pairing: soft!joel x f!reader
wc: 11k
summary: thirty-nine hours without joel feels like forever... luckily, he might just know exactly how to make it up to you♡
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, no outbreak, age gap (reader age not explicitly stated but is significantly younger than joel), abandontmend anxiety, emotional dependency, needy reader, slight daddy issues kink, size difference, spitting, little bit o cryinn, heavy praise kink, dirty talk, protective!joel, unprotected piv sex, fingering, creampieeee
a/n: i loooved looved writing this!! i love soft!joel so much it hurts</3
i have so much free time now that i'm done with classes so please if you have any requests, mine are open(;
now playing... needy - ariana grande
It’s been thirty-seven hours, twenty-four minutes and fifteen seconds since you last heard from Joel.
Not a call. Not a text. Not a single damn thing.
He usually doesn’t do this. Not to you.
Joel was always extra considerate when it came to you. If he couldn’t make it over, he’d always let you know. A quick call, his voice low and distracted, telling you he’d been caught up at work.
“Can’t swing by today, baby girl. Tomorrow.” Or “Busy as hell today. Call you tonight.”
Just enough to keep you from spiraling.
You hated the days when you didn’t get to see him. You always did. But at least he never let you sit around waiting. Never let a whole day pass without reminding you that you were still on his mind.
Lately though, he’s been… distant.
In the past month you’ve only seen him three times. And one of those barely counted — he just came by to grab the tool belt he’d left on your kitchen table and barely stayed ten minutes. That’s it. Three measly visits when you used to get him at least three times a week, sometimes even twice on the weekends.
Now you’re counting hours.
You were already missing your movie nights – where you’d force him to sit through some awful chick flick you loved, only for him to grumble the whole time before you both ended up dozing off halfway through, your legs draped over his lap. Or the nights he’d pick something scary with too much blood on purpose to watch you squirm, your face eventually burying itself in his chest, his big hand rubbing slow circles on your back while he pretended not to laugh at how tightly you clung to him.
You missed the lazy mornings when he’d take you out to your favorite diner for breakfast. He always ordered the same thing – eggs over easy, bacon crispy, hash browns – and still let you steal bites off his plate like you didn’t have your own. Afterward he’d take you for ice cream, even if it was barely ten in the morning, and you’d end up eating half his cone and yours while he shook his head and wiped the mess of it off your chin with his thumb.
Or the late nights when you were fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, shouting his name from across the hall to come to you. You’d sit on the floor in front of the bed in between his legs, hand him a brush, and beg him to braid it—two pigtails, every time—because he always said you looked pretty like that. His thick fingers were clumsy with the strands, and the braids usually came out a little crooked and uneven, too tight in some places, too loose in others, but you loved them anyway. You loved them because he did them – because for those few minutes he was only focused on you, jaw tight in concentration while muttering under his breath about how damn stubborn your hair was.
And most of the time? He didn’t even fuck you.
No matter how much you begged.
He’d look down at you with your head in his lap, your bottom lip pink and puckered and begging, his head tilted to the side and ask, “You ain’t sore?”
And that’s the thing—you usually were.
He was big. Almost too big, to the point where the first few times were almost too much for you, and even after that, it never really got easier. Your body never fully got used to it. He tried to be careful; he did— he was—but the two of you always got so wrapped up in each other that it didn’t always end that way. And you’d feel it the next day, and the day after.
But you never complained, not once, but he could always tell anyway – the limp in your walk the next morning, or the way your legs would shake after he pulled out.
You’d tuck your lip back in and shake your head, the back of your head brushing back and forth against the zipper of his jeans. “You haven’t touched me since last week.”
He’d laugh, shake his head, and squeeze the hand resting on your thigh, his thumb pressing into the inside of it. “I’m touchin’ you now, ain’t I?”
But that’s not what you meant, and he knew it.
A part of you—no, most of you—was sure he felt guilty every time he fucked you. That’s why he tried to keep it so infrequent, like he thought wanting you made him a worse man.
You were over half his age, and even though you never cared, he did.
He never said it outright, but you could see the way it ate at him sometimes — the way his eyes would travel over you once the need had passed, taking in your swollen mouth, your bare thighs, the marks his hands would leave behind. His face would change then.
Not regret exactly. He never made you feel unwanted. It was worse than that. It was guilt, heavy and stubborn, sitting behind his eyes while he pulled your shirt back down, kissed your forehead, and held you close as if he were trying to make up for wanting you in the first place.
It bothered him. You knew it did.
But not you. If anything, the age between you made the ache worse.
There was something about being wanted by him, chosen by him, cared for by him, that dug into you in places nobody else ever reached.
Maybe because the first man who was supposed to stay had made leaving look easy, and Joel did the opposite.
You’re trying to not be pathetic about it—you really are—but the silence is loud.
It fills up the room, presses in on you the longer it goes on. And every minute that passes makes it worse – that low, restless ache that won’t leave you alone. The kind that has your checking your phone every minute, replaying the last time you saw him, picking it apart for any sign of distance you might have missed.
Anything that would explain this.
Maybe he got caught up at a sight, too busy to check his phone. Or maybe he dropped it in the sink, ruined it, hasn’t had a second to replace it.
Or maybe that’s not it at all.
Maybe he met someone. Someone his age. Someone easier to be around. Someone who doesn’t sit around counting hours, who doesn’t need to hear from him every day just to feel okay.
Maybe you pushed too far. Wanted too much. Let it show in ways he just couldn’t ignore anymore.
For him. For his voice, his hands, his attention. For the way he looks at you like he just wants to take care of you even when he knows he shouldn’t…
So you try to take your mind off it. You tell yourself you’re not going to sit around waiting,
You get up and start moving, needing something to do with your hands, with your body, with all of it. The place is already clean, but that doesn’t stop you. You wipe down the counters again, rearrange things that don’t need rearranging, pick up a shirt from the back of the chair just to fold it and put it right back where it was.
Your phone stays within reach the whole time.
You check it anyway, but still nothing.
You try not to let it get to you. Try to act normal, like this isn’t eating at you the way it is. Like you’re not counting every second that passes without his name lighting up your screen.
You end up in the shower longer than you need to be, standing under the spray, letting the water run over you while your mind drifts right back to him. The last time he had you in here, his hand braced against the tile, his voice low in your ear telling you to stay still—
You shut the thought down, pressing your forehead against that same tile for a second before you turn the water off.
Afterward, you sit on the edge of your bed like Joel would, hair still a little damp, and braid it into two pigtails the way Joel always did them. Your fingers aren’t nearly as big or clumsy as his, so they come out neater than his do, but you still pull the strands the same way he does, trying to chase the memory of the way his hands moved in your hair, of the way he tugged and pulled on them.
You pace the living room in nothing but the thin tank top and the soft pink cotton panties he bought you a couple months back — the ones you only wear when you need to feel him on you somehow. One hand keeps twisting the end of a pigtail around your finger while the other scrolls through every text you’ve sent him in the last day and a half.
All delivered. All unanswered.
You stare at them, thumb hovering over the screen, fighting the urge to delete half of them, to take them back somehow.
So you just sit there, rereading them over and over, trying to figure out where it went wrong.
You check the time again. Thirty-nine hours now. The throb in your chest keeps growing, pressing harder with every lap around the room.
Finally you grab your phone again and hit his name one last time before you force yourself to go to bed.
Straight to voicemail like all the others.
You decide to wait for the beep this time. Maybe if he hears your voice—
The beep interrupts your thought.
You clear your throat and loop another strand of hair around your finger.
“Joel...?” you hum. “Is everything okay?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, though you’re not sure why; you just can’t bring yourself to make it go any higher. “You haven’t answered any of my texts or calls and I’m—” Your voice cracks on the last word, but you clear it again and keep going.
“I’m just startin’ to get a little worried. I know you’re probably just busy with more important things,” you add quickly. “Or at work or... whatever. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I just—”
You loop another strand around your finger.
“I haven’t heard from you and it’s just... I miss you.” You sniffle a little through your nose, not because you're crying, though you feel like it. “That’s all... and I just don’t know what to do. I feel like—”
The voicemail beep cuts you off mid-sentence.
You drop the phone from your ear and just stare at it for a long second, heart hammering. You hadn’t even finished your thought – the one about how empty you feel without him here, how you don’t know what you’d do if this is really it.
You sit there for a while after the call ends, phone still in your hand, staring at the screen like it might light up if you wait long enough. Your thumb hovers over his name again, tempted to call back, to finish what you were trying to say. You think about texting instead, something simple, something a little more casual. You type out a few words and stare at them, but you delete them just as quickly. Nothing feels right. Nothing sounds like you’re not asking for too much.
Hate how this sits in your chest, refusing to go away no matter how many times you tell yourself to calm down or that you’ll be alright.
You press your lips together, exhale through your nose, and force yourself to set the phone down. You’ve done enough. More than enough. If he wanted to answer, he would have by now.
There’s nothing else you can do.
That thought doesn’t bring you any comfort, but it’s the only one that sticks.
Eventually, you drag yourself into your room and crawl into bed, still in your tank top and pink panties, your braids falling over your shoulders as you tug the covers to your chin. You turn onto your side, facing away from the door, one hand tucked under your pillow, the other resting loosely in front of you.
You toss and turn for a while, secretly hoping you’ll hear that familiar ring and find Joel on the other end of it. But it never comes, and eventually your body gets tired of waiting, sleep pulling you under despite your mind wanting something else entirely
Your phone is face down on the nightstand, silenced. You don’t hear the first call come through. Or the second.
Joel hears your voicemail while he’s driving home from a late job. The crack in your voice hits him square in the chest, especially the way you cut off “I feel like—” He plays it again. Then once more. The unfinished sentence loops in his head the whole drive, making his grip tighten on the steering wheel.
He calls you back immediately. Once. Twice. Nothing.
That silence is what does it.
It’s a little after one in the morning when his truck pulls up outside your building.
When he makes it to your door, he knocks a little harder than he means to, three sharp taps against it.
“Baby girl?” His voice barely carries through the wood, thick with worry. “Open the door.”
You don’t stir right away. You’re fast asleep when you think you hear a knock.
“C’mon,” his voice follows. “Open up.”
Your eyes stay shut as sleep keeps you under.
He waits maybe ten seconds, then pulls out his key – the one you gave him months ago. He fits it into the lock, already turning it, but it doesn’t catch.
The doors already unlocked.
A flicker of unease and something else hits him hard. Not relief—far from it—if anything, it puts him more on edge, his grip tightening just slightly before he pushes the door open and lets himself in as quietly as a man his size can manage.
The apartment is dark except for the faint glow from your bedroom. He locks the door behind him and heads straight to you.
When he makes it to your room, all he can do is stare, just taking you in—curled up small under the blankets in nothing but your tank top and underwear he bought you—he frowns a little at that. The pigtails you did yourself are a little crooked now, one strand loose across the back of your neck. Your phone still sits on the nightstand, screen still half lit with his missed calls. The whole scene – the way you clearly spent your entire night wrapped up in thoughts of him—wrecks something deep in his chest.
He swallows hard and steps just inside the doorframe.
“Hey...” His voice comes out a little rough and low, gentler than the knocking. “You awake, baby?”
Your lashes flutter, but your eyes barely open. Your mind is too far behind, still caught somewhere between sleep and everything you’d been thinking about before you drifted off. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like your brain filling in the silence, giving you what it’s been stuck on for days just so you can finally rest.
The bed dips as Joel finds his way to the edge. His hand settles on your blanket-covered hip as he gives it a gentle squeeze. “Wanna talk to you, c’mon.”
His touch sends your eyes fluttering all the way open as everything comes into focus. He’s really here. Your eyes open wider as you turn on your side toward him, blinking hard, still half-lost in a sleepy haze. “Joel…?”
“There she is,” he whispers. He reaches out and brushes one of your messy pigtails behind your shoulder, his fingers lingering on your neck for a second.
You blink up at him for a while; the sight of him sitting there starts to flood you with so much relief you almost launch yourself at him. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face there. But you stay put, tucked tightly under the covers. You’re happy to see him, but still a little upset. Still hurt from all those days of silence. You want answers first.
He watches you closely. Sees the hesitation in your face, the way your thoughts are racing behind your sleepy eyes. His hand stays on your neck, his thumb stroking slow lines across it.
“You scared me half to death with that voicemail,” he sighs. “Heard you cut off and couldn’t get you back on the phone.”
Your face falls a little. “I didn’t mean to,” you mumble, your voice still sleepy and small.
“I know, baby,” he nods, his thumb moving under your jaw, eyes still fixed on you. “I know you didn’t.”
And for a second, he just looks at you, his jaw working, worry still written all over his face. Then his eyes drift toward the hallway, toward the front door of your apartment.
“And you left your door unlocked,” he says, firmer now. “You can’t do that. Not when you’re here by yourself. Not ever.”
You rub at your eyes with the heel of your hand, guilt curling in your stomach.
“M’sorry,” you hum. “I was just waiting on you…”
Joel’s face drops at that, the firmness in his voice cracking the second he hears that sleepy little confession. His hand stays at your neck, thumb caught against your skin, but his shoulders drop as his eyes move across your face.
He shakes his head, dropping it a little.
“No,” he sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice thick with guilt. “This week got away from me. Had a bunch of jobs stacked up one after the other, days runnin’ into nights,” he shakes his head a little. “I know it ain’t an excuse. Shoulda made time.”
You watch him for a second before you sit up, your back hitting the headboard. The covers fall a little in the process, revealing the tops of your panties and thighs.
You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on the loose skin there. “It’s just… you could have texted,” you say finally, voice still sleepy. “Or called? Just to say you were busy… I was worried.” Your fingers twist together in your lap, fidgeting.
His eyes drop to your twiddling fingers in your lap, and he reaches forward in response, gently catching both of your hands in one of his, stilling them. His palm is warm and rough—just what you’ve been shamelessly missing.
“I know,” he says, voice low. “Works just been busy, baby. Long days on sites, back to back. Barely even had a second to sit down. By the time I got home, I was wiped. I didn’t wanna wake you callin’ so late.”
The weight of everything that’s been pressing down on you these past few days suddenly feels much lighter – so much lighter you swear you can feel it leaving your body.
Because it was all in your head. He didn’t forget about you. He wasn’t pulling away because he got tired of how much you needed him. He didn’t meet someone else who was easier, quieter, less… you.
The ugly thoughts that had been gnawing at you for almost two full days start to loosen their grip, but they don’t disappear completely. Your brain is still trying to catch up from the thought of being abandoned. Your chest feels lighter, but the ache is still there.
You stay quiet, staring down at your hands in his.
He scoots a little closer on the bed, his thigh pressing against yours now, and squeezes your hands a little tighter in his.
“I know that ain’t good enough,” he says, voice low. “Should’ve checked in anyway. I’m sorry.”
You look up at him through your lashes, bottom lip poked out a little, searching his face.
He looks genuinely sorry. Sorry that he made you feel abandoned. Sorry that he made you feel like you were so much that he had to pull away. And he looks so tired. Tired in a way that makes your chest hurt. Eyes heavy, little dark circles under his eyes, shoulders carrying more than just a day’s work.
Hate that you’re the reason he looks like this right now, even if a part of you still feels a little raw from the silence.
“I hate seein’ you like this,” you mumble.
You reach up with your free hand and brush away the gray strand that’s fallen in his face. “You look like you haven’t slept at all.”
He lets out a sigh, his thumb brushing against your wrist. “Long week, baby girl. Ain’t your fault.”
“I know,” you say, but it comes out a little wobbly. “But it feels like it is.”
You glance down at your hand still caught in his, fingers fidgeting. “You’ve been running yourself ragged with work... and then I go and dump all this on you.
You bite the inside of your cheek, still feeling a little embarrassed, but you keep going.
“I just hate needing you this bad. It makes me feel so pathetic,” you add. “I tried to keep busy – cleaned stuff that didn’t need it, braided my hair the way you like, put on the clothes you got me just to feel a little bit of you... nothin’ worked.”
Joel keeps your hand firmly in his, thumb stroking slow circles over your wrist, his other hand comes up to gently cup the side of your face, tilting your chin so you meet his eyes.
“Darlin’... listen to me,” he pleads. “You ain’t pathetic. Not even a little. I love how much you miss me. Makes me feel wanted in a way I ain’t felt in a long damn time. Hell, it makes me feel good knowin’ you’re sittin’ here thinkin’ about me when I’m gone.”
He leans in and presses a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to sit in that all alone. Should’ve checked in. S’on me.”
You feel the knot in your chest loosen a little more. Not all the way – the ache is still there, raw and nagging – but it loosens enough that you can breathe again. You smile and lean in, whispering that you forgive him, already leaning into his touch.
After a second, his hand slides from your cheek and into your hair, his fingers tugging gently at the ends of one of your messy pigtails.
“These look a lot better than the crooked ones I usually do.”
You huff out a small, embarrassed laugh and reach up to grab the other pigtail, giving it a little shake. “Yeah... they’re okay, I guess. But it’s not the same when I do ‘em.”
He lets out a chuckle, still toying with the end of one braid. “I think they look fine. Real pretty.”
You hum softly, eyes dropping as you keep fiddling with the end of the pigtail between your fingers. A small stretch of silence passes, the strands twisting slowly in your hand. Joel shifts a little, like he’s about to speak, probably to tell you it’s getting late and you both should sleep, when you finally look back up at him.
“Will you fix ‘em for me?”
He laughs a little at that. He shakes his head and lets go of the braid. “Those look just fine,” he says, a hint of sleep in his voice. “Ain’t like you’re goin’ anywhere but to sleep.”
You tilt your head, blinking up at him through your lashes, your fingers still occupied. “I know...” you say softly, almost like you’re agreeing with him. “I just... like it better when you do it.”
He stares at you for a second, eyes narrow and slightly curved at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying to decide if you’re just being cute or if you actually mean it.
You try again, raising your voice an octave. “Please?”
There’s a small pause, but it’s not long. He exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his scruff as he shakes his head.
“You ever hear the word ‘no’?”
You shake your head, your lips twitching into a small smile.
He shakes his head again. “Right. ‘Course you ain’t.’
He huffs something close to a laugh, his head tipping back for a second like he’s already given up the fight.
“Alright then,” he says, more to himself than you.
His hand comes down, giving your thigh a light pat, just enough to get your attention. He tips his chin toward the end of the bed.
“C’mon,” he adds, eyes flicking back to yours. “On the floor.”
You press your lips together, fighting back a smile, cheeks warming at the way he gives in.
You push the covers off you the rest of the way and lean forward onto your hands, crawling toward him. Halfway there, you pause just long enough to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“You’re the best,” you murmur against his cheek.
He leans into it, a low hum leaving him, his mouth tugging at the corner like he’s trying not to smile too much.
You don’t wait around after that. You keep moving, crawling the rest of the way to the end of the bed while he gets up and steps around to sit behind you. By the time you slide off the mattress, your braids are brushing your shoulders, swaying with the movement as you drop down and sit back on your legs.
He comes back down behind you, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed with a groan, hands bracing on either side of him for a second.
You scoot back into him, fitting yourself right between his knees.
His hands find your hair right away, gathering the ends of your pigtails, undoing them one at a time, fingers working through the strands as he pulls them apart.
“Don’t know why you like this so much,” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You laugh a little at that, tipping your head back an inch to look at him. “I like anything you do.”
That earns a quiet chuckle from him as he keeps going, his fingers dragging through your hair again as he works through a small knot.
His fingers catch on it for a second, sending your head back a little with an accidental tug.
“Sorry, darlin’,” he mutters, his hand smoothing over that same spot.
There’s a gentleness to it that doesn’t match how big his hands are—how big he is—the way he takes his time working through your hair, careful even with the simplest of tasks.
He parts it down the middle, a little off the first time, then fixes it with his thumb before starting in on one side. His fingers work through the strands, crossing them over each other in a way thats not quite even—still too tight in one section, looser in the next. He finishes it off with a small tug, then moves to the other, working through it the same way before tossing them over your shoulders.
You reach up right away, catching the ends of them in your fingers, twirling each one absentmindedly as you glance down at them. A small smile pulls at your mouth before you turn on your knees toward him.
Your eyes flick up to his as you lean in just enough to press your lips against his cheek again. “You always do ‘em better,” you hum, not quite a thank you but close.
His hand comes up to your cheek. “Mm.”
You scoot closer on your knees, rising up just a little so you’re level with his legs as your elbows come up to rest on his knees. Your fingers fidget together for a second before you glance up at him again.
He nods in response, his thumb dragging across your cheek. “I can,” he says casually. “If that’s what you want.”
You nod right away. “’ Course it is.”
That earns you another pass of his hand along your cheek, slower this time. “Then that’s what you got, baby.”
You smile at that, a small one at first, then a little bigger as you lean further into his hand, your cheek pressing into his palm. Your fingers come up and wrap around his wrist, keeping his hands on you.
“Good,” you murmur, your thumb brushing over his skin. “’Cause I missed you. Missed you a lot.”
“I know,” he says, looking down at you. “Missed you too, darlin’.”
That makes you perk up a little.
Your eyes lift to his right away, wider now, a spark there as your lips part just slightly. “Yeah?” you ask, a little brighter. “How much?”
Joel lets out a quiet breath that turns into a laugh, shaking his head just a little. “C’mon,” he mutters, not really answering, his hand sliding from your cheek to the side of your neck—probably just trying to get you off your knees and into bed. “You ask too many questions.”
You tilt your head and furrow your brows a little, not satisfied.
“Probably not as much as me,” you say, a little teasing now.
His eyes flick back to yours, clearly amused. “S’that right?”
“Mhm,” you hum, your grip on his wrist tightening a little. Bet I could prove it to you too.”
That earns another quiet laugh from him, softer this time, his head dipping slightly. “Can you now?”
You nod, eyes locked to his as you lift his hand from your neck and press a kiss to the center of his palm. Then another. You dot kisses from there down to his wrist before you duck your head and start pressing more along the top of his thigh, mouth warm through the denim.
Joel drops his head and his brows start to crinkle in the middle.
“Woah—” he starts. He shakes his head a little, his hand coming down to your shoulder, not rough, just enough to slow you. “What’re you— what’re you doin’, baby?”
You glance up at him through your lashes, your hands still resting on his thighs, fingers curling a little into the denim.
“Provin’ it to you,” you murmur like it’s obvious, already leaning back down for another kiss.
Joel exhales, a little louder this time, his hand dropping to catch your wrist. “That ain’t what I thought you meant,” he sighs again, shaking his head. “You ain’t gotta—”
“But I want to,” you cut in, looking up at him with wide, needy eyes. Your hands leave his grip, fingers moving to his belt, working at it clumsily but determined. “I missed you so much. I just... I wanna make you feel good. Please?”
He watches you work at his belt for a second before he stops you again, his hand coming back to grip your wrist. “Darlin’, it’s late. You’ve been upset all night. You don’t have to—”
Typical Joel. Always cautious. Always so damn careful with you, like if he doesn’t watch himself, he might do too much, take too much, even though you’re on your knees, literally begging for it.
You shake your head, bottom lip pushing out as you stare up at him, eyes glassy and pleading. “I do have to,” you whine. “I’ve been missing you for days, Joel. Please let me? I want this. Wanna taste you... wanna feel you in my mouth,” you murmur, reaching for his belt again. “Please?”
Joel stares at you for a second after that, and for one tiny, dangerous moment, you think he might actually give in.
His eyes drop to your mouth, then to your hands at his belt, then back to your face. Your knees are pressed into the rug between his boots, your fingers still curled around the leather, your eyes big and wet and pleading.
You can see it in the way his chest keeps pulling under his shirt, in the way his jaw keeps flexing under his scruff, in the way his hand stays wrapped around your wrist but doesn’t pull you away fast enough.
But then he exhales, long and tired, and shakes his head.
“Baby,” he sighs again. “We can’t.”
Your face falls and you feel the disappointment hit you square in the chest. Your shoulders drop a little as you look down at your hands still hovering near his belt.
You know he’s right – he looks worn out, and you’ve been an emotional wreck for the last two days – but it still stings. You wanted to show him how much you missed him. You wanted to make him feel good.
And Joel sees the look on your face. Of course he does.
“Hey.” His hand leaves your wrist and cups your cheek instead, tilting your face back up before you can look down. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m not doin’ anything,” you mutter, even though your voice gives you away immediately.
“Yeah, you are.” His thumb drags under your eye, catching the moisture gathered there. “You’re poutin’.”
He cocks his head to the side and raises a brow.
You shrink a little under that.
“Well,” you swallow, trying not to sound as pathetic as you feel. “You said no.”
“I did,” he says kindly, his face softening in that tire Joel way, all furrowed brow and guilt he doesn’t need to carry. “Because I’m beat, and you are too, even if you’re tryin’ real hard to pretend you ain’t.”
His thumb presses to the space under your eyes.
“Can see it in your face, darlin’.”
You open your mouth, ready to argue, but he gives you a look.
He sighs through his nose, his hand sliding from your cheek to the side of your neck. “You been cryin’ tonight. Been upset for days. Ain’t want you on your knees for me when you’re like this.”
“But I want to,” you say, smaller now.
“I know you do.” His thumb moves once along your neck, and his voice drops a little lower. “And I want you too. Don’t think I don’t.”
He gives you that look again, the one that makes your stomach dip even when you’re trying to be hurt.
“Another time,” he says finally. “When you ain’t all vulnerable and tryin’ to prove anything.”
“I’m not tryin’ to prove anything.”
You huff, looking away—caught.
That gets the smallest laugh out of him, not enough to make you forget the rejection, but enough to dull it a little.
He stands then, and holds his hand out to you.
You glance at his hand first, then up at him. You’re still a little hurt. Still a little embarrassed too, which is worse, because you know he means well and that makes it harder to be upset with him. But you take his hand anyway, letting his fingers close around yours.
He nods toward the bed. “Go head.”
You go where he tells you, crawling onto the mattress on your hands and knees, your braids slipping forward over your shoulders as you make your way toward the pillows.
You can feel him behind you. Not touching you, not saying anything, just watching.
Joel is decent enough to tear his eyes away when you glance back at him, but not fast enough. You catch the quick dip of his gaze, the way his attention catches on the hem of your tank top and the lace on the pink panties he bought you. It makes your face hot, even after he just told you no.
You don’t make a show of it. Not really. But you don’t rush either.
“Bed,” he says again, his voice a little gruffer now.
You bite the inside of your cheek and finally slip under the covers, turning onto your side.
You hear him start to undress behind you, the flannel rustling and sliding off his shoulders before he tosses it over the chair. Then his shirt comes next, probably pulled up and over his head and it makes you want to turn around.
Even though you’re picturing it anyway, his bare skin, the messy hair from pulling his shirt over his head in the dark, the way his shoulders must look in the dark little glow from the lamp.
His belt comes next, the buckle giving that sharp metal click, then the drag of denim as he pushes his jeans down and steps out of them.
The lamp clicks off a second later and the room goes dark except for the thin wash of light coming in through the window. Another second later, the mattress dips as Joel climbs in beside you, his hand drawing you back against his bare chest.
Your hand finds his wrist under the covers, fingers closing around them to keep him there.
And even though you didn’t get what you wanted—didn’t get what you’ve been wanting—this was always your favorite part.
The part where he came to bed with you, the part where he pulls you in without a word, where his arm finds your waist like it belongs there, where you can feel his chest rising and falling against your back.
You loved the sex –of course you do – you loved his mouth and his hands and his cock and the way he takes care of you after it. But this part always got you in a different way the sex couldn’t.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“You’re lyin’,” he sighs.
You press your cheek into the pillow a little more. “A little.”
He kisses your shoulder again. “I can live with a little.”
You sink a little deeper into him, pulling his arm closer around your waist. “You promise another time though?”
His fingers flex against your stomach. “Promise.”
He presses another kiss to you, this one lower, where your shoulder meets your neck. “G’to sleep.”
“I said soon,” he says finally, his mouth still close to your skin.
You nod, believing him, even though he’s probably not telling the full truth, because the way he says it gives you just enough to hold onto.
At first you think you’ll stay away from wanting him. You think you’ll lie there staring into the dark, replaying the almost of it all, the way his face changed when he admitted he wanted it too. But his body is so solid behind yours, his breath brushing your neck, and your hurt starts to loosen a little, your fingers going slack against his.
───────────────────────────────
The first thing you notice when you wake is the scrape of his beard.
It drifts across the side of your neck in an absent-minded kiss, enough to pull a sleepy sigh from somewhere deep in your chest without opening your eyes.
For a second, you think you’re still dreaming. Your body feels impossibly heavy, tucked beneath blankets that have twisted around your calves sometime during the night, your thoughts moving through syrup.
Then his hand slips beneath the hem of your tank top.
His palm glides over the bare skin of your stomach with maddening patience, still warm from being tucked against you, calluses catching just enough to make your breath falter.
A sleepy rumble comes from behind you.
“Mhm.” His mouth finds your shoulder again, lingering. “I’m here.”
Your eyes flutter open to a room washed in blue-gray dawn. The curtains glow faintly, everything else is shadow.
Joel hasn’t moved far at all. If anything, he’s closer than he was when you fell asleep, his legs tangled with yours, his chest fitted against your back like he’d spent the night trying to erase every inch of space between you.
You shift just a little, trying to adjust your body, when you feel how hard he is.
You suck in a quick breath, your body going still under his arm.
For a second, you’re confused, still half asleep and trying to figure out if you’re feeling him right, if that hard press against your ass is what you think it is.
His thumb keeps moving in absent circles against your ribs as he pulls you in more, the hard line of him becoming even clearer now.
And your body answers for you – even half asleep – you press back into him with a tiny sound you don’t even mean to make.
Your lips part, but it takes a second for the answer to find its way out. Your brain is still half buried in sleep, but your body is wide awake, every place he touches wired and alive.
His hand slips higher under your tank top, his palm spreading wider over your ribs. The fabric bunches over his wrist, trapping his arm against your skin, and the calluses on his finger catch when he cups one of your breasts.
Another tiny little sound slips from your throat – barely audible – but Joel hears it. Of course he does. He always notices the little betrayals your body gives him first.
He presses another kiss to the back of your shoulder. “Tell me yes.”
That wakes you the rest of the way.
Your thighs press together on instinct, already trying to keep the ache contained, but Joel’s hand is already leaving your chest, traveling down the slope of your stomach. His fingers dip under the waistband of your panties and pause there, not moving yet, just waiting.
The room feels so still around you. The pale light at the window, the twisted sheet between your knees, the damp heat of his breath at your neck, his cock hard against the curve of your ass, patient only because he’s forcing himself to be.
“Y-yes,” you breathe. Then, because it doesn’t feel enough, because one word could never hold how badly you want him, you push your ass back into him and say it again. “Yes, Joel.”
His teeth scrape your shoulder, a barely there bite that sends a jolt straight through you again. “S’my girl.”
His fingers slide lower, only to find the mess you’ve made of yourself.
He groans against your neck, low in his chest, and it does something awful to you. You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed by how wet you already are, the slick mess he finds with barely any effort, by the way your body has clearly been waiting for him, even while you slept.
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease you. His fingers just start moving, moving through you with a kind of sleepy hunger, dragging through the stickiness between your thighs, learning what the night did to you.
He circles your clit once, just enough to make your knees draw up, then he dips lower, spreading your folds open until you hear the obscene little sounds your body makes for him.
He presses another kiss to your neck. “You been dreamin’ about me?”
You could lie... if your hips weren’t already chasing his hand.
His mouth curves against your neck. You feel the almost-smile there, tucked into the scratch of his beard and the press of his lips. “Maybe,” he repeats, his voice still a little hoarse from sleep. “That all I get?”
Your answer breaks into a gasp when his fingers rub you again, firmer this time, exactly where you need him. Your hand flies down over his wrist, not stopping him, just needing something to hold onto. The tendon beneath your palm moves each time his fingers work over you.
“I know, baby girl.” He presses a kiss behind your ear. “I know, baby.” Then another one, lower, to the place where your neck meets your shoulder. “Been thinkin’ about you all night.”
“But you said, n-no,” you whine.
“I did.” His arm pulls you closer against him till you can feel every breath he takes against your back. “Changed my mind.”
You turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder, but he meets you halfway and catches your mouth before you can. The angle makes it clumsy in the best way, his lips dragging against the corner of yours before he finds you fully, his beard scrapes your cheek, his breath spills hot over your tongue, and when you moan, his mouth opens wider, taking the sound right out of you.
He keeps finger-fucking you, lazy and deep, curling his fingers inside you, the heel of his wrist working your clit in messy circles while he kisses you, making your jaw go slack, making it hard to kiss him back with any kind of sense.
Spit starts to gather between your parted lips, slicking the corner of your mouth when he pulls back just enough to breathe, then he comes right back in, stronger, hungrier, licking into you as if he cant decide whether he wants to kiss you or swallow you whole.
“Need you,” he mutters against your damp lips. When he pulls back fully, a string of spit connects your lips before it breaks, and he presses another wet kiss to the side of your mouth while his fingers drag more broken sounds out of you. “Can I have you?”
The question tears through you worse than if he’d just taken what you were clearly already offering. You nod too quickly, your cheek rubbing against the pillow.
“Mhm,” you moan. “P-please, Joel.”
His hand leaves your panties the second you answer.
You make a tiny protesting sound as he huffs against your shoulder, half amused, half gone over you, then he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs. The cotton peels away from you, damp enough that you feel it cling before it gives. You help him, clumsy under the sheets, kicking them off with one foot until they disappear near the foot of the bed.
Joel lifts your top leg and draws it towards your tummy, opening you for him from behind without ever letting the covers fully leave you. They stay tangled around your calves, caught between both of your bodies, half-covering your thighs while leaving just enough of you exposed for him to touch.
The cotton drags against your skin when he moves you, brushing over the wetness there and making you shiver. He feels that too. His hand splaying farther across your tummy to keep you close, while the other moves behind you.
You hear the rough push of his boxers down his thighs, then the wet sound of him spitting into his palm.
“Jesus,” he breathes into your neck, stroking himself behind you. The sound of his own arousal and spit is slick and awful in the blue-gray dark, his hand moving over himself with no patience left. “You hear what you do to me?”
You push back into him instead of using your words—searching for him, impatient now, sleep completely gone, want sitting heavy in your stomach, between your legs, in the back of your throat…
He interrupts you with the slide of his cock between your thighs, dragging the fat head through you once, and your hips jerk at the first brush over your swollen clit.
He does it again, lower this time, rubbing through the mess he worked out of you until the head of him catches at your entrance and slips away.
You gasp, frustrated enough to push back harder, but his arm locks across your waist and holds you there.
“Been all wound up for me,” he says, mouth at your ear. “Couldn’t sleep it off, could you?”
“I know,” he coos, his thumb stroking your tummy still. “I know, baby. Gonna take care of it for you.”
He rubs himself through you again, making himself slick with you, with his spit, with the wetness already leaking down your thigh and onto the sheets. You feel him coating himself in it, feel the blunt head of him drag over you until your hips twitch and your fingers curl into the sheets.
The angle makes you cry out right away. He fills you from behind, thick and heavy, your body still too tender from days of wanting him, from the ache from a few hours ago, from being held by him while he made you wait.
The first press of him steals the air out of your chest, the swollen head of his cock sinking in, and even though you’re soaked, the sheer size of him is undeniable, that sharp little burn blooming between your thighs as he works himself in.
The stretch burns almost immediately – a deep, almost painful pressure as your walls have to yield around his girth. It’s not unbearable, but it’s intense, intense enough that your eyes start to prickle with tears. Your walls flutter and resist against him, struggling to take the sheer width of him, like your body still hasn’t learned how to handle all of him even after all the times he’s fucked you.
Your mouth falls open against your pillow in a silent gasp, caught between wanting him deeper and needing one more second to take him.
And he gives you that second.
His hips stay behind you, his cock pulsing where your body is wrapped around him, the pressure so intense you feel a tear run down the side of your face and bleed into the pillow.
“I got you,” he whispers as he presses another kiss to your shoulder. “Gonna make room for me, yeah?”
You try to answer, but the only thing that comes out is his name again, so you nod, the fabric damp against your cheek from the few tears that slipped out.
Only then does he give you more, inch by little inch, rocking forward in tiny movements, giving you just a little more each time, letting your pussy slowly open around him.
“Atta girl,” he hums into your neck. “Doin’ so good for me. Gonna fuck you nice and deep once you let me all the way in.”
The burn lingers, raw and pulsing, but little by little it starts to melt, melt into that heavy, overwhelming fullness you absolutely crave. Every shallow rock of his hips pushes him deeper until he finally sinks all the way in, his hips barely flushed against your ass, almost buried to the hilt.
You let out a broken moan, your fingers twisting in the sheets again. He feels impossibly big like this – stretching you, splitting you open, pressing against every inch inside you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.
For a second, he just stays there, twitching inside you while he kisses the side of your neck, letting you adjust to the way your pussy is stretched around him.
Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first, dragging the line of his thick cock in and out of you in long, lazy strokes. The wet, filthy sound of him sliding through your soaked pussy fills the quiet room with every thrust. He keeps one arm locked around your waist, holding you tight against his chest while he moves.
“Fuck,” he groans into your ear. “You feel so damn good.”
You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet his thrusts, the slight sting from his size fading into pure, aching pleasure, your body taking him easier now. He leans in closer, turning your head just enough so he can kiss you – deep and messy, tongues sliding together while he keeps fucking you with those long, unhurried strokes.
Every time he bottoms out, you let out a little whimper into his mouth, your body rocking with the motion. He swallows every sound, his beard scraping your cheek as his tongue licks into your mouth while he keeps that same, slow rhythm, grinding into you on every thrust so you can feel him pressing against that same spot inside you over and over.
You moan louder against his lips, trying to get him to move faster, but he stays patient, fucking you sluggishly, savoring every wet slide of you around his cock.
“Joel,” you whimper, breaking the kiss with a shaky plea. “C-can you go faster?” you moan, grinding up into him again. “Need it f-faster.”
“You sure?” he murmurs, still pressed close to your mouth. His hips barely move, just enough to keep himself buried inside you, enough to make you feel every vein inside you. “You want me harder?”
You nod frantically, pushing your ass back against him, but he doesn’t give in from that alone. His fingers stay at your jaw, holding you where he can see part of your face over your shoulder, where he can hear the answer when it comes out of you.
“Please,” you breathe, your voice shaking. “P-please, Joel. I need more.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second, dark and blown, the he kisses the corner of it again, rougher this time, spit sticking to your lip before he pulls back. “I got you pretty girl.”
He gives you one deeper thrust, testing it.
And your body jolts around him, a sharp cry breaking out of you as your fingers clutch at the sheets. He does it again, a little harder, then pauses when his hips finally press flush to your ass, letting you feel how deep he is before pulling back.
He doesn’t go fast. Not yet. He makes you take the change inch by inch, giving you time to feel the pressure build, time to hear the wet drag of him leaving you and the louder sound when he pushes back in.
Your mouth falls open against the pillow.
“S’my girl,” he grits out, giving you another thrust. “Knew you could take more. Just needed me to give it to you right, huh?”
The sound you make is small and embarrassing, more cry than an actual sound. Your back arches under his arm, your body flinching first, then asking for it again without a single word.
He starts working into it, each thrust heavier than the last, the mattress dipping under both of you. Your body rocks forward, then back when his arm drags you onto him again. The sheets are twisted under your knees and the cotton of your tank top keeps riding up, your breast shifting with every push of his hips while his hand stays locked around your waist.
And It gets louder before it gets faster.
The slick sound of him inside you, the slap of his hips meeting your ass, your breath breaking into little cries you physically can’t hold back. His balls brush against you with each thrust, a little cold and damp from the mess between your thighs, from the spit he used on himself, from how much your body keeps giving him.
You press your face into the pillow, still embarrassed by the sound of it, but Joel’s hand comes to your jaw again.
“Don’t hide from me, darlin’. Wanna see that pretty face while I fuck you.”
You whimper, turning your face, just enough for him to see you. He slips two fingers past your lips before you can respond, pressing them right onto your tongue. They taste a little of you and the skin and salt and slick he dragged through you. And all you can do is yelp at the taste of it.
Joel groans, his hips stuttering once against your ass.
“Good, baby,” he coos, pressing another kiss to your neck. “That’s it. Let me hear you with my fingers in your mouth.”
Your answer comes out muffled, barely more than a needy noise against his knuckles. Your eyes water a little, not from the pain, but from the fullness of it all. Him finally inside you, the taste of him on your tongue, his chest moving heavy against your back, his voice in your ear, rough and pleased because he can hear exactly what this does to you.
You suck on his fingers without being told, lips closing around them for one greedy second before your mouth falls open again on a moan. It comes out wet and ruined, caught around his hand, vibrating against his skin.
“There,” he rasps, breath breaking near your ear. “That sound right there. Keep makin’ that sound for me.”
He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wet and shining, thin slides, that same hand down your body, past your throat, past your chest, and over your stomach, leaving a wet trail across it all. Your skin jumps beneath his palm when he reaches between your legs, using that same spit from your mouth to rub over your clit.
The first touch nearly sends your knee out from under you.
“Joel,” you cry, your hand flying to his wrist.
“I know.” His mouth presses to your cheek, his beard scraping there while he keeps rubbing you. “I know. Keep that leg up for me.”
He keeps driving into you, his finger circling that same swollen spot when he changes his hold.
The hand on your stomach slides down to take over, his palm pressing low, his fingers finding your puffy clit again. His other hand leaves you just long enough to hook under your thigh, dragging your leg higher against your body and keeping you open for him.
The new angle leaves you helpless beneath him, your body split open around his cock, your clit trapped under his wet fingers. Every thrust goes deeper in this way, punching up into a place that makes your vision blur at the corners of your eyes.
You try to push back. Try to meet him halfway. Try to take it the way he asked.
But this angle ruins you.
Your nails rake down his forearm, your back arches against his chest, your mouth opens, but for a second nothing comes out, only a broken breath as the pleasure gathers low, too much pressure in too many places at once.
“Oh, baby.” His voice breaks against your ear, rough enough that it almost sounds clawed out of him. “You’re close.”
You nod your head, brushing it up and down against the pillow, because that’s the only sound you can manage.
His fingers move faster over your clit, slick from your mouth and from you, rubbing in short, firm circles, while his hips keep that deep, grinding rhythm. He’s not pounding; it’s worse than that, he’s keeping you pinned open, making every thrust count, dragging himself almost all the way out before filling you again, making your body hear it, feel it, answer it.
A broken ground leaves his mouth when you start moving around him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his breath hitting the back of your neck. “That’s—That’s it...”
You keep moving, chasing his hand, the feeling of him inside you—
And then it starts in your thighs.
A tremor you can’t hide. Your stomach pulling taut, your hips bucking into his hand, your body pulsing around him in quick, helpless waves. Your moan breaks into his name once, twice, then disappears into a cry that gets trapped against the pillow.
And Joel feels every bit of it.
Your thighs shaking around his arm, your back arching as much as his hold will allow. More wetness spills around him with each pulse, making the sounds between you louder, slicker, impossible to ignore. Joel swears into your neck, his thrust turning uneven, his voice cracking on your name when your body squeezes him tighter.
“Mm,” he moans, his hips stumbling. “Do that again. God baby, do it again.”
You do. Your hips keep jerking into his hand, little aftershocks, making you flutter around him, even as he keeps moving. Tears start to prickle out your eyes from how hard it hits, from the weight, from the pleasure that keeps breaking up every time he rubs your clit and drives right back into you.
Your fingers lose their grip on his wrist, then tighten again because you need somewhere to put it, need something to hold onto while your body starts to give.
Joel’s forehead presses hard to your shoulder as his rhythm finally snaps.
“I can’t—” he drags out, his breath hot on your shoulder. “You’re gonna me me—”
He grips your hips and gives you exactly what you asked for now, harder, heavier, each thrust, shoving the air out of you while you’re still pulsing around him. The bed knocks against the wall, and his breath turns harsh at your ear, breaking into sounds he can’t swallow back. His hand flies to your stomach, pressing it closer so he can bury himself deeper.
“Inside,” you plead, tears brimming in your eyes. “P-please… wanna feel it inside me.”
Behind you, Joel grips your leg higher against your stomach. His palm flattens low over your belly, fingers spread there, holding you in place while his cock throbs inside you. For one single breath, he doesn’t move. You feel him fighting it in every part of him, the strain in his chest, the shake in his grip, the shaky drag of air through his teeth.
“Say it again,” he groans.
Your lips barely work against the pillow. “Want it. Want you to finish in me,” you cry out.
The sound he makes is half curse, half surrender.
After that, he stops trying to keep himself pretty for you. He pulls out just enough to make your body chase after him, then drives back in so deep you feel it in your stomach.
The next thrust punches your hips into his hand. The one after that makes the bed knock hard enough that the pillow jumps beneath your cheek. He’s not moving quick; he’s moving heavy, buried, greedy with it, using the angle of your bent leg to push into the deepest part of you over and over until you can’t take any more.
“Joel,” you choke out. “I can’t take it— I’m—”
“You can,” he drives in again. “You’re takin’ it so damn good right now.”
His mouth opens on your skin, not a kiss anymore, just breath and teeth and the sound of him losing the last of his control. His hand slips from your stomach to your hip; his fingers digging into the damp crease there, hauling you back onto him with each stroke. You can feel yourself leaking around him, feel the slick drag where your bodies meet, feel the mess smear against your inner thighs every time his hips grind in.
You tried to say his name, but it comes out as nothing more than broken little noises. Blindly, you reach back and catch the back of his head, fingers sinking into his hair, pulling him closer until his mouth is harder against your neck.
“P-please,” you whine, louder now. “I’m gonna—”
Joel’s whole body jerks into you.
The sound that tears out of him is loud and helpless, his teeth catching at the damp skin on your neck as his hips falter once, then drive in deeper.
He buries his face against you, his breath breaking over your shoulder, and the hand on your hip grips hard enough to keep you locked against him.
Joel buries himself all the way and stops there, his hips pressed tight to your ass, chest locking against your back. His groan breaks low into your shoulder as his cock kicks inside you, once, then again, thick ropes of cum spilling inside you. He holds you through it with a grip that almost hurts, breathing hard through his teeth while his body gives in behind yours; the mess of both of you leaking around him, slipping down your thigh in a sticky trail.
For a few seconds, neither of you move.
He still has you pinned close, one hand spread over your stomach, his mouth open against the back of your neck as he tries to breathe. Every tiny pulse inside you makes him twitch, and every twitch makes more of him spill out around where he’s still buried.
It’s too much. You’re too full. Too sensitive. Your fingers curl weakly in the sheets, but you don’t want him to move yet.
He presses a slow, wet kiss to the back of your neck, then another, gentler this time. His hand slides back up your body until he cups your jaw, turning your head just enough to reach your mouth.
This angle is awkward, and you can barely move your head with it, but he doesn’t seem to care, and neither do you. He kisses you long and sweet, his tongue sliding lazily against yours while he’s still inside you, while the mess between your thighs keeps spreading into the sheets
“Tell me you’re okay,” he murmurs into your mouth.
You can barely talk right now.
Your body still hasn’t come back to itself, your thighs trembling, your chest pressed too hard into the mattress, your breath catching every time he moves even a little.
All you can do is make small, sad excuses for a sound.
He pulls back a fraction. “Baby.”
You drop your hands and reach behind you, your fingers wrapping carefully around the base of him to keep him from slipping out as you turn in his arms.
It takes nearly everything in you. Your body protests at the movement, sore and overly sensitive, but you need to see him. Need his face. Need his mouth without twisting for it.
Joel catches on fast. His hand slides under your thigh, helping lift your leg over his hips so you can roll toward him without losing him, and the movement makes both of you gasp.
But once you’re facing him, you wrap an arm around his waist and pull him in, keeping him there as your chest presses to his.
“I’m...” you breathe into his mouth, fighting for the words. “M’perfect...”
He groans into the kiss, broken and relieved, one big hand, copying the back of your messy pigtails while the other moves over your lower back in careful circles. He kisses you again, deeper this time, like he believes you, but still needs to feel it for himself.
He stays inside you the whole time, heavy and intimate, the mess between you only growing as your thighs press together around him.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to look at you. His eyes move over your face, searching for any trace of pain, regret, anything you might try to hide from him.
You blink up at him, dazed, mouth swollen, still holding him inside you with one hand at his waist.
“M’perfect,” you whisper before he can ask again. “Swear.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your sticky forehead.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “You are.”
baratheonpilled
gummygunk
