak, quiet and a little breathless. “She’d be perfect.”

“Rosalie,” Joel says, like it’s already real. “A little girl with your smile, my eyes, and your fearlessness… god help us.”

You giggle softly, your fingers brushing through the sweat-damp curls at the back of his neck.

There’s a pause, “But if it’s a boy…”

You meet his eyes. “Then he’d be perfect too,” you whisper. “And loved just the same.”

Joel smiles, eyes crinkling. “Damn right.” He kisses you again, slow and deep, “Think we should try as often as possible,” he murmurs against your lips, “Just in case.”

—

You must’ve drifted off like that, limb-locked and sated, your head tucked beneath Joel’s chin and his arms wrapped around you like you might float away if he let go.

The sun’s just starting to bleed through the curtains when you stir again, a warm, heavy pressure still nestled deep inside you. Joel’s breath fans against your temple, steady and even, his cock still inside you, just barely hardening again with every subtle shift of your hips.

You hum softly, content, and press a sleepy kiss to his chest. He tightens his arm around you in response, voice rough from sleep.

“Mm. Mornin’, baby.”

“Morning,” you whisper. “You stayed in.”

“Damn right I did,” he grumbles, hand smoothing over your lower belly. “Gotta keep it there. Lock it in.”

You laugh, nose scrunching as you curl into him. “That’s not how it works, y’know.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Still tryin’.”

You’re about to reply… something soft, something stupid and married and in love…. when it happens.

SLAM.

“MOMMY!! DADDY!!” a voice shrieks from down the hall, followed by the unmistakable sound of two smaller sets of feet thundering toward your door. “Can we have pancakes? Artie said you said we could!”

Joel’s eyes snap open.

Your eyes go wide.

You barely have time to gasp before the doorknob rattles.

“Shit, Joel!”

“Goddammit…” he grumbles against the skin of your neck.

He flails out one arm blindly and lobs the nearest pillow straight at the door like it’ll magically lock it on contact. It hits the wood with a thud and flops to the ground uselessly.

You’re already wheezing with laughter, dragging the sheets up over both of your heads as the door creaks open.

“Nope!” Joel yells, voice panicked and muffled under the covers. “No entry! everybody turn around or no pancakes!”

You hear giggles ripple through them as Sarah blocks her younger siblings from breaching the door and closes it again.

Joel hurriedly slides on a pair of shorts, looking back at you briefly and giving you an appreciative once over before he leaves the room to give you time to get decent.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, Joel’s already at the stove, flipping pancakes like it’s a sport. Shirtless, hair still a mess, a little bite mark just above the waistband of his shorts still healing from nights before.

Artie is perched on a step stool next to him, stirring the batter with the intensity of a scientist solving time travel.

“Daddy said I could help if I focus,” he informs you, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m focused.”

Sarah’s at the table, drawing furiously with a red crayon. You peek over her shoulder and smile.

“Whatcha got goin’ on over here?” you ask.

“It’s a menu.” She beams up at you. “For our restaurant. We’re calling it Pancakes and Pickles.”

You glance at Joel, but he doesn’t even look up.

“Ellie likes pickles and pancakes,” Sarah says matter-of-factly.

From her high chair, Ellie yells, “Cancakes!” Close enough.

Joel finally turns, a spatula in one hand, a coffee mug in the other, “I’ve lost control of the house.”

You kiss his cheek, brushing past him to pour juice for the kids, two sippy cups and one regular glass for Sarah, “You never had it.”

“Mm,” he hums, eyes drifting down your body, voice lower, “You’re wearin’ my shirt.”

“And you’re wearin’… not enough.”

He groans and flips the last pancake onto the plate, “Didn’t have the time or the brain power to care enough. Why, got a problem with it?”

You smirk, sliding in close beside him as he adjusts the skillet and turns off the stove. “Not a problem,” you murmur, trailing your fingers just barely along the waistband of his shorts, “just an observation.”

Joel turns his head slightly, catching the curve of your smile, eyes glinting with something decidedly not breakfast-related. “Mm. That right?”

You simply nod and pull your bottom lip between your teeth, your hands leaving his warm body as you turn and help Artie step off of the stool.

It takes some effort, some light wrangling, and one minor debate about whose pancake was ‘most circle-shaped,’ but eventually, all three kids are seated and eating.

Ellie is completely absorbed in tearing apart a pancake with her hands. Artie is humming between bites, feet swinging beneath the table and syrup already on his chin— he’s the messiest eater of the bunch. Sarah dips her pancake in syrup with one hand and reaches for her cup of orange juice with the other.

You and Joel finally sit down, mugs of warm coffee in hand. He exhales and nudges your knee under the table.

“I think we did it.”

You sip your coffee and smile, “You say that now. Wait ‘til the sugar kicks in.”

But for now, it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes after a storm of small feet and tiny demands, when every little body is fed and content and distracted by their own mess.

And just like that, the morning keeps rolling, pancakes disappearing, syrup clinging to little fingers and through it all, Joel stays close. Always touching you. A hand at your waist, a brush of his thigh. Not in a rushed way… just the quiet, unshakable comfort of a man who’s exactly where he wants to be.

As soon as he’s done eating, Artie hops down with a bounce and immediately scampers off toward the living room, yelling, “I’m a race car!” as he makes screeching noises and slides across the hardwood in his socks.

Joel watches him go with a slow shake of his head. “He’s gonna crash into the coffee table again.”

“He’ll learn,” you say, handing him a dish towel as you set the syrup bottle back on the counter.

“Will he?” Joel raises a brow, then a thud echoes from the next room, followed by Artie’s cheerful, “I’m otay!” You adored his little ‘otays’.

You wince at the sound of him crashing though, “he’ll learn… eventually. That’s why we don’t have any pointy edges.”

Sarah skips past next, not even looking at either of you as she makes her way to the toy box and grabs an array of plastic food. “We’re playing restaurant in the living room now. I’m the boss.”

Joel steps up behind you as you begin rinsing the plates, his hands settling on your hips, “Remind me again how we ended up outnumbered?”

You lean back into him, sighing contentedly. “Lack of impulse control and your dangerous hands.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He hums, mouth grazing your shoulder, “I still want another…”

“Daddy!” Sarah’s voice rings out from the living room. “We need a customer!”

Joel sighs theatrically, peeling himself away from you with a lingering squeeze to your waist. “Duty calls.”

You finish tidying the last of the dishes and wander into the living room to find Joel seated at the kids’ play table, knees to his chest, while Sarah takes his order with a notepad and Artie stands behind her wearing a blanket-cape, calling himself Chef Lightning.

Joel glances up at you with a smirk, clearly suffering but in that happy, ‘I’d die for these gremlins’ kind of way. “I asked for pancakes and coffee ‘n I’m gettin’ glitter spaghetti and orange juice in a bowl.”

Ellie toddles up to you, and you scoop her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead and settle on the couch, watching your husband pretend to eat imaginary food and nod gravely as Artie explains the “flavor” of a crayon as he pretends to feed it to his Superman action figure.

Joel catches your eye and smiles, slow and warm, the kind of smile that still makes your stomach flutter after all these years. He holds up his fake fork, gestures to the invisible plate, and mouths, ‘best thing I ever tasted’.

You shake your head, grinning widely at the antics of your creative kids, your heart so very full.

Ellie giggles in your lap, Sarah starts setting up a “drive-thru” by the window, and Artie decides he doesn’t want to work in the restaurant anymore and climbs up, then plops down next to you on the couch.

It’s loud, messy, and perfect. It’s yours.

Joel looks at you again, eyes lingering just a second too long, like even surrounded by noise and spilled toys, all he sees is you.

Before too long, Sarah decides her restaurant is short-staffed and kicks Joel out, much to his dismay.

He finds his place next to you and stretches out, legs kicked up on the ottoman.

Ellie’s babbling turns into quiet humming as she settles between the two of you.

You turn your head to find Joel already watching you. His expression is pure warmth. Eyes just a little tired, just a little dazed with contentment. He doesn’t say anything, just lets his hand slide along your thigh, fingers curling gently over your knee.

You lean into him again and let the moment hang there, the two of you tucked into the soft center of the life you built. No rush. No noise you can’t handle. Just love… loud, syrup-sticky, and golden.

And eventually, Joel shifts. Not to get up, not to chase anyone, just to lay back. Arms folded behind his head, one foot still hooked lazily on the edge of the ottoman.

Sarah’s the last to join after she cleans the play kitchen to her standards, which really means she just stuffed things into the ovens, then climbs up at the other end of the couch and curls her legs underneath her.

It’s not silent, it’s not even still as your oldest two argue briefly about who’s going to be the boss next time. But it’s your kind of peace.

And when Joel lets his hand drift across your belly, not suggestive, just… present, you know he’s thinking what you are:

There’s no place else he’d rather be.

—

The late morning sun stretches high by the time the kids are herded outside to enjoy the early fall weather.

Joel’s got Artie on his shoulders who’s arms are out like wings. Sarah’s leading the charge across the backyard with a stick she insists is a wizard’s staff, and Ellie’s tottering through the grass with you .

The backyard adventure starts with fairy hunting, turns into mud stomping, and ends in a dinosaur chase Joel doesn’t remember agreeing to. You’re on lookout duty from the porch now, sipping another cup of coffee and grinning as Joel jogs after Sarah, pretending to roar while Artie hollers from the playground, “Youll never take us alive!”

Ellie is tucked happily into the baby swing, chubby hands wrapped tight around the chains, feet kicking gently at nothing. She watches the chaos around her with that quiet, wide-eyed wonder she’s always had. She’s content to observe, to exist in the stillness while her siblings thunder across the grass.

Joel now keeps a hand on her swing, giving it the occasional gentle push. He leans in every so often to press a kiss to the top of her head, lips brushing over those soft, wild curls.

The same curls he has.

They’ve got the same lazy bend, the same unruly softness that no brush can tame. And there’s something else too, something unspoken but unmistakable in the way she watches the world from behind those big eyes.

She’s like him.

They all carry pieces of him and of you, that’s how the whole thing worked, after all.

Sarah, your eldest, is halfway up the tree in the far corner of the yard, her hair wild, her legs scraped, her voice clear and bossy as she calls down rules for a game she’s entirely making up on the spot for the fifteenth time today alone.

Joel says that’s she’s your mirror. She’s fierce and clever, filled with words and opinions, her independence sharp-edged and bright. She wants to lead everything. Needs to know why, and how, and what comes next. But she’s soft in the ways that matter most, tender with her siblings, always aware of who needs help and who needs space.

Joel watches her sometimes with this quiet awe, like he can’t believe someone that bold came from him.

And then there’s Artie.

Artie, who runs too fast and feels too hard. Who tells stories with his whole body. Who cries big and laughs bigger. He’s dramatic, yes, but his heart is massive. When he loves something, he means it. And he gets that from Joel too, the intensity of it. The way he’ll throw himself headfirst into any cause, any game, any cuddle pile.

He calls Joel his best friend.

He crawls into his lap mid-sentence, and drags his blanket across the house just to sit next to him while he drinks coffee in the mornings before work.

You still can’t believe it… these three little people, formed from your bodies and held together by your love. Bits of you and bits of him, but entirely themselves.

You couldn’t wait to see Ellie’s personality continue blooming into whoever she’s meant to be.

And the thought of it, of another whole little human, another perfect blend of you and Joel growing quietly inside you, made your heart ache in the sweetest way. You’d carry a dozen of his babies if you could, if time and space and biology weren’t pressing in at the edges. But you knew this would have to be the last.

Joel was nearing fifty… he didn’t look it, didn’t act it, still moved like a man years younger, and fucked like he was even younger than that… but the years were stacking. Your own clock ticking even faster beside his.

If it was going to happen… it had to be now.

One more baby. One last time to feel full in every sense of the word.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Quick break from the angst, just wanted a fluffy one-shot for my unapologetic baby fever, I’m ovulating okay!! Heavily based off of me and my husband who don’t have kids yet because just like these two we wanted to wait a little bit to just enjoy our marriage and our youth hehehe. He’s only 37! He’s just a baby!

[forthelorewick]

The way i drop everything im doing everytime you post a new chapter ♥️

Ma'am you are the queen of angst 👑

Don’t make me cry, that’s so rude (but also thank you so much this means so much to me, wtf!) 😭♥️

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 9: Linger

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Joel Miller x f!reader

18+ MDI !

Chapter summary:

WC 4.6k - life carries on, and so must you. but did it have to be so soon, and right where he could see it? did he ever mean to you what you still mean to him… or was he always just that easy to forget?

chapter content/ warnings:

angst! jealous!joel, allusions to past intimacy, emotional repression, pining/yearning/longing, brief violent thoughts, moral dilemmas, use of nicknames (exclusively with friends), etc.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Late September

| Joel

The heat hadn’t let up yet.

It clung to the corners of the day, thick and persistent even this far into September. The kind that made your shirt stick to your back and the air feel heavier than it had any right to be. The kind that made breathing, walking, and thinking just a little harder.

Joel Miller had always hated the heat, he’d tolerated it only because he had to. He’d worked beneath the Texas sun since he was barely old enough to lift a hammer, and it showed. In the weathered cut of his face, in the sun-roughened skin of his neck and forearms, in the way he carried himself like a man who knew heat didn’t care if you liked it or not.

Today, though, he welcomed it. Let it settle on his skin like penance. Let it cling to his back, soak into the fabric of his shirt, slick the hair at his nape. There was something grounding in the discomfort, keeping his thoughts and movements slowed and in check.

Campus buzzed softly around him as he walked, voices drifting from clusters of students stretched out across the lawns, backpacks spilled open like lazy declarations of effort. The heat made everything feel slower, looser, as if time had melted a little in the afternoon haze. He’d stepped off campus earlier for lunch with Tommy—just their usual start-of-semester transition, a loose tradition now.

Things settled easier than they used to. A few years back, the shift had been rockier. Going back to college in his thirties hadn’t been the plan, it hadn’t even seemed like a possibility. But life twisted sometimes, and when he and Tommy hit that merger at just the right moment, it bought them something rare: time. Security. A second shot. Joel had enough to put Sarah through school and finally chase down the things he’d buried beneath years of labor and responsibility… philosophy, literature, the pieces of himself he’d left behind somewhere when Sarah was born and he couldn’t afford to dream. Dreams didn’t pay bills.

But now he was here. Teaching what he loved, and finishing a goddamn thesis. He still wasn’t sure he believed it.

Summers though, those still belonged to the old life. He didn’t walk away from their company entirely. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He and Tommy were still co-presidents, but Joel preferred keeping his scope wide. Big-picture strategy, long-term investments, new hires. People and systems. All the shit that required instinct more than charm. Tommy handled the day-to-day with more grace than Joel could ever fake, but they made a good team.

He was damn proud of his little brother, growing into the man Joel always knew he could be. Tommy just needed someone to believe in him, and Joel did. As he always had. And it helped the morale of the company that Tommy knew Joel was only ever a phone call away, and on weekends when he wasn’t grading papers or submitting grades, he was on-site, making rounds, double-checking numbers if needed.

It didn’t pay quite the same anymore, not with Joel giving up year-round hours, but that wasn’t the point. Tommy was happy and Joel was steady. Their business partner respected the boundaries Joel needed, and every summer, it was a rhythm: back to the office and back in the grit of something he helped build from nothing. Then, just as the summer wound down, he returned here. To lecture halls, Socratic dialogue, red pens bleeding over margins. The slow, steady burn of academia. Shaping young minds, provoking thought, asking questions no one had answers for. He liked that part.

Which made having a good T.A. damn near essential. His lectures were demanding. His grading, even more so. He needed someone detail-oriented, hungry for the work, someone who wanted to earn his approval, not just check boxes. Most semesters, one was enough. But this year, his department had greenlit his request for a second. They knew how Joel ran his classroom. How invested he was in doing things right. He could do it without one, sure, but it’d mean a lot more late nights and fewer weekends for himself.

It wasn’t a bad way to live, not bad at all.

He nodded at a few familiar faces as he walked across the campus from the staff parking lot, Professor Hastings from Sociology, her arms full of binders; Dr. Moreno from Literature, sipping something too colorful for the morning and fanning herself with a syllabus.

“Morning, Miller,” Moreno called, her voice dry with humor.

He lifted two fingers in a quiet salute. “Morning, Doc.”

“Still refusing to teach in short sleeves?”

He smirked, “Not my style for work.”

“Shame. Might boost attendance.”

He chuckled under his breath and kept walking. He was used to her flirtations by now. The older woman, nearing seventy years old, had never outgrown her hopeless romanticisms. What could you expect from a literature professor? A doctor of love, practically.

The philosophy building loomed ahead, it was cooler as he stepped inside, and quiet. He let the automatic movements take over. Unlock the office, flip on the lights, drop the worn leather satchel on the desk.

He went through the motions, whiteboard cleaned, notes pulled from the folder, laptop opened though he hated the damn thing. All while his thoughts itched at the edge of discipline. That classroom would fill soon, seats taken by students he barely knew yet, voices blending together in that early semester haze.

And somewhere in that crowd, you’d be there.

He didn’t think about you the way he had that first week. Not all the time, hell he tried not to, at least. But sometimes, like now, in the silence before the chaos, it all crept in anyway. The smell of your skin after a shower, the way your laughter curved when you were pretending not to flirt. Your lips around a smile you didn’t want him to see. The way you’d sighed his name, breathless and bold, like it belonged to you. And maybe it did, maybe it still did.

He scrubbed a hand over his beard. Christ.

Students trickled in. The sound of shuffling bags, lazy greetings, the creak of chairs folding open, it was all familiar, all expected. Then the air shifted.

As it always does at some point every Wednesday and Friday.

He didn’t look up, and he didn't need to. Something in him tightened, his grip on the folder shifted just slightly. He could feel you. Like a change in the current, a warm pressure somewhere just outside reach. A flicker of heat that had nothing to do with the weather.

He didn’t look for you, or at least he told himself he didn’t.

But the moment his eyes skimmed past the fourth row where you and your friends had chosen as your own designated spots, there you were. Bent slightly over your notes, idly chewing your pen cap, like none of it ever happened. Like you hadn’t knelt between his thighs in a dim-lit shower or whimpered into his pillow with your fingernails in his back.

You weren’t not looking at him, you just hadn’t yet.

And that was worse, somehow. Because he knew how tightly your composure clung to you. He knew the tells of your body in a way he had no right to.

He cleared his throat, turned his body toward the board to hide the sharp inhale behind his teeth. He uncapped a marker, and started writing:

Moral Subjectivism and Meta-Ethical Theories

And the lecture rolled forward. It all came out smooth, practiced, mechanical, the rhythm of someone who had said these words too many times to let them falter now.

But every time he looked up, his eyes landed near you.

And every time, yours had just drifted away back to your notes.

It wasn’t cold, and it wasn’t necessarily avoidance. If anything, it looked too natural, like you wanted him to believe you’d forgotten about it, that you never thought about him, like you’d made yourself forget… just as he’d asked you to do.

You were pretending, he thinks… he’s pretty sure he could tell. And fuck, he was pretending too.

Joel felt it, the crackle under your stillness, the way your jaw tensed at the edges, the subtle curl of your fingers around your pen. The same way his palm curled around the marker until the plastic creaked, the way he felt his own jaw tense as his eyes betrayed him and traced the slope of your neck in a momentary lack of judgment.

He looked away and pushed on. Answered questions, scribbled important names and terms on the board. Called on students for answers, and paced the room like normal.

But he hated the way he just wanted to look.

To throw the whole performance away and let his eyes land where they always wanted to. To catch yours and see something, anything, that said you felt it too. That this was wrecking you as much as it was wrecking him. That you still wanted him the way he wanted you, even if neither of you could admit it or do anything about it.

But he couldn’t want that, he shouldn’t want that. He had to leave it alone, to let it fade out naturally, no matter how long that took, no matter how much he ached. He had to let you go.

He was who he was. And you… you were the one thing he could never touch again. You were forbidden fruit.

And now, after half a decade of teaching philosophy, parsing temptation in metaphor and myth… he finally understood it. The hunger, the ache, and the cost. The way the forbidden wasn’t just alluring because it was wrong, but because it made everything else feel alive.

You made him feel alive, and that was the problem.

When the bell rang, he capped the marker, cleared his throat, and said, “Chapters five and six. We’ll dive into moral conflict next class.” Ah, how fucking ironic.

The room rustled and exhaled as students gathered their things, then voices rose and scattered as everyone filed out.

He sat back against the edge of the desk, staring at the door you’d walked through. The faint ghost of your perfume still clung to the air, or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe he was going insane.

He dragged a hand over his face again and groaned. He was definitely going insane.

You were someone he couldn’t even hold a conversation with, couldn’t look at for too long without unraveling. He couldn’t reach for you like he craved, and most certainly couldn’t touch you. Hell, he couldn’t even act like he’d ever known what it was like to do just that.

But he wouldn’t have to see you until next Wednesday, he had his weekend to recompose himself again.

So imagine his surprise, walking back into his own goddamn classroom, late afternoon after the final classes had been let out for the day, sun slanting in through the blinds, only to find you perched casually on the edge of a desk, laughing.

With him.

Jamie. Or as you had called him, ‘Austin’.

The little TA who never shut up. The one who lived to test Joel’s patience, all charm and too-bright eyes and a tendency to linger wherever you were. And now he had you smiling like that… like it didn’t cost you a damned thing.

Joel didn’t falter, not visibly. He stepped through the doorway, quiet but not silent and made his way to his desk to grab whatever he’d come for.

Jamie glanced up with a grin, “Hey, Professor Miller! Just finishing up the notes you left… thought I’d rope in some help.”

Joel’s gaze shifted to you. Brief and pointed, like it didn’t matter. Like you weren’t the sharpest ache in his chest.

You gave him a polite nod. It was neutral and detached, like it didn’t wreck you to be this close to him again.

He forced a tight smile, “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jamie waved it off, “You aren’t, she was just keepin’ me company, easier to get work done with some motivation.” Then he shoots you a goddamn wink and places his hand over yours where it rested on your leg.

Joel almost said something. Almost warned Jamie that this wasn’t a game he understood. That if he touched you the way Joel knew you could be touched, soft and slow or rough and raw, it’d be the last fucking thing he ever did.

But he didn’t, because he couldn’t. Because that wouldn’t be very professional of him, and he was pretty sure you’d never forgive him. On top of the list of reasons he morally shouldn’t do that.

Instead, he just gave a quiet hum, noncommittal, and walked to his desk. His jaw was locked, every breath through his nose tight and deliberate. The way a man does when he’s seconds away from breaking something.

He told himself he’d only stay a moment.

Only long enough to gather his notes, to appear casual, but not because it mattered. Not because seeing you here with someone else felt like the kind of hurt you couldn’t justify out loud. Not when it meant acknowledging that whatever it was had become more than what you’d let yourselves call it.

So now, here he was, watching you share pieces of yourself he’d never earned, because neither of you ever asked for them, never dared to.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It was supposed to be purely physical. That’s how you kept it, that’s how he kept it. Just bodies, heat, need. The unspoken contract that whatever it was, ended when summer did. That it was just a temporary indulgence, something to want, but never keep. Surface level and nothing more. But you’d sunken deeper into his chest anyway, hollowed out a place for yourself between his ribs.

He could watch you now, eyes warm, lips parted in laughter as you and Jamie sat across the room from him just out of earshot, and know, know, that it wasn’t the sex that ruined him. It wasn��t your mouth or your skin or the sound you made when he touched you just right.

He should’ve looked away, but he didn’t.

He sat with it and let it carve into him.

Because you looked happy. Like someone who hadn’t unraveled in the aftermath.

Like someone who’d taken his silence and steadied yourself with it.

And maybe that was what stung the most. That you seemed to be doing exactly what he told you to.

That you were forgetting, or pretending like he had never been anything before being your professor.

While he… he was still haunted by every version of you that had ever curled into his arms and made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he was something worth being wanted for, worth being needed. He was still there in his head, in bed with you or on the couch, with you in his arms. Still full of you, still reeling from every goodbye you never said.

And what made it worse, what twisted in his chest every time he let himself think about it, was that it hadn’t been something he’d done. Not something you’d said. Not a fight, not a betrayal, just a choice you’d made that ended up being the right one. It was a cruel trick of circumstance that hardened into permanence before either of you could stop it.

And now, there was nothing left to do but pretend.

You weren’t his and you never were, but Christ, you’d felt like it.

And now, you were giving parts of yourself— soft, unguarded, everyday parts, to someone else. Someone who got to know your real, full name upon introduction, your routines by being a part of them, your tired smiles because he shared them. Your stories, and all the small, quiet details Joel never let himself ask for because it would’ve made it real.

Because if it was real, then maybe he could lose it. And if he lost it, what would that say?

That he wasn’t enough?

That all he had to offer was a good fuck and quiet devotion?

That even after baring the rawest parts of himself— his want, his gentleness, his damn soul, he still wasn’t enough?

He could still taste you in his mouth. Still hear your voice when he shut his eyes.

He knew you. Not just your body, but the tremble behind your laugh, the sting behind your silence. He’d learned you in a language that had no words.

And he loved you.

God fucking help him, he did.

For everything you were. For everything you didn’t tell him. For every unspoken truth that settled between your bodies like smoke. For every moment that lingered long after it ended.

And that, that, was what fucking gutted him. Because there had been moments when he thought you might’ve given that to him too, that closeness you gave to someone else so freely now. When he swore he saw it in your eyes, in the way you looked at him like you knew exactly how he’d fall apart without you. Like you wanted to stay.

Fleeting, sharp, dangerous moments… When he thought maybe, just maybe, you loved him too.

He couldn’t stay.

Not like this. Not when your laugh didn’t stutter, not when you wore a smile so easily. Not when Jamie leaned closer and you didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t fair to you, or to himself, to what you’d both agreed to try and forget. Because you had to. It wasn’t fair that he’d keep holding on despite knowing there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do.

So he gathered his things slowly and let the sound of your voice follow him like an echo. Let the bitter warmth crawl up his throat like something unswallowed. Jamie asked a question, Joel didn’t hear it. Just nodded, muttered something half-passable, and walked out without looking back.

The hallway was cooler, quieter. But the silence didn’t help. It never did.

He reached the door to his office and paused, hand lingering on the knob. Your voice and your laugh still echoed behind his ribs. He closed his eyes and let the weight of it settle there, heavy and unforgiving.

Maybe this was what he wanted, what he needed. Maybe this was what moving on looked like, or how it started.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

| You

Joel left the classroom and you finally let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hands clammy around the pen you were using. You swallowed thickly, relieved that you could stop putting up your front.

He seemed angry at you being there, like he didn’t want anything to do with you. Only there because he had to be and then left as soon as he could.

You’d tried to show him, in the little ways you could, that it wasn’t intentional, that you hadn’t meant to end up here, near him, not like this. That you and Austin hadn’t expected him to be there at all. You were only sitting in that room on the quiet guarantee that you wouldn’t be in his way. So you laughed when Austin said something stupid. Smiled like you were fine. Because what else were you supposed to do? Acknowledge how close you were to falling apart with him so close, when he was so unreachable?

You kept your eyes on the notebook in front of you, tracing the margin with your thumb just to keep your hands busy.

“Well,” Austin’s voice was low and amused as he leaned back in his seat. “Someone’s grumpier than usual.” He nods towards the door Joel left through.

He stretched lazily, flipping through his planner, completely ignorant to the turmoil flowing through you. “Hey, what’s the date? I forgot to put it on the worksheet.”

You cleared your throat, “September twenty-sixth.”

Austin tapped his pencil against the desk. “Oh shit, that’s right… it’s his birthday.”

Your heart stuttered, “What?”

He didn’t even look up. “Professor Miller. It’s his birthday today.”

The silence that followed rang in your ears. You stared down at the page in front of you, but you couldn’t see it anymore.

Birthday. A piece of information so personal you weren’t sure you’d earned the right to know it.

Your stomach twisted.

Austin kept talking, but his voice blurred in your ears. You nodded vaguely, offered a smile you didn’t feel, and gathered your things with fingers that suddenly didn’t want to work.

“I’ll catch up with you in a sec,” you mumbled, already halfway to the door.

He didn’t question it, just waved you off and tossed his pencil into his bag.

You stepped out into the hallway, the air cooler than you remembered, your body moving before your mind could settle. You didn’t mean to end up there, outside his office, hand hovering near the door. You didn’t even know what you were going to say.

You just knew that the light was on, which meant he was right there on the other side of the door. And something inside you ached too sharply to ignore.

So before you could talk yourself out of it, you knocked, it was quiet and hesitant, barely there. Maybe you hoped he wouldn’t hear or acknowledge it, maybe you hoped he wasn’t actually in there and the knock was inconsequential.

But before you could get too hopeful—

“Come in.”

You freeze.

That voice, that low vibrato, rough around the edges, carved out of the same silence that had filled every corner of your mind for months now, echoed through you like it always did. Straight through your chest, your spine, your ribs. Wrapped its icy fingers around your throat.

You stepped in before you could stop yourself.

He looked up from his desk, eyes catching on yours, blinking a few times like he had to make sure you were real, he clearly hadn’t been expecting you.

You tried to smile, something small, but it didn’t land. “Hi, I just… I wanted to say happy birthday.”

There it was, your offering. A ribbon of sincerity wrapped around the guilt that had been clawing at your chest since the moment Austin said the words.

You were holding yourself together with trembling hands, and he could see it.

And still, you stood there, unsure how to end the moment, eyes locked onto his big, brown eyes, which were looking up at you.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, like he was trying to figure out what this was, what you were doing here, standing in the doorway with that soft, sorry look on your face.

Then, finally, he nodded once, “Thanks.” He glanced down, like he couldn’t keep looking at you without something giving way, and closed the folder in front of him.

The silence stretched.

You shifted slightly in the doorway, unsure if you should leave or say something else. Maybe it was stupid to come. Maybe it only made things worse.

And then he looked up again, his eyes flashing with something you couldn’t identify, something new.

“When’s yours?” he asked quietly.

The question landed sharp and unexpected. It took you a second to process it, “My what?”

“Your birthday,” he said. Still soft, still steady, but there was something else there, something hungry underneath. “When is it?”

You blinked at him, stunned, “Why?”

He didn’t answer, he just watched you with that unreadable expression, as if he wouldn’t dare explain it. As if the asking alone had already taken too much.

You knew he could have found your birthday in the university’s database if he wanted to, but something about him asking you, carved the ache in your chest a little deeper. That and the softness of his brown eyes as he gazed into yours.

So you gave it to him anyway, “April fifth,” you said quietly.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Just looked at you like the sound of it meant more than it should’ve. Like he’d been waiting to hear it from your lips and not some line in a faculty database.

The silence that followed was thick and trembling, stretched between two people stubbornly holding their composure for the other, each unaware the other was just as wrecked, just as desperate, just as quietly aching beneath it all.

You shifted your weight, heart pounding. “I should go,” you whispered, almost apologetically. “Austin’s probably waiting.”

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at you, something unreadable sharpening at the mention of Jamie’s nickname. His jaw ticked.

You tried to shake it off.

It had only been a joke, something you’d tossed at Austin in passing, that Joel probably thought the two of you were together because at that point he had only interacted with Austin with you in tow.

But now, you wondered if there was some truth behind it, and the thought that Joel might’ve been jealous made something twist, not with guilt, but with something far more dangerous.

Something like exhilaration.

Because he was the one who told you to move on, to forget everything you two could’ve been, to not even talk about what had happened, to just pretend none of it ever happened.

Yet he had no way of knowing your complete inability to do so, no idea that the teasing between you and your friends was purely platonic, he wouldn’t know any difference. Wouldn’t know that Austin was the furthest thing from heterosexual, regardless of how much he teased it.

Wouldn’t know that your true flirting and heat had always been reserved for him, and him alone.

Because when it came to him, nothing about it had ever been casual. Not the looks, not the quiet moments of peace and safety you’d found in each other’s arms, and most certainly not the way you’d let him touch you like he owned you.

Couldn’t he tell how much you still belonged to him? Even now, especially now, when you couldn’t have him. When every morning was just another day you woke up aching to kiss him, to feel the weight of him pressed against you, to feel his warmth seep into your bones, to feel like you belonged somewhere again.

The thought hit too hard, too suddenly.

You blinked, breath catching, and tore your gaze away from his. The weight of it all… the silence, the memory of his hands, the impossibility of what you still wanted… It was all too much.

“Anyway…” you started, voice uneven, already stepping back toward the door. “Happy birthday, professor. Have a good weekend.”

If he said something, you couldn’t hear it past the pounding in your ears. You could barely register your hand gripping the doorknob, twisting, then pulling.

Somehow you were outside and the breeze caught your skin, cooled the flush in your cheeks, but nothing could touch the heat still burning in your chest.

Austin found you a few moments later as he stepped out of Carson Hall, oblivious to the wreckage you’d left behind you.

You smiled at him and walked with him to the parking lot like it was just another day, but your heart never stilled, your mind still raced with the possibilities of Joel Miller, your professor, being jealous of a gay man. Just for being close to you and a little touchy.

Hell, you could be wrong. You could have completely misread that look in his eyes.

But it didn’t matter, because it gave you a hell of a rush. Like a chaser after a shot, used to soothe that ever-present sting in your chest. The first, brief relief from the pain you’d had bleeding out of your heart.

An inkling of guilt settling somewhere in there, but not quite enough to overshadow the thought of Joel, your Joel… still thinking about you. Still affected by you.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

god, this story consumes my very being. thank you for any of you that are following these two with me.

I have a Spotify playlist that’s 31 hours long for this fic lol

Let the true pining begin.

xoxo,

wicker

taglist as requested: @magicxmiller @yslgreen

[forthelorewick]

NEW CHAPTER DROPPEDDDD

Btw im your biggest fan ♥️

AHHH THANK YOU!! Im so glad you’re enjoying it 😭❤️

lemme give you a big ol’ kiss for being here 😘

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 8: In this Shirt

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joel miller x f!reader

NSFW 18 + MDI !!

Chapter summary:

WC 18.7k (don’t look at me!) - it’s easy to forget the days ahead, but something in the air feels different now. the weekend hums with quiet peace, stolen mornings, bare skin, and the kind of closeness that slips in without asking. somewhere beneath the warmth, something begins to shift. and a decision is made.

Chapter content/warnings:

Explicit sexual content, age gap (reader is early 20s, joel is late 40s), oral sex (f. and m. receiving), fingering, mild choking, rough sex unprotected p-in-v (b.c. implied), riding, shower sex, mirror sex, rough sex, phone sex, sexting, oral sex (m & f receiving), lots of teasing/flirting, use of pet names, lots of softness/fluff… but lack of communication, emotionally constipated reader, avoidant attachment style go crazy, go stupid!

There’s a lot in this one, and I suck at tags. Good luck!

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Late July

It hadn’t been constant, but the texts didn’t stop between nights together. Neither of you had said anything real. There were no check-ins, no vulnerability, but there was a pattern forming.

Small things. Enough to keep the thread warm.

A meme you sent that he didn’t fully get, but replied with a thumbs-up emoji anyway. You loved his silly little thumbs ups when he didn’t know what else to say.

He’d message about a comedy movie you’d recommended. Saying how stupid it was, but you knew he’d laughed harder than he’d ever admit to.

A good morning here, a goodnight there.

Then, on a night you were feeling bold… A photo of his flannel hanging low on your shoulder, your collarbone bare… hair splayed over your pillow.

And a text to accompany it—

Turns out, your flannels are perfect sleepwear 10:23pm

You weren’t expecting anything, or maybe you were expecting him to be sleeping already, regardless of what you’d hoped or not hoped for…a reply came a few minutes later.

funny. been missin’ that one 10:27 pm

A moment passes as you see the ‘typing’ bubbles on your screen. You wonder what he’s still doing up, both of you have work early in the mornings this week. You tried to keep your bedtime an even ten pm every night. Maybe it was just a restless night for him too.

might have to come get it back 10:28 pm

Your stomach flipped. You smirked, staring at the screen. Not a single part of you believed he cared about the shirt.

It wasn’t even that bold, really, not compared to the things he’d said to you in the dark, breath warm against your throat… but something about this made your fingers twitch.

You stared at it for too long, before replying…

come get it then 10:31 pm

It was an invitation, but more of a tease. An acknowledgment that you were entertaining the idea of him being there. With you. You knew that during the week neither of you could really go anywhere, not unless you were willing to abandon the responsible streak you both carried like second nature.

You decide to follow up with a second text to tease him further, you hope he doesn’t think you’re actually inviting him over but hell, if he does… maybe you’d finally get a good night’s rest. You’d figure it out.

if you’re brave enough 10:31 pm

His reply came fast, like he’d been waiting for it.

ain’t about bravery, sweetheart, just tryin’ to be a gentleman 10:32 pm

You love when he teases you. All his southern, gentlemanly charm he swore he had… but you had only really seen that hospitality after. He’d taken what he could get, you supposed. Making you breakfast, cleaning you up, letting you stay the night.

And maybe you’d just never given him the chance to do more yet, maybe he’d surprise you.

Opening doors for you, opening cans for you, reaching things on high shelves… you’re sure in a true, domestic life, he’d be nice to have around. You weren’t sure what exactly being a gentleman meant to someone like him. You doubted you’d ever get to know, but for now, you were happy with the way he was with you. You liked being around him. Maybe being a gentleman just meant he felt safe to be around, and he did.

you keep wearin’ my shirt like that and i swear i’m gonna forget how 10:33 pm

You think he’d forgotten how to long ago, and you loved that. You loved when he took control, or lost control.

God, you want to see him again. Fuck it, your turn to ask.

have any plans for this weekend? 10:35 pm

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Came back again. Your heart pounded in anticipation.

thought you’d never ask, i don’t yet 10:37 pm

Yet. You stared at that for a second before snapping another photo, closer this time. Just the edge of your smile, the open collar of the flannel, the skin below, the valley between your breasts in the shadows. A hint. A dare.

You were feeling confident tonight. He was on your mind and you just… you wanted to see how much you affected him even when you weren’t together.

This time, it took him longer to reply. You could only imagine why.

christ

i think you’re tryin to kill me 10:43 pm

So dramatic, he really was. You found it amusing, endearing. It made that heat in your chest bloom and spread like a wildfire.

don’t be dramatic. 10:44 pm

But you really did love when he was, so you hoped he wouldn’t take that too seriously.

i haven’t even shown you the good angles yet. 10:44 pm

There’s a pause. Longer this time. Like he’s sitting with it.

You watch the screen. Wait for the typing bubble. Fingers fidget with the ring on the back of your phone case.

open it up a little more, let me see what you’re wearin’ underneath 10:50 pm

Your breath catches and you hesitate. But not from nerves, from the thrill of it.

You snap the photo slow, the shirt hanging loose off your shoulders. Just enough to show the curve of your breasts beneath a soft lace bralette.

You hit send.

fuck me 10:55 pm

Your heart races. You really wish you could right now. The thought of you under him again made you dizzy, and you could feel the pooling of heat between your thighs.

you’re not playin’ fair

you want me hard all night? 11:00 pm

You bite your bottom lip between your teeth and can’t help but giggle in the darkness of your bedroom. Snuggling into his flannel, inhaling the scent that’s been embedded into the fabric.

couldn’t do that to you, cowboy…

maybe i want you thinking about me 11:01 pm

and my hands on you 11:03 pm

You’re imagining it in your head right now, too. Your hands over the firm planes of his chest… shoulders… fingers running through his peppered hair.

Before you continue that thought, your phone buzzes again.

jesus

you know exactly what you’re doin’ to me don’t ya 11:05 pm

You did. And that was the fun of it. You wanted him riled up, fucking loved knowing you were able to affect him the same way he affected you.

you’re fuckin’ trouble 11:07 pm

You felt your pulse between your legs.

You tug the flannel open one button after the other and slide it off. After taking off your bralette, you slide the flannel back onto your shoulders.

The photo came out low-lit. Your thighs curled inward a bit. Just enough to tease. The fabric parted over your chest… one nipple visible. You hesitated before hitting send.

be brave, cowboy. 11:15 pm

This time, his response didn’t come through the phone, it came in a call.

You stared at the screen. Your heart kicked, and then you answered.

There was a pause.

Then you heard his voice, rough, low, already frayed.

“Goddamn, darlin’.”

Damn, that voice of his…

Your lips parted with your breath shallow. “Hi. Couldn’t sleep?”

He groaned softly. “No, couldn’t sleep, darlin’. You sound all breathless. You touchin’ yourself already?”

“I could be.”

You hear rustling on the other side of the phone, like he was lying down on the couch, “You were waitin’ on me, weren’t ya?”

You didn’t answer, just let your breath stutter across the speaker.

There’s a pause on the line. It was long, weighted. His breath fills it, rough and shallow.

His drawl is thicker over the phone, more intimate somehow. Like he’s right there, whispering against your ear. “Tell me what you’re wearin’.”

“Your shirt,” you breathe. “And just… underwear.”

“Take ‘em off,” he rasps. “Nice n’ slow.”

You do what he says, letting the shirt slide further down your arms, your fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties.

“They’re off,” you murmur. “Now what?”

“Lay back. Spread your legs. Run those fingers over yourself, slow. Tease it, baby… wish I could see that sweet little pussy.”

Your fingers touch light, teasing… just enough to make your breath catch.

Joel hears it. Of course he does.

“That’s it, baby. You wet for me?”

You moan, soft and breathy, just enough for him to catch.

“Fuck,” he groans. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Can you put two fingers in for me, darlin’?”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you. “Y-Yeah,” you whisper. “They’re in, Joel…” you curl your fingers inside of you, but they’re nowhere near the intensity of Joel’s fingers.

“Good girl,” You can hear the shift in his voice, the way his breathing hitches. “You thinkin’ about me? You thinkin’ about my mouth on you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Always.”and it was true, you were always thinking about it, him.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet for me. Taste like heaven. I’d get you back under me in a second if I could.”

You whimper into the phone, fingers curling just right.

He groans again. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum just listenin’ to ya. Rub that pretty clit f’me. Nice and gentle.”

The pressure deepens and you shift your hips, you try to stifle your whimper, but you fail at the attempt, the phone’s mic picking everything up.

He swears softly under his breath.

“Miss how you sound beneath me, baby,” breath catching, voice fraying. “Desperate. Messy.”

Your legs tighten. “Joel…”

A shuddered exhale on the line.

“Say it again.”

You do, softer this time.

A pause. Like he’s barely holding on.

“You gettin’ close, darlin’?”

You nod. “Almost.”

“Let me hear it.”

Faster now. The ache building. Everything tightening.

“I’m gonna, fuck, Joel—”

“Cum for me, darlin’.”

And you do. Spine arching. Body trembling. Your name on his tongue.

A beat of silence.

Then a low, wrecked, “Christ.”

You breathe hard, sweat clinging to your skin.

“You just made me hard as a fuckin’ rock.”

Your laugh is shaky, stunned.

“Yeah?”

Your body’s still tight, wrung out, but not done.

And he can tell.

“Still needy for me, huh?” it’s more breath than voice now, hoarse and ragged, but his tone carries that warmth, the weight of knowing exactly what you need. “Did so good f’me already, and you still want more.”

You whimper softly, “Can’t help it.”

“Fuckin’ love how greedy you are for it.”

There’s a sudden shuffle through the speaker… fabric, leather, the distinct clink of a belt unfastened.

You don’t need to ask.

“You gonna cum too?” you whisper, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth and whimper lightly.

A low sound, a half groan, half laugh. “What the hell do y’think, baby? Been hard this whole time listenin’ to you come apart.”

“Can I see?”

There’s a pause. Breath hitches on the line.

“Christ. Y’wanna see it?”

A wicked smile curves on your lips. “Yeah.”

A rustle. Shift of fabric. That quiet hum of the air conditioning somewhere beneath the heavy silence.

Then, your phone buzzes and you pull the phone down to glance at it.

A photo. Blurry at the edges, raw and real. His hand wrapped firm around the length of him, balls full and heavy, pushed up by his jeans which had been shoved down, stomach taut. Just the hem of his shirt bunched at his waist. His thighs spread wide. It’s the kind of picture that makes you clench around nothing.

You’re transfixed.

Your breath catches and your heart skips. You don’t say anything, can’t think of anything to say.

“Y’okay, sweetheart?” You hear his low rasp from the phone and you put it back up to your ear. “Gone all quiet on me.”

Fingers curl tighter around your phone. Heat sparks low in your belly.

A soft breath. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” The word drips like honey. “Y’like what you see?”

You nod again, even if he can’t see it. “Yeah.”

His breath is heavier now. “That’s what y’do to me, hun.”

You shift again, underwear soaked, thighs sticky against your sheets. “So big...”

A beat. A groan. Then the wet sound of slick skin meeting skin through the speaker.

“Fuck, baby..”

“You’ve been hard this whole time?”

“Since you sent me that first picture, darlin’.”

You bite your lip. “You gonna cum with me this time?”

“Only if you let me hear ya.”

Your hand slides lower again. He groans when you moan, “That’s it. Take what you need, baby.”

The sound that leaves your mouth is want, pure and simple.

“You still got your fingers on that sweet little pussy?”

“Mhm.”

Your eyes flutter shut, your hips rising to meet your hand, the wet slick sounds echoing into the dark. You can hear his breath stutter, a low grunt on the other end of the line.

“Keep ‘em there. Let me hear it,” he mutters, breath hitching. “Rub slow, right there.. just how you like it.”

You match your pace to the sound of his breathing, steady but climbing, shaky and strained as he fists himself in time with your whimpers.

You didn’t need his hands to feel branded. Every breath he took made your body burn.

“Thinkin’ about the way you taste, the way you sound when I’ve got my mouth on you,” he grits out. “The way your thighs shake.”

“Joel—” You weren’t sure when it started… this ache in your chest that followed his name. Maybe it had always been there.

“Yeah, that’s it. Say my fuckin’ name while you fall apart again. I wanna cum listenin’ to you lose it f’me.”

The more he coaxed it out of you, the more you wanted to give. Your sounds. Your shivers. The part of you that only bloomed for him.

Your fingers are moving faster now, hips twitching, everything inside of you pulling tighter, tighter…

“Come on, sweetheart,” he breathes, his own rhythm breaking, voice shaking. “Give it to me. Want you to cum with me.”

And you do.

You both do.

It terrified you… how easily he unravels you. Not just with his hands, but with a word or a glance. A low murmur that felt like it was meant for your bones.

Your back arches as a cry tears from your throat, legs trembling. His moan breaks over the line, low and guttural.

Silence follows and it’s full.

Of breath. Of everything unspoken. Of all that heat, still hanging there between you.

This wasn’t healthy. You knew that. You weren’t sure you cared. It was stupid, reckless. Every word, every sound you gave him felt like a thread you couldn’t pull back.

There were a thousand reasons you shouldn’t do this. And only one reason you did. He made you feel something you’d never felt before.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── ··

Wednesday Afternoon

The air in the truck was stifling. Windows cracked just enough to let the heat seep in, not enough to chase it out.

Joel leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding his phone like it might bite him.

You’d sent another picture late last night, bare shoulder, his damn flannel barely clinging to your frame, hair mussed like you’d just rolled over in bed, all sleepy-eyed and smug. He’d stared at it for longer than he’d ever admit. Stared at it again this morning. Pulled it up again just now, under the pretense of checking the time.

Bullshit.

His lunch sat untouched in the passenger seat, condensation from the soda beading against the cup holder. His stomach was too tight for food.

The way that shirt hung off your shoulder…

He swallowed hard, jaw working.

Goddamn it.

He knew better. Knew he was supposed to keep his hands clean of this… supposed to be older, wiser, patient. Whatever that meant. But all he could think about was how you’d sounded the other night, breath catching in your throat, how you whispered his name like it was a secret. And he’d already broken his own damn swear to himself that it’d be a one time thing. He’d broken it with barely a week between, and again… and again… and now that night, monday night, he’d agreed to yet another weekend rendezvous with trouble incarnate.

Joel scrubbed a hand down his face, letting his head thunk back against the seat. He was hard. Again. Still. Like he hadn’t gotten any relief at all. Like his body was demanding more than just memory.

He glanced down at the screen.

The photo was still up. His shirt, your skin, your mouth just barely parted. Like you knew what the hell you were doing to him. Of course you did.

His thumb hovered.

Get a grip, he could hear Tommy muttering. You’re actin’ like a teenager.

Maybe. Except teenagers didn’t know what it was like to have you already under his hands… your body, your mouth, the way you sighed when he pushed in deep. They didn’t know what it meant to have regret woven into his want.

He tapped the screen.

Hope work’s not draggin’ too bad 12:46 PM

Safe. Harmless. Something any halfway decent man might send a woman he’d been hooking up with, if he didn’t know better.

But he did know better and it didn’t change a damn thing.

He let the phone sit in his lap a moment, screen glowing. His other hand gripped the wheel, knuckles pale. Like grounding himself might make it easier, but it didn’t.

The image was still seared behind his eyes. You in his shirt, skin warm and bare, eyes just the tiniest bit daring, like you knew. Like you wanted him to know that you knew.

God help him, it wasn’t just the picture.

It was how you made him feel, young and wrecked, like a man still figuring out how to hold himself together in the face of something that made him want to fall apart.

He thumbed open the message box again, typed before he could think better of it:

Nice picture by the way, been thinking about ya 12:51 PM

He hit send, then he locked the phone and set it down on the mid console. Didn’t let himself reread it, immediately hating that he hadn’t stopped himself.

But then again, he hadn’t stopped that second time either. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or the… alright, alright.

Didn’t mean he didn’t want to. Just meant he couldn’t. Simple as that.

But he didn’t want to see what kind of man it made him, sending texts like that to a woman he had no business thinking about, mid-day, in the cab of his truck like he hadn’t just had her voice in his ear two nights ago whispering filth he still wasn’t done playing on repeat.

And he had a sinking feeling it was already far too late.

He reached for the water bottle on the seat next to him and took a long drink, ignoring the way his hand still shook.

There was no going back and there never really had been.

And just like that, lunch break was over. Joel exhaled hard, dragging a hand over his face, willing the tension in his jeans to ease before he stood. No way in hell was he walking back out there like this, his crew was quick to clock anything out of place, especially if it meant taking a jab at the boss.

The last thing he needed was to get caught looking like some teenager with a hard-on and no control. Not with Tommy around. Not with the rest of them he’d spent years solidifying a reputation with so they were always a little afraid of him. That would dissipate right into the wind if they caught his composure slacking.

He took another breath and adjusted himself subtly, pushing the door open. Then stepping back out into the heat, jaw tight, trying to focus on the job ahead.

A few hours later, the buzz of his phone in his back pocket was nothing new, probably a supplier or Tommy griping about lunch options. Joel barely looked up from where he was crouched beside a support beam, clipboard braced on one thigh, pencil in his mouth.

Another buzz.

Then another.

Sighing, he stood with a grunt, wiping sweat from his neck as he pulled the phone out. The sun hit the screen just wrong, so he shielded it with a hand and blinked.

you thinkin’ about me while holdin’ a hammer or something? 1:19 PM

And a moment later—

should I be flattered or worried 1:20 PM

He swiped his thumb over the screen, his lips twitching despite himself.

Smartass.

Then,

You.

A photo message he opened without thinking.

Your couch. Your skin. Your tits. Lit like something sacred in the soft afternoon glow. All soft curves and looking like a damned Renaissance painting. With a smug little caption right underneath…

slow morning. 1:25 pm

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, immediately stepping behind one of the trucks. His heart kicked up. Blood surged south like it was trying to kill him.

He thumbed a reply with the kind of discipline he hadn’t had to summon in years.

jesus christ

i’m on a fuckin job site

bout to fall off this damn scaffold 1:26 pm

Now, he hadn’t actually been on a scaffold, but he thinks it gets the point across better. Not like you had to know.

He could hear his fucking heart pounding, his blood surging downwards and he couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it.

don’t you have work today?? 1:27 pm

“Everything alright?” came Tommy’s voice from behind him, way too casual.

Joel locked the screen like a teenager getting caught looking at something he shouldn’t have, “Fine.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes, noticed the flush, the fidgety shift of Joel’s weight, the not-so-subtle adjustment of his jeans.

Then, the smirk.

Before he could say anything, Joel shot him a warning look, “Get the hell back to work.”

Tommy snorted, already walking off. “Better be careful, old man. OSHA don’t cover injuries sustained from poppin’ wood.”

Joel exhaled hard, pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes.

He was so fucking screwed.

His phone buzzes again and he groans to himself, knowing it’s from you and he won’t be able to help himself from looking at whatever you have to say. Can’t fucking help himself.

i don’t work till 3 😇

figured i’d keep myself entertained 1:34 pm

Joel let out a slow breath through his nose.

Entertained.

His thumb hovered over the screen. He hadn’t even fully recovered from the photo, and now you were texting him like you didn’t just upend his entire work day. Like it was nothing. Like you didn’t know exactly how wound-up you had him already.

God help him, he was pretty sure you did.

Another message lit up before he could even think of what to send back.

you’re welcome btw 1:35 pm

His tongue ran along the inside of his cheek, biting back a grin that had no damn business being there. You were impossible. Bold. Shameless. A fucking menace in the prettiest goddamn packaging.

He could picture you typing it, probably lounging back with that smug little smile, tits still out, skin warm from the sun pouring through your windows.

The image alone was enough to make his pulse jump again.

Buzz.

should i send a video next time?

would hate for you to fall off that scaffold without at least getting a proper show 1:37 pm

Joel blinked.

Then dragged a hand down his face.

Christ.

This woman was going to be the end of him.

Joel exhaled hard, adjusting the brim of his cap low over his eyes. He shifted in place, subtly pressing his clipboard down against his jeans to mask the very real problem unfolding below his belt.

He turned away from the open lot, ducking behind the half-framed wall under the guise of checking measurements. Wood, sweat, sawdust… he tried to focus on anything other than the fire crawling under his skin. He set down his phone and his clipboard and tried to will away the tension in his jeans again.

You in his shirt.

You bare beneath it.

You offering him a video like it was nothing.

He reached down, pressing the heel of his hand against the stiff line in his jeans with a muttered curse. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Jesus, Joel,” came a voice behind him again. “You alright or you pull somethin’?”

He stiffened, a different kind of stiff, now, spinning halfway to see Tommy grinning like he already knew.

Joel cleared his throat. “M’fine.”

Tommy raised a brow, not buying it for a second. “You sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re in pain. Kinda hunched over there like an old man or a teenager caught watchin’ somethin’ he shouldn’t.”

Joel shot him a look. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Tommy said, stepping closer, glancing down at Joel’s phone still lit up where he’d set it on the sawhorse. “Oh-hoh. Who’s sendin’ you mid-day titty pics?”

Joel snatched the phone up and shoved it in his pocket, “Nobody.”

Tommy cackled. “That nobody’s got you red in the face and half bent over like your jeans are too tight. You gettin’ harassed or blessed, Joel, ‘cause I really can’t tell.”

“Go check the east post, make yourself useful for once” Joel muttered, turning away before his face could give anything else away.

Tommy slapped the frame once on his way out. “You know, if you need a minute, I can cover for ya. Real discreet-like.”

“Go.”

But Tommy’s laughter trailed all the way across the job site, and Joel had to count to ten, twice, before he dared to look at his phone again.

His fingers hovered a second longer before tapping back.

can’t be sendin’ me shit like that while i’m on site unless you want me walkin’ around hard all day

won’t be so sweet next time i see you 1:45 pm

It wasn’t a threat, but the way you were acting like a brat made him think you may need to be taught a fucking lesson. His pulse jumped at that thought.

how’s saturday night sound? 1:50 pm

He knew you were getting too much for what the two of you claimed to be.

Phone sex, mid-day titty pics…. The kind of teasing that left him hard for hours, the kind of pictures that lingered in the back of his head long after he shoved the phone back into his pocket. It wasn’t just lust anymore. Not really. Not with the way you kept showing up in the quiet parts of his day.

And it sure as hell didn’t feel casual when his hands knew your body better than they should, or when he remembered every sound you made, how you whispered his name like it meant something.

This was meant to be simple. A one-time thing. Scratch an itch, get on with life. But this?

This wasn’t simple.

This was waking up too early thinking about what you look like in his bed.

This was checking his phone like some kid in high school, hoping for a glimpse of your nickname he’d given you in his contacts.

This was sitting in a hot truck in the middle of July, cock hard in his jeans, wondering what the hell he was doing.

Not that he had any real complaints.

He wanted you. That part was clear.

But if this kept going on like this, if you kept pulling him deeper without even trying… he was in for far more than he bargained for. And by the end of summer he’d never be able to let you go.

His phone fucking buzzes in his pocket again.

saturday’s good.

come over this time? friend will be gone for the weekend. 1:45 pm

He sends a thumbs up emoji a little too eagerly.

You were giving him an opening. A glimpse. A piece of your life outside the dark, outside the curated seduction of text messages and late-night drives to his place.

Even if it was just where you were staying for the summer… it was your place. And you wanted him there.

He paused. Watching the message send, then followed it with another, realizing he can’t just give you a thumbs up.

yeah, i’ll be there. 1:48 pm

His way of saying yes. His way of saying fuck, yes.

Because you were offering him more than your bed this time. More than just heat.

You were offering him your space. Even if it was temporary. Even if it was reckless.

Maybe he was just readin’ too far into it and that was a likely story.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── ··

that Saturday

You weren’t exactly nervous. You just didn’t want to seem like… this was anything.

Not that it wasn’t something, it obviously was. But it couldn’t look like it was.

The apartment was too nice. Not like fancy-nice, just put together. The kind of curated that implied permanence. Throw pillows that matched. Wall prints in sleek black frames. A reed diffuser that actually smelled like something subtle and expensive.

You stared at it all for a beat too long and then decided: if he asked, you’d just say it was your roommate’s style. Technically true.

Technically.

You’d lucked into the place for the summer after your friend went abroad. She usually had a live-in roommate, but the girl had moved back to Oregon, so the space was empty. And it just so happened that you’d landed a job nearby, so… timing.

Perfect excuse. No permanence. No you.

You’d even tucked away the two books that actually belonged to you— the dog-eared and annotated copy of ‘Slouching Towards Bethlehem’ and the hardcover political theory textbook that had no business being on a coffee table like it belonged there. In your ‘temporary’ room made more sense, so you stashed it on the nightstand like it was your nightly reading. Swapped those books out with a poetry anthology and a thrifted copy of ‘Women Who Run With the Wolves’ like the shelves came that way.

You weren’t hiding, per se. You were curating. Just enough to match the lie the two of you had been living since summer started.

That this was temporary. That you were temporary.

Even if a very real, very specific ache had started to grow somewhere between the first night and now.

But he didn’t need to know that.

You spot his truck the second it turns the corner… same dusty blue, same deliberate pace like he’s not in a rush but still knows exactly where he’s going.

You’re already at the edge of the lot, arms folded, trying not to look like you’ve been waiting out here just for him.

His window rolls down as he eases into a spot, and you catch the shape of that smirk before he even speaks.

“Well look at that. You really did invite me over.”

You shrug, backing up a step as he opens the door. “Don’t get used to it.”

Joel closes the door behind him and eyes you up and down once, that same quiet, focused way that makes your stomach flip. “No promises.”

He follows you through the lot, up the narrow stairwell that smells faintly of laundry detergent and overcooked rice, and when you get to the door, you hesitate just long enough for him to catch it.

He glances down. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No, just—” You unlock the door and push it open. “It’s not really my place. I mean, I’m staying here, but it’s my friend’s apartment. Her old roommate moved out and went back to Oregon, so it worked out. I guess I feel bad for having my own guest over.”

He just nods as he steps inside, gives it a once-over, takes in the warm lighting, the minimal mess, the framed art on the wall.

“Looks like you’ve made yourself at home,” he says, wandering a little deeper.

You shrug again. “Credit the girl before me. She had a thing for aesthetic. Most of this was already here.”

It’s easy. Practiced.

He doesn’t ask any more questions. Just gives a little hum of acknowledgment and turns back to you, eyes darker now.

“So… you gonna show me the rest or am I supposed to stand here like a guest?”

You arch a brow. “You are a guest.”

“Then I’m expectin’ hospitality.”

You toss him a smile as you head toward the kitchen. “Good thing I stocked the fridge.”

And he follows, of course he does.

You hear his boots behind you as you cross into the kitchen, a lazy cadence to his steps like he’s taking his sweet time. You pull open the fridge and grab two cold drinks, setting one on the counter for him

He picks it up, cracking the cap with a low hiss.

“You know… you have really nice hands,” you say, casually as you lean against the opposite counter. “You really build things with those?”

Joel glances up, a toothy grin on his face from the compliment. “Somethin’ like that. You always this flirty, or am I just lucky?”

You cock your head. “Don’t flatter yourself, old man. I’m just observant.”

He lets that “old man” comment slide with a crooked grin, stepping in closer, just a little. He takes a slow sip, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop at the corner of his mouth. “That what they call it now? Southern charm?”

“I’m being polite,” you shoot back, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You said you liked hospitality.”

He steps in, close enough now that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “Sure do.”

Your eyes trace the strong line of his throat, the pulse there, steady and maddening. “So… you wanna see the rest of the place, keep pretending you came over for a drink and a tour?”

Joel raises a brow. “I like pretendin’. Got a hell of an imagination.”

You giggle, accidentally, mortifyingly soft to your ears, turning to walk toward the hall. God, he was funny—another devastating fact about him. “Careful. You might get ideas.”

His footsteps follow slow behind you, “Already am, darlin’.”

“Shoes off first, we’re civilized here.” You toe off your own shoes, leaving them next to the shoe rack by the front door and he follows suit.

Then, you lead him down the hall with a little too much sway in your hips to be innocent. “So this here’s the hallway,” you say over your shoulder, voice mock-serious. “Not to brag, but it’s a pretty good hallway. Real straight. Pretty… hall-like.”

He hums a soft laugh, “impressive.”

You gesture dramatically at the first door. “Bathroom. State-of-the-art toilet. Luxury, really. Even a bidet.”

Joel huffs a laugh, trailing a few steps behind. “Can’t wait to tell the guys I saw it in person.”

You keep going, voice light. “Closet. Riveting stuff. Contains, shockingly, clothes.”

“And what’s behind lucky door number three?” he asks, nodding toward the room at the end of the hall.

You lead him down the hallway and reach for the handle but pause, throwing him a look over your shoulder. “That’s the room where I don’t have to pretend I’m a functioning adult.”

“Bedroom?” he guesses.

“Bingo.”

He leans against the doorframe once you let him in, eyes scanning the space with something unreadable in his expression. Your bed is neatly made, corners tucked, throw blanket draped just right. The candles, the record player, the stack of books—it’s soft, thoughtful, a little too revealing if he looks too close.

“So…” you say, watching him from across the room, “what do you think? Hospitality still holding up?”

Joel’s mouth twitches, slow and amused. “This what you call hospitality, sweetheart?”

You feign innocence. “What else would you call it?”

He steps forward, closes the space a little more. “Can’t decide if you’re tryin’ to impress me or make me lose my goddamn mind.”

Your gaze lingers on the scar at the edge of his jaw, “Maybe both.”

There’s a pause, long enough to feel it. Then you grin and cross the room, drink still in hand. Casual and effortless like your pulse isn’t kicking a little harder now that he’s standing there, eyes roaming the space like he’s trying to memorize the details.

Joel follows slower, his eyes doing a sweep of the room like he’s taking inventory. Just stands there like he’s still debating what any of this means, gaze sliding over your nightstand, the faint scent of your perfume, the open book left spine-up.

He nods toward the record player, “You actually use that or is it just for show?”

You raise a brow, pleased he noticed. “I do, actually. But if you’re gonna mock my taste in music, I’ll revoke your southern hospitality privileges real fast.”

You’re proud that your voice didn’t crack or give anything away. Because the truth is, you’re hyper-aware of him. Of how big he feels in your room.

Joel takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes sharp. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I am a well-rounded woman,” you say sweetly, cocking your head, “But you’d have to stay a little longer to find out.”

His jaw ticks and you see it.

“I’ve got time,” he says.

You smile, even though something tugs deep in your gut at those three words. You tell yourself not to read into them. Not to assign them meaning, “Do ya now?”

Joel finally moves, just a few steps closer. Not close enough to touch you, but enough that the air shifts.

“I was thinkin’,” his voice is low and teasing, “if this is all part of the tour, you should probably explain the thread count situation.”

You let out a short laugh, hand over your heart. “Oh, I see. You came all this way to inspect my sheets?”

He tilts his head. “Just tryin’ to determine the full scope of the amenities.”

“Careful,” you murmur, voice dipping, “you’re starting to sound like you wanna stay the night.”

His eyes flash and the tension flares.

It’s meant to be playful, but the second it leaves your mouth, it just hangs there, suspended between the two of you. Not quite a suggestion and not quite a joke either.

His gaze darkens just slightly with that flicker of heat again.

And even though you shouldn’t, even though every cell in your body is screaming, slow down… God help you—you add, lightly, “Is this the part where I ask if you wanna check if the mattress is up to your standards?”

He watches as you set your drink down on the dresser. He sets his own drink down on the opposite end of the dresser without breaking eye contact. He doesn’t say a word.

He just crosses the rest of the distance.

And your breath catches in your throat, not because you didn’t expect it, but because you’d hoped for it. “Need to inspect anything else to ensure it’s up to your standards of hospitality?” You tease him as your eyes drag up and down his broad form standing in your bedroom.

He’s watching you like he can’t help it, like you’re not just someone he’s known since the beginning of summer and fucked a number of times, but someone he’s trying to figure out.

You hold your ground, but barely. The air between you is thick, sweet with anticipation, heavy with everything neither of you are willing to say out loud. You feel it in your limbs, in the blood roaring beneath your skin. Like your body knows what’s coming before your brain catches up.

Joel stops just in front of you.

So close now you can see the faint sun-crease at the edge of his eyes, the slight twitch in his jaw. Like he’s clenching it to keep from saying something he shouldn’t. Or maybe just to keep himself from doing something too fast, too reckless.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet and rough.

“You always this mouthy?”

You smirk, soft and unsteady. “Sometimes.”

His eyes flick to your mouth. You can feel the tension tightening again, winding between you like a thread, pulling tighter with every breath.

Joel doesn’t move, he just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the way you breathe.

“Y’know what I’ve been thinkin of?” he murmurs, eyes dark. “The way you sounded on the phone... Whisperin’ my name like that…”

Your breath falters.

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s savoring the way you’re unraveling already, and he hasn’t even touched you.

“That little gasp you gave me right before you came, fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. You been echoing in my head since.”

Your body tenses in the best way, warmth pulling low in your stomach.

“I was workin’, tryin’ to keep my damn head straight,” he continues, voice almost bitter with how little success he had. “Then my phone buzzes and there you are. In my shirt. Tits out. Lookin’ smug as hell on your couch.”

His hand lifts, just two fingers grazing the hem of your shirt where it meets your waist. It’s barely a touch, but your whole body reacts like he’d run fire down your spine.

“Y’wanna show me what you were so intent on showin’ me while I was tryin’ to work?”

You breathe in, slow but shallow, your chest rising against the tight coil building low in your belly.

Joel’s fingers pause at the hem of your shirt, waiting. Not out of hesitation, out of intention and control, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You nod barely, and that’s all it takes.

His hand slides higher, rough palm dragging up over your ribs. Not rushed, never rushed. He’s savoring every inch, watching you the whole time. Watching the way your breath stutters and catches, how your eyes stay locked on his like you’re trying not to blink.

“Didn’t get the full view on my phone,” his thumb brushes just under the curve of your breast now, your skin pebbling in response. “Figure I’m owed the live performance.”

You exhale a laugh, more breath than sound. “You act like I was teasing.”

His gaze darkens. “You were.”

Your shirt rises inch by inch, his hand dragging it up until you raise your arms and let him take it off the rest of the way. His fingers trail back down your sides after, knuckles grazing skin like he’s mapping your form.

“Turn around for me,” his voice is stern and commanding. It sends a flutter down your spine.

You hesitate, just half a beat. But then your feet are moving, spine prickling with awareness as you pivot in place. You don’t miss the low sound he makes, something close to a groan, as your back faces him, bare save for the thin band of your bra. He steps in again, chest brushing your shoulder blades.

His hands are on your waist now, fingers splayed. You feel the heat of him behind you, how close he is without fully pressing in. One hand slides up, unhooks your bra with practiced ease, and you shiver as the straps fall down your arms. He tugs the band free and tosses it aside without looking.

Your eyes lift, meeting his in the reflection of the mirror. His hands are still on your skin, but it’s the way he’s watching you… like he’s fucking obsessed. And fuck, maybe you’re just projecting because the sight of him sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding between your thighs.

You swallow, your pulse wild at your throat.

His hands skate lower, thumbs hooking the waistband of your shorts. He peels them down with your underwear in one motion, slow enough to make your breath catch again. And then you’re bare, your reflection suddenly feeling like too much and not enough.

Joel’s eyes flick down, taking you in.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters. “Y’know that, right?”

He steps in, fully this time… hips pressing to your backside, and you can feel him already hard through his jeans. His hands skim up your stomach, one trailing higher to cup your breast, the other flattening just below your navel.

“You see yourself?” he asks, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. The slow drag of his words sinks deeper than his voice alone, “See how fuckin’ eager y’are f’me?”

You nod, wordless.

Behind you, his belt unbuckles with a sharp metallic clink and the whisper of leather sliding loose then the slide of denim.

Your hands brace the dresser instinctively, the cool edge biting into your palms as your gaze flickers to the mirror… what you look like like this. What he looks like. Half-shadowed behind you, eyes dark, shirt still clinging to his arms, chest rising with a measured control that’s about to shatter.

He frees himself with a quiet hiss, the blunt heat of him dragging over your ass. He groans softly as he grips himself, the thick weight of him dragged deliberately over the swell of your ass. Heat blooming wherever he touches. He slips his shirt off and steps out of his jeans, kicking them to the side. The tip of him finds you, already slick.

“Fuck.” A hiss, under his breath. “So fucking wet f’me…”

He pushes in, stretching you inch by inch until your mouth parts with a strangled sound, your knees threatening to buckle from the pressure alone.

He mutters something indiscernible, hands tightening on your hips like he needs the anchor just as much as you do.

Your eyes flutter but don’t close. You can’t look away.

The sight of his large form against yours in the mirror leaves you transfixed. From the way your body opens for him like it was always meant to, to the way his body cages you in against the dresser, his eyes never leaving your face as he watches how you unravel for him.

He holds there for a second, maybe two. “You take me so good,” he says low, like he’s not even talking to you, just murmuring the truth aloud. “So fuckin’ good.”

He gives you a moment to adjust, both hands gripping your hips. And then he starts to move.

Rhythmic. Deliberate. Deep.

The kind of thrusts that aren’t meant to tease, they’re meant to remind you who it is that’s inside you and exactly what you’ve been waiting for.

The sound of skin, of breath, of your quiet gasps building toward moans.

His grip roughens slightly. His control slipping. You feel it in the way his hips snap just a little harder into yours, in the low curses he spills like prayers against your spine.

“Joel,” you whimper.

He meets your gaze in the mirror.

“Yeah, baby,” he rasps. “You feel that? That’s what happens when you tease me all fuckin’ week.”

A particularly deep thrust makes you cry out, knuckles whitening where you grip the edge of the dresser.

“Wanted to be gentle,” his voice is edged with restraint. “But you had to send those pictures. Had to moan for me on the phone like I wasn’t gonna remember every fuckin’ sound.”

You bite your lip, struggling to keep quiet.

“Don’t you dare hide those sounds now,” he grits. “Let me hear you.”

And you do.

Every gasp, every whimper, every broken syllable of his name echoing back to you in the mirror, proof of what he’s doing to you. Of how far you’ve fallen and of how much deeper you want to go.

You give every sound to him. Each one louder than the last, your body unraveling under the weight of him, under the heat of his stare in the mirror. Each thrust chipping away at your restraint and your composure, everything you’d promised yourself you could keep separate.

And he watches like he needs it just as much.

He’s buried deep, chest brushing your back with each thrust measured and relentless, on the fine line nearing ruin.

And then…his arm snakes around you.

Palm splayed across your belly, dragging you back into him. The new angle steals the breath from your lungs.

You gasp and his forearm tightens around you.

“Easy,” he murmurs, mouth at your neck. “I’ve got you.”

His hand dips lower.

Fingertips trailing down, slow as sin. A feather-light touch between your legs, just a brush at first, maddening in its restraint. You whimper, your knees buckling, and he catches you with the strength of his arm, fucking you through it like he knew exactly how close you were.

“You feel that?” he breathes against your skin, his lips right at the hinge of your jaw. “How soaked y’are f’me?”

He circles your clit with two fingers. Slow, firm pressure, timed perfectly with the roll of his hips. The room collapses around that rhythm. Nothing exists but the stretch of him inside you and the tight, devastating swirl of his fingers.

The sound you make is somewhere between a sob and a moan.

“Yeah, baby,” he growls. “That’s it.”

He doesn’t let up. Just keeps driving into you, coaxing the edge closer with every motion, his breath turning rough, his voice frayed like it’s costing him not to cum right then and there.

The mirror shows it all.

The way your head falls back against his shoulder. The tension in your thighs. The raw, desperate way your hand scrambles to grip his wrist, like you can’t bear it, yet can’t let go.

“Let go f’me,” he says, low and steady. “C’mon now. Be a good girl and cum on my cock.”

Your body obeys.

It slams into you hard and fast. Your knees give out as the orgasm crashes through, white-hot and helpless. He holds you upright, still fucking you through it, letting you feel every second, every twitch of his fingers, every slow, punishing thrust of his hips.

You cry out, fingers digging into his arm, back arching against him… and Joel just watches it unfold in the mirror, like he’s memorizing all of it.

You’re still trembling when he slows, barely keeping you upright. Your legs won’t hold. He feels it and steadies you with a low curse and a firm grip.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice shot to hell.

His hand on your hip turns gentle as he draws out slowly, the loss of him making you gasp, already aching for more.

You don’t have time to mourn it.

He turns you in his arms, and his mouth is on yours before you can speak… hungry, searing. His hand slides behind to your ass, one hand swatting it hard enough to sting as he walks you backward. You don’t break the kiss, not even when your calves hit the edge of the bed and he lowers you down with a soft thump of the mattress springs.

Joel leans over you, large frame caging you beneath him, “Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes raking down your body, fucked-out and flushed. “Fuckin’ perfect f’me.”

You reach for him instinctively, arms around his shoulders, legs pulling him back in. Needing him close. Needing him deep.

He sinks into you with a low, guttural sound that vibrates through both of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling under your thigh.

Your leg stays hooked around him, keeping him locked in as he starts to move again in slow, heavy thrusts that drag against every sensitive nerve inside you. He’s savoring it as he feels every inch of you.

You moan into his neck, your fingernails digging down his back. The pace is unhurried and devastatingly controlled. Each stroke hits deep and purposeful, his hips grinding into you at just the right angle.

He mutters something low, almost inaudible, against your skin. Praise or prayer, you don’t know.

His mouth grazes your collarbone, your jaw, your cheek. “So fuckin’ tight, baby. Still grippin’ me like you want more.”

“I do,” you whisper.

He tilts his head back just enough to meet your eyes, wild and dark and all-consuming. “Then take it.”

He changes the angle, shifts your leg higher around his waist, driving deeper. Your back arches off the mattress, pleasure winding hot and thick in your belly again, too fast.

He feels it.

“Don’t fight it,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “I’ve got ya. Cum for me again, sweetheart.”

He rocks into you harder now, more insistent, like he won’t stop until you fall apart for him.

Your hands claw at his shoulders, your head tipping back as the tension coils tighter and tighter…

“Fuck, Joel…”

“I know, I know, sweetheart,” he soothes, his thrusts growing more erratic. “Let me feel it, darlin’. Fuckin’ cum f’me.”

It hits hard, your whole body bowing up into his, legs tightening around his waist as your climax rips through you. You cry out his name, eyes glassy, barely holding on as wave after wave rolls over you.

Joel falters, shuddering at the feeling of you pulsing around him, his breath hitching against your neck.

“Christ, baby—fuck.” He fucks you through it, but you can feel his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate.

He pulls out quick, almost dizzy with restraint, stroking himself with a hand slick from your body. You feel the heat of him against your stomach a second later, thick ropes spilling across your skin as he groans deep, forehead pressed to yours.

Your breaths come in tandem, sharp and uneven.

But he doesn’t let it end there. Before your limbs have fully stilled, before your mind can even catch up, Joel slides down the bed, parting your thighs with careful hands. Like he’d had this plan the whole time.

“Just one more,” his voice rough with awe. “Gimme one more, darlin’.”

You can barely process it. Your chest is still heaving, your skin still trembling from the aftershocks. But then his mouth is on you, hot and sure and deliberate, and the thought of not giving him what he’s asking for is impossible.

He starts slow. So fucking slow.

A single drag of his tongue through your puffy and swollen folds, tasting you like something decadent. He hums softly, almost like a satisfied purr, and you feel it… vibrating against your core and your hips twitch in response.

His tongue moves again, firmer now, more intentional. Long, languid strokes that leave your thighs shaking. He doesn’t go straight for your clit. Doesn’t rush to get you off, he builds it with the patience and technique which makes you delirious as you rock your hips up onto his face.

His pace was deliberate and patient, hands stroking up your thighs, gripping them gently, thumbs brushing in lazy circles. You’re already sensitive, your nerves still overstimulated from before, but he doesn’t back off. If anything, he savors the way you twitch under him. The little whimpers and the shaky exhales. The way your hips lift, searching for more.

He holds you steady and takes his fucking time.

When his tongue finally flattens against your clit, it’s a shock to your system, your whole body tensing. His mouth latches there, pressure perfect, pace slow but unrelenting. You arch up with a choked moan.

Joel tightens his grip. His palms press you down into the mattress, anchoring you there like he knows what’s coming. Like he wants you helpless beneath his mouth.

He alternates strokes, with broad, teasing licks and precise flicks that make your vision blur. He dips lower sometimes, tongue dipping shallowly inside you, groaning at the taste, the wetness, the way you clench even for that.

Then he’s back on your clit again, licking you like it’s a goddamn art form.

“Joel, please—” you breathe, voice catching.

He doesn’t answer. Just sucks harder.

You fist the sheets and try to close your legs, your body moving of its own volition as it processes the intense, overwhelming sensations he’s creating between your thighs.

You try to twist away from the overstimulation but he’s already got you locked in, already wrapped around your nerves like wildfire and silk.

One hand slips down… two fingers sliding into you with ease, the angle perfect, the rhythm matched perfectly with his tongue.

He groans when you clench around him.

“God,” you gasp. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He finally pulls back enough to rasp, “So dramatic, darlin’. Just makin’ sure you never forget.”

And before you can ever process what he’s said, he’s back on you, pace faster now. Tongue circling your clit while his fingers curl just right inside you, relentless in the way he’s breaking you down.

You can’t breathe, can’t think. You don’t just fall over the edge this time, you fucking shatter.

Back arched, thighs trembling, sobbing his name like a benediction as you cum hard against his mouth. He doesn’t stop and he doesn’t slow. He licks you through it… every spasm, every twitch… until you’re gasping and whimpering, pushing weakly at his shoulders from how much it is.

When he finally pulls back, he kisses your thigh. Then your hip. Then your stomach, where his cum still streaks across your skin, and looks up at you with those blown-out, reverent eyes like he just prayed there.

The room smelled like sex. Skin-warmed sheets, sharp and sweet. Your breathing had only just started to even out, chest still fluttering, legs too loose to hold weight.

He laid next to you now, propped on one elbow, watching with that quiet attentiveness of his, like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for you or give you space. But when your brow creased and your hand drifted toward your stomach, he was already sliding down the bed again.

He got off the bed, disappearing into the bathroom briefly. You hear him opening your linen closet, then moments later he came back with a warm, damp cloth. No fanfare, no teasing.

“Easy,” he muttered as you reached for the towel, his voice low and rasped from earlier. You felt the press of his hands on your thighs, parting you gently. “Let me.”

You made a soft noise in your throat, half-protest, half-plea, but you didn’t stop him.

Just a steady, practiced tenderness as he cleaned you up, gentle swipes of the cloth, the backs of his knuckles brushing soothingly along your inner thigh, the ridge of your hip. Like you mattered. Like this mattered, even if you’d refused to admit it.

You closed your eyes, swallowing thickly.

When he was done, he leaned over, kissing the inside of your knee like punctuation, then climbed back up and settled beside you, dragging the blanket over both your bodies. You felt his hand slide beneath it, slow and tentative, until it found your hip and pulled you closer.

You stay there for a few minutes, the tickle of his chest hair pressed against your back, his stubble brushing against your neck as he nuzzles into you, His hand moves only once, fingers grazing along your ribs in a lazy pattern.

The room is too quiet now. Every sound stands out.

His breathing, the sound of the air conditioning, the sound of the hallway door clicking shut…oh fuck.

The unmistakable sound of a footstep.

Joel lifts his head slightly from where it’s nestled against your shoulder. “What was that?” he murmurs sleepily.

Your stomach drops, “Shit.”

“What?”

You turn just enough to glance toward the door. “My roommate’s home.”

He pulls back immediately, already reaching for where his shirt lies bunched on the floor. “You said she wasn’t gonna be—”

“She wasn’t supposed to be,” you whisper through clenched teeth, scrambling upright, slipping on and tightening your robe around yourself like it could erase the last hour. “She has double shifts all weekend. I didn’t even hear the door.”

Joel’s jeans are half on when you hear another sound, this one unmistakable.

A drawer in the kitchen.

He pauses, glancing toward the doorway, hair mussed, chest still flushed from earlier. His voice is quieter now, raspier. “She—did she hear us?”

Your eyes widen, and a wash of heat spreads from your ears to your chest, “Oh God.”

He huffs out a low breath, tugging his shirt on. “Shit.”

You can’t move, you just stare at the door, half-hoping this is a dream, half-wishing the ground would open up beneath you.

And then you hear it… a very deliberate, unmistakable cough from down the hall.

Joel freezes mid-button.

You bury your face in your hands, “Fuck me.”

He smirks faintly. “Already did, sweetheart.”

You slap his arm. “Joel.”

He winces apologetically but still grins. “Sorry.”

You’re not sure what’s worse, the fact that your roommate is in the kitchen right now or the fact that she was probably home long enough to hear a lot of it… if not all of it… you probably scarred her for life, you’ll never be able to look her in the eyes again.

You gather your dignity like scraps from the floor, and start toward the kitchen for water.

Joel stays behind, you see him putting his shirt back on in your peripheral.

When you step into the kitchen, Em doesn’t look up.

She’s standing by the sink, sipping from a bottle of Gatorade, her hair pulled up in a high bun, her scrubs slightly wrinkled from what looks like a brutal shift. Her face is entirely neutral. Which is worse than a smirk. Worse than a laugh. It’s the silence of someone actively trying not to react. She has headphones in her ears and you can hear how loud the music is playing.

She takes an earbud out and you can hear the music stop playing.

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

She turns, ever so slightly. “Hey.”

You open the fridge like your life depends on it.

She leans against the counter, then, after a beat, she says just one sentence, flat and mortified and vaguely traumatized, “I don’t think I can ever look that man in the eye.”

You groan into the fridge.

From the bedroom, Joel coughs again. A different kind this time. Embarrassed.

“I’ll go back to my room,” she says, grabbing her Gatorade and walking past you, slow and solemn like she’s been to war. “Just know that I am a changed woman. Spiritually. Emotionally. Acoustically.”

You shut the fridge and press your forehead against it.

Joel, fully dressed now, walks into the kitchen behind you a moment later.

He spots Em disappearing down the hall and pauses. Then looks at you, mouth twitching.

“She heard?” he asks, knowing full well the answer.

You shoot him a withering look. “Joel.”

His mouth twitches. “I mean, could’ve been worse.”

“Worse?” You nearly choke on your sip. “How?”

He strolls in, completely unbothered, crossing the kitchen with that slow, smug gait of his. “Could’ve been her walkin’ in. Or you shoutin’ my name with the windows open. You’re not exactly quiet, sweetheart.”

Your jaw drops, “I hate you.”

“No y’don’t,” he says, real easy. “You like me way too much for that.”

You try to scowl, but your face betrays you, your lips twitching like they want to smile.

He closes the space between you, reaches around your waist to snag the bottle from your hands just to take a sip like it’s nothing. “Tastes better when it’s yours,” he says, then winks.

You roll your eyes, snatching it back. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But you still let me in.”

You want to say something biting, something that reclaims your dignity, but all you can manage is, “Yeah, well. Temporary insanity.”

He grins, “Think I’m growin’ on you.”

“You’re really proud of yourself, huh?”

“Little bit.”

He leans in again, just close enough to skim the bridge of his nose against yours, the way he always does when he’s about to kiss you but wants you to want it first. That lazy, practiced kind of restraint that drives you insane.

His lips hover over yours… tempting, not quite touching, his breath warm as he murmurs, “You always look at me like that right before you give in.”

You tilt your head slightly, nose bumping his, matching that quiet challenge. “Maybe I just like watching you beg.”

His mouth curves. “Then watch closely, darlin’. I’m real good at beggin’.”

But just as his lips finally brush yours—

“Oh, for the love of God.”

You flinch.

Joel sighs.

Both of you turn to find Em standing halfway down the hallway, a box of dryer sheets in her hand, blinking at you like she walked in on a deleted scene from a cheesy, smutty romance novel.

“I was gone for five minutes. And y’all already look like you’re about to christen the damn kitchen.”

Joel doesn’t move, doesn’t even let go of your waist. Just lifts his brows and says casually, “Was just gettin’ water.”

Em snorts. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

You groan, forehead dropping against his shoulder, mumbling, “She’s going to haunt me forever.”

Em’s already halfway back down the hall, shaking her head. “Y’all are nasty. I hope you’re at least wipin’ down every damn surface of this place before I even sit on that couch again.”

Joel tilts his head, murmurs against your ear, “Think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

“Definitely.”

“Wanna come back to mine?”

You look up at him, heartbeat already picking up for all the wrong reasons. “Thought you’d never ask.”

“I’ve got leftovers. A better bed. A whole weekend free.”

You huff a laugh, already backing out of his arms, “Gimme ten minutes.”

Joel leans in and kisses your jaw, slow and smug, “I’ll cool the truck.”

And just like that, you were grabbing a bag and heading out for the weekend.

You throw together a small bag. Just enough clothes to pretend you’re not planning to stay until Monday. Toothbrush, socks, a fresh set of underwear, and your favorite oversized sweatshirt. You’re out the door in eight minutes flat.

Joel waited for you in his truck and pulled it in front of the building, and when you slide into the passenger seat, Joel doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and settles a hand on your thigh, warm and steady. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other never leaving your skin.

Outside, the sun is setting slow. Golden light catching in the side mirror, painting everything in that dreamy, too-perfect kind of glow.

You don’t say a word and neither does he. Not until you’re halfway there, and he glances sideways, “Could get used to this.”

You swallow and look out the window. Pretending the words don’t wrap around your ribs and settle there like a secret you’re not ready to name.

The cab of the truck is warm with leftover sun, and the low rumble of the engine feels like it hums through your spine. You’re angled slightly toward him, knees pulled up in the seat, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, trying to look casual, trying not to squirm.

But Joel’s hand hasn’t left your thigh since you got in, he’s not even pretending it’s innocent anymore. His fingers stroke idly, creeping higher inch by inch. Like he’s got all the time in the world and you’re the one that has to sit there and take it.

You shift, just barely, and his pinky brushes beneath the hem of your shorts.

He catches it.

You glance at him, meaning to glare, to tell him to wait, but the look he gives you is full of heat, that dark, slow kind that coils low in your stomach. His mouth is relaxed, turned up in the corner like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The truck slows at a red light. His hand moves higher. Fingertips teasing now, right where your thigh meets the seam of your underwear. Your breath catches.

“Joel,” you hiss, barely audible.

“What?” he says, eyes still on the road, tone maddeningly calm. “Just drivin’.”

His fingers curl slightly… pressing and testing.

“You’re not wearin’ those little biker short y’like wearing to mine,” his voice slipping like smoke beneath your skin. “Was kinda hopin’ for that.”

You gasp, legs tensing.

You snort softly, breath hitching as his fingers dip between your thighs. “Sorry to disappoint,” you mutter, voice breathless, “next time I’ll make sure to dress like a slut just for you.”

Next time. How rare it was to actually acknowledge the next time while the current time together wasn’t coming to an end yet.

He groans at that, accompanied with a dark laugh, low and dangerous. “Darlin’… you say that like it’s not exactly what I want.”

Your head tips back against the seat as he finds the slick warmth between your legs… still puffy, still tender, still so ready for him. One finger slides through the mess he left behind an hour ago and your thighs twitch, breath catching on the sharp edge of pleasure.

When the light turns green, he doesn’t stop.

The truck lurches forward and he keeps driving, his hand still buried between your thighs, his breath steady like this is nothing new. His fingers slide deeper. You muffle a moan behind your hand.

“You’re gonna get us pulled over,” you manage.

He hums, like he doesn’t mind. “Gonna tell the cop what I’m doin’ to ya, darlin’?”

You reach for his wrist, not to stop him, just to hold on. The rhythm of his fingers makes it impossible to think, let alone breathe right.

He groans again, thumb circling slow, deliberate. “Didn’t realize you were so ready again, sweetheart. Gonna make you cum in my truck now too?”

You suck in a breath, thighs trembling. “Cocky.” You bite out, but there was no sting to it, no real bite. You were barely holding it together at this point.

His grin sharpens, “Confident, hun. I’ve already made you fall apart three times today, think I can do it at least one more time before we even get inside?” His fingers slide deeper, curling just right inside you… two now, pressing into that spot he found so fast the first time he had you. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit, sending a jolt straight through your spine.

You bite down on your bottom lip, tasting blood, trying to breathe through the ache blooming low in your stomach.

You’re a mess… whimpering and shaking, thighs slick and spread, legs twitching each time he flexes his fingers just right.

“I can feel ya gettin’ close,” he murmurs, glancing over at you with that smug grin of his.

You nod, thighs spreading even wider to encourage him.

“You gonna make a mess in my seat, pretty girl?” he teases.

You gasp. “Joel—”

He keeps driving like it’s nothing. Like the sound of your soaked slick and whimpering breath isn’t the most obscene thing echoing through the cab of his truck.

“You hear that?” he murmurs, voice rough with arousal. “Fuckin’ soaked for me. Still.”

You bite your lip, hard, trying to hold back the moan climbing your throat as he quickens the pace—his fingers thrusting faster now, deliberate, devastating. The wet slap of your body around him is obscene, and he eats it up like it’s his favorite song.

Your legs begin to shake, muscles clenching, heat building fast in your core—tight, pulsing, electric.

“Go on,” he breathes, eyes still on the road but barely. “Cum for me, baby.”

You bite your own hand to stifle the cry that tears out of you as your orgasm slams into you, sharp and fast and overwhelming. Your thighs clamp down around his wrist, back arching, breath shattering into fragments.

He doesn’t stop then, he works you through every wave of it, every trembling aftershock, until you’re slumped in the seat, your whole body buzzing and twitching, sweat cooling on your skin.

Joel finally pulls his hand away, slow and smug, then brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a groan like it’s the best meal he’s ever had.

And then, like nothing happened, he makes a turn into his driveway and shifts the truck into park.“C’mon, let’s get you inside before I fuck you on the hood.”

He doesn’t give you time to recover. Just climbs out, slams the door shut, and rounds the truck to your side. Open it like he’s doing you a favor. Like he hadn’t just made you cum hard enough to see stars, you reach for him without thinking.

“Can’t walk?” he teases, hands curling around your waist to help you down, but his eyes are anything but gentle.

“You’re smug,” you breathe, trying to sound scolding, failing miserably.

“Not smug, darlin’,” he says, voice thick, “damn proud, but not smug.”

He doesn’t wait, the second your feet hit the ground he’s slamming the door shut behind you and backing you against it. The metal still hums with engine heat. His body presses flush to yours, hot and solid and demanding.

You reach for him first, but Joel catches your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand. The other rests lightly at the base of your throat.

He hasn’t applied pressure, not yet, just testing.

Your breath catches, lashes fluttering as you look up at him, eyes wide. And something flickers in his.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and smoky, the tips of his fingers brushing just a little firmer against your throat. “That do somethin’ for ya?”

You nod once, helpless. Your hips already shifting toward him.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You are gonna be the death of me.”

And then he kisses you, hard and fast, teeth dragging at your lip, tongue demanding entry, and his hand doesn’t leave your neck. His grip is still careful, but possessive, just enough pressure to make your pulse roar in your ears.

You rut against him, already wrecked and desperate all over again.

Joel growls, low in his chest, and spins you toward the hood of the truck. Your palms brace against it instinctively, the heat still radiating through the metal.

His body cages yours from behind, one hand sliding up your torso, cupping your breast through your shirt, the other still curved around your throat, thumb brushing the underside of your jaw.

“Could take you right here,” he murmurs, mouth against your ear. “Bent over the damn hood and show all the neighbors who makes you so fucked-out.”

You shudder, a whimper caught in your throat.

He smirks when you arch back into him, ass flush against his jeans, your thighs clenching like they could hold him there. His body towers behind you, all heat and hard muscle, one hand gripping your waist like he’s already claimed it.

The other drags up, slow and sure, over your ribs, between your breasts, up your throat, fingers splayed wide until they curl beneath your jaw.

“You really think I’d be done with you tonight?” he murmurs in your ear, voice a dark rasp, hips rolling into you just enough to make your breath catch. “That all you came over for? One mess in my truck?”

You’re trembling already. His hand at your throat is more cradle than choke, but the weight of it, of him, makes your whole body buzz.

You nod, breath stuttering.

He tightens his fingers just slightly, a warning. A promise.

“Use your words, hun.”

“…No.. please,” you whisper, almost a sob. “Please. I want more.”

He groans and presses his mouth to your jaw. “Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you’d be greedy for it.”

His hand drops to your hips and squeezes hard, dragging you back against the bulge in his jeans. “Let’s get ya inside.”

The front door barely clicks shut before he’s all over you again, your back against the wood, mouths crashing, his hands everywhere—pulling, gripping, and claiming. He presses your body to his, your breath punched out in a gasp as you’re pressed against the wall.

He kisses you through it, nips at your bottom lip, then drags his mouth along your jaw.

You barely register your feet leaving the ground before your legs are wrapped around his waist, thighs trembling as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.

He pins you there, chest pressing tight to yours, the line of his body grinding right where you need him most. His jeans rough against your inner thighs. He kisses you like it’s punishment. Like he’s furious you taste this good, feel this soft, make those gasping noises that go straight to his cock.

He pulls back just enough to bite at your lip, then trails down, mouth scraping your jaw, stubble leaving marks, tongue catching at your pulse.

His hands shift, one under your ass, the other braced against your back, and then he’s moving. Carrying you down the hall with single-minded purpose.

You clutch at his shoulders and make it to his bedroom in a blur.

He kicks the door shut behind him, doesn’t even bother with the lights. The soft amber spill from the hallway is enough to paint the outline of the bed.

He lowers you there, slow at first, letting your back hit the mattress with a bounce. But the second you’re down, he’s on you again.

Big hands push your legs apart, thumb hooking into the band of your underwear and your shorts, dragging it down your thighs in one rough motion. He leans over, kisses your stomach, your hip, your thigh… then rises up over you, all heat and muscle looming.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles between your legs, palms braced on either side of your head. His chest rises and falls, shadows flickering across his face, his pupils blown wide.

His hand drags up beneath your sweatshirt, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you he uncovers. Rough fingertips skate the line of your ribs, pausing just under the swell of your breast, grazing so lightly it’s maddening. You gasp when the fabric lifts high enough for the air to bite at your skin, goosebumps blooming in his wake.

“Could have anyone you wanted,” he mutters, low and gritty, the words rasped against your throat like they’ve clawed their way up from somewhere buried. His mouth brushes just beneath your jaw as he speaks, breath hot, a whisper you feel more than hear. “Pretty girl like you, fuckin’ trouble from the start.”

His palm cups your breast, broad and warm, thumb circling your nipple with lazy, practiced patience. It hardens instantly under his touch, your back lifting, your breath catching in a quiet, strangled sound.

“You don’t come back to me for nothin’, do ya?” his voice is softer now, but dipping in something darker, like wonder wrapped in disbelief.

He shifts, one hand slipping under your thigh to spread you wider, his hips grinding against yours… slow, heavy pressure that leaves no question of how hard he is. The denim is coarse against your skin, but all you can focus on is the heat, the promise of it, the drag of him where you’re already soaked.

He ruts once, gentle but firm, groaning into the shell of your ear like it costs him. “That it?” he asks, his voice gone rough and wrecked, half-gone already. “That why you keep crawl’n back, sweetheart? Can’t stop thinkin’ about this cock stretchin’ y’open?”

You don’t answer, you can’t manage any words, but your breath stutters, eyes flutter, and before you even realize what you’re doing, your chin dips in a small, trembling nod.

A sound punches out of his chest, something between a growl and a moan, low and guttural and laced with something possessive. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and burning.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he breathes, more to himself than you, before dragging the sweatshirt up and off in one practiced motion. The fabric’s gone in a blink, tossed somewhere behind him, and now you’re bare beneath him again. Flushed and gasping, caught in the heat of his stare.

He takes his time with it, dragging his gaze over every inch of you and you watch him drink you in. He licks his lips in anticipation as he dips his head again, his tongue dragging along your pulse point where you could feel a bead of sweat dripping.

You whimper as the cool of the air conditioning kicks in, sharp against your fevered skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth, his hands, his body pressing you into the mattress.

Joel growls against your throat, the sound vibrating against your skin, low and rough like it’s being torn straight from his chest. His teeth catch just beneath your jaw and he sucks hard enough to leave a mark, like he wants to brand you, make sure the ghost of his mouth lingers even when he’s gone.

“Look at ya,” he tsks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, voice thick, half-slurred with hunger. “Already shakin’, and I’ve barely fuckin’ touched you.”

Which wasn’t true at all, he hadn’t stopped touching you, but to be fair it was in anticipation of him touching you again. Regardless, you didn’t have enough brain power to go against anything he said at this moment.

One hand wraps around your thigh, forcing it up and out as he slots himself between your legs.

His fingers find your slit again, sliding through the slick there like he owns it, like your body was made just for this, for him. You writhe beneath him, moaning his name, and he chuckles darkly into your neck.

“Ya like that?” he whispers, dragging the words along the shell of your ear. “Y’like bein’ this fuckin’ needy f’me?”

You nod, helpless, and he catches your jaw in one big, rough hand, forcing your head back to look at him. The grip is rough, commanding. It sends a jolt of heat through you.

“Use your words, hun,” he growls. “Y’know I like hearin’ ya.”

“Yes,” you gasp, the word torn from your throat. “need you.”

“Yeah?” His hand tightens slightly, thumb brushing your lower lip. “How bad?”

You arch into him, unable to stand the space between your bodies. “I’ll beg.”

His eyes darken at that, and something flickers across his face— pure, ravenous need.

He drops his hand from your jaw, grabs both of your thighs, and flips you over before you can catch your breath. You yelp, then moan when your cheek hits the pillow and his weight presses down over you, the heat of him crowding every inch of your back. He pushes his jeans down just enough to free his cock, the blunt tip dragging against your soaked slit.

One strong hand curls around the front of your throat, just enough to tilt your head back, a question in the pressure, and when you don’t pull away, when you push back into him with a needy grind of your hips, he growls in approval.

“You want it rough, baby?” His cock slides through your folds, teasing, unrelenting. “That what ya need?”

You whimper, your voice cracking, “Please.”

He doesn’t wait.

With one brutal thrust, he buries himself inside you to the hilt.

You choke on a cry, fingers clawing at the sheets, body already trembling from the stretch, the fullness, the goddamn pressure of him splitting you open.

Joel moans like he’s just been handed salvation. “Fuck, so tight,” he grits out, thrusting slow and deep, grinding his hips against your ass, “Every fuckin’ time…”

His hand around your throat shifts, not choking, just holding, just there, thumb pressed beneath your jaw like he needs to feel your pulse. His other hand fists your hair, pulling just enough to arch your back for him, keeping you open and wrecked under every savage thrust.

“You can take it,” he growls, voice wrecked, hips slamming into yours like he’s got something to prove. “You fuckin’ take what I give you.”

And you do. Over and over. Every stroke deeper, harder, every sound he wrings from you a testament to how thoroughly he owns your body tonight.

He fucks you like he means it, every thrust is a claim, relentless and raw. The sound of skin meeting skin loud and filthy in the room, your moans muffled by the pillow beneath your cheek.

Joel’s weight pins you in place, his hand firm around your throat, his body’s everywhere, his chest against your back, hips driving into you with ruthless force, thighs braced tight around yours. You’re trapped beneath him and deliciously wrecked.

Not a single fucking thought in that head of yours. All you know is the stretch of him, the ache deep inside you, and the fire blooming low in your belly again. The orgasm comes faster this time, coiled and furious, nerves still raw from earlier and set off again by the punishing pace.

He knows it because he feels it.

The way your thighs start to tremble, the way your slick tightens around him with every thrust. His voice rasps right against your ear, filthy and low.

“C’mon, baby… that’s it. You gonna cum for me again?” A pause, his hips slow, just for a moment, grinding deep. “You always give it to me so sweet.”

You cry out, the pleasure edging into pain, overstimulation screaming through your nerves. But it feels too good, too much, too perfect to stop. You nod frantically, gasping, and he fucks you harder.

“Good girl,” he croons, breath ragged. “Let me hear ya.”

“I’m… fuck, right there…”

It hits you like thunder, rolling over the entirety of your body. Your whole body seizes, vision going white behind your eyes as your orgasm rips through you, violent, consuming, and endless. You sob into the pillow, claw at the sheets, try to push back but Joel doesn’t let up. He groans, deep and guttural, the sound of it fraying at the edge of control.

You pulse around him, fluttering and clenching and so fucking wet he’s slipping inside you without resistance.

And then—

“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, his voice strained, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Fuck, gonna..”

His rhythm falters.

You feel him swell, stutter, then slam into you one last time and hold there, buried deep as his hips jerk and you feel him spill inside you. Warm and thick and endless.

A low, broken sound leaves him… part moan, part growl, a satisfied hum, and then he slumps over you, breathless, his grip loosening, then arms wrapping tight around your waist.

He stays there, still sheathed inside you, chest heaving against your back, forehead pressed against your shoulder blade. his weight anchoring you in the aftermath. His lips press to your shoulder, soft now.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice cracked and wrecked.

You just whimper in response, body limp and trembling, the aftershocks still twitching through your thighs.

His hand smooths over your waist, slow and grounding, fingers spreading wide like he wants to cover every inch of you. Like he doesn’t want to let you go just yet. His breath is still ragged, every exhale ghosting warm over your skin as he rests there, still buried deep inside you, unwilling to break the connection.

“Didn’t mean to—” he starts, voice rough, but stops himself. His mouth grazes your spine instead, a kiss, a silent apology, or maybe just awe.

You hum, barely audible, too spent to speak. Your cheek pressed into the sheets, breath catching on the remnants of your last moan.

His body shifts a little, just enough to slide his arm beneath you and gather you up against him, pulling you sideways with him as he rolls onto his back. Refusing to slide out of you just yet. You go easily, pliant and boneless, draped half across his chest. One of his hands splays low over your stomach, the other cups the back of your head, cradling you there.

The silence that follows is thick but not heavy.

You don’t know how long you lie there like that, bodies tangled, hearts still catching up, sweat cooling between your skin. He doesn’t move except to rub slow circles over your side, lips brushing your temple now and again like he can’t help it.

When you finally shift, just slightly, he loosens his grip.

“You alright?” His voice is soft and hoarse against your temple.

You nod, eyes still closed. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t hurt you?”

“No.” Your voice is scratchy, but sure. “I liked it.”

He makes a low noise at that, something satisfied and reverent, and then lets his head fall back against the pillow.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he mutters under his breath, and you huff out a laugh.

You stay like that for a while. His body draped over yours, breath syncing with yours, slower now, heavier. The sweat between you begins to cool. His thumb rubs lazy circles onto your hip, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another, then another, each one softer than the last. Like he’s anchoring himself in the silence.

“Think you just fucked the soul outta me,” your voice breaks the silence, rasped and content.

You hum faintly, letting yourself sink into the moment, every muscle loose and languid beneath him. He makes a sound… half-sigh, half-laugh.. like the peace is just as unfamiliar to him as it is to you.

He snorts, nudging his nose into the curve of your neck. “Don’t say shit like that when I’m still inside ya, darlin’.”

You smile, and it pulls at something deep in your chest.

Then, in one slow, deliberate motion, he rolls you onto your back and slides half on top of you, his chest pressing close again.

You were still catching your breath when his hand slid from your hip to your stomach, resting there, palm warm, fingers splayed like he didn’t want to lose contact. He wasn’t saying anything, just watching you. Studying the way your chest rose and fell, the slight tremble in your limbs, the softness in your face that hadn’t quite hardened again yet.

He leans in and kisses your jaw, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Slower now. Like he’s trying to memorize you in pieces. Your fingers in his hair, the softness of his greying hair felt so perfect between them.

You blink up at him, surprised by the quiet.

“What?” you ask, the word catching on the edges of something tender.

Joel shakes his head once, not really meaning it. His eyes don’t leave yours. “Nothin’. Just…” He swallows. “This doesn’t exactly feel casual anymore, does it?”

You don’t say anything, not right away. Your throat tightens and your heart kicks against your ribs, because he’s not wrong. You’d thought the same yourself, but you hadn’t put words to it yet, not out loud.

And then, maybe because he’s afraid of what that silence might mean, or maybe just to break it before you do, he tilts his head, lets the smirk crawl back in.

“Then why’re you still here, sweetheart?”

You raise a brow at him, blinking through the sudden shift. The question might be wrapped in humor, but the weight of it lingers.

For fuck’s sake he’s still inside of you.

You tip your head, lips twitching. “Warm bed. Decent dick. Free air conditioning.”

And the moment breaks just enough to breathe again.

Joel flashes a toothy grin at that, “’Decent,’ huh?”

You shrug, casual. “It’s fine.”

His eyes narrow. His hand shoots to your thigh, pinching hard enough to make you yelp.

You burst into laughter, squirming away. “Hey!”

“Gonna make you eat those words,” he growls, half-rising above you.

“You already did,” you fire back, smug.

He finally slides out of you, dragging a whimper out of you both. His cock is soft now, slick with the mess you made together. The sound is lewd in the quiet, your bodies still humming with aftershock.

He drops like a rock beside you, groaning dramatically. “Christ, got me actin’ like a damned teenager again.”

You smile again, softer now, letting your head tilt toward him on the pillow.

You laugh, tucking your face into the crook of his arm. “You gonna survive the weekend?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just runs a calloused palm up and down your arm, “I’ll manage.”

The silence stretches, thick with something that doesn’t feel like aftermath, it feels like pause. Like intermission. Like you’re both waiting to see if the world keeps spinning.

Eventually, Joel shifts, pushes himself up with a grunt. “C’mon. Gotta rinse off before I fuse to this mattress.”

You let him pull you with him. Your legs feel like gelatin. He guides you into the bathroom, hand never leaving your back.

The shower is hot and steamy in seconds, the tile slick beneath your feet. Joel steps in behind you, wraps his arms around your waist as water spills over both of you. He presses a kiss to your wet shoulder, another to the curve of your neck, and you lean into him, boneless and buzzing.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You hum. “Better than okay.”

He kisses your temple. Then your jaw. Then the edge of your ear. His hands drift lower, across your stomach, then between your thighs, teasing.

You reach back, fingers curling around the base of his cock. Still heavy, still warm. Not hard yet, but the way he exhales into your neck tells you it won’t take long.

You stroke him slowly, languid, the water washing over both of you in sheets.

His hand slides up your front, cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple as you work him with steady strokes. His mouth opens against your skin, breath hot and damp as he mutters a curse.

“Fuck, baby…”

And then you turn around and slide down to your knees, earning you a low groan from him which echoes off of the tiles, a hand bracing himself against the wall. His other hand finds the back of your head almost instinctively, fingers threading into your wet hair, not pulling, just anchoring. His eyes are half-lidded, mouth parted, water streaming down his chest and over the thick line of his cock, now fully hard under your touch.

You look up at him, breath warm against his skin, and let your tongue drag slow along the underside of him, from base to tip. He twitches, mutters a rough “Jesus,” like the sight of you like this might undo him on the spot.

You wrap your mouth around him, sink down slow, taking your time, letting the slick warmth of your mouth and the hot water do the work.

Joel’s breath hitches. His hips twitch forward once before he stops himself, shoulders tense as he presses back against the tile.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice strained and reverent. “You’re… goddamn.”

You hum around him, mouth tightening just slightly, and that earns you another stifled groan, deeper now, raw and helpless.

His fingers tighten in your hair.

He tries to stay quiet but he’s always been shit at that with you.

You suck him slow and deep, pulling back just to swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of water and him, and it makes your own thighs press together from the way he looks down at you, like you’re his religion.

“Fuck, darlin’, I’m not gonna last,” he breathes, chest rising and falling quickly.

You don’t let up.

He’s throbbing in your mouth now, eyes slammed shut, jaw clenched. Moans spilling out of his throat. His hand tightens once, hard enough to make your scalp tingle, and then he’s cumming with a choked curse, hips stuttering as he spills down your throat. You swallow around him, slow and steady, until there’s nothing left but the soft twitch of his cock and the sound of his breathing ragged.

When you finally pull back, he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for hours.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “I think I’m drained of all my vital bodily fluids… I swear you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“M’not.” You say, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest as you stand back up under the hot spray of water.

Joel hums, arms looping loosely around your waist as he tugs you against him, your slick bodies fitting together like it’s the only shape you were meant to take. He nuzzles into your temple, lips grazing your damp hairline. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You stay like that a while, just letting the water run over you both, steam curling in the space around you. His hands never wander, not this time. Just rest against the small of your back, his touch anchoring, steady. Safe.

Eventually, he grunts, like moving is the hardest thing he’s ever done. “C’mon. Let’s eat before I pass out.”

You laugh softly, letting him guide you out of the shower. You both towel off in the hazy quiet of the bathroom, exchanging lazy touches and soft glances, neither of you in a rush to break whatever spell still lingers between you.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

The evening drifts by like a breeze. He cooks some kind of grilled chicken and potatoes and you eat cross-legged on the couch, both of you in borrowed softness: you in one of his threadbare t-shirts, him in sweats and nothing else.

He doesn’t talk much, neither of you do, and you’ve never needed to. He just sits close enough that his thigh brushes yours every time he shifts. He refills your drink before you can ask, and lets you choose what to watch, even if you both know you’ll fall asleep halfway through.

You doze against his chest somewhere around the third episode of some show he doesn’t recognize but you insist is good. His arm is slung over your shoulders, fingers tracing light patterns along your arm.

The TV flickers, casting a pale blue light across the room. The plates are still on the table. His heart is steady beneath your cheek.

At some point, he wakes you up and guides you back to his bed, the cool sheets much needed on those humid summer nights that seeped deep into your skin. The AC unit in his bedroom much more equipped to handle two bodies melting together.

Blankets are grabbed blindly and limbs tangle as you collapse into the bed together, too exhausted to really mind what you were doing.

Sleep comes easy, like the kind that only follows being well-fucked, well-fed, and quietly cared for.

And in the morning, neither of you mention how good it felt. How easy. How dangerous that kind of comfort can be.

It should’ve felt like peace, like it usually did after a night spent with him.

The quiet hum of the morning, the low rasp of Joel’s breathing beside you, the distant chatter of birds outside his window, everything about this moment should’ve made you feel full, steady, safe.

Your chest ached. Not from regret, not exactly. But from knowing that you both knew this had to come to an end. His acknowledgment that even he felt that whatever this was had progressed to something not so casual anymore.

It proved that you’d let yourselves go too deep, get too attached. Even if you wouldn’t admit it to yourselves that you were attached.

He had quickly become something you looked forward to throughout the week. The anticipation of seeing him, being with him, had gotten you through some tough weeks at work, made you excited to wake up in the morning, made you confident when you looked in the mirror…

And that’s what scared you, because you hadn’t come looking for this.

Sunday passed in a haze and you barely left his bed.

Lazy touches turned to slow kisses… Slow kisses turned to need all over again.

He fucked you three separate times— once in the shower, once with your legs over his shoulders, once with your hand over your mouth to keep quiet because he’d opened the windows and he could hear the neighbors outside doing their weekend yard work. You hadn’t heard them yourself, but with a hand around your throat and one over your mouth… all you could do was feel and hear him.

It was supposed to be casual, light, uncomplicated. Just two people using each other as a means to an end, and a distraction for the summer.

But then there had been the mornings, the small kindnesses, the care. The softness in his voice when he called you darlin’, like it meant more than just a pet name. Like he knew something you hadn’t figured out yet.

But it wasn’t just that, either.

He made coffee in the morning while you wore nothing but his flannel. Fed you bites of eggs with cheese like he’d learned how you like them. Watched some half-boring documentary with your legs tangled over his, would put on a record he caught you bobbing your head to whenever he’d had it on last. Ran his fingers through your hair until you dozed off in his lap.

He looked at you like he could spend the rest of his life doing just that, or maybe…. for a moment… you let yourself want that and searched for it in his eyes too.

But now it was Sunday night, and tomorrow was Monday. You’d have to part ways once again, probably have to leave early in the morning to go to work. You were glad you weren’t scheduled until the afternoon… but you’d already made the plan, your place was on the way to his job site so he’d just drop you off on his way.

And you were wide awake, your mind running a million miles a minute…. Because you had said it, this, was for the summer, and now summer was slipping away.

You swallowed hard, you could feel the pressure starting to build behind your ribs, like a dam you couldn’t let break. Not here. Not when you still hadn’t untangled yourself from him.

Because if this kept going, if you let yourself keep falling into this rhythm, this warmth, this, him… you already knew how it would end.

He wasn’t yours and he was never meant to be. And you, well, you had too many things to prove to yourself. Too many walls still up, too many worries, too many obstacles in your own head to overcome, too many dreams already compromised.

And Joel was not someone you could afford to want. To need.

So you lay there a while longer, you let him hold you a little tighter. Let the warmth linger on your skin, even though the chill had already started to settle beneath it.

You made your decision then, quiet and sharp and as painful as a blade between the ribs.

You’d enjoy the rest of this weekend… and then you’d end it. Disappear, like you’d always intended to do after the first night, yet kept letting yourself indulge.

You needed to disappear, to cut yourself loose before he had the chance to hurt you in a way you wouldn’t come back from. Because in your mind, that was the inevitability.

You’d only ever said it was for the summer. It repeated in your mind like a broken record.

That had been the deal. Albeit unspoken and half-joked, it had been agreed upon all the same. Just something simple to pass the time. Something warm to keep you distracted while the world slowed down and the semester felt far away.

No strings, no promises, just the slow, sticky heat of summer and someone who didn’t even know your name. Whose hands could make you forget your name ever mattered. But July had slipped through your fingers, and August was already breathing down your neck.

Classes started in three weeks.

You would need that time to remember who you were before him.

To forget how safe it felt to sleep in his bed and the way he touched you like you were something sacred.

To forget that when he laughed, really laughed, it unraveled something deep in your chest you didn’t know was still wound that tight.

The thought of seeing him fade into the rearview, of pretending this never happened, the haze of memories you could look back to as a simple summer fling… was starting to feel like a slow bleed.

You needed time. Something to shake him loose from your system before you had to face a classroom full of expectations and pressure and structure again. Before you had to lock every bit of this away where no one would ever find it and before you had to pretend he wasn’t something you’d begun to crave to just exist in your life.

Because he made you feel too much, and you’d learned, painfully, that the things that made you feel the most were the ones that never lasted. The ones that left you bleeding out with no remorse.

You turned your head on the pillow slowly, let your eyes trace the slope of his shoulder, the soft rise and fall of his breath, the way his brow furrowed even in sleep like he was dreaming of something heavy.

You wondered if he’d remember this. If any of it would matter to him a week from now.

If he’d miss you.

If he’d regret not holding back.

Or if he’d just let you go as easily as you were pretending you could let him.

So you closed your eyes again. Counted the ceiling cracks in your mind, and tried to memorize the weight of his arm around you.

Tried to make it last a little longer. Tried to forget that this was always supposed to end.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

You wake to the quiet warmth of morning, all golden light and tangled limbs.

Joel’s still asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face half-buried in the crook of his arm. His back rises and falls in slow, even breaths, the muscles shifting with each exhale. You let your eyes wander over the slope of his shoulders, the thick curve of his biceps, the constellation of freckles across his back, and the faint scar that traces along his left flank like a story you’ll never get to hear.

You reach out, brushing your fingertips down his spine. He stirs, just barely, his breath catching, then settling again. A soft, sleepy grumble vibrates low in his chest.

You press your palm against the broad stretch of his back, your touch grounding you even as something in your chest begins to float away.

You want to remember him like this.

You lean in and kiss the ridge of his shoulder, slow and quiet. He shifts, arm curling around your waist before he even opens his eyes. “Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice wrecked from sleep.

You hum in response, hand slipping beneath the sheets. He’s already half-hard, thick and heavy against your thigh. You stroke him once, slow and deliberate, and he groans, face still pressed into the pillow.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he rasps, blinking one eye open, “ain’t gonna have any essence or the like, if you keep drainin’ me…”

“Just once more, Joel, please.” you curl your fingers around him again, you fight tears from surfacing as you plead, hoping your eyes don’t betray your intention.

In some cruel fashion, you wish he would just know. You wish he would say goodbye to you the same way you were to him.

He flips you beneath him with a grunt, mouth catching yours mid-laugh. His weight pins you down, the full breadth of him caging you in. There’s no rush in it, not at first, just the slow grind of his hips against yours, cock slipping between your folds, teasing the heat of you.

“Y’sure darlin’? Thought you said yesterday you’d need weeks to recover,” he’s breathless against your neck, but you can feel his grin against your sensitive skin there, the pure smugness he’d found with you, knowing that you knew, that he knew, exactly how to make you fall apart. You knew you’d miss that.

You nod, one hand sliding into his hair, the other gripping his shoulder. “I need it.”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just pushes in slow and deep, stretching you open around him until you gasp, until you’re clinging to his back, your thighs tightening around his hips. He groans into your throat like it guts him, like he’s drowning in the feel of you.

Every thrust is deliberate… hard, slow, meant to be remembered. His hand cradles the side of your face as he moves, thumb brushing your cheekbone, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he breathes. “Always do.”

You arch up to meet him, watching the way his jaw tightens, the muscles in his arms flexing with each push forward. You drag your nails down his back… not to hurt, just to mark.

His pace picks up, the pressure building again. You’re so close, so full, every part of you stretched and shaking under him.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. “Come on, sweetheart. Eyes on me.”

You do, those big brown eyes looking down at you with everything you didn’t want to see before you’d never see them again.

And you break, your whole body locks beneath him, vision going white at the edges. You cry out his name as you cum, and he follows with a low, guttural moan, spilling inside you with a tremble that racks his whole frame.

For a long moment, neither of you move. His breath is hot against your collarbone, your arms wrapped tight around him. His cock still twitches inside you, slowly softening.

Then he exhales hard and presses a kiss to your neck. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters. “I’m ruined.”

You smile faintly, eyes closed. And you hold him tighter, just a little longer.

You get ready for the day, your normal morning routine after a quick shower together, and then you’re headed out the door.

You don’t talk much in the truck. It’s not awkward, just… quiet. Like your bodies haven’t caught up to the shift in gravity. His hand rests on your thigh the whole way, thumb tracing small circles over the seam of your jeans, like muscle memory.

It’s not until he turns down your street that he says it.

“Hey,” he starts, slow and careful. “I-uh I…won’t be around this weekend.”

You nod once, like the knife driving further between your ribs, the guilt settling low. “That’s okay.”

He shifts in the driver’s seat, hesitates. “Sarah… or uh, my daughter’s gonna be in town.”

Like he owed you any explanation, but he gave you one anyway, and somehow that makes it worse.

“But I’ll text ya, s’that alright?”

You don’t say anything, just nod once and force a smile.

You don’t flinch. But something inside you pulls tight, coils like thread wound too far.

It’s a surreal kind of moment. This man who you’ve kissed and memorized and fallen apart beneath, offering you an explanation for time with him you’d already planned on never taking for yourself. Like the universe had read your mind and handed you a clean break. Like it was always supposed to end this way, and now even fate was playing along.

“I hope you have a good visit,” you manage, and it sounds easy, like it’s not the final nail sealing the lid on something that you never should’ve had for yourself.

He pulls in front of your apartment and shifts the truck into park, he pulls you in for a kiss, a last cruelty as you let yourself melt into him for the final time.

You get out of the truck and close the door behind you before you can second guess it, before he can see the way your hands shake.

You wave to him with the last ounce of strength you had left in you.

You’d brought back all but one flannel to his place, and you wondered if he’d ever find the note you’d stashed in one of the chest pockets.

You kept one, the first one he’d let you take home… that was your keepsake, your way of remembering him, of those nights you’d spent together. And maybe… just maybe you’d back into town to “visit”, and maybe he wouldn’t be mad at you for leaving unannounced. Maybe by then you’d have a good excuse, another lie to sweeten yourself back into his arms.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But you can’t be planning your future around a man you just walked away from.

You tell yourself it was the right call. That you need time. That school is almost here. That this, whatever this was, had always come with an expiration date.

Something like Joel was never meant to happen to you.

You were sure if he had gotten a peak beyond the tailored version of yourself, see all the damage and mess of you who truly were… he’d never have approached you at that bar.

“Too good to be true”. Wasn’t that what everyone always said?

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Taglist as requested: @magicxmiller

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 7: What Once Was

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Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter summary:

WC - 4.7k glances linger, words go unsaid, and memories rise in the spaces where closeness used to live. you try to move forward, to remind yourself it’s your fault and you have to deal with the pain you caused, but part of you is still yearning for what once was.

Chapter warnings/content:

Angst!, repressed feelings, lots of guilt, allusions to past intimacy, use of nicknames (exclusively from friends), dealing with heartbreak.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Early September

It had been a few weeks since that hollowness took root in your very being.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a good night’s sleep. You tried not to think about it. Really, you did. You tried distracting yourself every way you knew how.

You had really immersed yourself into your schoolwork. Which is what you wanted inherently, but there was no excitement, no hope or thoughts of the future without that stinging sharpness in your throat every time there was a reminder of him. He was in everything, everywhere. It was honestly fucking ridiculous.

Especially every Wednesday and Friday. You rarely recalled the events of those days, it was methodical now, shutting yourself off. You were grateful it was only an hour and fifteen minutes each time, and you were fascinated by the subject, philosophy is your minor. But the low timbre of his voice as he lectures, that same voice you’d hear so light and humored in the privacy of a bedroom… between the sheets… you couldn’t separate it. You were considering dropping out of the course since you couldn’t possibly keep doing this, showing up and just sitting there, pretending his presence didn’t crack something inside you wide open every time.

But you couldn’t because it would be too obvious, too damning to let it get to you in that way.

You’d worked too hard for this— for your schedule, your plan, your future. You couldn’t unravel over a man.

Especially not one you weren’t supposed to be thinking about in the first place.

Dropping the class would raise questions.

From your advisor. From your friends. From him.

You couldn’t live with giving anyone that amount of power over your emotions, especially enough to make you quit something you needed.

And maybe he’d feel guilty if he knew the only reason you dropped those classes was simply because he was the professor. You couldn’t do that to him either. This was on you. You had to stick with it and persevere.

Because you needed it. You needed the credits and the prerequisites, and the stupid thread of consistency it gave your week. You’d mapped out your next semester already, and two of his upper-level courses were on your roster. That wasn’t changing.

So no, you couldn’t drop the class.

All you could do was survive it and try not to look like you were losing a piece of yourself every time he walked into the room.

You thought if he ignored you long enough, the ache would dull. That if he treated you like just another face in a sea of students, your body would stop reacting to the sound of his voice, the sight of his hands gripping chalk, the way he sometimes paused mid-thought like he was holding something back.

It didn’t help.

Because your body didn’t know how to forget the warmth of him.

Didn’t know how to unlearn the way he kissed.

Didn’t know how to stop reaching for him in your sleep or wishing he was next to you.

You had never experienced anything like him and you knew you never would again.

The biggest issue you identified for yourself was— you didn’t want to forget any of those things.

So you sat there, every Wednesday and Friday, convincing yourself you were fine. That you had to be.

Convincing yourself you were over it, that it was only temporary hurt. It was simply grieving something that never was and never had the chance to be.

Even though your eyes still flicked to his fingers when he picked up his water bottle or wrote something on the board.

Even though your chest still clenched when he made the class laugh, that crooked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth like it belonged to someone else now.

You barely heard anything after Joel dismissed class. Not really. The scrape of chairs, the shuffle of notebooks into bags, it all blurred together in a distant kind of white noise. You were already halfway through zipping your backpack when Austin leaned over with a too-bright grin.

“Guess who’s officially TA’ing for your favorite professor?”

You blinked up at him in disbelief, he couldn’t tell you this after you’d already left? “Wait, really?”

“I just got the confirmation email from the philosophy department, says I was the most qualified candidate! Then got an email from him, touching base, saying he wants to go over a couple things now, like syllabus stuff.” Austin shouldered his bag, then pointed directly at you. “Stay. I want to grab food after. Moral support, remember?”

“Austin, I—”

“No excuses, it will only take like two seconds. You won’t even have to talk to him.”

You didn’t have a good reason to argue. Tampa had already said her goodbyes and left for her next class, and if you walked out now, Austin would never let you hear the end of it.

So you stayed.

You hovered awkwardly near the second row while he bounded up to the front, dropping his bag beside the podium like he owned the place. You could feel Joel’s acknowledgement more than you saw it, felt the subtle shift in his posture, the brief glance in your direction that didn’t last long enough to be noted as anything.

“Professor Miller,” Austin started, all charm and zero tact. “I wanted to ask about the breakdown of assignments and like… if I can sit in on the next few lectures just to get a feel for the rhythm, see how different groups respond to the same prompts.”

Joel gave a small nod. “That’d be smart. We’ll talk through it.”

Austin suddenly turned, halfway back toward you. “Crap… one sec. I’ve been holding it since mid-class. Be right back.”

Well, there goes your own excuse.

You blinked “Wait, Austin.” You reach your hand out briefly in desperation, your hand finding nothing but air as he leaves the classroom and you’re left alone with Joel for the first time since he told you to forget everything he’d ever been to you.

The silence he left behind came fast.

You didn’t look at Joel, not at first. You were standing there like you’d forgotten how to function. Your bag in hand, body tense, the soft ache behind your eyes settling in like it always did after these classes.

And then you felt it.

The unmistakable shift of his attention. The weight of it.

You looked up, and Joel was already watching you.

You could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unreadable. You didn’t want to meet it, but your body betrayed you, glancing up before your mind could stop you.

Joel stood near the desk, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His expression unreadable, save for the faint crease between his brows, like he was trying to think of something else to say. Something safe.

“So…” he says, like he’s just trying to fill the air between you. “Jamie. Seems like a smart fella.”

The words were simple, but you felt the hook beneath them. You shift slightly, the edge of the desk cool beneath your fingertips.

A flicker of something passed through you, somewhere between a smile and a flinch, you weren’t really expecting him to acknowledge you. “Yeah,” you said, voice quiet, “He is.”

You keep your eyes on the front of the classroom, arms loosely crossed, “He’s sharp. Bit of a show-off, but he means well. You made a good choice.”

Then, a pause and the air feels tighter again.

He leans a hip against the desk behind him, “You settling in okay? This semester, I mean.” It’s an act, you can tell it is. Acting like the normal, good professor he is, a professor who cares.

You nodded before you could think about it. “Yeah, it’s been fine. Good.” And you think that’s the truth, it hadn’t been inherently bad. Nothing you’d want to admit to him.

The classes have been good and so had the people so far.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift, one hand sliding into the front pocket of his slacks, the other bracing against the desk as he leaned. He wasn’t looking at you, not directly, but you could feel it all the same. That quiet watching.

“Seems like a pretty hefty schedule you’ve got.”

Your heart stuttered, just slightly.

You don’t ask how he knows that and you don’t question the timing of it, the quiet way he let the words hang as if he was hoping you wouldn’t notice them. Maybe it was just a guess, you were sure most people had a busy schedule. Because it it wasn’t… it would mean entertaining the idea, or acknowledging that he looked you up, thought about you after telling you not to think about him.

And you can’t do that.

So instead, you rest your weight against the desk behind you, fingertips curling against the edge, grounding yourself in something solid as your mind begins to drift… against your will, against your better judgment.

You think of his hands. Not the ones stuffed now in the pockets of his slacks, not the ones feigning stillness. The ones that curled into your hips and steadied your breath, the ones that pressed soft and reverent into the small of your back when he thought you might float away from him.

You don’t let yourself look at those hands now.

“I mean… I figured with a minor in philosophy and all…”

Your grip tightens on the desk.

Even if the roll call list had your declared minor, he had noted it. You doubted it did though, he’d have to go to your student profile to find your declared minor. Yet he said it like it was offhand, like he hadn’t pieced it together deliberately, but the slip was already there.

He moved again, glancing toward the classroom door like he was willing Austin to walk back in to ease this awkward tension that had suddenly filled the room again.

You kept your voice neutral, your heart thudding against your rib cage, “yeah, it’s not bad really.”

He nodded once, and then he said nothing.

Just stood there in the thick silence, hands still, gaze low.

That silence, fragile and full of thorns, stretched between you like a wire. You weren’t sure if it would snap or hold.

And then—

“Dude, my bad, those stalls were all full for like five minutes straight,” Austin said as he came back into the room, voice bouncing off the walls, totally unaware of what he just walked into.

Joel straightened a little too quickly.

You blinked once and turned away like it hadn’t happened at all.

You stay quiet. Still leaning against the desk like it’s the only thing tethering you to the moment. You’re facing forward, eyes down, but your attention isn’t on them, not really.

Austin’s voice is bright. “So what’s the expectation look like? For the TA position.”

Joel responds, steady and professional. Something about grading rubrics, clarity, student support. Office hours on Wednesdays, shared notes, checking in.

Every word feels like it’s being filtered through static. A low hum underneath the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

You don’t look at Joel, you can’t. Your throat feels tight.

Austin makes some half-joke about “not fucking it up too hard,” and a laugh cracks through the edges of Joel’s voice as he quickly corrects Austin and gives him a stern warning about language.

It curls around your ribs like a springtrap. You remember the sound of that laugh with your lips against his neck.

You remember his filthy mouth… how out of place it would be here. How ironic it was to know a professor for his cursing more than his lecturing. For all the sounds he made in privacy, the sounds of him coming undone…

You blink rapidly to dismiss those thoughts from continuing.

Austin’s confidence falters just a bit before he replaces that headstrong smugness he wears like a well-fitted suit.

And then Joel says, quieter this time, “We’ll take it slow. See how it goes.”

Austin agrees, cheerful again.

But you can’t shake it. The way this version of him stands now… aloof, guarded, composed… it feels so distant you could cry. You missed the simplicity of stupid movies and soulful laughs, boisterous and unapologetic. The banter and teasing of people who enjoyed each other’s company and didn’t worry about what tomorrow would bring.

You feel that sting at the back of your throat, the tears threatening to claw their way back out, and you sniffle just once, just a tickle in your nose. Maybe allergies.

But Joel looks up and his eyes find yours, just for a second.

And in that second, something cracked. Not all the way, not enough to call it vulnerability. But enough to show. Enough for you to recognize it.

It was gone just as fast. That softness in his face, the part of him that knew exactly what your sounds meant, it vanished.

Like he’d folded it up, hidden it deep, and decided it didn’t matter anymore.

And you knew it wasn’t true. You knew, of course you knew. He looked you up. He knew your schedule. He knew your major and your minor. He cared, in some small, silent way.

Not that you intended for him to, or wanted him to. It surprised you, nonetheless, that split moment.

And it tore you open. Because if there was ever a chance, you’d already ruined it. And now all that was left were these half-glimpses of something you might’ve had, if only you’d told the truth, if only you hadn’t been so scared of the past catching up to you. Your attempt at avoiding that hurt caused an ever deeper, gaping wound you weren’t sure would ever close. If only you’d admitted to yourselves then what it had all meant. How you truly felt.

Austin kept talking, his voice a blur of excitement about the syllabus, about ideas, about the future and Joel responded, measured and polite.

You turned slightly, just enough to angle your face from view as you wait for them to wrap it up.

Because if he saw the real you, raw, unraveling, and furious with yourself for missing him, for carrying that gnawing regret like a second skin, you weren’t sure you could forgive yourself for letting him see it.

Not again, especially since it wasn’t your place to feel those things, you didn’t deserve to give into the softness around the edges. It was your own damned fault. You had to deal with the consequences.

So you blinked until the sting passed, and you breathed until your ribs loosened.

And when Austin finally said his goodbyes and the two of you left Joel’s classroom, you didn’t look back.

Didn’t check to see if Joel was still watching the two of you, and you couldn’t bear to find out either way.

The second you were out of the building, you pulled your sleeves down past your knuckles, needing something to fidget with. The sky was overcast, thick with humidity. Campus felt muted somehow, like everything was muffled beneath the weight of what you were holding in.

Austin fell in step beside you, oblivious. “You wanna grab lunch? I’m starving and I owe you for emotional support.”

You stopped walking and he looked over, brow raised, “What?”

“You left me. Alone. With a professor.”

He blinked. “What? I had to pee.”

You just stared at him.

“You’re mad? It was two minutes!”

You gave him a look as he moved through the food line, gesturing dramatically at options that weren’t remotely worth the flair.

“Okay, first of all, I’m sorry I trusted you to survive an awkward silence.” He held up his hands. “Did he say something?”

You shook your head, kept walking.

“I figured he wouldn’t mind a little eye candy keeping him company,” he said with a grin.

You stopped again. This time slower, more deliberate. Then looked at him again, “I think he thinks you and I are a thing.”

That took the wind out of his step, “…What?”

You gave a tight-lipped smile as you found a booth, tucked yourself into the corner seat.

He sat down beside you again, setting a croissant he had quickly acknowledged as your favorite pick from the union, and a smoothie in front of you. “Thank you.”

He dropped into the seat across from you like it was a performance, “You’re welcome.”

He nods his head, then tilts it, “No, no, no, we’re not done,” he said, leaning in like he’d just discovered treasure. “Back up. What’d he say, why does Professor Miller think we’re a thing?” He motions his hand frantically between you and him.

“He didn’t say it. He just… asked about you. The tone was obvious.”

Austin looked deeply pleased. “You’re telling me Professor Hot-and-Broody thinks you and me are a thing?”

Your silence and fighting back a grin was answer enough.

Austin grinned, wide and unbothered. “That is, hands down, one of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten.”

He bumped his shoulder into yours, “He jealous or something?”

You turned your face away, fighting the smile, “I mean, I’ve been there both times he’s interacted with you. Probably just seemed like we’re always together.”

Austin shrugged like it was nothing. “Who cares, he thinks I could pull you. That’s a crazy compliment.”

You snorted into your drink. He was ridiculous, but the levity helped.

Still, your mind drifted back to the look Joel gave you before blinking it away. Back to the small, sharp moments that felt like they meant more than they should’ve.

You hadn’t meant to bring it up, the way he asked about Austin. But it was just a diversion, a throwaway comment to brush past the heaviness. A little harmless fun.

You picked at your croissant as Austin rambled about classes and gossip and something stupid Tampa said last night. You laughed at all the right moments, let yourself lean into the normalcy.

But your thoughts were already straying.

You knew inevitably that your mind would try to rationalize the entirety of every interaction trying to piece together your sanity once again.

You didn’t want to acknowledge how Joel’s eyes lingered, or how that flicker of something you saw before it vanished is going to burn in the back of your mind for the rest of the day… probably longer.

You’d start dissecting everything again. Trying to make sense of it, trying to ground yourself in a version of reality where it hadn’t all slipped through your fingers.

You were unraveling slowly, caught in the echo of everything you ruined. In everything that still could’ve been.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

| Your apartment: Mid-September |

The afternoon draped itself lazily across your apartment. That end-of-week warmth filtered through the curtains, painting gold across the floor. You’d opened a window just enough to let the breeze in and it stirred the smell of clean laundry and the remnants of a candle you’d snuffed out earlier, something nature-based and woodsy.

Austin was splayed dramatically across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like the weight of the day had nearly killed him. “If I die of academic exhaustion,” he mumbled, “tell the world I went out grading poorly written essays.”

It was your friends’ first time over at your place, and you were so excited for a Friday night in with your newly found family.

You stood in the kitchen, half-listening, half-focused on arranging snacks on a decorative plate, but you stayed in the conversation, “Nobody’s gonna think you died doing real work. I’ll say it was something heroic. Like saving a prince from his strict parents in the South.”

They laughed at that, he knew just as well as anyone how uptight and homophobic people could be in the great state of Texas… but he was from Austin, it was a little different down there.

It was one of those rare nights when everyone’s schedules aligned. The kind that felt borrowed, like a page torn out of someone else’s simpler life and you welcomed it. The apartment was warm from the late afternoon sun, a faint breeze stirring the curtains since you had cracked a window to let in the cicada buzz of mid-September.

The coffee table was a mess of takeout containers and half-empty drink cans, with a random Philosophy textbook barely holding up a sweating tub of hummus. Austin was on the floor, cross-legged, wrist-deep in a bag of pita chips, while Em… your elusive, always-working roommate….was finally off for the night and planted herself in the far corner of the couch with her knees pulled up and a blanket tucked around her like royalty.

The laughter was easy, familiar. Austin was narrating a dramatic retelling of the student email he got asking if “we still have class on Fridays,” and Em had nearly spit out her soda, clutching her chest in mock pain.

He was settling in nicely to his TA position, it seemed like a perfect fit and he genuinely enjoyed the work, even if it didn’t give him as much “bonding time” he had hoped for with the professor. You were grateful you didn’t have to hear him fawning over him after every shift he worked. It had been strictly… ‘here’s the work to do today, email me with any questions.’

“You’re lying,” Em gasped, wheezing into the throw pillow.

“I wish I was,” Austin said solemnly, waving his chip in his hand in emphasis. “This is the future of America.”

You just shook your head from the kitchen, voice rising above the din. “You say that like you didn’t think the Electoral College was an actual college until sophomore year of high school.”

Austin looked personally attacked. “I told you that in confidence! I’ve grown!”

The conversation drifted, laughter loud and bright as the sun lowered, and the room warmed with bodies and energy. You were trying to let it wash over you, this borrowed kind of joy. Austin was recounting a chaotic study group from earlier in the week, using sweeping gestures like the drama of it might carry more weight than the actual story.

You smiled to yourself from the kitchen, watching it all unfold. It felt easy, natural, like you’d been in this rhythm forever, even if part of you still felt a little outside it, like a guest in your own joy.

“Okay,” Em said, raising her voice just enough to cut through the noise, “real question…. Who’s got juicy hookup or situationship gossip!”

Oh god, not again.. you think to yourself as you wander back into the living room.

Groans and gasps echoed around the room like she’d thrown a grenade. Tampa immediately tossed a wadded napkin in her direction.

“God, Em. At least let the sun fully set first.”

“I’m serious!” she laughed. “Come on, spill. It’s Friday, we’re full of carbs and poor decisions. This is peak oversharing hour. I want to get to know you guys!”

Austin raised a hand, “I matched with a guy who said his Roman Empire was Britney’s 2007 breakdown, and honestly? I respect the hell out of that.”

“I hooked up with a girl who made me do a tarot reading before she’d sleep with me,” Tampa said, straight-faced.

“Did the cards say yes?” you asked, curious, your raised your eyebrows playfully.

“Oh, they screamed it,” she said, smug.

“You guys are so unhinged,” Em muttered fondly, shaking her head. “Meanwhile, I went on exactly one date with a guy who said he didn’t believe in pillows.”

“What does that even mean?” Austin demanded, offended on behalf of humanity.

“He said they’re ‘unnatural back crutches,’” Em replied. “His words. Not mine.”

You choked on your drink. “What did he sleep on, then?”

“Who knows, I left.”

“He’s a serial killer,” Tampa said.

“He probably murders people who use throw blankets,” Austin added solemnly.

Em flopped back on the couch, then she raised her drink in salute, “I work eighty hours a week and the last person who hit on me was a UPS guy named Brent who wanted to tell me about his crystals.”

Tampa laughed, and Austin groaned, “God, where is the romance?”

You were still laughing, but you could feel the shift before it came.

That’s when Em turned her head toward you, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “And what about you?”

Your stomach clenched at the tone directed at you from Em. You didn’t look up.

You blinked, “What about me?”

“…what ever happened to Mister Summer Fling?”

Your throat went dry before you could stop it. The name she didn’t say rang louder than anything else in the room. Your spine straightened on instinct, and you forced a blink, steadying your face before anyone could notice.

Austin sat forward like he’d just heard conspiratorial state secrets, “Wait, what summer fling?”

Em grinned, relishing your stillness. “Oh, you didn’t tell your little groupie here? Tall. Late forties? Real silver fox type. Smoldery as hell. Came over a couple times….”

You kept your tone light, flipping a chip into your mouth, your heart beginning to pound beneath your ribs again, “I told you, it wasn’t a thing.”

Em scoffed. “Please. The man had that look. The one that says I’ve fucked her in that hallway right there and I’ll do it again. And please, the sounds coming from your room were anything but nothing.”

Yeah… she’d seen him over a few times. Usually coming home after a late night shift on the weekend and either seeing you or hearing you… that was a whole conversation between the two of you. The only other time you’d brought him over you made sure to warn her.

You roll your eyes and clench your jaw, your face burning hot, whilst trying not to give into her teasing. She didn’t know, she couldn’t know. “I don’t want to talk about it.” You manage to say, before Austin emphatically continues to question you about it.

Austin’s jaw dropped,“What the hell, why am I just now hearing about this? Who was he? What’s his name? What’s his star sign?”

You exhaled a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “It wasn’t serious. We were just hanging out.”

“Van’s got a type,” Em continues to tease, already adopting the nickname Tampa and Austin use for you.

You threw a napkin at her, heat rising to your cheeks, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Austin turned to you, eyes wide with faux betrayal. “So you’re telling me I never stood a chance?”

You smiled despite yourself, “You can’t even grow a beard, don’t take it personally.”

“Oh, ouch.”

The laughter that followed was easy. Loud. Safe, for a second, but it didn’t last long for you.

You reached for your drink again, not because you needed it, but because your hands were starting to sweat and tremble. The condensation on the glass helped ground you… something cool to hold onto, something real. You kept your eyes on the melting ice as the teasing faded and the conversation softened.

And then, quieter, more thoughtful now:

“I just meant…” Em trailed off, shrugging. “You seemed really into him. I thought maybe we’d get to gossip eventually.”

That made you still for a second. You didn’t answer, but you nodded in acknowledgment.

Your fingers tapped against the rim of the glass, soft and rhythmic, like you were measuring your own silence.

It wasn’t Em’s fault, she just didn’t know. She didn’t know that every reminder was a splinter, that the casual way she spoke about him felt like pressing on a bruise you weren’t ready to admit was still there.

She didn’t know you walked into his classroom twice a week like a ghost, that you couldn’t even flinch when you caught his sweeping gaze over the classroom and his eyes landed on you briefly, she didn’t know that you had to avoid looking at him, pretending he was no one, when just a few months ago you couldn’t keep your eyes or hands off of each other. She didn’t know you saw him in the edges of everything… books, lectures, quiet mornings. She didn’t know that gossiping about him felt like mocking a funeral or rubbing dirt on an open, infected wound that throbs every time you simply think about it. She didn’t know that all you wanted to do was talk about him, talk to him. Be in a room with him, in the safety that once was.

“I was,” you said, finally. Quiet enough that only she could hear it. “Really into him. But… it just…I fucked it up.”

Em’s smirk faded into something softer. She nudged your knee with hers under the table, a wordless apology.

And you nodded once, as if to say it was okay.

Even though it wasn’t. Not really.

Why did it feel like he followed you everywhere? You couldn’t breathe in without feeling the absence of him.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · we’re about 3 more chapters until the story starts progressing again and staying in the present! this is the long journey of encapsulating that goddamn summer fling. There’s so much I’m looking forward to in this story… just get ready for so much pain and heartbreak 😁 but Joel is really such a softie in my fics bc that’s how I think of him.

As we teeter into a once again angst standstill for my fics, I may dabble in some one-shots!

[forthelorewick]

Not yet at least, I might have to as my chapters stock up.

You can release it every day and I’ll even read it during my lunch break at work, girl, dont worry

🫡🫡🫡 I’ll keep em coming!

[forthelorewick]

“All the Wrong Ways to Know You” is so good. I’m obsessed 🩷🩷🩷🩷

This means so much to me, I’m having a blast with this story and glad some others are enjoying it too :)) <3

[forthelorewick]

Hi do you have ao3 account

Sorry I didn’t get to these before, I do not yet! I might someday! It’d be a whole new format to learn and I’m still new to this one so we’ll see how it goes!

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You - Masterlist

Ongoing series

Yes… another one…. yes, it’s going to be angst. No, I’m NOT okay ☺️

Story synopsis:

You told him you were just visiting for the summer. Gave him a name that wasn’t yours. From the moment he saw you across the bar, he knew you were trouble—sunlight and sharp edges, all heat and laughter and something he shouldn’t want, everything he’d been devoid of for so long. What began as a fleeting summer fling burned into something neither of you could name. You left without saying goodbye, it seemed easier that way. But now you’re in his classroom. And he’s your professor. You told yourselves to pretend it never happened. To forget. But how could you forget the way the world only made sense when you were together—and how nothing had made sense since?

Story warnings: 18+ MDI !!! Joel Miller x f!reader

No outbreak!au

professor!joel x student!reader, age gap (she’s in her early 20s, he’s in his late 40s), no use of y/n, excessive use of pet names and nicknames, reader only has a nickname from separate characters, OC!reader, mean!joel eventually, hot girl!reader (no physical descriptions really), bisexual!reader. Slow burn. hurt/comfort, forbidden romance, yearning/longing/pining, emotional repression, guilt, secret relationship, trust issues, half-truths, consequences of lying, allusions to family trauma, allusions to religious trauma, academic pressure, lack of communication, eventual violence and allusions to violence, allusions to grief, self-destructive behavior, attachment issues, shared denial, etc. etc. ANGST.

Chapters will come with their own warnings. Not all will have sexual content, but will allude to it.

smut!, unprotected p in v, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving, some m receiving), power imbalance, praise kink, size difference, hands!, eventual jealousy, heavy on the flashbacks, marking/possessiveness, grinding/dry humping, fake name during hookup(s), creampies (don’t be stupid), dirty talk, hair pulling, rough sex, getting attached, touch-starved, needy!joel, needy!reader. OKAY OKAY you get the gist.

Chapter 1: The Echo of Familiarity

WC 3.4k - Returning to your hometown for a fresh start, you are determined to rebuild your life on your own terms. With a new major, new apartment, and new friends, everything feels just unfamiliar enough to be hopeful. You’re focused, self-contained, and intent on staying out of trouble. But the past isn’t always behind you. You had ended things so you could focus on school with no distractions, but you couldn’t get him off of your mind. Turns out, the universe has a cruel twist of fate waiting for you in Carson Hall room 202— PHIL 205.

Chapter 2: The Summer Fling

WC 14.8k (hey! shut up 😭) - you weren’t looking for anything that night… just a drink, a distraction, something that wouldn’t follow you home or remind you of why you’d left this town to begin with. But then there was him. A stranger with a crooked smile and a voice like velvet and smoke. A couple drinks led to his truck, his bed, and a night that felt like it belonged to a different version of you. Neither of you really asked any questions, and you sure as hell didn’t ask for more. But when morning came and numbers were exchanged, neither one said what you were thinking—I hope I see you again.

Chapter 3: It Was Never Meant to Matter

WC 4k - your real name felt strange on his tongue, out of place. simple lies and half-truths that were never meant to cause any harm crash together in a crescendo of devastation as you come face to face with their consequences. the past stretches its fingers into the present, wrapping around your throat like thorns. you had only wanted a clean break, but there’s nothing clean about this. only heart ache.

Chapter 4: Come Over

WC 8.7k - you both thought it’d be a one-time thing. but a text sent, an invitation, leads you right back to him. what starts as heat becomes something quieter, gentler, harder to walk away from. you tell yourselves it’s just casual, and you wonder how long you’ll be able to cling to those lies just for another night with him.

Chapter 5: Act 1

WC 5k - the silence after heartbreak is never really quiet. you act like everything’s fine, well, try to. but the past keeps following you across campus. a name, a look, the echo of a memory that still lives in your bones. he pretends you’re just another student. you pretend he doesn’t make you ache. and when you’re pulled back into his orbit— you have to keep yourself from falling apart over and over again.

Chapter 6: Movie Night

WC 6.7k - you keep telling yourselves it’s temporary, like that’ll make it hurt less. like naming it would make it real. but neither of you pulls back, not when the warmth is this easy, this addictive. not when something honest keeps blooming in the silence between words.

Chapter 7: What Once Was

WC - 4.7k glances linger, words go unsaid, and memories rise in the spaces where closeness used to live. you try to move forward, to remind yourself it’s your fault and you have to deal with the pain you caused, but part of you is still yearning for what once was.

More to come!

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 7: What Once Was

<prev ch | masterlist | next ch >

Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter summary:

WC - 4.7k glances linger, words go unsaid, and memories rise in the spaces where closeness used to live. you try to move forward, to remind yourself it’s your fault and you have to deal with the pain you caused, but part of you is still yearning for what once was.

Chapter warnings/content:

Angst!, repressed feelings, lots of guilt, allusions to past intimacy, use of nicknames (exclusively from friends), dealing with heartbreak.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Early September

It had been a few weeks since that hollowness took root in your very being.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a good night’s sleep. You tried not to think about it. Really, you did. You tried distracting yourself every way you knew how.

You had really immersed yourself into your schoolwork. Which is what you wanted inherently, but there was no excitement, no hope or thoughts of the future without that stinging sharpness in your throat every time there was a reminder of him. He was in everything, everywhere. It was honestly fucking ridiculous.

Especially every Wednesday and Friday. You rarely recalled the events of those days, it was methodical now, shutting yourself off. You were grateful it was only an hour and fifteen minutes each time, and you were fascinated by the subject, philosophy is your minor. But the low timbre of his voice as he lectures, that same voice you’d hear so light and humored in the privacy of a bedroom… between the sheets… you couldn’t separate it. You were considering dropping out of the course since you couldn’t possibly keep doing this, showing up and just sitting there, pretending his presence didn’t crack something inside you wide open every time.

But you couldn’t because it would be too obvious, too damning to let it get to you in that way.

You’d worked too hard for this— for your schedule, your plan, your future. You couldn’t unravel over a man.

Especially not one you weren’t supposed to be thinking about in the first place.

Dropping the class would raise questions.

From your advisor. From your friends. From him.

You couldn’t live with giving anyone that amount of power over your emotions, especially enough to make you quit something you needed.

And maybe he’d feel guilty if he knew the only reason you dropped those classes was simply because he was the professor. You couldn’t do that to him either. This was on you. You had to stick with it and persevere.

Because you needed it. You needed the credits and the prerequisites, and the stupid thread of consistency it gave your week. You’d mapped out your next semester already, and two of his upper-level courses were on your roster. That wasn’t changing.

So no, you couldn’t drop the class.

All you could do was survive it and try not to look like you were losing a piece of yourself every time he walked into the room.

You thought if he ignored you long enough, the ache would dull. That if he treated you like just another face in a sea of students, your body would stop reacting to the sound of his voice, the sight of his hands gripping chalk, the way he sometimes paused mid-thought like he was holding something back.

It didn’t help.

Because your body didn’t know how to forget the warmth of him.

Didn’t know how to unlearn the way he kissed.

Didn’t know how to stop reaching for him in your sleep or wishing he was next to you.

You had never experienced anything like him and you knew you never would again.

The biggest issue you identified for yourself was— you didn’t want to forget any of those things.

So you sat there, every Wednesday and Friday, convincing yourself you were fine. That you had to be.

Convincing yourself you were over it, that it was only temporary hurt. It was simply grieving something that never was and never had the chance to be.

Even though your eyes still flicked to his fingers when he picked up his water bottle or wrote something on the board.

Even though your chest still clenched when he made the class laugh, that crooked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth like it belonged to someone else now.

You barely heard anything after Joel dismissed class. Not really. The scrape of chairs, the shuffle of notebooks into bags, it all blurred together in a distant kind of white noise. You were already halfway through zipping your backpack when Austin leaned over with a too-bright grin.

“Guess who’s officially TA’ing for your favorite professor?”

You blinked up at him in disbelief, he couldn’t tell you this after you’d already left? “Wait, really?”

“I just got the confirmation email from the philosophy department, says I was the most qualified candidate! Then got an email from him, touching base, saying he wants to go over a couple things now, like syllabus stuff.” Austin shouldered his bag, then pointed directly at you. “Stay. I want to grab food after. Moral support, remember?”

“Austin, I—”

“No excuses, it will only take like two seconds. You won’t even have to talk to him.”

You didn’t have a good reason to argue. Tampa had already said her goodbyes and left for her next class, and if you walked out now, Austin would never let you hear the end of it.

So you stayed.

You hovered awkwardly near the second row while he bounded up to the front, dropping his bag beside the podium like he owned the place. You could feel Joel’s acknowledgement more than you saw it, felt the subtle shift in his posture, the brief glance in your direction that didn’t last long enough to be noted as anything.

“Professor Miller,” Austin started, all charm and zero tact. “I wanted to ask about the breakdown of assignments and like… if I can sit in on the next few lectures just to get a feel for the rhythm, see how different groups respond to the same prompts.”

Joel gave a small nod. “That’d be smart. We’ll talk through it.”

Austin suddenly turned, halfway back toward you. “Crap… one sec. I’ve been holding it since mid-class. Be right back.”

Well, there goes your own excuse.

You blinked “Wait, Austin.” You reach your hand out briefly in desperation, your hand finding nothing but air as he leaves the classroom and you’re left alone with Joel for the first time since he told you to forget everything he’d ever been to you.

The silence he left behind came fast.

You didn’t look at Joel, not at first. You were standing there like you’d forgotten how to function. Your bag in hand, body tense, the soft ache behind your eyes settling in like it always did after these classes.

And then you felt it.

The unmistakable shift of his attention. The weight of it.

You looked up, and Joel was already watching you.

You could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unreadable. You didn’t want to meet it, but your body betrayed you, glancing up before your mind could stop you.

Joel stood near the desk, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His expression unreadable, save for the faint crease between his brows, like he was trying to think of something else to say. Something safe.

“So…” he says, like he’s just trying to fill the air between you. “Jamie. Seems like a smart fella.”

The words were simple, but you felt the hook beneath them. You shift slightly, the edge of the desk cool beneath your fingertips.

A flicker of something passed through you, somewhere between a smile and a flinch, you weren’t really expecting him to acknowledge you. “Yeah,” you said, voice quiet, “He is.”

You keep your eyes on the front of the classroom, arms loosely crossed, “He’s sharp. Bit of a show-off, but he means well. You made a good choice.”

Then, a pause and the air feels tighter again.

He leans a hip against the desk behind him, “You settling in okay? This semester, I mean.” It’s an act, you can tell it is. Acting like the normal, good professor he is, a professor who cares.

You nodded before you could think about it. “Yeah, it’s been fine. Good.” And you think that’s the truth, it hadn’t been inherently bad. Nothing you’d want to admit to him.

The classes have been good and so had the people so far.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift, one hand sliding into the front pocket of his slacks, the other bracing against the desk as he leaned. He wasn’t looking at you, not directly, but you could feel it all the same. That quiet watching.

“Seems like a pretty hefty schedule you’ve got.”

Your heart stuttered, just slightly.

You don’t ask how he knows that and you don’t question the timing of it, the quiet way he let the words hang as if he was hoping you wouldn’t notice them. Maybe it was just a guess, you were sure most people had a busy schedule. Because it it wasn’t… it would mean entertaining the idea, or acknowledging that he looked you up, thought about you after telling you not to think about him.

And you can’t do that.

So instead, you rest your weight against the desk behind you, fingertips curling against the edge, grounding yourself in something solid as your mind begins to drift… against your will, against your better judgment.

You think of his hands. Not the ones stuffed now in the pockets of his slacks, not the ones feigning stillness. The ones that curled into your hips and steadied your breath, the ones that pressed soft and reverent into the small of your back when he thought you might float away from him.

You don’t let yourself look at those hands now.

“I mean… I figured with a minor in philosophy and all…”

Your grip tightens on the desk.

Even if the roll call list had your declared minor, he had noted it. You doubted it did though, he’d have to go to your student profile to find your declared minor. Yet he said it like it was offhand, like he hadn’t pieced it together deliberately, but the slip was already there.

He moved again, glancing toward the classroom door like he was willing Austin to walk back in to ease this awkward tension that had suddenly filled the room again.

You kept your voice neutral, your heart thudding against your rib cage, “yeah, it’s not bad really.”

He nodded once, and then he said nothing.

Just stood there in the thick silence, hands still, gaze low.

That silence, fragile and full of thorns, stretched between you like a wire. You weren’t sure if it would snap or hold.

And then—

“Dude, my bad, those stalls were all full for like five minutes straight,” Austin said as he came back into the room, voice bouncing off the walls, totally unaware of what he just walked into.

Joel straightened a little too quickly.

You blinked once and turned away like it hadn’t happened at all.

You stay quiet. Still leaning against the desk like it’s the only thing tethering you to the moment. You’re facing forward, eyes down, but your attention isn’t on them, not really.

Austin’s voice is bright. “So what’s the expectation look like? For the TA position.”

Joel responds, steady and professional. Something about grading rubrics, clarity, student support. Office hours on Wednesdays, shared notes, checking in.

Every word feels like it’s being filtered through static. A low hum underneath the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

You don’t look at Joel, you can’t. Your throat feels tight.

Austin makes some half-joke about “not fucking it up too hard,” and a laugh cracks through the edges of Joel’s voice as he quickly corrects Austin and gives him a stern warning about language.

It curls around your ribs like a springtrap. You remember the sound of that laugh with your lips against his neck.

You remember his filthy mouth… how out of place it would be here. How ironic it was to know a professor for his cursing more than his lecturing. For all the sounds he made in privacy, the sounds of him coming undone…

You blink rapidly to dismiss those thoughts from continuing.

Austin’s confidence falters just a bit before he replaces that headstrong smugness he wears like a well-fitted suit.

And then Joel says, quieter this time, “We’ll take it slow. See how it goes.”

Austin agrees, cheerful again.

But you can’t shake it. The way this version of him stands now… aloof, guarded, composed… it feels so distant you could cry. You missed the simplicity of stupid movies and soulful laughs, boisterous and unapologetic. The banter and teasing of people who enjoyed each other’s company and didn’t worry about what tomorrow would bring.

You feel that sting at the back of your throat, the tears threatening to claw their way back out, and you sniffle just once, just a tickle in your nose. Maybe allergies.

But Joel looks up and his eyes find yours, just for a second.

And in that second, something cracked. Not all the way, not enough to call it vulnerability. But enough to show. Enough for you to recognize it.

It was gone just as fast. That softness in his face, the part of him that knew exactly what your sounds meant, it vanished.

Like he’d folded it up, hidden it deep, and decided it didn’t matter anymore.

And you knew it wasn’t true. You knew, of course you knew. He looked you up. He knew your schedule. He knew your major and your minor. He cared, in some small, silent way.

Not that you intended for him to, or wanted him to. It surprised you, nonetheless, that split moment.

And it tore you open. Because if there was ever a chance, you’d already ruined it. And now all that was left were these half-glimpses of something you might’ve had, if only you’d told the truth, if only you hadn’t been so scared of the past catching up to you. Your attempt at avoiding that hurt caused an ever deeper, gaping wound you weren’t sure would ever close. If only you’d admitted to yourselves then what it had all meant. How you truly felt.

Austin kept talking, his voice a blur of excitement about the syllabus, about ideas, about the future and Joel responded, measured and polite.

You turned slightly, just enough to angle your face from view as you wait for them to wrap it up.

Because if he saw the real you, raw, unraveling, and furious with yourself for missing him, for carrying that gnawing regret like a second skin, you weren’t sure you could forgive yourself for letting him see it.

Not again, especially since it wasn’t your place to feel those things, you didn’t deserve to give into the softness around the edges. It was your own damned fault. You had to deal with the consequences.

So you blinked until the sting passed, and you breathed until your ribs loosened.

And when Austin finally said his goodbyes and the two of you left Joel’s classroom, you didn’t look back.

Didn’t check to see if Joel was still watching the two of you, and you couldn’t bear to find out either way.

The second you were out of the building, you pulled your sleeves down past your knuckles, needing something to fidget with. The sky was overcast, thick with humidity. Campus felt muted somehow, like everything was muffled beneath the weight of what you were holding in.

Austin fell in step beside you, oblivious. “You wanna grab lunch? I’m starving and I owe you for emotional support.”

You stopped walking and he looked over, brow raised, “What?”

“You left me. Alone. With a professor.”

He blinked. “What? I had to pee.”

You just stared at him.

“You’re mad? It was two minutes!”

You gave him a look as he moved through the food line, gesturing dramatically at options that weren’t remotely worth the flair.

“Okay, first of all, I’m sorry I trusted you to survive an awkward silence.” He held up his hands. “Did he say something?”

You shook your head, kept walking.

“I figured he wouldn’t mind a little eye candy keeping him company,” he said with a grin.

You stopped again. This time slower, more deliberate. Then looked at him again, “I think he thinks you and I are a thing.”

That took the wind out of his step, “…What?”

You gave a tight-lipped smile as you found a booth, tucked yourself into the corner seat.

He sat down beside you again, setting a croissant he had quickly acknowledged as your favorite pick from the union, and a smoothie in front of you. “Thank you.”

He dropped into the seat across from you like it was a performance, “You’re welcome.”

He nods his head, then tilts it, “No, no, no, we’re not done,” he said, leaning in like he’d just discovered treasure. “Back up. What’d he say, why does Professor Miller think we’re a thing?” He motions his hand frantically between you and him.

“He didn’t say it. He just… asked about you. The tone was obvious.”

Austin looked deeply pleased. “You’re telling me Professor Hot-and-Broody thinks you and me are a thing?”

Your silence and fighting back a grin was answer enough.

Austin grinned, wide and unbothered. “That is, hands down, one of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten.”

He bumped his shoulder into yours, “He jealous or something?”

You turned your face away, fighting the smile, “I mean, I’ve been there both times he’s interacted with you. Probably just seemed like we’re always together.”

Austin shrugged like it was nothing. “Who cares, he thinks I could pull you. That’s a crazy compliment.”

You snorted into your drink. He was ridiculous, but the levity helped.

Still, your mind drifted back to the look Joel gave you before blinking it away. Back to the small, sharp moments that felt like they meant more than they should’ve.

You hadn’t meant to bring it up, the way he asked about Austin. But it was just a diversion, a throwaway comment to brush past the heaviness. A little harmless fun.

You picked at your croissant as Austin rambled about classes and gossip and something stupid Tampa said last night. You laughed at all the right moments, let yourself lean into the normalcy.

But your thoughts were already straying.

You knew inevitably that your mind would try to rationalize the entirety of every interaction trying to piece together your sanity once again.

You didn’t want to acknowledge how Joel’s eyes lingered, or how that flicker of something you saw before it vanished is going to burn in the back of your mind for the rest of the day… probably longer.

You’d start dissecting everything again. Trying to make sense of it, trying to ground yourself in a version of reality where it hadn’t all slipped through your fingers.

You were unraveling slowly, caught in the echo of everything you ruined. In everything that still could’ve been.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

| Your apartment: Mid-September |

The afternoon draped itself lazily across your apartment. That end-of-week warmth filtered through the curtains, painting gold across the floor. You’d opened a window just enough to let the breeze in and it stirred the smell of clean laundry and the remnants of a candle you’d snuffed out earlier, something nature-based and woodsy.

Austin was splayed dramatically across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like the weight of the day had nearly killed him. “If I die of academic exhaustion,” he mumbled, “tell the world I went out grading poorly written essays.”

It was your friends’ first time over at your place, and you were so excited for a Friday night in with your newly found family.

You stood in the kitchen, half-listening, half-focused on arranging snacks on a decorative plate, but you stayed in the conversation, “Nobody’s gonna think you died doing real work. I’ll say it was something heroic. Like saving a prince from his strict parents in the South.”

They laughed at that, he knew just as well as anyone how uptight and homophobic people could be in the great state of Texas… but he was from Austin, it was a little different down there.

It was one of those rare nights when everyone’s schedules aligned. The kind that felt borrowed, like a page torn out of someone else’s simpler life and you welcomed it. The apartment was warm from the late afternoon sun, a faint breeze stirring the curtains since you had cracked a window to let in the cicada buzz of mid-September.

The coffee table was a mess of takeout containers and half-empty drink cans, with a random Philosophy textbook barely holding up a sweating tub of hummus. Austin was on the floor, cross-legged, wrist-deep in a bag of pita chips, while Em… your elusive, always-working roommate….was finally off for the night and planted herself in the far corner of the couch with her knees pulled up and a blanket tucked around her like royalty.

The laughter was easy, familiar. Austin was narrating a dramatic retelling of the student email he got asking if “we still have class on Fridays,” and Em had nearly spit out her soda, clutching her chest in mock pain.

He was settling in nicely to his TA position, it seemed like a perfect fit and he genuinely enjoyed the work, even if it didn’t give him as much “bonding time” he had hoped for with the professor. You were grateful you didn’t have to hear him fawning over him after every shift he worked. It had been strictly… ‘here’s the work to do today, email me with any questions.’

“You’re lying,” Em gasped, wheezing into the throw pillow.

“I wish I was,” Austin said solemnly, waving his chip in his hand in emphasis. “This is the future of America.”

You just shook your head from the kitchen, voice rising above the din. “You say that like you didn’t think the Electoral College was an actual college until sophomore year of high school.”

Austin looked personally attacked. “I told you that in confidence! I’ve grown!”

The conversation drifted, laughter loud and bright as the sun lowered, and the room warmed with bodies and energy. You were trying to let it wash over you, this borrowed kind of joy. Austin was recounting a chaotic study group from earlier in the week, using sweeping gestures like the drama of it might carry more weight than the actual story.

You smiled to yourself from the kitchen, watching it all unfold. It felt easy, natural, like you’d been in this rhythm forever, even if part of you still felt a little outside it, like a guest in your own joy.

“Okay,” Em said, raising her voice just enough to cut through the noise, “real question…. Who’s got juicy hookup or situationship gossip!”

Oh god, not again.. you think to yourself as you wander back into the living room.

Groans and gasps echoed around the room like she’d thrown a grenade. Tampa immediately tossed a wadded napkin in her direction.

“God, Em. At least let the sun fully set first.”

“I’m serious!” she laughed. “Come on, spill. It’s Friday, we’re full of carbs and poor decisions. This is peak oversharing hour. I want to get to know you guys!”

Austin raised a hand, “I matched with a guy who said his Roman Empire was Britney’s 2007 breakdown, and honestly? I respect the hell out of that.”

“I hooked up with a girl who made me do a tarot reading before she’d sleep with me,” Tampa said, straight-faced.

“Did the cards say yes?” you asked, curious, your raised your eyebrows playfully.

“Oh, they screamed it,” she said, smug.

“You guys are so unhinged,” Em muttered fondly, shaking her head. “Meanwhile, I went on exactly one date with a guy who said he didn’t believe in pillows.”

“What does that even mean?” Austin demanded, offended on behalf of humanity.

“He said they’re ‘unnatural back crutches,’” Em replied. “His words. Not mine.”

You choked on your drink. “What did he sleep on, then?”

“Who knows, I left.”

“He’s a serial killer,” Tampa said.

“He probably murders people who use throw blankets,” Austin added solemnly.

Em flopped back on the couch, then she raised her drink in salute, “I work eighty hours a week and the last person who hit on me was a UPS guy named Brent who wanted to tell me about his crystals.”

Tampa laughed, and Austin groaned, “God, where is the romance?”

You were still laughing, but you could feel the shift before it came.

That’s when Em turned her head toward you, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “And what about you?”

Your stomach clenched at the tone directed at you from Em. You didn’t look up.

You blinked, “What about me?”

“…what ever happened to Mister Summer Fling?”

Your throat went dry before you could stop it. The name she didn’t say rang louder than anything else in the room. Your spine straightened on instinct, and you forced a blink, steadying your face before anyone could notice.

Austin sat forward like he’d just heard conspiratorial state secrets, “Wait, what summer fling?”

Em grinned, relishing your stillness. “Oh, you didn’t tell your little groupie here? Tall. Late forties? Real silver fox type. Smoldery as hell. Came over that one time….”

You kept your tone light, flipping a chip into your mouth, your heart beginning to pound beneath your ribs again, “I told you, it wasn’t a thing.”

Em scoffed. “Please. The man had that look. The one that says I’ve fucked her in that hallway right there and I’ll do it again. And please, the sounds coming from your room were anything but nothing.”

Yeah… she’d seen him over just that once... but after she came home after you thought she wouldn’t be, and happened to overhear you… that was a whole conversation between the two of you.

You roll your eyes and clench your jaw, your face burning hot, whilst trying not to give into her teasing. She didn’t know, she couldn’t know. “I don’t want to talk about it.” You manage to say, before Austin emphatically continues to question you about it.

Austin’s jaw dropped, “What the hell, why am I just now hearing about this? Who was he? What’s his name? What’s his star sign?”

You exhaled a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “It wasn’t serious. We were just hanging out.”

“Van’s got a type,” Em continues to tease, already adopting the nickname Tampa and Austin use for you.

You threw a napkin at her, heat rising to your cheeks, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Austin turned to you, eyes wide with faux betrayal. “So you’re telling me I never stood a chance?”

You smiled despite yourself, “You can’t even grow a beard, don’t take it personally.”

“Oh, ouch.”

The laughter that followed was easy. Loud. Safe, for a second, but it didn’t last long for you.

You reached for your drink again, not because you needed it, but because your hands were starting to sweat and tremble. The condensation on the glass helped ground you… something cool to hold onto, something real. You kept your eyes on the melting ice as the teasing faded and the conversation softened.

And then, quieter, more thoughtful now:

“I just meant…” Em trailed off, shrugging. “You seemed really into him. I thought maybe we’d get to gossip eventually.”

That made you still for a second. You didn’t answer, but you nodded in acknowledgment.

Your fingers tapped against the rim of the glass, soft and rhythmic, like you were measuring your own silence.

It wasn’t Em’s fault, she just didn’t know. She didn’t know that every reminder was a splinter, that the casual way she spoke about him felt like pressing on a bruise you weren’t ready to admit was still there.

She didn’t know you walked into his classroom twice a week like a ghost, that you couldn’t even flinch when you caught his sweeping gaze over the classroom and his eyes landed on you briefly, she didn’t know that you had to avoid looking at him, pretending he was no one, when just a few months ago you couldn’t keep your eyes or hands off of each other. She didn’t know you saw him in the edges of everything… books, lectures, quiet mornings. She didn’t know that gossiping about him felt like mocking a funeral or rubbing dirt on an open, infected wound that throbs every time you simply think about it. She didn’t know that all you wanted to do was talk about him, talk to him. Be in a room with him, in the safety that once was.

“I was,” you said, finally. Quiet enough that only she could hear it. “Really into him. But… it just…I fucked it up.”

Em’s smirk faded into something softer. She nudged your knee with hers under the table, a wordless apology.

And you nodded once, as if to say it was okay.

Even though it wasn’t. Not really.

Why did it feel like he followed you everywhere? You couldn’t breathe in without feeling the absence of him.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · we’re about 3 more chapters until the story starts progressing again and staying in the present! this is the long journey of encapsulating that goddamn summer fling. There’s so much I’m looking forward to in this story… just get ready for so much pain and heartbreak 😁 but Joel is really such a softie in my fics bc that’s how I think of him.

As we teeter into a once again angst standstill for my fics, I may dabble in some one-shots!

[forthelorewick]

Masterlist

Joel miller ♥︎

Neighbours help pt. 1*

→ When your fridge breaks down in the middle of the day, you don’t really have a choice but to ask your grumpy old neighbour. Aka thigh riding.

Neighbours help pt. 2*

→ After what happened with your Neighbour, you feel hurt and avoid him at all costs. But one night he comes to your apartment and wants to “fix” something. Aka he fucks reader.

In the car, in the car in the backseat, i’m your baby*

→ it’s summer break at your house and your daddys best friend is also there. The one you wanted to fuck for so long and finally you got the chance. Aka sub!dbf!joel.

Behind the tree*

→ after Joel and you got interrupted in the morning, he takes care of it on patrol. Aka he fucks reader behind a tree.

Under his mercy

→ you think it‘s time to let go, you suffered enough and as you find peace and close your eyes, you hear footsteps. Joel miller takes you and saves you, but at what cost? Aka Dark!joel miller

Millers wood carvings*

→ You want a wood carved present for your dad. Luckily Mr. Miller from Millers Wood Carvings shop is there to help.

How to disappear* Masterlist

→ after the passing of your mom, you and your dads best friend get close. He understands you because he also once lost something. But Joel is an old man, guilt and the fear of losing you too, overwhelms him. So he leaves you.

—

Blurbs

Softdom!Joel*

→ What happens if reader is bratty all day long? Joel takes care of it. Aka soft Spanking.

My Old Man

→ request send by anon. Joel is insecure about his age and thinks reader deserves better. Complete fluff

Over his knee*

→ request send by anon. Joel is teaching reader a lesson with spanking.

Makin‘ you a Mama*

→ request send by anon. Joel wants to make reader pregnant! Breeding kink go brrrr

Drabbles

Sugardaddy!Joel*

→ Little imagine of how your life would look like if you were Joel millers sugar baby.

Joel survives

→ Joel survives episode 2 and y’all live happily ever after. This is canon btw :)

Little belly bulge thought*

→ standing ovulation, or whatever they say.

Love again

→ request send by anon. Reader feels heartbroken after a break up. Joel is there to comfort her and they fell in love.

Pregnancy reveal drabble

Random dbf!drabble*

Sweet evening

→ request send by anon. Reader falls asleep on Joel while they are in a friends gathering.

Horny thought about cockwarming*

Thank you so much for reading <3

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 6: Movie Night

< prev ch | masterlist | next ch >

joel miller x f!reader

NSFW 18+ !! MDI !!

chapter summary:

WC 6.7k - you keep telling yourselves that it’s temporary, like that’ll make it hurt less. like naming it would make it real. but neither of you pull back, not when the warmth is this easy, this addictive. not when something honest keeps blooming in the silence between words.

chapter warnings/ content:

smut!, a fluffy chapter with underlying angst, unprotected p-in-v (don’t, we’re not stupid, are we? noooo, stay safe), fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), shower sex, alcohol consumption (so slight dubcon bc of the nature of it), use of pet names, soft!joel, lots of flirting/teasing, etc etc.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Early June

═════

It started with a text again.

Just two, barely even suggestive.

you free this weekend? 7:02 pm

figured i’d put a movie on, not in the mood to drink alone 7:03 pm

You stared at it longer than you meant to.

Because it was casual. It could be nothing, could just be two lonely people who didn’t necessarily want to be alone and had someone they knew willing to just fill that loneliness for the night. But it wasn’t.

And he knew that.

Just like you knew you’d say yes. But the way that word echoed in your head lonely, lonely, lonely. You thought you could convince yourself pretty easily that that’s all it could be.

You showed up just after eight on Friday night.

Takeout in hand, no makeup, hair pulled back in a way that said this isn’t a date, even though the flutter in your chest made it feel like one. You told yourself it was just convenient. That he had a decent TV and you didn’t feel like watching something alone. That it was easier this way.

He opened the door like he’d been standing just behind it, waiting.

“Hey,” you said, lifting the bag slightly. “Hope you aren’t picky.”

Joel smirked, stepping aside to let you in. “Long as there’s somethin’ fried in there, I’ll survive.”

You toe your shoes off at the door, the smell of warm food already starting to drift from the bag. Same living room, same couch, same dim lamp in the corner humming low with soft yellow light.

You moved around the kitchen like you’d done it before. He grabbed plates while you set out napkins, brushing past him once or twice in the narrow space just to see if he’d flinch.

He didn’t, not once. As if he was comfortable in this space with you. Making room for you to exist around him.

When you finally settled onto the couch beside him, not quite touching but not far either, he passed you the remote without looking.

“You pick.”

That flutter again.

That quiet, terrible thrill of being offered something small but deliberate.

“No way you’re makin’ me pick after you invited me over.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head, taking the remote back. “Alright, alright, fair’s fair.” He scrolls over movies, trying to hide the way his eyes check your expression to gauge what kind of movie you’d be into watching. Okay, comedy. You didn’t want a romance, thank god. He landed on ‘The Other Guys’ and you settled deeper into the couch cushions.

“Y’like this movie?”

You nod your head, having taken a bite of food and unable to verbalize your satisfaction in his choice. But after you swallow, you feel the need to clarify. “Have you seen it before?”

He shakes his head in reply.

Your eyes widen with mock horror. “Wait, you’ve never seen it?”

Joel shrugs, reaching for his drink, “Ain’t exactly on my list of essentials.”

You scoff. “It’s a masterpiece.”

That earns a small grin. “That so?”

“You’re gonna laugh. I guarantee it.”

Joel cuts you a sideways glance, skeptical. “You guarantee it?”

You smirk, not looking away. “If you don’t, I’ll get on my knees and apologize properly.” It was only a tease, some light-hearted banter with an underlying… ‘yeah, I’m thinking about it’.

That pulls a huff from him… almost a scoff, but not quite. His eyes linger on your face, like he’s checking to see if you’re bluffing, the genuine surprise that you made such an insinuation without any opening context. Sure, fine, he’d play along, “You makin’ promises you’re gonna regret?”

You take a bite, slow, deliberate. “Not a chance.”

Joel leans back, one arm slung over the back of the couch, close enough that your shoulder feels the warmth of him even if you’re not touching. “Alright, I’ll hold you to that.”

The opening scenes roll. It’s absurd, explosive, unapologetically ridiculous and at first, Joel watches in silence. Arms crossed, mouth tight. But by the time Ferrell starts rambling about the lion-tuna scenario, there’s a huff of breath from beside you.

You glance at him. “That a laugh?”

He doesn’t look over. “That was a breath.”

“Uh-huh.”

But then Wahlberg does his angry ballet bit, and Joel actually snorts. Tries to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. You grin, triumphant.

“Don’t say it,” he warns, pointing his fork at you.

“I told you,” you say, smug.

Joel bites back a smile and shakes his head. “This shit’s stupid.”

“Exactly.”

And you sit back, both of you relaxing into it, your laughter sometimes overlapping with his. His arm slowly shifts… down from the back of the couch to behind your shoulder, not quite around you but close. A quiet little bracket. Not intentional, not yet. Just gravity. Just comfort.

When the scene with the wooden gun rolls around, Joel loses it. You’ve never heard him laugh like that. It’s deep, chesty, a little surprised by his own amusement.

“That’s the dumbest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, eyes crinkled.

“And now it’s your favorite movie,” you say confidently.

He glances at you again. Eyes a little softer. “Maybe.”

Just maybe.

Plates rinsed and put into the dishwasher, the food’s long gone, everything cleaned up before you settle back onto the couch for another movie.

Joel leans back deeper into the couch, a bottle of beer balanced on his thigh, thumb tracing the condensation down the neck of it. You’re curled up sideways now, one leg tucked beneath you, cider in hand—the good kind, the one he remembered from that first night, and that makes you smile every time you sip it.

“This is actually the one,” you hold up the bottle, turning the label toward him like it’s proof. “You remembered.”

Joel shrugs like it’s nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Didn’t think you’d be a beer girl.”

“I’m not. But this? This is civilized.” You take another sip for emphasis. “Tastes like summer.”

He watches you, the flicker of the TV light catching in his eyes. “You’re a lightweight.”

You raise a brow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Nope.” He stretches one arm lazily across the back of the couch again, knuckles ghosting behind your shoulders. “Just means you’re gonna get all giggly in about ten minutes.”

You grin around the lip of your bottle. “What if I already am?”

“Then I’m doin’ something right.”

There’s a silence, then. Not awkward. Just… full. Charged in the way quiet sometimes is—when neither of you is in a hurry to break it, but the pull between you keeps getting tighter.

You glance at the TV, then at him. “You liked it?”

He nods once, slow. The kind of nod that doesn’t rush to fill the silence, “I did.”

“That a real answer or a flirty answer?”

No shift in his posture, just a slow tilt of his head as his eyes meet yours. That thumb still moving along the bottle’s neck, a lazy rhythm. “Both.”

The word hangs there between you.

He’s looking at you again. Not the way most men do. No hungry pass or hollow compliment. Just steady. Sure. Like he sees something worth memorizing.

“It’s stupid,” he adds, low, like it might slip between breaths. “But it was fun. You’re fun.”

You blink. The words settle slowly, warm and confusing, “I—what?”

A soft huff of breath, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Heat blooms in your stomach, slow and syrupy, the cider softening everything from the inside out. That flicker of something unnamed curls in your chest.

And for a moment, it just feels good.

To be seen like this. In someone else’s space. In the quiet. With no one asking for more than what you’re willing to give, for what you’re showing without meaning to.

Heat curls in your stomach. That cider buzz catching in your chest now.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

His gaze dips. Fingers curl a little looser around the bottle. The room feels warmer now, not just from the alcohol or the food or the two of you sitting close, but from something else simmering beneath it all.

“Y’tired?”

The question barely brushes the air between you. Not a push. Not a suggestion. Just a thread, hanging loose, waiting to be pulled.

You shake your head slowly, gaze flicking to his lips briefly before dragging back up his face to his eyes.

His gaze lingers. There’s something quiet about it, something searching, like he’s asking you a dozen other questions without saying any of them out loud.

He shifts beside you. Enough to bring your knees closer, enough to let his arm stretch behind you on the back of the couch, his fingers ghosting near your shoulder. His other hand reaching back and setting his empty bottle on the end table.

The movie’s credits hum faint in the background. Neither of you move to change it.

Joel doesn’t say anything, just watches you. The lamp behind him glows soft against the crown of his hair, the deep brown threaded with silver. His lips are parted just slightly, you could see the thoughts swimming around in his head.

One of his hands finds your thigh. The touch is gentle, but the weight of it makes your breath catch anyway.

You turn, just enough to really look at him.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes aren’t. They’re soft. And something in them tugs at the base of your spine.

When you shift closer, it’s easy. Natural. Like gravity is just doing what it’s meant to do.

Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, fingers grazing the edge. His eyes flick down, watching the movement like it might be a dream.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask, voice quiet but certain.

Joel doesn’t answer, he just leans in.

The kiss is slow. Barely a brush at first, then firmer, deeper, when he realizes you’re not pulling away.

His hand tightens on your thigh. Yours slides up his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt. You feel the way his breath shudders, the way he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours.

You shift again, knees coming over his lap as you straddle him, the bottle abandoned on the end table next to his. His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting to be there all night. He kisses you again, slower this time, one thumb stroking the skin just above your waistband.

His voice breaks the silence, low against your mouth. “This what you came over for?”

You smile against him, your nose brushing his. “I thought you were the one who invited me.”

“Right,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “Guess that makes it my fault.”

“Guess it does.”

Another kiss. Lazy. Heated. Tongues and saliva meshing, the taste of beer and cider sliding along each other’s tongues.

The kind that unravels the distance between bodies and excuses.

The kiss deepens.

His hands slide up your back, large and steady, anchoring you there as your fingers twist in the soft cotton of his shirt. You shift in his lap, just slightly, and his grip tightens, not hard, but with purpose. With restraint.

You pull back just enough to see him, eyes slightly glazed, breath hot between you.

Then he moves.

Not rushed. Not a word.

He just wraps his arms around you and stands.

You gasp, arms instinctively tightening around his shoulders as he lifts you clean off the couch like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Joel—”

“Shh,” he mutters, mouth brushing your jaw. “Ain’t droppin’ you, sweetheart.”

You feel the effortless strength in him, how his hold doesn’t waver as he carries you down the hall. The soft pad of his feet on wood. The quiet creak of the door as he nudges it open with his foot.

Your heart hammers in your chest. Not just from the closeness, but from the way it feels. The way he’s treating you like something he wants to keep safe. The way there’s no urgency in his steps, just intention.

The room is dim, lit only by the hallway light and the amber spill of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds.

He sets you down gently at the edge of the bed, standing between your knees, hands still framing your waist. His touch lingers there a moment, fingers flexing.

You blink up at him.

He doesn’t say anything, just tilts your chin up with one knuckle, searching your face like he’s looking for something he lost and finally found again.

Then he kisses you again. Slower this time. Deeper.

And the night begins to shift around you.

You feel the way it changes in him, something loosening and something settling at once.

His mouth leaves yours with a quiet breath, but he doesn’t pull away. Just brushes his nose against yours like he doesn’t want to stop touching you, not even for a second.

His hands drift down. One finds your knee, thumb grazing the inside as his other moves to your hip. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. Just coaxes, guides… until you’re laying back, elbows behind you, weight shifting onto the bed beneath his steady hands.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

And you do.

Your shirt is the first thing to go. He peels it up inch by inch, knuckles brushing your ribs as he lifts it over your head. His eyes follow the path of bare skin he reveals, warm and wanting, reverent.

He traces his fingers down your sides, palms skimming the outer curves of your thighs like he’s relearning you, like he’s earning you. The light in the room catches the edge of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the muscle twitch in his forearm when you sigh at his touch.

When his hands find the waistband of your shorts, he looks up at you.

You nod, already breathless, and he slides them down slow. Over your hips. Down your legs. Every movement measured. Careful.

He kneels briefly to pull them all the way off. Lets them fall beside the bed in a soft heap.

You’re laid out for him now, just your bra and panties left, and he doesn’t touch those yet. He just looks.

His fingers brush your calf, slide slowly up to your knee, then higher. A soft press to the inside of your thigh.

You can feel your pulse there.

“Can’t believe I get to see you like this again,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with something that sounds dangerously close to wonder. You think there’s something unsaid in the air between you, as if there was something else he was going to say, but he doesn’t.

Your throat tightens.

He rises again, pushing his own shirt over his head. His body is sun-worn, strong in that solid, unshowy kind of way. Strength built over time. Built by work.

You reach for his belt, but he catches your hand.

“Not yet,” he takes your wrist gently and sets your hand on his chest so you are still touching him,“Let me look at you first.”

Your fingers graze through his silvering chest hair, feeling the firmness of the muscle beneath the skin.

Then he leans down, presses a kiss to your sternum, between the swell of your breasts. His hand finds your back, arches you toward him as he unclasps your bra and slips it off with ease.

His mouth finds your skin like he’s grateful for it. Like he doesn’t just want to taste you, he needs to.

Your hands wander first, and he lets you explore. The ridges of his chest, his skin is warm beneath your palms.

You trace the curve of his collarbone, the rise of his shoulder. He breathes out, long and steady, like it settles something in him and rattles him at the same time.

There’s weight in the silence. The kind that lives in glances and half-smiles. The kind that doesn’t need to be spoken to be known.

He brushes your hair back, thumb lingering at your cheekbone before trailing down your jaw, and you lean into it.

Your legs tangle. His thigh slots between yours. His hand steadies at your hip like he’s grounding himself

You kiss without hunger. Without haste. Just lips pressing softly, over and over again, like a conversation that has no end.

And when he finally settles above you, skin to skin, warmth to warmth, it’s not possession, it’s presence. It’s the weight of a man who isn’t just taking his time, but offering it.

You tilt your head back as his mouth finds your neck, and you whisper his name, not in desperation this time, but in something sweeter. Something that sounds like trust.

His weight hovers, steady on one forearm, his hand at your waist pressing just enough to make you feel claimed without being taken.

You reach for the button at his fly, but his fingers curl around your wrist… gentle, but firm.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded but clear. “We’ve both been drinkin’.”

You blink up at him, heart thudding softly. There’s no judgment in his tone, no condescension. Just the rough edge of someone trying to be good when his body wants otherwise.

You nod slowly, your hand retreating to rest against his chest again. Your fingers graze through the coarse hair there, drifting in idle lines as his breath hitches. It’s grounding, the quiet contact. Like you’re both reminding each other this isn’t just lust, it’s something else. Something you can’t say, can’t admit… because you’re only in town for the summer. It can’t be anything more.

“Not sayin’ I don’t want to,” he says after a beat, voice rough like gravel. “Just… don’t wanna rush it. Don’t wanna make it somethin’ it ain’t.”

Your chest aches in the gentlest way.

You study him, eyes tracing over his body… shirtless, still half on top of you, his belt digging faintly into your thigh. His restraint isn’t cold. It isn’t distance. It’s care. Something about it makes you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

His hand slides along your side, thumb brushing just under your ribs. The weight of him, the warmth, the smell of him, all of it washes over you like a tide.

You shift slightly beneath him, your body arching to brush the seam of his jeans. He exhales sharply against your mouth.

“Jesus,” he mutters, half to himself.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t grind down. Doesn’t chase it. He stays still, just pressing closer like he’s trying to memorize the way it feels to have your body open to him without giving in all the way.

You tilt your head, resting your forehead against his. “You always this good at self-control?”

His laugh is low, muffled against your skin. “Fuck no.”

He’s braced on one forearm beside your head, the other hand trailing the bare skin of your waist, his fingers brushing under the edge of your bra like he’s biding his time.

You’re warm beneath him, your thighs open around his hips, toes curling against the back of his legs. The room is quiet save for the sound of both your breaths. The occasional murmur of the TV still playing in the other room. Your pulse is louder than any of it.

He dips his head, mouth dragging along your collarbone.

Your palms splay across his ribs, thumbs brushing over chest hair in slow, idle strokes. You roll your hips toward him, fingers drifting along the waistband of his jeans, testing.

His breath catches. “Careful,” he murmurs.

“Still got your jeans on,” your voice featherlight but full of implication.

He smirks, but it falters when your hand slips lower, tugging gently at the button. You could feel the tightness of his jeans, the seam pressing against the aching hardness beneath it.

“I thought you wanted to be good,” you whisper.

His fingers catch your wrist, not stopping you, just holding. “You’re makin’ it real hard, sweetheart.”

You hum softly, leaning in. Your lips brush his neck, then lower, a slow trail across his chest. “Good thing I’m not as noble as you.”

And before he can say anything else, you’re guiding his hand… your hips shifting, legs parting beneath him. You’re aching for his touch, already sensitive, and when he exhales slowly against your skin, you know he’s clocked it too.

“Y’sure?”

You nod, just once, tilting your head until your mouth brushes his jaw. “Don’t make me beg.”

That does something to him and you feel it in the way his fingers tighten just slightly in yours before they slip lower. “But I like when you beg, darlin’.”

You laugh, barely a sound—more breath than voice, shaky at the edges. Because god, the way he says it.

Like he means it. Like he’s thought about it.

Your lips ghost over his cheekbone, your fingers running through his hair, like you were trying to keep yourself steady. “Yeah?” the strain in your voice giving you away. “You want me on my knees next time?”

He exhales through his nose, sharp and low, like he wasn’t ready for that.

“Keep talkin’ like that..” he murmurs against your skin, “I’m going to forget all about takin’ things slow.”

His hand trails down your stomach, past the waistband of your panties and just the pad of one finger drags through the slickness already pooling between your thighs.

He swears under his breath, and your breath catches at the first real stroke.

“You’re soaked, baby,” he says it like he can’t believe it, like he’s never going to get used to the way your body responds to him.

You breathe out a soft moan, hips tilting toward his hand. “Tends to happen around you.”

He exhales a laugh, breath hot against your throat, but his fingers don’t stop. They tease and explore, dipping lower to circle your entrance, gathering slick and dragging it back up to your clit in slow, lazy strokes.

You clutch at his shoulders, the muscles flexing beneath your hands. He’s just watching you squirm, coaxing you toward the edge with nothing but his hand and his mouth close to your ear.

You press your face into his neck, breath shaking. “Joel…”

Joel stays there a moment, his breath warm against your shoulder. You feel him shift, taking his fingers away from your soaked heat and you whimper at the loss.

He kisses the space between your breasts, trail lower… gentle kisses to your stomach.

He draws back, just enough to slide down your body, his palms skimming the backs of your thighs as he goes. You lift your hips for him without hesitation, and he pulls your panties down and off, tossing them somewhere you’ll probably never find.

And then he settles between your thighs, his hands anchoring you open, and when he lowers his mouth…

You forget how to breathe.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow. Savoring. You whimper, hips twitching under him, and he groans softly in return, pressing in deeper, tongue sweeping through your folds, finding that perfect rhythm.

Your hands find his hair again, tugging just enough to make him growl against you.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t waver. He eats you like he needs it, like it’s the only thing that’ll satisfy whatever’s burning in him.

And when he finally focuses on your clit, tongue circling, lips sealing around it and sucking gently, your vision blurs.

You cry out, legs tightening around his shoulders, but he’s relentless. One of his hands comes up, fingers pressing into your belly to hold you still as he keeps going, pulling you closer, higher, his beard scratching against your thighs as they tighten around him… until you break apart with a sob, your entire body tensing under the wave that crashes through you.

He stays there, licking and lapping up everything… like he can’t waste a single drop.

He doesn’t move right away. Just kisses your inner thigh again, then the curve of your hip, then lifts his head. His eyes are darker now, pupils blown wide, lips glistening, beard damp from the slick you left on his tongue. His eyes catch yours, dark, half-lidded, soaked in hunger and restraint. You’re still trembling, thighs spread wide, softly into the hush of the room.

He hovers over you again, hand braced beside your hip. Heat radiates off him in waves, the scent of you still clinging to his skin. His breath is hot, uneven as he catches his breath.

That mouth of his brushes your neck.

“You get real quiet,” warm breath dragging across your collarbone, “when you’re gettin’ what you need.”

Your back arches. Legs tighten around his waist. The friction of his jeans against your skin makes you gasp. You grind up, chasing relief, lips parting as the ache coils again.

“Joel—please—”

His hips stutter. That low sound escapes him, almost pained.

“There it is. Knew you could beg real pretty.”

You reach down to his belt, button, zipper. Your hands work fast, urgent. He watches you with heavy eyes, chest rising and falling like he’s trying not to lose it. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t help either. Just lets you take what you want.

“Want you inside me,” breathless, aching, your voice barely a whisper.

His jeans slide low enough, his cock thick and hard against your inner thigh. You tremble when the head brushes your entrance, already soaked and desperate.

“Fuck,” he said it under his breath, jaw tight. “Y’sure?”

Your answer’s in the way your hips tilt up, the way your nails dig into his shoulder blades, the way you whimper when he just barely presses in.

He sinks into you slow, so slow… there’s a slight burning sensation as your pussy stretched to accommodate him, but it quickly gives away to pure bliss as he inches further and further inside you. Then, finally, he’s fully seated, forehead pressed against yours, both of you shaking from the stretch and the heat.

No words now. Just breath and skin and movement.

You rake your fingers down his back. He thrusts once, deep, and you shudder. Again, slower this time, grinding so deep you see stars.

Each snap of his hips pulls another sound from you— gasps, whimpers, broken syllables you can’t hold back anymore.

“Please,” again, again, voice cracking under the weight of it.

He groans, his rhythm faltering just slightly. Then deepens once again, and you take it all.

Each thrust comes slower now, heavier, measured not by speed but by intent. Joel moves as if trying to memorize every inch of you, like he’s trying to carve this moment into the marrow of his bones.

You cling to him, your body slick with heat, your lips parted in soundless gasps as he presses deeper, grinds a little rougher, a little more deliberate.

He pulls back enough to look at you.

What he sees there must shake something loose.

One hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher around his waist. The new angle knocks the air right out of your lungs. He hits a spot that makes your spine arch, a helpless cry escaping your throat.

Joel groans low, forehead resting against yours again, breath ragged. “You gonna cum for me again, hun?”

You nod, too far gone for words now, eyes glassy, mouth trembling.

The pressure builds like lightning under your skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, your heels dig into his back, and your body starts to quake beneath him. That unbearable, delicious edge rushes toward you.

He feels it. He fuckin’ knows.

“C’mon,” his voice wrecked and sharp. “Want to feel you milk my cock, darlin’.”

That’s all it takes.

Your body seizes under him, every muscle drawn tight as the orgasm crashes through you. White heat blinds you. The only thing you can hear is his voice and the sounds you’re making, raw and involuntary.

Your nails claw into his back. You cry out, his name half a sob.

Joel groans loud and deep, his restraint finally snapping. His hips snap forward, losing rhythm, chasing that last bit of you unraveling beneath him. You’re still pulsing around him, still gasping, still trembling when he follows you over the edge.

“Fuck, darlin’, fuckin’ take it all.” He grits out as he cums, fucking his spend deeper, every pulse sending shivers down your spine as he fills you to the fucking brim.

You both stay there for a moment—sweat-slick, breathless, your pulse still hammering somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Joel’s chest rises and falls against yours, his weight delicious and grounding. You feel the slow thud of his heartbeat pressed flush to yours, like he’s still caught in the tail end of it too.

He doesn’t move for a while. Doesn’t speak. Just lets out a long breath against your shoulder like maybe he needed this as badly as you did.

Eventually, you shift beneath him, your thigh sticky where it meets his hip.

He lifts his head, eyes a little dazed, hair mussed. “Shit. We made a mess.”

You grin, eyes still half-lidded. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

A chuckle rumbles deep in his chest as he leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth. “C’mon,” he murmurs, nuzzling briefly into your cheek. “Before you stick to the sheets.”

He slides out of you and lets out a soft hiss, patting your leg gently before extending his hand to help you get up.

You groan but let him guide you upright. “Made me sore…”

He huffs a soft laugh, “sorry, darlin’.” His hands are gentle now, steadying. One pressed to your lower back, the other brushing your hair away from your face.

Joel kicks the water on and tests it with his hand while you lean against the sink, legs still wobbly. He glances at you in the mirror, smirking at your state. “You look wrecked.”

“Yeah?” You tug your hair up off your neck. “Whose fault is that?”

He just grins, then steps under the spray.

You follow a beat later, slipping behind him into the heat. The air between you is hotter now, steam curling like temptation, skin slick and hypersensitive. Joel glances over his shoulder at you again, like he knows exactly what’s coming.

And then your hands are on him again. Palms dragging down his chest, fingers brushing his stomach. You wrap an arm around him from behind, pressing your breasts against his back, mouth near his ear.

“You gonna be good?” your voice sugary and smug. “Or you gonna let me wear you out?”

He lets out a low laugh, reaches back to grip your thigh and drag it up around his hip. “You really don’t know when to quit, do ya?”

Your answer is a hand reaching around his softened length.. but it began to harden again in your grasp as your teeth graze where you could reach at the base of his neck. “Not even a little.”

Joel groans then turns, backing you into the wall with a gentle, wet slap of skin against tile. His mouth is on yours before you can get another word out, all tongue and heat and the rough scrape of his stubble against your chin. Your thighs wrap around his hips as he pins you between him and the wall of the shower.

One hand steadies you at the hip. The other snakes between your thighs like he’s reclaiming something.

You gasp, arching into him.

“Thought you were sore,” he teases, voice dark and smug in your ear.

“I am.”

He kisses your jaw. “And still want more?”

You whimper, nod.

He lines himself up, no preamble this time. Just a shared look, a filthy grin, and then he’s pushing inside again, hot and hard and impossibly deep, dragging a sound out of you that echoes off the tile. The water beats down around you both, but you barely notice.

Joel fucks you like he can’t help it, like your body’s a challenge he intends to win. Quick, hungry thrusts that make your head tip back against the wall, your nails rake over his shoulders.

He catches your leg again, hikes it higher, changes the angle until you’re gasping, one arm flung around his neck for balance.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he pants. “Fallin’ apart on me.”

The steam curls thick between you. The water drowns your moans. His name is the only clear thing in your mouth.

You cum hard and fast, eyes rolling back, and Joel follows close behind… hips stuttering, breath ragged, a broken curse slipping past his lips as he spills into you again.

You’re both shaking a little when it ends, steam curling around you like smoke. The shower hums on, white noise buzzing between the heavy rhythm of your heartbeats.

And then, against your hair, with his hand still wrapped around your thigh, “Movie night, huh?”

You manage a hoarse laugh. “It’s what all the kids are doin’ these days.”

Joel slides out of you again, and you whimper slightly at the loss of contact, but also the slight burn of being split open by a man of his size. You felt like your pussy had its own heartbeat now.

You take turns rinsing off, his hands finding your body with a loofah covered with soap… he didn’t ask, he just did. Like he was taking this moment for himself. His lips skating down the slope of your neck from behind, a soft hum from low in your stomach as his fingers touch you so gently.

Joel kisses your shoulder, just one last time after you both rinse off, then pulls back enough to reach for the knobs behind you, killing the water.

You dry off in silence, towel-swaddled and flushed. You try not to look too giddy when you pass his open dresser on the way to the bedroom and, without asking, pull one of his flannels off the hanger.

Joel sees. Shakes his head, but doesn’t say a word. Just watches, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. He slips into clean boxers and sweats, towel-drying his hair with a grunt before tossing it aside.

The two of you return to the living room like nothing happened. But everything has.

The couch is still warm from earlier. The TV’s long since asked if you’re still watching, paused on some dumb preview. You both collapse onto the cushions, closer this time, limbs brushing. You curl into his side, wearing that damn flannel like you’ve worn it a thousand times before.

He cracks open another cider for you. You take a sip and rest your head against his shoulder, cheek tucked beneath his jaw.

He grabs the remote.

You don’t care what he puts on.

Not when you feel like this, bare skin beneath soft fabric, thighs aching, pulse settling, chest full. The buzz between you is still there, but quieter now.

Joel doesn’t say anything when he wraps his arm around you and pulls you in a little closer.

The movie plays on in soft, flickering hues. Some lighthearted comedy caper with background noise just loud enough to blur the edges of the silence.

Joel shifts beside you, his arm still heavy around your shoulders. His thumb moves in lazy strokes along the curve of your arm, not quite conscious, just something his body does when it’s near yours now.

You stretch your legs out slowly across the couch and feel him do the same behind you, the cushions dipping as he adjusts. You don’t even need to ask, he pulls the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch down and covers the both of you. A rustle of fabric, a quiet exhale.

He’s warm. Solid. And when he settles in again, his chest presses gently into your back, hand resting at your waist. Protective, but not possessive.

You don’t mean to sink into him like that.

Don’t mean to let your body soften entirely into the rhythm of his breath.

But you do.

Your eyes flutter shut before you even realize it, lulled by the heat of him behind you, the weight of his arm, the faint scent of soap and skin and something that already smells like… comfort.

Joel doesn’t say anything, just tightens his hold a little.

And that’s how you fall asleep.

In the quiet, domestic kind of stillness you were never expecting to feel with him. That you didn’t want to feel with him, because you didn’t want to entertain the idea that this was anything but temporary.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

You wake before the sun.

The TV’s gone black, humming low in standby. The room is still dim, touched only by the pale blush of early morning light threading in through the blinds.

Joel’s arm is still around you.

You shift a little, trying to gently roll away, but his arm tightens. Not fully awake, not even consciously, just instinct. His grip firms around your waist, and you feel the slow exhale against the back of your neck, the way his body presses in closer like it’s decided, on its own, that you’re not going anywhere.

Your heart stutters.

“Joel,” you whisper, soft, almost smiling.

Nothing. Just a gruff sound from deep in his chest and his hand flattening against your stomach like he’s anchoring you.

You try again, slower. Wiggle just enough to turn your head, catching a glimpse of him, face slack with sleep, lips parted slightly, brow furrowed just slightly.

It’s stupidly endearing. It’s lethal.

“I have to pee,” you murmur.

That does it. Barely.

His grip loosens just enough for you to slide out from under the blanket, his arm falling heavily behind you as you untangle your legs. You sit up on the edge of the couch, stretch once with a quiet sigh, and glance back.

You stand, pad quietly toward the bathroom with a flutter low in your stomach that has nothing to do with a full bladder.

You creep back into the living room, trying not to make a sound. The floorboards give a soft groan under your heel, and you wince, but Joel doesn’t stir. Not at first.

He’s still stretched out across the couch, one leg hanging off the side, hand resting where your waist used to be. Hair a mess, flattened on one side, tousled on the other. The blanket slipped low on his hips, exposing a thin line of his stomach. You pause, just looking at him.

There’s something dangerous about seeing someone like this, unguarded. Bare. Not just skin, but softness. And for a second, it almost feels like something real.

You move to sit beside him again, quietly, careful not to shift the cushions too much.

But his eyes crack open the second you do, just a sliver.

He blinks, lashes heavy, confusion momentarily clouding his face until his gaze finds yours. Then he hums, rough and low in his throat, and you feel it somewhere in your ribs.

“Where’d y’go?” His voice is thick with sleep, rasped around the edges, like he hasn’t quite come back to the world yet.

His arm curls around you without hesitation, pulling you back in like your absence had left a chill. He tucks his face into your shoulder and lets out a soft, sleepy breath, already halfway gone again.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to see his face, eyes barely slivered open.

Your chest aches at the sight.

It’s nothing, really. Just a question. Just a sleepy man missing the body that had been beside him.

But somehow, it means more.

You swallow lightly. “Just the bathroom.”

Joel hums, low in his chest. Like he’s just responding to the sound of your voice as his mind is still asleep. His arm curves tighter around your waist, anchoring you back into the space where he’d been holding you all night. Like letting you go wasn’t something his body was willing to do, even in sleep.

You hadn’t realized how good it could feel. To be wanted like that. Not for pleasure or teasing or heat, but just to be near. To be held like you belonged.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just breathes you in again, nose nudging softly into your hair. And you let yourself settle, let your eyes flutter closed again.

This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

It wasn’t supposed to feel safe.

But in the stillness of his living room, curled into his side beneath a blanket that smells like him, it does. And the scariest part is how easy it is. How much your body already knows the shape of this kind of comfort.

You wonder if he feels it too.

If maybe, in the quiet places between sleep and waking, he’s wondering how the hell you ended up here in his arms, and why he doesn’t want you to leave.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

So soft, so precious. DONT LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT RAHHH. This is just for the angst to hurt worse gotta sprinkle salt in the wounds hehe

[forthelorewick]

All the Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 5: Act I

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Joel Miller x f!reader

chapter summary:

WC 5k - the silence after heartbreak is never really quiet. you act like everything’s fine, well, try to. but the past keeps following you across campus. a name, a look, the echo of a memory that still lives in your bones. he pretends you’re just another student. you pretend he doesn’t make you ache. and when you’re pulled back into his orbit— you have to keep yourself from falling apart over and over again.

chapter content/ warnings:

angst, a touch of jealousy, references to past intimacy, repressed feelings, guilt, heartbreak, use of nicknames (exclusively for friends).

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Late August

You’re already awake when your alarm goes off.

The room is dim, washed in that pale, early-morning blue; the kind of light that doesn’t feel like a beginning, just a quieter continuation of whatever came before.

Your fan hums steadily in the corner. Outside, a garbage truck growls somewhere down the block. The branches scrape against the window in slow, lazy arcs.

But inside, everything feels off.

Like your body had somewhat slept, but your mind hadn’t.

You lie there a while longer, staring at the ceiling. Not thinking. Not dreaming. Just… waiting. Waiting until you had to get up.

The apartment shifts around you. The old pipes ticking to life, the floorboards groaning faintly in another room. You hear your roommate’s door creak open, then the soft click of it closing again. Headed off to another shift. She doesn’t say goodbye today, not after you told her you just needed rest.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, press your feet into the cold floor just to feel something solid.

Moving is easier than thinking. So you move.

You pull open your dresser drawer and stare into it like something inside might have the answers. Tank top, jeans, a loose overshirt—easy pieces. Familiar ones. You grab them without thinking, more muscle memory than decision.

But halfway through brushing your teeth, you pause and lean back to glance at yourself in the mirror.

And there it is. That look in your own eyes.

The one your roommate caught the first time.

The night you came home weeks ago, heart in your throat, silence trailing you like a ghost. You didn’t even need to tell her.

Your roommate knew and she made space, didn’t ask questions.

Just brought you ice cream and let you sit in the dark until your breath came back.

You told her it was over. That it had to be.

She didn’t push, just nodded and stayed close until the worst of it passed.

But now… Now everything’s so twisted up again.

It wasn’t supposed to get complicated, wasn’t supposed to come back.

You were supposed to be able to reminisce about him and be comforted that he was only a memory. To remember the way he felt and knew it was good while it lasted. To never have a set end… just a cliffhanger. Somehow you had rationalized it in your head. You just had to stop cold turkey or you’d never stop at all.

And now he’s there…everywhere… and you’re back in your body trying to act like the ground doesn’t feel like it’s shifting beneath you every time he walks into a room.

You tug the tank over your head. Shrug into the overshirt and roll the sleeves to accommodate the heat of the Texas sun and the chill of the A/C in every classroom.

Your phone buzzes with messages from the group chat discussing the morning meet-up before classes.

You smooth your hands over your jeans and take a breath.

Smile. Straighten. Shoulders back.

Just your friends, just drinking coffee, it’s only Thursday.

You grab your keys and your bag, lock the door behind you, and head out for the day.

Stepping out into the morning air like it doesn’t feel too sharp against your skin.

The sunlight is warm, but it doesn’t reach you.

You slide into your car, toss your bag onto the passenger seat, and just sit there for a moment, hands on the wheel, forehead resting against the backs of them.

You breathe in and breathe out.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

The engine hums to life, and you back out of the parking space like you didn’t just have to convince yourself to exist for the day.

The drive to campus is short, becoming more and more familiar as you frequent them. The roads are calm, with low traffic in the early morning. Just enough movement to remind you the world is still turning.

But your thoughts are anything but still.

You feel it deep in your chest, that ache you’d almost gotten used to, but it continuously grew deeper, like he was there.

And he was. He was still in your bloodstream, in the space you made for him, that stupid spot in your chest you swore was temporary.

That ache you’d feel in the morning when he’d make you breakfast. Learning how you liked your coffee, your bacon less crispy than his. Little things that shouldn’t have mattered, but they did.

That familiarity that was so out of place, but you let yourself have it.

That flicker of comfort.

That closeness that felt so out of place, like it belonged to another life.

You let yourself have it… knowing it was temporary. Knowing you’d have to leave him there eventually… in the memory of the soft glow of his TV, half-asleep on the couch, arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And now you knew it was exactly as it seemed. You both felt more. More than either of you intended.

He wasn’t here with you physically, of course he wasn’t… but did he ever really leave?

He was a consistent train of thought, anything would remind you of him.

Your fingers tighten around the wheel when a song comes on. Just close enough to the ones he used to play on his stereo.

Or worse, the ones on vinyl. Because he noticed that too.

He noticed that you loved records. That you liked music that was warm and imperfect. That you were an old soul in a world that kept rushing forward.

You told yourself you’d buried it. That he was just a summer thing.

But you hadn’t, and he was everywhere.

In the smell of strong coffee. In the way the sunlight filters through the windshield and hits your hands… the same way it used to light up his skin when it filtered through the blinds of the windows, his skin was golden and his face was unguarded and he looked so goddamn angelic in the morning.

You shake the thought loose, pull into your usual spot, then kill the engine.

You sit there, quiet for a beat longer.

Then you reach for your bag, push the door open, and step out into the day.

Campus is already humming by the time you reach the main sidewalk. Students filtering in from every direction, heads down, earbuds in, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. The buzz of it all fills the quiet spaces in your head just enough to keep you moving.

The campus was filled with hope and nerves and the sharp, frantic energy that only comes with fresh starts.

Bright-eyed freshmen clutched maps and coffee cups like they could ward off uncertainty. Upperclassmen leaned into routines like armor. Same walk, same bench, same corner seat at the café.

You tuck your hands into your pockets and keep your eyes forward.

Not in any rush, but not quite enjoying the walk like you had earlier in the week, even though the morning air reminded you of all the beautiful moments you had in the mornings. Of sunrises, of breakfasts, of the first sip of coffee. Of a kiss goodbye.

You walked among them like nothing had changed.

Like your whole world hadn’t been quietly rearranged behind your ribs.

There was something cruelly ironic about it. How the world moved forward in bright colors and casual laughter while you were still trying to stitch yourself together from the inside out.

But you smiled.

You waved. You showed up.

Because that’s what people do, right?

They show up. Even when they’re barely there.

The walk to the student union isn’t long, but it feels longer today. Your bag is heavier, your shoulders tighter. Every step feels like something you’re holding back.

You see them before they see you—Austin and Tampa, tucked near the outdoor seating area of the café. Austin’s got his sunglasses on even though it’s barely past 8, probably mid-rant about someone who cut him off on the highway. Tampa’s sipping from a comically large iced coffee and nodding along, expression unreadable.

You take one more breath before they look up.

Smile. Smile, dammit. You lift a hand in a lazy wave just as Tampa spots you.

“There she is,” Tampa shifts to make room on the bench.

Austin turns, pulling off his sunglasses with a dramatic flourish. “She lives. We thought you’d melted into your sheets and become one with your duvet.”

You snort, sliding into the space between them. “I’m fine. Not like I’m sick or dying, just needed some rest.”

“You better not be,” Austin squints at you. “You ghosted hard, babe. No memes. No drama. Not even a weird 2am shower thought text. I was worried.” He said it like he’d known you for years, but you couldn’t disagree, last night had been abnormally quiet coming from you.

You shrug, grabbing a sip of Tampa’s drink like it’s yours. “Just tired. First week chaos.”

They seem to buy it.

Or they want to. Either way, the conversation shifts.

Tampa’s mid-rant about some pretentious guy in her morning class—“If he uses the word ‘Kafkaesque’ one more time I’m reporting him for war crimes”—when Austin cuts in.

“Oh! Speaking of pretentious,” he says brightly, like it’s a compliment, “how about Professor Miller?”

Your stomach flips so hard you almost miss the next sentence. Why the fuck was he taking about him so early in the goddamn morning?

“I mean, damn, that man is like… philosopher-daddy material. He said the word ‘ontology’ and I swear half the room blushed.”

“Please don’t use the word daddy to refer to our professor, Austin…” you wanted to ring his neck, if you were being honest with yourself.

“I’m just saying.” As if that was a reasonable thing to say.

Tampa groans and you wish you could do the same. “Ew, no. I don’t do the tortured academic type. He looks like he reads The Odyssey for fun and won’t text back for six business days.”

“And what’s the other part you’re not into… wait, men.” Austin snaps back as if she had personally offended him.

You force a laugh as nonchalant as you can manage. “You just described half the Philosophy department.”

Austin turns to you, eyebrows raised. “Okay, but you have to admit he’s hot. Like, objectively. Right?”

Your grip tightens slightly on your coffee cup. You shrug, “He’s fine. He’s our professor. I’d rather not think of him beyond that.” Those words ringing through your head in his voice. ‘I’m your professor now’, ‘I’m not that man anymore, not for you.’

God, you want to throw up.

Austin gasps, oblivious to the words racing through your mind. “Fine? That man is a salt-and-pepper event. I’m emailing the department about becoming his emotional support TA.”

You nearly choke. “You’re what?”

He beams. “Yeah, apparently he’s looking for a TA this semester. Intro-level stuff. I heard someone dropped out late, so there might be a spot open.”

Your brain stalls. You swallow it down, hard. Keep your voice level. “That’d be a good opportunity.”

Austin nods eagerly. “Right? I’d learn so much.”

“Yeah, like how to be delusional.” Tampa’s quick to retort,

Austin flips her off with no heat. “Some of us believe in love.”

Tampa gives him a look. “You just want to hand-deliver him papers and hope he asks for your number.”

“Maybe.” He takes a long sip from his drink. “Maybe I just want to soak up his quiet intensity and write a thesis about his bone structure.”

You let them laugh. You even let yourself smile.

But inside, you’re a kaleidoscope of panic and noise because you know what it’s like to be the center of his attention.

And it nearly ruined you.

You just sip your coffee and let the conversation drift without you. A façade of a smile on your face, heart trying not to show all its cracks.

The sun had climbed higher by the time your drinks were half-finished and the clock insistently reminded you that you needed to head to class soon.

Tampa stood first, “Alright, nerds. Time for me to go tolerate men in khakis who think quoting Rousseau is foreplay.”

Austin winced. “Godspeed.” Then he downed the last of his coffee like a shot. “I’m off to Intro to Moral Theory, aka a room full of freshmen who think Plato is a skincare brand.”

You huff a laugh, swinging your bag over your shoulder as you stand. “I’ve got Political Theory and Ideologies… and then Critical Thinking. Which is ironic, considering I’ve done none of it this week.”

You all groan in solidarity.

You split at the edge of the quad with promises to meet up again later—nothing firm, just the casual rhythm of people who orbit each other out of habit and choice.

And for a little while, it’s easy to fall back into it.

To pretend it’s just another semester and just another walk across campus.

You breathe in the breeze and let it cool the tightness in your chest.

The quad is buzzing when you find them again after your class. Austin sprawled across a bench like he owns the place, a pastry balanced on a napkin and crumbs already trailing down his sleeve.

“There she is,” he waves you over. “Thought you were gonna ghost us again.”

You flop down beside them with a sigh. “Listen man… I’m doing my best here. Some of us are still pretending to be functional.”

Austin scoffs “Speak for yourself. I’ve been emotionally checked out since 9 a.m. But—” he points at you with a dramatic flick of his iced coffee lid—“I have news.”

“Should I be scared?”

“Yes, actually.” He beams, as if he’s about to tell you something of great achievement. “So,” he announces, all smug confidence, “I did it.”

You blink at him over your cup. “Did what?”

He grins, and you don’t like that grin of his, actually. “Applied for Professor Miller’s TA spot.”

You choke. Just a little. “Wait, you’re actually serious?”

He shrugs, all nonchalance. “Found the application on the department page. Emailed it last night. Gonna swing by his office after class, make sure he knows I’m not just another pretty face.”

Tampa snorts. “You are absolutely just another pretty face.”

“Thank you,” he says she gave him a compliment. Then his attention snaps back to you. “And since you love me, you’re coming with.”

You blink. “I—what?”

“His office is right by the PoliSci building. You don’t have another class until, what, two? Come with me. You’ll make me look emotionally stable.”

“Austin….”

“Please.” He clasps his hands together in mock-prayer. “I’ll buy you something unhealthy and overpriced afterward.”

You hesitate. You can’t go back there today, you already couldn’t stop yourself from panicking about having to go back there tomorrow. But saying no would mean explaining, or disappointing your friend who you want to be able to depend on you.

So… you force a breath and offer a smile.

“Fine, but we’ll make it quick, okay?”

He beams, already victorious.

You finish your drink with a too-steady hand and don’t let either of them see the way your pulse stutters.

The walk to Carson Hall feels longer than it should.

Maybe it’s the sun.

Maybe it’s the dread building in your throat.

Or maybe it’s the way Austin’s been bouncing beside you like he’s walking a runway instead of heading toward potential emotional disaster.

He’s beside you, sipping the last of his iced coffee and making up nonsense about how he’s going to charm his way into the TA position. You don’t say much. You just bump shoulders now and then, smirk at his commentary, nudge him with the edge of your bag when he gets too dramatic.

You have grown so close to him in such a short amount of time, you don’t know what you’d do without your Austin and Tampa. Wondering if you’ll add more to your group or keep it as is… you wondered what it would be like to finally feel at home again. Maybe you could find that with them.

By the time you reach the second floor, you’re laughing at something Austin said under his breath. It’s quiet, breathless. One of those laughs that’s real enough to make your eyes water just slightly.

And then you see the door.

And your breath catches.

Room 214. The nameplate reads Miller, J.

You knew it would. But still, your heart stumbles over it.

Austin doesn’t hesitate. He knocks twice, sharp and confident.

“Professor?” he calls through the wood. “Hope it’s not a bad time.”

There’s a pause.

Then, from inside—low, even: “Come in.”

You step in behind him, hands shoved in your pockets to avoid the shaking they were undoubtedly doing.

Joel is at his desk, sleeves rolled, reading glasses low on his nose. His eyes lift the second the door clicks shut.

And they land on you.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to see that flicker of something… surprise, something else you couldn’t place. Then it’s gone.

He picks up a notebook and flips the pages of his itinerary until he found what he was looking for, then looked up at Austin.

Joel flips through his notes, then glances up.

“Jamie?” he asks, confirming the essentially scheduled interview.

Austin grins at hearing his name said from that low vibrato of Joel’s voice. “That’s me. And this is Van.”

Joel stands, offering a handshake. Austin or… Jamie, takes it with both hands and a smile that’s probably more charming than it needs to be. Joel’s eyes find you… automatically, instinctively… but they pause.

“Van?” he echoes, quiet. A blink. A beat. “I have you in Ethics and Moral Reasoning right?” He flips through his notes and says your other name, your real name. As if he hadn’t memorized it since the moment you claimed it as your own during roll call. “Or would you prefer to go by Van?”

You swallow thickly, “No…no, just a nickname for our friend group is all.”

His expression doesn’t change much. But there’s a shift behind his eyes. Not confusion. Not quite. Just… something settling. His jaw ticks with tension.

Jamie drops into the chair without noticing. “It’s short for Vanderbilt. That’s where she went before transferring here.”

Joel nods, slowly. “Right.”

You don’t add anything. You don’t offer more.

You just watch the way he receives it. And you know he is. Receiving it.

Not as a surprise. Not as something hurtful. Just… information. Context. Another piece of you he never had.

“Thanks for considering me as your TA. I brought backup,” he gestures to you. “She’s here to vouch for how brilliant and underappreciated I am. An in-person character reference.” He sure is a cocky motherfucker.

And you… God help you, you smile, you actually manage it. “That’s right, didn’t really have a choice, was just on the way to my next class.” You manage to say, hoping to make him understand you didn’t want to be here.

Austin bumps your knee lightly with his. “Tell him I’m a dream to work with.”

You arch a brow. “A handful, maybe.”

He gasps. “Rude.”

“You said that yourself this morning.”

You see a tick in Joel’s jaw at that. Just briefly, barely noticeable to anyone who hadn’t spent an unreasonable amount of time studying his neck… his jaw… his eyes…

“Yeah, but it hits different when you say it.” Austin’s voice drags you out of those thoughts and you’d never been so grateful.

You manage a soft laugh, eyes flicking toward Joel before you can stop yourself.

He’s not looking at either of you.

Just flipping through his folder, pen paused neatly between his fingers. Nothing in his posture betrays anything but complete disinterest. His mouth is set in that same unreadable line you’ve recently come to dread.

You shift back slightly in your chair. The lightness fades from your voice.

Austin doesn’t notice. He keeps going, leaning toward Joel’s desk like this is just another casual conversation with a professor who isn’t a walking wound from your summer.

Joel finally looks up.

“Let’s keep this focused,” his tone is flat, directing it at Austin like you’re not even in the room anymore. “You mentioned you’ve done peer tutoring. Can you talk about how that would apply here?”

You press your lips together and fold your hands in your lap.

Austin straightens, undeterred. “Yeah, mostly in writing courses, but a lot of it’s logic and structure. Helping people figure out what they’re actually trying to argue before they fall into a spiral.”

Joel nods, writing something down. His eyes don’t lift. “This course is heavier on applied reasoning. Philosophical frameworks, not just academic writing. You’d be expected to help lead discussion groups and prep for lectures.”

Austin nods, you can see his hands slightly tremble beneath the intensity of well, Joel. “That’s what I’m looking for. I like big-picture stuff. Especially when it gets messy.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away, he just keeps writing. The silence stretches longer than it should.

You sit still, stomach twisting. You wish he’d just look at you or acknowledge you, but he won’t. Did you even want that? The ache settles even deeper.

You shouldn’t have come.

You didn’t want to anyways. You knew he’d be this way.

Professional to the point of cruelty.

Because why wouldn’t he be? He had to be.

Plus, you disappeared. Lied. Complicated everything. Of course he doesn’t want you here.

Joel closes the folder with a soft thud and sets his pen on top of it.

“I’ll follow up with the department. Thanks for coming by.”

It’s dismissive. Final.

Austin stands, brushing imaginary lint from his jeans. “Cool. Thanks for your time.”

You rise slower, bag clutched a little too tightly in your hand.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

Joel doesn’t move after the two of you leave, not at first.

He just stares at the folder in front of him, eyes fixed on the name scrawled across the top of the application. Jamie’s handwriting is neat, confident. Too confident.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose.

That damn laugh, the way your knee pressed into Jamie’s like it belonged there…. The ease between you— familiar and casual. Too fucking casual.

His jaw clenches.

Jamie’s qualified, sure, objectively. Sharp, good with people, articulate. A solid candidate. Hanging out with you, likely brilliant.

But all Joel can think about is the way your smile tilted just slightly when Jamie leaned in too close.

How your voice softened. How you looked at Jamie like you trusted him. Like he knew parts of you Joel never even asked about.

Vanderbilt.

He didn’t know that, didn’t know you’d transferred or anything regarding schooling. Didn’t know you were pursuing a degree, didn’t know where you were from.

Didn’t know half the things about you he probably should have before he’d been between your thighs.

He presses a palm to the desk. Tightens his fingers around the edge.

He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

But now he’s sitting in his office wondering if Jamie’s going to get the job… will you be coming with him again?

He doesn’t want that. Except… he does. Does he?

He wants to see you, he knows he does. Even like this. Even if it kills him. To see your smile, even if it’s not for him. To know you’re still… there. Still you, despite it all.

He drags a hand over his face, rubs at the tension behind his eyes, and mutters low under his breath, “Fuck.”

Then he picks up his pen again.

Back to business. Back to pretending that it doesn’t affect him.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

You don’t realize how tense your shoulders were until the hallway air hits them. Cooler, louder, less suffocating. But not by much.

Austin sighs, long and satisfied. “Well. If that didn’t seal it, nothing will.”

You glance at him. “You really think you nailed it?”

“I know I did.” He grins. “I mean, the résumé, the charm, the dazzling intellect, and let’s be honest, showing up with you probably got me a few extra points.”

You blink, your brain short-circuiting. “What?”

“Come on, Van. You look hot. Like, seriously, if I were him, I’d be too distracted to say no.”

You stare at him.

He shrugs, still smug. “Just saying. I’m sure your presence helped the vibe. I may be confident, but I’m not ignorant, I know he doesn’t swing my way.”

You roll your eyes hard enough it nearly hurts. “He’s our professor, Austin.”

“And? Can’t a man appreciate beauty?”

You roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder with your fist.

“Is that all I am to you? An accessory?”

“Yep.”

You shoot him a warning look, but he’s already laughing, fully amused with himself.

He’s already texting someone, humming under his breath like he didn’t just make your stomach drop.

Because if Joel had looked at you at all… It wasn’t desire, it wasn’t anything, it would have been weirder if he hadn’t looked at you. At least to anyone else it would’ve been.

To any trained eye, he looked at you like you were a mistake he couldn’t afford to look at too long.

You don’t say anything else. Just walk beside Austin in silence, your body moving even as your mind stays somewhere back in that room, somewhere in those eyes that used to only look at you as if you were everything. And now, you’re nothing.

You depart from Austin’s side, taking a different turn than he did. Your next class starts in four minutes.

You’re halfway there before you realize you haven’t taken a full breath since leaving him.

You slide into your seat just before the professor begins. Pull your notebook out. Click your pen. Open to a fresh page.

You don’t hear a damn thing.

Your body’s here, posture perfect, expression bored—but your mind is two buildings over, stuck in that office with the door half-closed and your heart halfway shredded.

You write down the date. Underline it twice. Highlight a sentence you didn’t read.

You keep nodding like you’re absorbing the lecture. You’d catch up later, you had a loose friend in the class who would happily share her notes.

But all you can think about is tomorrow.

All you can feel is the way he looked right past you when you left. Like the space you took up didn’t matter anymore.

Like none of it had happened.

You don’t sleep much that night.

Not that you were trying.

You lay still for hours, eyes half-lidded and locked on the ceiling, letting the weight of everything you didn’t say settle over you like a second blanket. By the time the sun rises, your limbs feel heavier than your bag.

You shower like it’ll rinse off the rest of the week. It doesn’t.

You make it to campus fifteen minutes early and walk slow. The kind of slow that looks like confidence from a distance, but feels like your bones are filled with cement.

You make it through the morning.

Barely.

Two classes, back to back… notes scribbled like your brain was actually working, like you weren’t constantly glancing at the clock, counting down to the one hour you’ve been dreading since you walked out of his classroom. You couldn’t fucking afford this distraction… this was the very reason you disappeared. To stay focused. To stay clean. To not be haunted by these thoughts.

The regret. The want. The ache.

You had a permanent hole in your chest, or it felt like it—where the memory of him resides. It started seeping into your entire being, you wondered how long it would take you until you finally started feeling numb. You’d really like to just feel numb now.

You don’t even remember what was covered in Constitutional Law. Something about judicial review and dissenting opinions, but all you could think about was the last time you looked him in the eyes and didn’t recognize what you saw there.

That silence. That cold distance. Like you hadn’t ever mattered at all.

And now you had to sit through an entire lecture, feet from the man who taught you how fast a body can forget its own rules.

You’re not hungry, but you force a few bites of something during the break. Knowing Tampa and Austin wouldn’t let that fly anyway. You sit in the quad under half shade, half sun, pretending the breeze is calming when really it just reminds you that you’re still too tense.

By the time you’re walking toward the philosophy building, it feels like a countdown in your blood. Each pulse reminding you of the way his touch felt on your body, the way he’d hold you, the way his hands would feel around you…

Snap the fuck out of it. Tampa’s grip on your arm helps you as she basically drags you out of your thoughts.

Tampa’s grip on your arm yanks you back to the present.

“Seriously,” she says, giving you a look. “Where were you just now?”

You blink. Try to play it off. “Nowhere.”

“Your face says ‘somewhere,’” she replies, but she doesn’t press. She never does when you look like this. Just walks beside you in silence, her shoulder brushing yours every few steps like a metronome, steady and grounding.

When the building comes into view, your stomach drops. Not in a dramatic way. It just… sinks. Like your body knows before your mind will admit it.

You glance at the time. 12:55.

You’ve never wished for a fire drill so badly in your life.

Tampa slows as you hit the steps. “Hey,” she says, and when you look at her, her expression softens. “You okay?”

You nod too fast. God, you wish you were better at acting. Unfortunately for you, you clearly were very readable. People who knew you for barely a month could read you already. Well, partly.

She doesn’t believe it, but she lets you go.

And just like that, you’re walking into PHIL-205 with your pulse in your throat, your nerves stretched thin, and a lecture ahead of you taught by a man who once made you forget how to breathe.

The room isn’t full yet.

A few students are already in their seats, flipping through notebooks, sipping coffee, murmuring low. You move on autopilot, the floor cold beneath your shoes, the classroom somehow louder in its quiet than anything else on campus.

You feel him before you see him.

That pressure. The shift in the atmosphere. The way the air tenses around your lungs.

He’s at the front, moving through the motions—chalk, papers, calm professionalism—but then his gaze drifts. Absent, unguarded.

And it lands on you.

He doesn’t look away, not immediately. Just… stares.

It’s not cold. It’s not angry.

It’s restrained. Measured. Like he’s holding something back with both hands.

It’s still there.

You see it in his face.

The Joel you knew… the Joel you had been falling in love with all summer.

And now, the Joel who told you to forget about him.

To forget about everything he had potentially ever become for you. To forget everything you could have been.

That’s what he wanted. And since it was your fault this happened to begin with, you’d respect his wishes. No matter how much it hollowed you out to do it.

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒───────── · ·

[forthelorewick]

All The Wrong Ways to Know You

Chapter 4: Come Over

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Joel Miller x f!reader

NSFW 18+ MDI !

Chapter summary:

WC 8.7k - you both thought it’d be a one-time thing. but a text sent, an invitation, leads you right back to him. what starts as heat becomes something quieter, gentler, harder to walk away from. you tell yourselves it’s just casual, and you wonder how long you’ll be able to cling to those lies just for another night with him.

Chapter content/ warnings:

flashback chapter, smut!, unprotected p in v (seriously, don’t! brief mention of BC), oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, riding, use of pet names/ nicknames, aftercare, repressed feelings, still practically stranger sex, etc. etc.

Early June

It had been a week.

Seven days since the bar.

Since that laugh, those thighs, that mouth.

He told himself it was a one-time thing.

That he didn’t need to think about you again.

But here he was.

Sitting on the couch, an old record humming low in the background. Something slow. Something that lingered, he hadn’t really thought about it when he put it on. Just the comforting routine of putting on a record as his night winds down after work.

His phone sat face down on the table. No messages. Not that he was expecting any… but he couldn’t help but hope.

You’d said it yourself. You were just visiting. Just wanted something simple.

He should’ve been grateful for the easy out.

But fuck.

You hadn’t left his mind all week. Not just the sex, though that had been… Jesus.

But the way you’d looked at him after. Like he was something worth seeing. He shifted in his seat, eyes drifting toward the phone again.

He picked it up, looked at the blank screen. He flipped it in his hand, turning it on, thumb hovering over your contact.

He thought about leaving it alone. Letting it go. But something in his chest… low, stupid, and lonely, tightened.

It was just a text. Didn’t have to mean anything. You didn’t need to reply.

He could play it cool. He had to at least try. Try and see.

You up, darlin’? 11:42 pm

Simple and casual. Maybe you weren’t even awake, maybe it would go unread, ignored. It didn’t matter. It didn’t.

He stared at it a second longer, thumb hovering over ‘Send.’ And then he hit it.

Message sent. No turning back now.

He leaned back into the cushions, phone clutched in one hand, heart beating just a little faster than he’d admit.

══════════════════════

It was late. Not quite midnight. One of those sweltering summer nights where the air stuck to your skin even with the windows cracked.

You were in bed with the lights off and the fan humming low. Phone on your chest, just lying there. Just a restless night, too hot in the apartment to fall asleep just yet.

And then the screen lit up.

You up, darlin’? 11:42 PM.

Your stomach flipped so hard you sat up without thinking.

Joel.

You stared at the message, your heart started racing.

Didn’t take you for the clingy type. 11:50 pm

You almost didn’t send it, but you did… you were too eager to hear what he wanted.

Three dots appeared.

Ain’t clingin’. Just missin’ that smart mouth. 11:51 pm

Somethin’ you need, cowboy? 11:53 pm

God. You hated how fast your legs moved as you got up and started looking for your shorts.

You weren’t even sure he was inviting you over… but you’d rather be ready than risk pacing your room for another hour. Your body was already moving. You were antsy and alert, like you knew he was about to ask.

You got a ride to come over? I’ll send ya the address 11:55 PM

What you wanted to say was… ‘hell yes, it’s the only thing I’ve known I’ve wanted in a long time’. But you know you could never admit that, especially to yourself.

You knew it was risky… you couldn’t deny the way he made you feel and it was too much all at once. A dangerous journey to allow your heart and mind to embark on.

Before you thought anymore, you grabbed your keys and texted back

Headed out now 11:58 PM

A few moments later, your phone buzzed again with his address and your message was replied to with a thumbs up.

Somehow that simple, stupid emoji caused the ache in your chest to deepen. So very… dad of him. What a weird thought to have.

The air was still thick with heat, even this late. Your hands gripped the wheel a little too tightly, knuckles pale in the wash of red from the traffic light. The roads were mostly empty… just you, the low hum of your car, and the echo of ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ bouncing around your head. Then the… ‘didn’t you want this to happen? You’d been waiting for it all week…’ you truly had expected it to be a one time thing. But you couldn’t deny the urge to see him again. The yearn to be held by him… to be beneath him… to be surrounded by him. Where the uncertainties of the world didn’t matter.

There was no going back now.

You didn’t dare put on music, afraid the wrong song might unravel you. Something soft would make you too sentimental. Something sexy would feel too on-the-nose. So you drove with nothing but the rattle of the A/C and the sound of your thoughts clawing at the back of your skull.

You pulled into his driveway, parking next to the same truck you weren’t sure you’d see again.

Your lip caught between your teeth at the thought of asking him about his cowboy hat, just to see if he’d wear it for you. You were sure he’d have one, maybe multiple.

You were used to boys and men who wore Stetsons like costumes. Like they were trying too hard to be something they weren’t. It didn’t suit most of them. Honestly, it rarely did.

But Joel…

Joel was different. You didn’t think there was a damn thing he wouldn’t look good in. That slow drawl, a belt buckle, a cowboy hat… hell, you’d think you died and went to heaven just from the view.

You got out of your car, heart hammering just at the images in your head. You approach his porch, you can feel the humidity of the night sticking to your skin.

You didn’t even have to knock. The porch light was off, but the door creaked open before you could reach for the handle.

He was there.

Backlit by the soft, golden haze of a lamp behind him. Jeans slung low on his hips. Hair mussed. Barefoot.

He looked like something you’d made up. Like something your loneliness had conjured into flesh.

You blinked, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Hey,” you offered, breathless and too casual.

He leaned against the frame, eyes dragging over you slowly, “Took y’long enough.”

You opened your mouth to throw something cocky back, had a dozen lines ready, but none of them came out.

Because you were too busy looking at his neck and the way the light caught the sweat along it.

He caught you staring, and he smirked that stupid, knowing smirk that made your stomach twist.

“Gonna stand there all night, or you comin’ in?”

You stepped past him, barely. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest and to feel the heat coming off his skin.

The door clicked shut behind you and somehow the air felt heavier inside, thicker.

He didn’t touch you right away, he didn’t grab, didn’t press. Just watched you as you stepped into his space.

The living room dim, fan creaking above, the scent of him threading through the warmth.

You could hear a record turning somewhere, it was faint and steady, the soft hiss of the needle tracing empty grooves. The sound of it made something in your chest pull tight, of course he listened to records. Somehow, that made the ache worse.

He moved past you, heading toward the kitchen like this was nothing. Like you hadn’t been aching for this all week.

“Y’want water? A drink? Humid as hell out there.”

“Water’d be great, thank you.”

He opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and cracked the seal with one hand. Handed it to you without looking, like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like this was normal. Like you were.

You took it and your fingers brushed just for a second.

Joel leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. The way his arms bulge beneath the fabric of his shirt… the fabric stretched tight across his chest…

You didn’t mean to stare, but he caught you.

His mouth twitched, just barely. That knowing kind of smile that said he saw right through you.

“Long drive?” he asked, voice low and casual.

“Fifteen minutes,” you take a sip of water, “But there was no traffic and no cops out so… I got here a little faster.”

That made him go still for a moment.

He nodded once, the twitch of his mouth betraying his amusement, “That right?”

You shrugged, keeping your voice light. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Don’t worry, ‘m not,” he shakes his head, but you catch the way his lips tilt, that quiet little smirk he tries to hide as he looks away.

He looks back at you, jaw tensing to prevent the slip of his composure.

And you’re already looking at him because you can’t seem to look away, not when he lets you look. Wants you to, and when he’s looking at you the same way.

Joel’s gaze drags down your face. It was slow and unhurried before settling somewhere lower. His tongue runs along the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something or doing something.

“Y’look good,” is what he does say finally, his eyes dragging back up to yours.

You lean back against the counter, tilting your head just slightly, “You saw me a week ago.”

His eyes flick to yours and heat blooms behind them, “Didn’t say I forgot.”

Your pulse jumps and your fingers tighten slightly around the bottle still in your hand.

You set it down, then step closer. Only half a foot, barely even that.

He watches you, his jaw ticks and his fingers twitch against the counter.

“Gotta be honest with you,” you look at him intently now, your tongue peeking out to moisten your lips, “you send a text like that, and I figure you’re not just lookin’ to chat.”

He watches you and hums, it’s a low, dangerous sound, “No, ma’am. I’m not.”

You hum in reply, as if any thoughts were really going on in your head beyond him. “Well, I’m here now.”

“Y’sure are.” and with that, he closes the space between you, one hand curling around your waist, the other coming up to cradle the side of your face like he’s worried you might vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

His mouth finds yours without hesitation. It’s full of heat and ache, as if you’d been starved of something your body had already learned to crave. And maybe it had, a whole week’s worth of reminiscing about his touch.

His thumb brushes your jaw as your hands twist into his shirt. You feel him sigh against your mouth, like it’s a relief just to kiss you again.

And then he’s walking you backward, back into the living room until your legs hit the edge of the couch and you have no choice but to fall with him.

His hands are on your waist, anchoring you to him.

Your fingers find his hair, pulling him closer as he leans over you, the couch creaking softly beneath the weight of both your bodies.

You kiss like it’s all you’ve thought about since you’d last seen each other, and you had, you wondered if he had too.

There was no teasing, no slow build this time. It was mouths crashing, breath catching, the desperate sound of want unspoken.

His tongue brushes yours and you gasp, and he takes that opening like a man possessed, one hand sliding up your side, beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and sure and somehow so fucking familiar it makes your knees weak.

You pull at his shirt frantically and clumsily, needing it gone. He lifts it off in one quick motion and tosses it somewhere over the back of the couch.

Then he’s back on you, his mouth on your throat, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, the way he bites down just enough to leave something behind.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout this,” he mutters, voice low and rasping against your collarbone.

Your head tilts back against the cushion, a breathless sound slipping from your lips. “Yeah?”

His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, fingers dragging slow against your skin.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout you. ‘Bout how fuckin’ soft you are… how loud you get when you’re tryin’ not to be.”

You whimper, hips tilting up toward his touch.

“Joel—”

He groans at the sound of his name, “Tell me you want this,” it’s a plea against your lips, and it tastes so sweet on his tongue. “Say it.”

“Yes… yes, I want this,” it’s said without hesitation.

“Good girl,” he groans and his mouth is on yours again. He peels your shirt up, knuckles grazing your sides and your ribs, dragging heat in their wake.

His praise lights something inside you, pooling between your legs like a puddle of pliant longing to hear those words again. You lift yourself to accommodate his ventures, And when your shirt comes off and he tosses it somewhere to the floor, he leans back just enough to look at you.

It’s not just lust in his eyes, not just anything. It’s something deeper, and it seemed like everything all at once. A kind of awe that makes your throat tighten.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice rough. His palm skims the curve of your waist, then up. You lift your arms without a word, and he reaches behind you, unhooking the clasp with one hand as if he’s done it a thousand times.

He kisses your shoulder, slow and warm, before sliding the strap fully down your arm and then the other.

But he’s not smug or cocky, just focused.

The fabric slips away, and you feel the air kiss your skin, chilled compared to the warmth of him.

His gaze sweeps over you, “You really are somethin’ else, darlin’.” He cups one breast in his hand, thumb brushing slowly over your nipple until it tightens under his touch.

“Been drivin’ myself fuckin’ crazy thinkin’ about you like this,” he murmurs just loudly enough for you to hear.

Your breath catches, head tipping back, “Joel…”

His mouth is on you before you even finish saying his name. He sucks at your lower lip softly, then flicks his tongue, groaning when your fingers tangle in his hair and your body arches into him.

“You’re killin’ me,” you whisper against his lips, voice ragged.

He lifts his head, beard scratchy against your skin, breath unsteady. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” his voice already sounded wrecked. “I’m just gettin’ started.”

He pushes your shorts down your hips, dragging the fabric slowly and deliberately, savoring every inch of skin revealed. You lift your hips to help, your breath shallow as your body arches into his touch as if it knows him.

He drops them somewhere to the floor, too. He sits back again, shaking his head in disbelief, “Fuckin’ look at ya..” his fingers trailing lightly over your legs.

But then your hands are on him, moving before you even realize. Sliding up his chest, over the hard lines of his shoulders and the worn muscle of his arms.

He’s solid beneath your touch. Too solid, too warm, and your fingers can’t get enough of him. Your eyes can’t get enough, drinking him in like you’re parched.

You let your fingers wander down the center of his chest, then cross his stomach… to the trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

He sucks in a breath when your hand brushes over his belt buckle, “Slow down, sweetheart,” he mutters, but his eyes are heavy, jaw tight.

“Why?”

You tilt your head, fingers playing at the edge of his jeans, “You said you’ve been thinking about it,” you whisper. “So have I.”

Your palm presses lower, fingers grazing the hardness straining against his zipper.

His breath stutters and his hips twitch.

“You’ve been thinkin’ about me?” he rasps, hand sliding up your thigh now, gripping tight.

You nod, lips brushing his jaw.

His mouth crashes into yours again, harder this time and his hands tug you closer, flush against him so there’s no space left between your bodies.

You push him back, gently, until he’s the one against the couch cushions. You climb into his lap, thighs straddling his, palms flat on his chest.

“Let me touch you,” it was your turn to plea. You wanted to taste him, you hadn’t stopped thinking about it and your mouth began watering again at the thought, “Said you’d been thinking about my mouth… I can put it to use.”

He nods like it’s costing him something not to pull you in and flip you under him right then and there.

But he leans back and lets you take.

Your hands move to his belt, undoing it with slow, teasing fingers undoing the button unhurriedly and then the zipper.

He obeys without a word as you hook your fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans, dragging them down and over his thick thighs. Joel leans forward to finish the job himself, pushing them the rest of the way off and kicking them aside, then pulls you right back into his lap like he can’t stand the distance.

His hips shift beneath you, cock straining hard against the fabric of his boxers, already leaking. The sight alone makes your breath catch and your heartbeat quicken. He twitches beneath your touch, needy and restless, and you feel another rush of heat flood between your legs.

You drag your hands across his stomach again, then down, palming him through the fabric, watching the way his head tips back and his eyes shut, chest rising faster.

“Fuck,” he groans. “That mouth and those hands, baby… you’re gonna ruin me.”

You grin, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your nails trace along the edge of his waistband.

“Maybe that’s the point,” you whisper and shift off his lap, settling down between his knees. Your bare knees against the worn fabric of the rug as you settle on the floor in front of him.

Joel watches you, his jaw tight and chest heaving, arms braced against the couch like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got.

You press a kiss to his stomach and then just above the waistband of his boxers.

Then lower… another kiss tracing the waistband of his boxers, then another.

You drag them down slowly, watching him all the while. He lifts just enough for you to slide his boxers off… His cock springing free from its confines.

His cock throbs with urgency, moving on its own. Thick and heavy and flushed dark, the head already slick with precum. It glistens in the low light and you’re mesmerized.

Your hands trail up the insides of his thighs, slow and soft, your eyes still transfixed.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Sweetheart…” His voice is wrecked, a warning and plea all at once. His hand reaches down, fingertips lifting your chin until you meet his gaze.

You glance up at him through your lashes, smiling devilishly. “You gonna stop me?”

He shakes his head, breath catching, “Not a fuckin’ chance, hun.”

Your hands wrap around him instinctively, stroking slow from base to tip.

Joel curses under his breath, his hips twitching slightly.

You meet his eyes, and then your lips part. You flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock, dragging it up— slow and deliberate.

His whole body jerks at the sensation, “Fuck me,” he mutters, one hand moving to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. Not meant to guide or force, just there to ground himself.

You take him into your mouth, inch by inch, letting him slide deeper until your lips wrap around him and your jaw stretches to attempt accommodating his girth alone...

He groans deeply from his chest, “That’s it. Jus’ like that.”

You pull back slowly, swirling your tongue over the head, letting your spit catch and glisten as your hand strokes the length of him that you can’t take.

He’s watching you intently, the motion of your hand, the way you’re flicking your tongue on the underside of the head of his cock with eyes half-lidded and lips parted. He’s completely undone and at your mercy.

You love the way he falls apart and you love knowing it’s because of you.

You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper again, relaxing your throat as you sink down, humming low in the back of your throat.

His hand tightens in your hair and his thighs flex.

“Goddamn,” he growls. “You were made for this, weren’t ya?”

You moan around him in response.

He bucks once, then tries to still. His breathing is ragged as he fights to control it.

But he’s close already and you can feel it, can sense the way his cock strains in your mouth and how his balls tighten.

“You keep goin’ like that,” he grits, “and this ain’t gonna last long.”

You pull off with a soft pop, stroking him slow, watching his face.

“Wanna taste you…”

The way his eyes burn when you plead so gently sends heat pooling low in your belly.

“Not this time,” he pants. “Wanna be inside you.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before his hands are on you again, pulling you up from the floor with ease.

“C’mere,” his voice is low and dangerous. “Ain’t done with you yet.”

One hand wraps around your wrist and the other braces your back as he guides you into his lap and into his arms, into his goddamn gravity.

You climb into his lap, expecting him to kiss you again, but instead, he flips you gently, laying you out along the length of the couch. His hands are everywhere, then tugging your thighs apart with a patience that feels anything but calm.

“You still got these on?” his fingers curl in the waistband of your underwear. He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and fiery. “That’s just cruel, baby.”

You smile softly at his teasing, but it falters as he presses a slow kiss over the damp cotton, right over your swollen clit... he pulls the fabric tight against your soaking heat.

Your back arches into him in damn near desperation to feel him.

“Joel—”

He groans like the sound of his name is a reward,“Needy thing, fuckin’ soaked f’me,” he hums. “Gotta taste you first darlin, get you ready.”

And then he’s pulling your underwear to the side. Not off, but just enough out of the way to ruin you through it.

His tongue finds you fast, pressing flat against your folds and stays there, dragging slow and thorough, up and down with practiced expertise until your thighs start to tremble.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he mutters against you.

He licks you like he’s making up for lost time, like he’d been dreaming about this.

Your fist grips the cushion, your other hand trying to gentle as your fingers find themselves in his hair… holding him to you. A strangled sound catching in your throat as his mouth works you over. His tongue flicking over your clit, circling it, then sucking hard just to hear the noises you make.

Your hips buck, but his hands anchor you against him.

“Easy, now,” his voice was muffled against your heat. “Let me take my time.”

He flattens his tongue again, moaning when you grind down on him, His whole face buried between your thighs, beard soaked, hands gripping your ass to hold you in place.

You’re so close already, and it’s almost embarrassing how fast he pulls you apart.

He wants it and you see it in his eyes as they find yours over the expanse of your body. He wants to see you fall apart for him.

“Joel, I—” Your voice breaks.

He slides one thick finger into you… slow and smooth, curling perfectly against the spot he’d discovered last week.

You practically wail.

“That’s it, baby. Jus’ like that,” between licking and sucking your clit, he purrs against you, his voice thick and gravelly as he feels your impending release, your pussy clamping down hard on his finger as he curls it just right in rhythm with his tongue. “Cum for me. Wanna feel you cum on my tongue.”

And you do.

The orgasm tears through you… sharp and sudden, flooding your whole body like a fuse finally sparking to a flame.

Your thighs clamp around his head, and he groans as he keeps licking and devouring, until your hips twitch and your breath hiccups and you’re whining from overstimulation.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl for me, hun…” he growls, dragging your soaked panties down your legs and tossing them somewhere with the rest of your clothes.

He kneels between your legs again, his palms sliding up your thighs and pushing them wide open with an authority that makes you ache.

You blink up at him, dazed and breathless.

“I… I thought…”

“You thought I was done?” he cuts in, that dark and amused glint in his eyes. “Baby,” he tsked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I said I was just gettin’ started.”

He leans forward and kisses your inner thigh, slow and soft…. then bites, just a little.

Enough to make your stomach clench and to leave a mark.

“I want you shakin’,” he murmurs, lips dragging up to your hip, “want you beggin’. Want you so fuckin’ sensitive you forget your own name before I even get inside you.”

Your breath catches again, “Joel…”

But he’s already lowering himself again, spreading you open with two thumbs. His mouth returns to you, slower and more purposeful this time. He sucks on your clit in firm, slow pulses while his fingers slide back inside, curling up to find that spot that makes your hips buck.

You cry out, your voice pitching high and raw.

“That’s it, baby,” his eyes flutter shut like your taste is the only thing keeping him grounded. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You squirm, half-trying to get away, half-trying to grind closer.

Your hands scramble for purchase… his hair, the cushion, anything. You’re unraveling faster than you can hold on.

“Can’t, Joel…”

“Yes y’can,” it was damn near a growl tearing through his through as he adds a second finger, fucking you with smooth, firm strokes while his tongue flicks over your clit just right. “Gimme another.”

Your body burns and tightens, then begins to break.

He knows exactly how to touch you, exactly how to devour you. And he doesn’t stop.

“Joel,” you sob, one hand in his hair, the other fisted in the couch, “I’m gonna… fuck, please—”

“Cum for me, baby…” it’s a rough command. It wasn’t a choice or an option, and you couldn’t fucking help it anyway.

And then it hits you harder than the first. Your thighs clamp and your hips lift, your whole body locks up like a live wire as you cry out and shatter.

Joel groans, deep and satisfied, like he just tasted something sacred. He doesn’t pull away until you’re twitching beneath him, until you’re gasping for breath and boneless on the couch.

He finally lifts his head, his face absolutely wrecked. Wet with your slick, glowing and proud.

“Yeah,” he pants, mouth dragging up your thigh, wiping off some the excess wetness from his face and smiling up at you. A dopey, satisfied grin you weren’t sure what to do with yet, “That’s what I fuckin’ needed.” He stays there for a moment, pressing gentle kisses to your thighs, your legs still twitching as he finally slides his fingers out.

You’re still catching your breath. Your chest heaving and your whole body humming from the aftershock.

Joel rises up between your thighs, eyes dark and heavy like you just ruined him in the best way.

But you’re not done yet, not even close.

You push up onto your elbows, blinking through the haze. Then reach for him, pulling him closer.

He lets you guide him back, his eyes never leaving yours as he sinks into the couch. His legs spread and chest rising with each heavy breath. You follow, crawling into his lap like it’s where you belong.

Your knees bracket his hips, heat pressed against heat, and you settle over him with purpose.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands flying to your thighs then gripping hard like he needs to anchor himself. “What’re you doin’, sweetheart?”

You lean in, your lips brushing his ear, your voice a hoarse whisper, “been thinkin’ about riding you, cowboy.”

Joel groans, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut like just the idea of you on top is too much.

“That what you’re callin’ me now?” his voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan as you reach between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock. It’s thick and flushed and so hard it looks like it hurts. You begin to stroke him slowly and deliberately.

He twitches in your hand, hips jerking up. His breath punches out of him in a growl.

“Jesus, baby…”

You guide him to your entrance, slick and pulsing and already aching for him. Then, with a slow roll of your hips, you begin to sink down.

Inch by inch… his cock stretching, burning, and filling you so beautifully.

His hands grip your hips tight as he groans, long and low, like he’s trying to breathe through how good you feel.

“Goddamn,” he presses his forehead to your chest, his teeth clenched. “You feel so fuckin’ good. So fuckin’ tight.”

His hands slide up, cupping your breasts. Rough palms against soft skin, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden beneath his touch.

As you lower onto him, his mouth latches onto your breasts, lips dragging across sensitive skin until he wraps them around your nipple. You gasp, your hips stuttering, the dual sensation making your body light up.

“Fuck, baby,” his voice breaking as you take him deeper. “That’s it. Take your time. Let me feel all of you.”

He groans against you, tongue flicking over the tight peaks while his hands steady your hips, guiding your slow descent. Your thighs tremble as you take him deeper, inch by inch, until you’re fully seated… completely full, stretched, and pulsing around him.

His mouth never leaves your breasts. He lavishes them like he needs it. Sucking and kissing, his tongue swirling wet and lazy. His other hand squeezes the other, his thumb circling and slightly pinching, just enough to make you feel it everywhere.

Your fingers twist in his hair, breath shaky as your hips grind once, slow and instinctual.

“Jesus,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. “Joel, so big..”

He lifts his head, his lips slick, eyes dark and dazed as he presses a kiss to your collarbone. “Doin’ so good… ‘s like you were fuckin’ made f’me, baby….”

Then he thrusts up once, hard and deep, and you whimper, nails biting into his shoulders.

You roll your hips, grinding down against him in smooth, steady waves that have him cursing under his breath.

Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours, lips parted, completely wrecked. “Fuck, darlin’… just like that,” he groans, hands gripping your waist again as you move.

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, your body brushing close, lips ghosting over his, just shy of a kiss.

He tilts his chin, breath catching, chasing your mouth like he can’t bear the distance. You give in and kiss him. As if everything in your body didn’t crave to be everything against his.

Your kiss was soft at first, nothing rushed. Just heat and want and ache. His lips are warm, familiar now, the kind of kiss that steals your breath and gives it right back.

He moans into it, one hand sliding up your back to cradle your neck, the other still holding your hip, guiding your pace as your hips roll against his, dragging him deeper each time.

You feel every inch of him. Every twitch. Every stuttered breath against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Feel so good, Joel.”

His grip tightens. He kisses you again… harder this time, like he needs to claim the words right off your tongue.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls against your mouth. “Look at you, darlin’… ridin’ me so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your pace picks up with more intent. You’re chasing something now, and he feels it.

His mouth moves over your jaw, down your neck, tongue flicking, teeth grazing and claiming.

Every thrust up into you meets your rhythm perfectly, and the friction builds, deliberate and dangerous.

The heat in your belly starts to tighten again. A third wave you didn’t quite expect to form so quickly again…

Your rhythm falters, just barely, but Joel feels it.

He knows.

“Yeah,” he breathes, mouth brushing your cheek. “You’re close again, ain’t’cha?”

You nod, shaky and overwhelmed, trying to keep moving and to stay in control, but it’s too much. He’s too much.

His hands slide up your back, grounding you. One cradles your neck, thumb stroking just behind your ear. The other stays at your waist, helping guide the grind of your hips even as your thighs start to tremble.

“You’re doin’ so good, hun. So fuckin’ good.”

His voice is soft now, coaxing you toward the edge. “Want you to let go. You can do that for me, can’t ’cha?”

You gasp as his cock hits deep, dragging against everything inside you just right.

“Yes, yes, Joel…oh my god.”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” his lips graze yours again. “Just feel it. Don’t think. Let me feel ya.”

He kisses you again, slow and deep and so full of feeling it makes your chest ache.

“You’re squeezin’ me so tight, baby….fuck, you gonna cum for me?”

You nod, frantic now, hands clinging to his shoulders, forehead pressed to his as the burn builds fast in your belly.

“Then cum, baby,” he growls as thrusts up into you once, twice, perfectly timed. “Cum for me….I wanna feel you fall apart again. Wanna feel you milk my cock…”

And then you do.

It hits you like a wave, sharp and all-consuming. Your body clamps down, shudders ripping through you as you cry out his name, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.

Joel groans, burying his face in your neck, arms wrapping tight around you as he slows the roll of your hips, guiding you through it, helping you ride it all the way down.

“Good girl,” he breathes, voice thick with awe. “So fuckin’ beautiful like this. That’s it. I got you.”

Your trembling body melts against him, your breath a mess against his skin.

But he doesn’t let go.

He just holds you, hips still shifting beneath you in slow, steady pulses.

“Y’alright?” His question was soft as he kisses your temple. “Still with me, baby?”

You nod against his neck, barely able to speak. “Yeah… yeah I’m good,” you said weakly, breathlessly, a half-laugh of disbelief. Your voice is wrecked.

He exhales a little laugh, warm against your skin. “Good.”

You lift your head, just enough to look at him.

His eyes are dark and blown wide, jaw tight, cheeks flushed. Still holding back for you.

You reach up, fingers curling at the back of his neck, and lean in—kiss him soft and slow, tasting your own breath on his tongue.

He sighs into it, like he needs the kiss to keep from falling apart. Like if you weren’t touching him, he’d come undone right there.

“You don’t have to keep holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “I want you.”

His breath stutters. Eyes locked on yours like he’s not sure he heard you right.

You shift your hips just slightly… tightening around him still buried deep. He groans, hands gripping your waist, fingers trembling now.

“You sure?” he rasps. “Baby, I don’t wanna hurt ya.”

“I know.” And then, steady, with heat in your eyes.. “I want all of it.”

Joel curses under his breath, it was something raw and quiet, and then his hands are moving, planting on your hips and guiding your rhythm again.

But there’s no teasing now, no slowness. He fucks up into you, meeting your grind with sharp, controlled thrusts that hit so deep. You feel him reach somewhere you weren’t really sure anyone was meant to. It was exhilarating, knowing how full of him you were… like you were overflowing.

You cry out, clinging to him, your body still sensitive and overstimulated, but he knows how to work you through it.

His grip tight on your hips, pushing your body down to match his thrusts. It’s sharp and intense, filling you, splitting you open on his cock. You felt molten, pliable… his grip shifting up to your breasts, grasping them harshly as he bows his head, lips and teeth scraping your collarbone.

“Look at ya,” he breathes, eyes raking over your face, your chest, the way you’re falling apart in his lap. “Ridin’ me like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

Your head falls back as he thrusts again, hard and perfect, your body jolting in his hands. You rock your hips to match his pace, thighs trembling as he splits you open continuously. The burn, the stretch so euphoric. It’s harsh, unrelenting, and so fucking beautiful.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, darlin’.”

And you knew he’d be the death of you too.

His pace quickens, movements losing rhythm now. His hips driving up in stuttering bursts as he chases his high.

You feel it when he’s close, the way his grip tightens, and the way his voice goes wrecked and quiet.

“Where you want it?” he pants. “Tell me where to cum.”

You meet his eyes, breathless, half-lost.

“Inside. Please.”

That’s all it takes. “Fuck, darlin’… perfect fuckin’ pussy made for my cock.”

With a guttural groan, Joel slams up into you one final time, and then he’s cumming, spilling inside you with a low, broken curse, his whole body tensing under yours.

You feel every pulse of it. Every drop. Coming in hot spurts, painting your insides, and starting to spill out around him as his thrusts slow… once, twice… then stills.

He holds you tight through it, face buried in your chest, breath coming hard and hot across your skin.

Neither of you speak for a long moment, the only thing external you hear is the sound of the record turning.

Just the echo of bodies spent and the feel of sweat-slicked bodies melted together. The aftershocks of something that was never supposed to happen this way, but just did.

He’s still inside you when the silence comes and it’s not the peaceful kind… nor the one that settles in after satisfaction. This one is heavy and lingering… too full of things neither of you are ready to say or even admit to thinking.

His hands soften on your waist, thumbs tracing lazy, unconscious circles against your skin like he can’t help it. Like some part of him still needs to touch you, even now…. especially now.

And your chest is tight… Because it shouldn’t feel like this.

It shouldn’t feel like safety, and it should feel like you could fall asleep with his arms around you and actually rest.

Like he could keep the world out just by being there. You weren’t supposed to want that.

Not from him. A man you barely even knew. Who’s name you’d only ever said in moments of heat… on a gasp, a moan, a breathless dare.

And maybe you didn’t, maybe it was just a momentarily feeling as his cock softens inside you, yet he makes no attempt to move yet.

You swallow hard, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, but you don’t move. You can’t.

You can feel the way his heartbeat is slowing beneath your palms, the way his breath has evened out. He hasn’t said a word, but neither have you.

Because if you speak, the moment will break.

And you don’t want it to.

God, you don’t want it to. And yet… you can already feel it slipping. It’s not the sex that scares you. It’s the tenderness. The way he kisses your shoulder like it means something.

You weren’t a casual person, this was just new. This would just be an adjustment, that’s all. You could do this, him. And you could stop any time… yeah, this was fine. This was casual.

Didn't mean you couldn’t enjoy it while it lasted, and you surely intended to do just that.

Eventually, he shifts beneath you, his hands tightening just slightly at your hips again.

“Think I should probably…” he trails off, his voice rasped and sleep-warm, “y’know… move.”

You hum, lazy against his chest, even as your body pulses around the dull, aching stretch of him soft inside you.

“You move and I’ll cry,” it was a lazy, dramatic complaint as you rested your head on his shoulder.

You feel a gentle chuckle beneath you, the sound soft against your temple. “Ain’t tryin’ to hurt you, darlin’. Just… can’t exactly stay like this.”

You sigh, lifting your head. “Okay. But you better be gentle about it.”

“‘Course I will, darlin’,”and it sounds like a promise. His hands trace slow down your back as he eases you off his lap carefully, so carefully, until he slips out of you with a warmth that leaves you empty and aching.

You wince a little and Joel catches it immediately.

“Easy, hun,” he mutters, standing briefly, then disappearing for a spell and returning with a towel from the nearby bathroom linen closet.

He presses it gently between your legs, the softest pressure, cleaning you up with slow, soothing care. Not rushed or impersonal, just quiet reverence in every pass.

“There y’go,” it was a quiet, gentle comfort.

You watch him as he moves. Naked, sweat-kissed, hair a mess. His face is softer now… unarmored.

“You’re good at this,” you say, half-teasing and far too fond… but your sleep-rough voice and half-asleep brain couldn’t really filter before you could adjust your tone.

He smirks, that lop-sided grin that made warmth spread through your entire body. Not the same flood of heat from arousal… a warmth of comfort.

“You make it easy.” He says it like you’re not practically strangers still.

You laugh breathily, and lean back into the couch cushions. “So what now? You toss me my underwear and kick me out?”

Joel’s brow lifts, and in one smooth motion, he stands…. and then bends, hauling you up and over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“Joel!” you yelp, squirming, but his grip is solid.

“Settle,” he grunts, swatting your ass so you’d stop squirming. It works, to be fair. “Ain’t lettin’ you drive home lookin’ like you just got wrecked six ways from Sunday.”

You bury your face in your hands from behind his back, biting back the warmth spreading through your chest.

“You’re such an old man,” you mutter, even as you let yourself melt into him.

The tease about his age doesn’t faze him for a second, “Damn right,” he brings you down into his arms and presses a kiss to the side of your head as he carries you down the hall. “And you’re stayin’ the night. No arguments. Couch’ll break your back.”

“I wasn’t gonna argue,” you murmur against his skin. “I kinda like bossy.”

You look up at him he just huffs in response, kicking the bedroom door open with his foot. “Yeah, I noticed, hun.”

The sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, the mattress dipping as he climbs in beside you.

You let yourself be held. Just for now.

Just for tonight.

Because this was casual.

…Right?

He turns to you, lookin’ like he’s got a burning question on his mind.

You blink at him, already half-melted into the sheets, but the intensity in his eyes tugs you back to focus.

“What?” you ask softly.

He scratches the back of his neck, like he’s debating if it’s worth bringing up, but he really doesn’t do subtle when something’s on his mind.

“Just…” he shifts slightly.. “You let me cum inside you… Twice now.”

You feel heat crawl up your spine, but he’s not judging. His tone is quiet and gentle. Not demanding anything, just… offering.

“Figured I should be responsible,” he runs his fingers through his hair as you’ve found he does when he’s contemplating something… “in case you, I dunno… need anything. After.”

You watch him, heart doing something weird in your chest. “I’m on the pill,” you reassure him. “Been on it for years. Don’t worry.”

His shoulders relax a little. He nods. “Not that I’m complainin’… just wanted to make sure… y’know…”

“Don’t worry,” you say again, stopping him before he continues anything. Your throat goes tight for a second, not because you’re upset, but because you didn’t expect it. That softness, that responsibility. That care… from someone who’s still a stranger, really.

“I appreciate it, really. I’m not impulsive with potential consequences like that…” you weren’t sure why you put it like that, per se. Maybe because of how off guard the care made you feel, you wanted to make sure he knew it wasn’t ill-placed… that you cared too, in a way. In a way of not putting a near-stranger in such an awkward position of dealing with that.

“I believe ya, darlin’.” He nods again, like that settles it. Then his arm slides around your waist and pulls you closer until your head finds the space beneath his chin and your body folds naturally into his side.

“You gonna tuck me in too, cowboy?” your eyes gleam despite the sleep creeping into your voice.

He gives you that look. Half amusement, half don’t test me.

“Don’t tempt me,” he pulls the blanket up over you with one hand and brushes a hair from your cheek with the other. “You start actin’ like you wanna be babied and I’ll throw you in a bubble bath with a fuckin’ bedtime story next.”

You giggle at that. “Sounds kinda nice, actually. Depends on the story.”

“I only know the dirty ones nowadays.”

“Perfect,” you grin. “Real educational.”

He chuckles, shaking his head gently.

“You talk too much,” but he’s already pulling you closer to him.

You nuzzle into him without a fight, letting the warmth of his body soak into your bones.

“You know you like it,” you whisper into his neck.

“I know,” A soft breath at your temple. The slow exhale of someone preparing to sleep.

“Y’know, didn’t expect you to be so cuddly.”

“‘S just practical,” he mumbles, voice heavy with sleep. “You run cold. I run hot. It’s thermodynamics or some shit.”

“Oh, are we quoting science now?” You almost didn’t want to sleep… didn’t want this night to end.

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

And well… who were you to argue with him, really.

And then silence, heavy and warm like it’s been waiting for you.

Just the slow drag of fingertips over your spine and the brush of lips against your forehead.

Then stillness.

══════════════════════

You wake to the smell of bacon.

Not just that, though—coffee. Something toasty. Buttery. Something warm and intentional.

The sunlight’s stronger now, painting the room in hazy gold. You’re alone in the bed, the sheets still warm beside you, his imprint faint but there.

For a second, you don’t move.

Just listen.

Pans clinking. A drawer opening. The low scrape of a chair.

Joel.

You blink slowly, pushing up on your elbows, and that’s when you see it.

At the corner of the bed, neatly folded, like it had been left there on purpose: a flannel. Worn soft, threadbare at the cuffs. Smells like cedar and something warm. Him.

Your clothes folded neatly next to them.

You slip on your shorts and tshirt, the chill of the A/C causing goosebumps to rise on your skin.

You slip it on.

Bare legs, bare feet, his shirt swallowing your frame as you step into the hallway and follow the scent.

You step into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, the flannel hanging loose on your shoulders.

Joel looks up from the stove, does a slow once-over that lands somewhere between subtle and blatant appreciation, then smirks.

“Mornin’. Coffee’s there. Bacon’s almost done.”

You blink at him, half-stunned. “You… made breakfast?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, flipping a strip of bacon with practiced ease.

“‘Course I did. Can’t have you starvin’ after all that strenuous activity.”

You snort. “Strenuous, huh?”

“Sugar, I should be charging you a gym fee.”

You nearly choke on your laugh, crossing your arms beneath the oversized flannel.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Just hospitable,” he says, pouring eggs into a skillet like he hasn’t been up early making you breakfast while trying not to stare at your bare legs. “It’s how I was raised.”

You glance at the already-poured coffee, the second mug beside his. The plate warming in the oven.

“Southern hospitality, huh?”

“That’s right.” He grins, not looking up. “You stay the night, you get fed. You want seconds, you get fed again.”

You tilt your head. “That a promise?”

He gives you a long, slow look over his shoulder.

“Darlin’, that’s a guarantee.”

You shake your head to yourself, taking a mug he had set out on the counter and pouring yourself a cup.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You take a sip—black, strong, exactly how you like it. Of course it is.

He plates up two servings, slides one in front of you like it’s just part of the morning routine. Like this isn’t the first time and like he wants it to not be the last.

You slide into the seat at the counter, watching as he settles in across from you, his bare arms on the table, still wearing that damn smirk like he knows exactly how good this all looks on him.

The eggs are fluffy and the bacon’s pretty much perfect.

You try not to moan when you take a bite, but he catches the look on your face anyway.

“Told you,” he says, popping a piece of toast into his mouth. “Southern hospitality.”

You roll your eyes. “You tryna impress me?”

He shrugs. “Not tryin’. Just succeeding.”

You take another sip of coffee, trying not to smile. But you’re already thinking about the time.

It’s creeping up.

Reality.

You glance at the clock above the stove.

“I should probably head out in a bit. Got a shift at one.”

Joel nods like he expected that, like maybe he’d hoped for more time but won’t say it.

“‘Course,” he says easily, picking up a piece of bacon. “Plenty of time to finish breakfast, though. I’m not lettin’ you leave on an empty stomach.”

You smile into your coffee cup, grateful he doesn’t ask for more than you can give.

The kitchen settles into a comfortable hum. The scrape of forks and the occasional clink of your mug. The low thrum of morning light and something dangerously close to domesticity.

It’d be too easy to stay.

Too easy to let this stretch longer.

You’re already too comfortable in his flannel, already memorizing the way his thumb rests on the lip of his coffee mug, the way he leans back when he’s full.

You clear your throat, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “Thanks… for all this. I didn’t mean to throw off your whole morning.”

He waves you off, like it’s nothing.

“Didn’t throw nothin’. You’re hungry, I fed you. That’s just how I do things.”

“Right,” you say, teasing, but soft.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, watching you over the rim of his mug.

“You’re welcome anytime,” he says simply.

No smile. No suggestion. Just fact.

You blink once, then push back from the counter with a slow stretch. “Alright, cowboy. If I don’t leave now, I’ll end up takin’ you up on that second round, a nap in your bed and missin’ my whole damn shift.”

He chuckles at that, you see the flash in his eyes as he considers what you said. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll call in for you.”

“Bet you would,” you get up from the table, taking your plate and rinsing it off in the sink. You slip past him, fingers brushing the edge of the counter.

He doesn’t stop you, just tracks your movement with those soft, heavy-lidded eyes like he’s cataloging everything.

You disappear down the hallway and return a few minutes later your hair gathered loosely, his flannel folded in your hands, your phone— somehow now charged and your bag in the other.

He looks up from rinsing a plate in the sink, and you hold the shirt out toward him.

“I figured I should give this back since I’ve already got one I forgot to bring back.”

He glances at it, then at you.

“Nah. Keep it.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. “Part of the hospitality package?” You slip it back on your arms, the soft fabric swallowing you with his scent.

“Somethin’ like that.”

At the door, you pause, hand on the knob, feeling the weight of it. The warmth. The not quite casualness of it all.

“See you around?”

His brow lifts, like the answer should be obvious.

“I’d like that.”

You should turn the handle. You should walk out.

But instead, you glance back at him. He’s still leaning in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on you like he’s already memorized the way you look in his flannel.

You take two steps forward. He meets you halfway.

You kiss him.

He hums against your mouth, hands finding your hips. But he doesn’t pull you in, doesn’t deepen it. Just holds you there, like he doesn’t want to spook you.

When you finally pull back, there’s something quiet in his eyes. Something unspoken.

You don’t ask.

You just offer the smallest smile. “Thanks for the good night’s sleep and breakfast, cowboy.”

His eyes soften, shaking his head softly at the nickname, he lets you go with a squeeze to your waist and an, “Anytime.”

And you knew he meant that. A terrible temptation to leave hanging open in the air.

And then you’re out the door, and god, were you in trouble.

══════════════════════. ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦. ⁺ . ══════════════════════

DONT LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT! See, I finished this at 5am after getting so far behind my own schedule… turns out my little cousins graduating from high school is not something I can be casual about either, but don’t worry, I’ll write about it.

[forthelorewick]

More long chapters comin 😉

Hi, is there a specific day you post the chapters?

There’s not! Not yet at least, I might have to as my chapters stock up. I’ll try to put an estimated time of release for the next chapter on the story’s masterlist!

[forthelorewick]

Ma'am I just wanted to say that chapter 2 of all the wrong ways to know you is a freakin masterpiece! Loved it ♥️ Cant wait for more!

Thank you 😭😭 means the world to me! So glad you’re enjoying it <3