How tf am I supposed to write something if I'm not even inspired by anything.
I've been trying to write, everytime I feel inspired I try to write it on my notes and even here so I could remember what I wanted to write later. Then, when I try to keep writing my brain just stop it's job and I can't keep thinking on a coherent story, it's freaking exhausting and it's ruining me.
Thank you to everyone that's been reading my fics, I have two or three more chapters for "if you're too drunk to drive" that I haven't posted yet cause I don't feel like they're good enough to be posted.
It's been almost a year since I stop posting fics cause university it's literally killing me, I feel like I am not myself anymore and I can't find me anywhere.
I've been through a lot this months and I feel tired everyday, I don't even open this app to read anything, I can't find my passion for this anymore but I know it exists.
I just wanted to say, I'm giving my best, I will try to post one chapter more for my series and if it likes me I will post other one shot I've been planning on posting for a while.
chapter summary: you meet your new neighbor and quickly discover he’s all you’re able to think about.
chapter warnings: MDNI. mostly exposition. foul language. discussions of alcoholism. verbal abuse (readers father). discussions of prior domestic abuse. readers father is a police officer, that gets its own warning. age gap (reader is in her 20s, Joel is in his 50s), pet names. slow burn. tension. female masturbation. no descriptions of race or body type, except implication that Joel is noticeably taller than reader.
word count: 3.5k
series masterlist.
The first time you saw him was through your bedroom window.
Bulging biceps and graying curls stuck to his forehead with sheen sweat under the Texas sun. You wished you could make out the features of his face better. He was with another man, equally handsome from what you could tell in a boyish sort of way, sporting long, raven hair. Together, they unloaded the moving van. You couldn’t decipher what they were saying, but you could hear the booming cadence of their voices and occasional laughter.
There is a perfect view of his driveway from your room. Beyond the picket fence, a beautiful two-story white home that had been otherwise unoccupied for nearly a decade. It’s unsurprising; you can’t quite fathom why anybody would want to live in the poorly populated outskirts, let alone relocate on their own volition. Outside of city limits, things move slower. Everyone knows everyone, and secrets often turn into idle gossip even the innocent cannot escape.
The quaint neighborhood has been your home for a lifetime, and a fresh face — his face — is the most excitement the residents have seen in years.
The next time you saw him was three days after that. You were riding your bike home from the library and noticed the horde of local women on his doorstep. Even with your headphones in, you could make out the grating nature of their boisterous voices. You couldn’t see his face, only the broad shadow of his frame as he accepted the welcoming gifts the women gave him with less than subtle eagerness.
You were admittedly intrigued by the thought of him. You knew very little about the man, other than the web of talk in town: middle-aged, moved in alone, some work in contracting. But the summers got lonely, and the fascination was a welcomed distraction.
The third time you see him is a particularly sweltering Thursday afternoon. You are thumbing the crisp pages of a book, lying horizontal across the sofa, when your father's footsteps descend the stairs.
“Still caught up in that nonsense, I see.”
Never is there an opportunity missed to berate you. To remind you that your hobbies, interests, and ambitions are foolish or beyond attainable for the life you are supposed to live.
You know what that means to him. It means taking the same, dreadful path as your mother. Marrying a man who has too much stake in the community. Giving up your job, your autonomy, to please him. A picture-perfect, Southern doll to fall into the habits of a man's pleasing. It’s why she left. That, and the incessant drinking which often led to sharp words or even sharper blows. She knew she couldn’t defy him; going against his wishes was like abandoning the law itself.
He is a proud man and unafraid to embody it. You often wonder what you may be like if you encompassed a fraction of that trait; to be unabashedly secure in oneself, so much so that it appeared he could bend the will of those that surrounded him.
Perhaps the bronze badge pinned to his chest, proudly displaying CHIEF, has something to do with his choice of demeanor.
Yes, you understand why she left him. You just can’t pinpoint why she abandoned you in the process.
It’s not nonsense, you want to scream. Calling one of the most prolific playwrights in history nonsense is confirmation enough of your father's stance in your interests, but you know better than to argue. Instead, you place the bookmark delicately between the pages. A copy of Othello. Act four, scene two. How seamlessly Shakespeare’s words paint the page, eliciting a clear image in your head:
Desdemona, the wife of the great Othello, seen both as a tragic victim and heroine. You had always favored the latter, her unyielding loyalty to her husband until her last breath — even despite his own accusations of her infidelity — something of admiration. How infatuated one must be with another, how deeply their souls are intertwined to continue to proclaim her love in the face of such aversion. You often daydream about the sort of connection it may take to maintain such sacrifice and—
It’s your father's voice pulling you from your imagination and back into reality again. You set the play down on the coffee table.
“Won’t be back till late,” he says, bending over near the front door now to lace up his boots. He’s never home early when he takes afternoon shifts. Days you look forward to. “Do me a favor and get somethin’ together for the new neighbor — Mr. Miller, I think? Been a week now. We oughta make a good impression.”
You’re unable to define why, but something about your father's mentioning of the man next door rouses your stomach. As if his existence, despite being the talk of the town, is your own hushed secret. It’s a reminder that he sees the world around you, too. That you are not contained to the stories within your fingertips.
You look up from the page you’re on to catch him in your peripheral. “I think he’s gotten plenty of gifts from our other neighb—”
“I didn’t ask for the goddamn attitude, just do it!”
It’s not his voice that startles you. It hardly ever is anymore. You expect him to yell, even when it’s uncalled for in the situation. But the sound of his palm smacking against the front door panel makes you tremble to your feet. When you look at him, his eyes are stern. Lifeless. He would rather be looking at anything else, anyone else, you think. How much his own creation had become such a burden on his precious life.
You don’t move. Simply nod your head and mutter a yes, sir under your breath. It appeases him enough for now. While he’s sober, forgiveness comes easier. You know better than to open your mouth, even if it is with the intent of basic conversation. He isn’t there to converse. He isn’t there to be your friend. Hardly your father. He’s the man of the house. In his mind, the man of the town. And how easy it is for men like him to assert themselves over the closest woman they can sink their teeth into.
It’s why he never let you go away for college.
Never let you leave.
He needed the game to feel like a predator, and you were the next best prey.
The breath lodged in your chest expels as soon as he’s out the door. Some days are better than others. Some days, he’s too preoccupied with his own meaningless life to direct his anger at you. On other days, you’re better at keeping the emotions of anguish, resentment, grief, at bay. But not today. Today, when the door latches shut and your father's cruiser revs out of the driveway, you fall back into the couch cushions and bury your face into the nearest pillow.
Today, you allow yourself to cry.
You spend the rest of the afternoon baking. Muffins are the chosen treat, and the activity is a soothing routine to distract you from your anxieties. Much to your dismay, you discover you are all out of chocolate chips. You scour the pantry and fridge alike for an alternative before happening upon a bag of frozen blueberries in the freezer. They would have to do.
Within a couple of hours, the kitchen is filled with the pleasant scent of fruit and sugar. The recipe makes a dozen, but you keep half on the counter once they cool, plating the other six and covering them in foil. You shuffle on your flip-flops, balancing the treats between the palms of your hands as you begin the short journey across the yard. The sun is blinding and the heat suffocating, your skin instantly missing the comfort of the air conditioning.
It isn’t until you make it up his driveway, stand before his door, and knock three times that nerves find you. Their origin still remains unknown, but real is the frantic beat of your heart against your chest when you hear footsteps beyond the door's threshold. Then, the unlatching of the lock. And finally, the deep timbre of a somewhat distressed voice.
“Tellin’ y’all, I really don’t need any more of that cornbread — oh.” You don’t have time to acknowledge his unabashed complaint. You’re too busy gawking.
The man before you now, despite his image through the window just days prior, is not the man you expect. He’s staring at you, eyes a bit wide through the panes of the black-rimmed glasses that rest on a curved nose, as if he had not expected to see you on his doorstep, either.
You take him in for a moment. Soft brown eyes peer into your very soul, the signs of age lining them in faint wrinkles and peppered freckles. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a pale blue button-up, the picture of refinement. Save for his hair that curls up in odd directions, as if he had run his hands through it too many times for the product to stick. He’s tall; you realize very quickly that you are looking up at him rather than at him. And he down at you, the momentary shock melting into something more subdued.
Oh god, he isn’t just handsome. He’s terribly, horribly, painstakingly beautiful.
You blink at him rapidly, clearing your throat when you register that your awestruck silence isn’t boding well for a first impression.
“Um, h-hi, Mr. Miller. I’m so sorry to bother you,” you finally stammer, offering him your name in the process. “I live next door—”
“I know,” he interjects swiftly. You hope he doesn’t hear the way your words catch in your throat. It’s not rude, nor creepy, but matter of fact. He’s noticed you as you have him. Though it’s much less enticing to him, you think, as mapping out your neighbors in a new town seems common practice. Nonetheless, the idea excites you.
“You’re, uh…you’re the Chief's daughter, yeah?” And just as quickly as the thrill fills you, it’s drained to the bone.
The Chief’s daughter. Of course, what did you expect? For your identity to not be reduced to your father's stake in this town?
“Yeah,” you answer, mustering up the politest smile you can find. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Huh,” is all he breathes, and then, his eyes are darting down to the plate in your hands. You hope he doesn’t pick up on the way they tremble.
“Oh!” you chirp, following his gaze. “They’re, um. They’re muffins. We wanted to drop off something to welcome you in, but…” you trail off, peering up at him again through your lashes to find he’s already staring. The quiet stoicism he displays while studying you makes you uneasy; not by means of discomfort, but nearly eliciting a sick sort of fascination.
You have never seen a man exhibit power as delicately as he does.
Your eyes scramble back for your hands, finding it difficult to maintain direct eye contact. “But I – I told my father you probably already have so many other gifts to get through, so if you – if you don’t want them…”
There you go again. Looking up only to be lured into the beast's trance. You try to decipher his eyes, remarkably dark even in the unforgiving sun. Yet despite their color, there remains a gentleness. Warm, welcoming, perhaps even tired.
You watch the way his brows scrunch slightly above his eyes. “You make ‘em?” he asks after a moment, raising one brow.
You nod. “From scratch.”
“Chocolate?”
“No, blueberry,” you frown, but he’s grinning at you then.
“My favorite.” You aren’t sure if it's his words or the way the dimple pops out on his cheek when he smiles that settles you, but regardless, you’re grateful. He looks younger when he smiles, you think. Then, you find yourself questioning just how old he even is—
He’s reaching out for the plate now, nudging the door open the rest of the way with his hip. His entire body takes up the door frame, and you have to work hard to not let your eyes rake over him. Luckily, you have something else to distract you: his hands. They brush yours when he takes the plate. Rough, thick fingers just barely grazing over your skin.
“You saw all them folks out here the last couple days then, huh?” It takes you a moment to register that he’s speaking to you, asking you a question. The plate is stable in his hands now, much to your appreciation.
You breathe out a shaky chuckle, nodding. Your hands clasp bashfully behind your back now that they are free, fiddling with your fingers to ebb the nerves that, regardless of how long you stand there under the intense sun and his even more intense eyes, would not cease.
“Yeah, I did,” you answer honestly. “But I’m not surprised,” you find yourself adding, tilting your head up at him. You’re finding it’s surprisingly easy to speak with him. “If there’s anything the women in this town love, it's shopping, gossip, and something new and pretty to sink their teeth into.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, the low vibration making your chest flutter in delight. He throws his head back a little bit before shaking it. Then, he returns his eyes to you. This time, a dash of implication clouds them.
“S’that what I am?” he asks. He must see the confusion on your face. “Somethin’ new and pretty?” he clarifies, grin growing wider when the confusion is replaced by mortification.
You feel your cheeks scald with heat, hotter than the sun above.
“Wha—I, well no. No, no I just meant—” You clamp your sputtering lips shut as soon as he breaks into another fit of laughter, wanting nothing more than to melt into a pathetic puddle right then and there.
“I’m sorry,” you try again, flustered. You bring your hands from behind your back up to cover your cheeks. The apology is a conditioned response. “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean–”
“Hey,” he beckons you softly, and you dare to look. You’re glad you do because he’s eyeing you almost apologetically, balancing the plate in one hand while he uses the other to lean against the doorframe. “M’just teasin’ you. Don’t gotta apologize, you’re sweet for sayin’ all that.”
Sweet.
He thinks you’re sweet. You don’t say anything else, just nod and stifle another awkward bough of laughter, feeling sufficiently embarrassed. And sweaty. You’ve been standing outside way too long, but for some reason, you can’t locate any impending desire to end the interaction. You think it may be the most you’ve talked to someone other than your father all summer.
“What about you then?” he suddenly questions. It appears he isn’t ready for it to be over, either.
You furrow your brows at him. “What about me?”
There’s that smile, again. This time, it reaches so far that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced. “What do you love? Assuming it ain’t the same as the rest of the women in town.”
You’re certain now that your belly has overflowed with the budding warmth. Growing stronger, more intense, and prominent every moment you spend in his presence. How mundane a task it is – speaking to you, directly to you with genuine interest and pure fascination – and yet, you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced it as real and raw as right now.
“Um…” You’re looking for the right words, a bit too lost in the murky sea of his eyes to find them. “Books, old films, art. You know, boring, meaningless stuff like that,” you answer, shrugging. It’s meant to be sarcastic, but you get the sense he understands the validity of the statement. How a town like this could suck the life out of anything that didn’t fit a cookie-cutter standard.
He doesn’t seem to fit it, either.
He observes you for a moment, and you think you see the path of his eyes do a once over the entirety of your body. Is it the first time he’s done so? Or just the first one you’ve caught?
“Well, that answer alone may just make ya the most interestin’ person in this town,” he finally concludes, voice dropping only a few decibels lower, but you notice the shift. Notice the way sincerity floods his features, an invisible string of curiosity and magnetism drawing your gaze to him. This time when you maintain eye contact, you don’t feel inclined to break it. In fact, there is an unanticipated comfort in it. A realization that he is seeing you, just you in all that you are, for the first time. And maybe he even likes what he sees. More so then the women flooding his doorstep the past week, at least.
His lips part, looking as though he is about to speak again when his phone rings from within his pocket.
The unspoken moment is broken by his scrambling for it, careful to set down your plate of treats at the entryway table before fishing it out of his pocket. “Shit,” you hear him mutter under his breath as he examines the screen, tender eyes returning to the same, focused nature they had taken when he first opened the door.
“M’really sorry, I gotta take his. It’s work,” he explains, looking at you apologetically.
You shake your head. “No, no. It’s — it’s alright. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time, anyway.” Your stomach drops upon the loss of his attention, quickly discovering how much you were enjoying it. It frightens you.
“Thank you again for the muffins,” he grumbles to you, but his eyes are on the device, rapidly tapping a message to whoever may be trying to get ahold of him.
You do your very best to not take offense to the distraction. It’s not his fault, he would’ve kept talking to you if he could’ve, you convince yourself. It still does little to shroud the disappointment.
“No problem,” you reply as you begin to back away down his front porch, not wishing to distract him any further. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Miller,” you say as you turn on your heels, returning back to the role of casual, kind, and welcoming next-door neighbor. Lost is the moment of fantasy, of fiction, you had allowed yourself to entertain.
But then, he’s surprising you all over again. “Joel,” he calls out, right when your feet hit the pavement leading up to his porch.
“Hm?” You whip your head around, not entirely sure if you made up hearing his voice again altogether.
“Joel,” he repeats when you face him, his eyes already on you. “Just Joel is fine, darlin’.”
You nearly lose your balance.
“Joel,” you test the name out on your lips, loving the way it sounds, honeyed and masculine. He gives you a final nod of his head, the shape of his smile a picture you capture and store away in memory as he sends you a single wave and shuts the door behind him. Then, with great difficulty, you force yourself to turn around again and carry yourself forward. A sort of haze seems to settle over your mind as you recount the moment prior.
Darlin’. He called you darlin'.
The word buzzes in your ears during the short trek across the yard, having to focus intently on the ground in front of you to keep from toppling over.
Darlin’.
It follows you throughout the entire night, in the shower where you turn the handle to cold in hopes of relieving your burning skin.
Darlin’.
It shamelessly echoes in your mind while you lay in bed that night, urging the hand that slips beneath your night shorts and into your damp underwear. You feel your entire body tighten when your fingers make contact with your core, slick and awaiting. The fullness of your two fingers sinking inside of you sends your feet fluttering into the air, toes curling in delight. You gnaw on your bottom lip to keep the soft whimpers from ringing too loud, worrying the front door could open at a moment's notice.
Darlin’.
You hear it like a chant, a prayer, coaxing you closer to the impending edge until you’re tearing your fingers out of your cunt and feverishly circling your pulsing clit. You bring your opposite hand up to your mouth, biting into your palm as the orgasm washes over you, back arching and thighs littered with tiny tremors. And when you come down, collapsing back into your mattress, with wide eyes and heavy breaths going up towards the ceiling, it is no longer the summer heat causing sweat to pool at your temples.
You think of him as you fall asleep. Warm brown eyes and scruffy cheeks. Broad frame and a presence that should instill fear, but quite the contrary. That’s what scared you the most; how inviting he was, how safe he seemed.
You don’t need any of your stories to aid your imagination tonight.
You hear it in your dreams.
Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’.
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summary: The women who live in your building aren't subtle in their hatred for you — or their affection for your boyfriend, Joel. You decide to set them straight.
warnings: 18+ minors dni, porn with plot, no outbreak, established relationship, implied age gap, horrible neighbors, general cattiness, all the ladies want Joel, alcohol consumption, fluff, explicit smut, possessive!reader, exhibitionism, dirty talk, oral (m receiving), facefucking, unprotected piv, creampie, one (1) spank, use of pet names (baby, angel, darlin', etc.), I think that's all? lmk if I missed anything!
a/n: idk what happened. I saw one too many tiktok edits set to the song agora hills by doja cat and blacked out. anyway, enjoy!
If it weren’t for your rent-controlled apartment with a perfect view of the downtown skyline, you would’ve moved out of your building by now.
Your neighbors don’t like you. You’re certain of it. You can tell by the way the ladies stick their noses up at you in the elevator and whisper to each other the second they think you’re out of earshot.
It had started, you suspect, because of your age. You’re a lot younger than all of the other residents here, your apartment left to you by your grandmother after she passed away.
The building is prime real estate, situated in the heart of one of the city’s most desirable neighborhoods. Most of the people who live here have done so for ten, twenty, even thirty years. And it seems that time has festered a sort of social hierarchy: one which places you at the very bottom.
You shouldn’t care. And you hadn’t, for a while. But their eyes have started to feel like daggers, pointed directly at you at all times, and you feel as if you can’t even enter the building without judgment.
You’re not a bad neighbor. You’re not. You’d learned through living in a dormitory in college how thin shared walls can be, and, as a result, the proper volume at which to keep your music; how you should always be cautious to not let your door slam closed on the way in; that you should never vacuum after eight pm or before eight am.
You never leave trash in the hallway, and you park your car only in your allotted spot, despite the fact that it’s the farthest away from the building.
Even so, the lack of weathering in your face makes them look at you like you’re less, like you’re a greedy little thing who has taken something she isn’t worthy of.
It’s the same way they look at you when they see you with your boyfriend, Joel, for the first time.
They leer when you walk into the foyer, hand-in-hand with an older man. He’s handsome, rugged, something out of Nicholas Sparks novel. And you’re you.
Joel thinks you’re being paranoid at first, says they couldn’t possibly hate such a sweet, friendly girl. The girl he loves so damn much. But it doesn’t take long for him to notice it too: the glares, the scoffs, the misplaced judgment — never set in his direction, only ever yours.
One Sunday afternoon, as he sits on your couch watching the Cowboys game with a sweating bottle of beer in his hand, you step out to grab your mail. You’re close to tears when you return, flinging the door open, envelopes slipping from your trembling fingers.
He leaps up as soon as he catches sight of your face. Your expression is stuck somewhere between sadness and rage, bottom lip tucked between your teeth so firmly he worries you’ll draw blood.
“I hate them,” you sob as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his broad chest. You’re wetting his shirt, the one he just bought the other day. But he won’t let you lift your head. If anything, he holds you tighter.
“Wanna tell me what happened, darlin?” he asks, leading you toward the couch. You sit down together, your body still wrapped in his, and you groan.
“It’s stupid.” Your voice is muffled by cotton. He loosens his grip on you only enough to let you turn your face. “I was getting my mail, and they were down in the lobby,” you sniff. “The woman who lives right next door – the one with the outdated perm, and the one across the hall with the yippy little dog.”
“Mhm,” Joel soothes, running his thumb gently along the tense line of your jaw. “Did they say somethin’ to you?”
You huff. “No, not to me. They didn’t see me there.”
Their hushed voices still ring in your head like a fire alarm in need of new batteries: relentless, infuriating.
Don’t know what in the world a handsome gentleman like that is doing with a little girl like her.
You’re tellin’ me. What a shame. Such a young thing – she can’t possibly know how to handle a man like that. He needs a woman his own age!
“They said I’m not good for you,” you weep. “That I’m too young. That I — I c-can’t be what you need.”
“Darlin,” Joel drawls. He fishes the tv remote off of the coffee table and flicks the screen off. Drops it somewhere next to him on the cushion. The apartment is noticeably quiet now, apart from your shaky breaths and the dull drone of an idling truck engine from the street below.
“You know I love you, right?”
You sniff again. Nod.
“I don’t give a shit if people think you’re too young for me,” he huffs. “You’re a grown woman. You give me everything I could possibly need and then some.”
“Yeah?” you squeak. You know deep down that Joel wouldn’t stay with you if he had any reservations about any aspect of your relationship. But after months of no reprieve from stinging glares and brash insults, you feel as if you’ve been broken down, reduced to an anxious, overwrought version of yourself.
Joel repositions himself, sprawling back on the couch and pulling you with him so that you’re laying against him. “Yeah,” he repeats, stroking your hair. He tucks a loose strand behind your ear, away from your glassy eyes. “Those ladies can get their asses in line.”
You laugh, then — a real, genuine laugh — the kind that Joel can somehow always pull out of you, even in the most inopportune of times.
You’re so grateful for him, for his innate ability to calm you down when it feels like the world is crumbling below your feet. Grateful that he’s yours.
You lift your head. Prop yourself up by the elbow on Joel’s thigh. Wipe away the lingering wet on your cheeks with a deep, settling breath.
“Does it stroke your ego, having a fan club of women who wanna fuck you?”
He smirks. Pulls you closer to him with a hand cradling your face.
“Maybe a little,” he whispers, his lips ghosting yours. “Does it stroke your ego, bein’ the only one who gets to fuck me?”
And in truth, it does. You’re the only one who knows where he likes to be kissed, how he likes his cock stroked, how to make him cum embarrassingly quick with just your mouth.
You’ve learned him intimately, every inch of him. Ruined him for any other woman.
So in a fucked up kind of way — it does.
“Yeah,” you admit. You suck his bottom lip into your mouth, silently reveling in the way he immediately moans, the way he bends to you.
“These all mine?” You bring a finger to his lips, sputter on a shaky exhale when he unexpectedly parts them and sucks the digit into his mouth.
“Mhm,” he hums around you, takes your free hand in his and guides it down his body, across the expanse of his torso, the plush of his belly, pausing when you reach his crotch.
Your pulse quickens, then, a dull throb forming at the base of your neck. You extricate your finger from his mouth with a gentle pop.
“This too,” he whispers, canting his hips up toward the flat of your palm.
He’s half-hard, his clothed bulge pleading for attention. But he pulls your hand away quickly, not letting himself get carried away at the feeling of your fingers grazing him through denim.
Instead, he re-situates it against his chest so that you can feel his heartbeat where it hammers under skin, against flesh and bone. “This is all yours too,” he says, voice so low it reverberates in your skull.
“All of it — all of me. Don’t gotta worry your pretty little head with anythin’ anyone else has to say about the matter. Got it?”
His words are spoken with so much conviction that you have no choice but to believe them, to let them stick in your brain like anchors in sand: deep and immovable.
Yours, yours, yours.
And nobody else’s.
“Yeah,” you smile into the column of his neck, inhaling his scent: mostly him, but with notes of you.
“Got it.”
It’s two weeks later when she makes a move on him: the woman with the perm. Joel is taken aback by her boldness, with you just a few feet away, digging your key into the lock of your mailbox.
“You must work with your hands,” she purrs, grabbing one of his wrists and examining his calloused fingers with such little integrity, his mouth actually slips open at the unabashedness of it all.
“Uh-”
“I’m Sheila,” she hums, raking her fingers through tight, blonde curls. “And you are?”
“Joel,” he grunts noncommittally. Wrenches his arm back. He doesn’t miss the way her eyebrows twitch in offense.
But she’s insatiable, this woman. She bounces back like a rubber band, not-so-subtly pushing her breasts together, the zip of her sweatshirt slipping down an inch and her mouth curving into a salacious grin.
You just about stop dead in your tracks when you round the corner to the lobby, junk mail in hand, and see her, her body turned towards Joel’s, chest pushed out and hip popped. She has a bedazzled tote bag full of groceries slung over her shoulder, a head of leafy greens poking out the top.
“Hi neighbor!” she smiles mockingly at you, all lipstick-stained teeth, when you sidle up to Joel. “I was just telling your friend here what nice, strong arms he has.” She’s not looking at you, eyes locked firmly on Joel’s biceps, nearly drooling at the sight of him.
Heat spools behind your ears, red-hot.
“Not her friend,” Joel corrects before you can. “‘M her boyfriend.”
“Oh,” she says. “Boyfriend.” Her lips wrap loosely around the word, like it’s some fanciful thing. “You’re too old to be someone’s boyfriend.”
Joel takes a step away from her, closer to you, and splays a steadying hand across your back. “Man-friend, then.”
You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because this entire conversation is fucking awkward.
Sheila pays you no attention.
“Well,” she sighs, overtly staring at the exposed skin of Joel’s chest, where the top two buttons of his flannel are undone, “Joel, if you’re ever lookin’ for a good meal, I’m just next door.” She flits her eyes up to his and smirks. “Know a big man like you has gotta eat.”
Your vision blurs scarlet.
Joel is equally as infuriated. The disrespect of this woman, to so openly flirt with him in front of you. His fists ball tightly at his sides.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he gruffs. “Anyway, nice to meet ya ma’am-“
“Sheila,” she reminds him.
“Sheila,” he repeats, only to appease her. He turns to you, squeezing your waist affectionately. “We should probably get goin’, right sweetheart?”
You’re still fuming, barely able to register Joel’s voice next to you through the thick haze of pure fury clouding your mind, but you manage to nod, spit out a hurried yeah.
And with that, Joel is turning on his heels, pulling you with him toward the elevators. You don’t dare look back at her, but you can feel her eyes boring a hole in the back of your head.
Her footfall fades into the mailroom and you breathe a minuscule sigh of relief. At least she’s out of your sight.
“Please just move in with me,” Joel begs when you’re finally behind closed metal doors, the inspection plaque situated above the buttons suddenly extremely interesting as you try to focus on not thinking about setting this woman’s apartment on fire.
You’ve talked about living together a few times. It’s just — you’ve never considered it so seriously until right now.
“I can’t let them win,” you mutter, agitated.
You hate how they’ve made you feel, like you’re some helpless animal tucked in the corner, hiding from them. Just waiting for the next ambush.
With the passing of each floor, your anger simmers, bubbles into a silent rage in your stomach, one which threatens to boil over at the next underestimation of Joel’s devotion to you. You need to make it known, once and for all, that he’s yours.
Words from your grandmother play on a loop in your head, ones she repeated to you often when you were a child: if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.
And then you have a thought — a devious thought — maybe you don’t have to say anything to get your point across. Not to them, anyway.
Your mouth is on Joel the second you’re back inside the four walls of your own apartment, slotting against his pulse point and sucking a desperate bruise there.
He’s not expecting it — why would he be? You’ve just been seething the entire elevator ride up to your floor, the entire walk down the long, winding hallway to your unit. He’d practically been able to see the steam billowing from your ears.
So the switch-up is more than a bit dizzying, to say the least.
“Whoa, darlin’,” he pants, his large hands draping over your shoulders. “What are you-”
“Joel.” Your voice is stern; it demands his attention. “Do you trust me?”
Your hand trails down his body languidly, in a straight line to the waistband of his jeans. And fuck, of course he trusts you — more than anyone. But this is wrong, fucked up, for you to make him feel good when you’ve been made to feel so small these past few minutes.
Still, his cock doesn’t get the memo, twitching in his jeans as you place another open-mouthed kiss on the underside of his jaw, your fingers beginning to fiddle with his belt buckle.
You give him no choice with the way you’re touching him, the way you’re looking at him when you pull back, all pleading eyes and parted mouth, but to resign all protest. He’ll give you the world, and if right now you want to use his body to blow off some steam, who is he to complain about it?
“Yeah baby, of course,” he breathes. “What do you need?”
You smirk at him audaciously, tongue smoothing over your teeth. “Need you to be loud,” you purr. Your voice is so innocent in juxtaposition to the words you spew. It sends a chill down the column of his spine. “Let them know who makes you feel good.”
He nearly cums in his pants untouched, grasps at the fabric of your shirt with clumsy hands and nods. “Fuck, okay.”
His belt falls to the floor with a clang.
He lets you take control, then. Lets you mark him with your tongue and your teeth, lets you back him to the door with deft fingers working his shirt buttons open before sinking to your knees in front of him, freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his jeans and boxers.
It’s already weeping for you when you pull it out, precum beading at the tip. He’s so big, growing heavier in your hand with each passing second, and you lose yourself for a moment, hypnotized by him.
“Always so eager to please me, aren’t you, pretty girl?” Joel’s voice pulls you back to earth, soft and adoring.
“Louder,” you remind him. Plant a kiss right over top of his leaking slit.
“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. One of his hands flies to the crown of your head, anchoring himself with fingers in your hair. “Dirty fucking girl.”
His voice fills the entranceway, confident and filthy.
“Mmm,” you hum approvingly.
“Yeah? You want me to tell ‘em? Tell ‘em you’re making my cock drool for you? That nobody — shit-” You enclose your lips around his tip, suckling on it as your fingers wrap around the base of his length and you begin to stroke him lazily. “-that nobody has ever made me feel this good?”
Footsteps echo down the hallway and the sound makes you reflexively pause, your hand stiling on Joel’s cock. It’s followed by the jingling of metal, the click of a key in a lock, the opening and closing of a door — all close enough that you can pinpoint the source, can tell where exactly it’s coming from.
Sheila is home.
Perfect.
It’s probably worrying how excited it makes you, the prospect of her hearing, of her sitting alone in her apartment, at her empty dining table, and listening to Joel fall apart at your hands. Maybe they’ve driven you to and over the edge of sanity with their words, her most of all. Regardless, you can’t help the way it makes your cunt flutter around nothing.
You lick a slow stripe up the underside of Joel’s cock, starting just above his balls and dragging the flat of your tongue up, up, up to his tip. His breath shudders, his grip on your hair tightening, and the subtle sting at the center of your scalp gives you another idea.
“Go ahead,” you encourage, unhinging your jaw as wide as it can go, letting your tongue droop over your bottom lip.
Saliva pools in your waiting mouth and Joel groans at the sight of you, so malleable for him, begging to be used.
“You sure?”
It’s not that he doesn’t think you can handle it. He knows you can. You’ve taken him down your throat more times than he can count. Always so fucking eager to please him, you are — just one of the many reasons he feels so goddamn lucky, so infuriated that anyone would think otherwise.
But still, he can’t help but worry that he’ll hurt you.
You nod, eyes locked on him, confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt that you want this. He nods back, beginning to feed his cock into your mouth, easing it in slowly and halting when his head hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag.
You don’t pull away, don’t show any indication of displeasure. In fact, you dig your fingers into the meat of his thighs, bearing down on him as you push forward. Mascara tears stain your cheeks as you choke on him, laser-focused on relaxing your throat so that you can accommodate more of his length.
Joel pulls back, retreating entirely before pushing in again. He slowly increases his pace, your eyes hooded, so doelike and innocent, as his cockhead bruises your larynx.
The sounds he’s pulling from your mouth are absurdly lewd: muffled gags and frantic inhales of breath. And then there’s him, moaning wildly, not sure if he’d be able to shut up even if he needed to be quiet. Your mouth is good, too fucking good and he’s going to — fuck, he’s going to cum if you don’t stop.
He pulls out abruptly, a string of drool and precum tethering the tip of his cock to your swollen bottom lip. You’re panting, coughing, still bracing yourself against his legs when you fucking smile up at him.
“Christ,” he says. “Fuckin’ angel, you are. Mouth feels like goddamn heaven.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I need to cum in that perfect little cunt,” he breathes, pulling a strangled moan from the back of your rawed throat.
He helps you up, spins you around to face the door. You brace both hands on the wood, humming as he pulls your pants down to your knees. His breath is on the back of your neck, trailing up to the shell of your ear with one whisper just for you, because he can’t help it.
“So fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”
You shiver, responding with a tilt of your head, inviting him in with a needy little mewl. He cradles your face in one of his large hands, the other rubbing over the curve of your ass as he kisses you passionately, tasting himself on your tongue.
The hand on your ass trails lower as he deepens the kiss, two fingers pressing against your clothed seam. You’ve all but soaked through the fabric, wet cotton molding to his knuckles as he caresses them along your pussy before pulling your panties down in one swift motion.
You whine into the kiss, desperate and dripping for him. “Please,” you breathe against his lips. “I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.”
“Know you will,” he coos, mouth parting from yours as he straightens out and lines himself up with your entrance. You arch your back, rocking onto the balls of your feet as he teases you with the tip.
His cock is so thick when it finally notches into you. It’s always so devastatingly thick, no matter how wet you are for him. The stretch stings, a jolt of warm pain coursing through your walls as he stills halfway in.
“You okay?” he asks, one hand resting at the small of your back, the other on your hip, fingers gripping to you only tight enough to hold you in place.
“Yes, fuck — yes,” you whine. “Need you to fuck me, Joel.”
“I’m goin’ to baby, don’t worry,” 'he promises, pushing in another splitting inch. “Pussy’s so goddamn tight, ‘ts suckin’ me right in.”
It feels like hours pass with Joel’s cock motionless inside your aching cunt, his warm breath fanning across your back as he focuses on not cumming. You’re whimpering, begging under the weight of his body, to please just fucking move.
When he finally obliges you, pulling all the way out and then bottoming out in one deep thrust, it nearly punches the air out of your chest. You scrabble for purchase on the door, fingernails scraping against chipped paint. “F-uucckk,” you moan, eyes rolling back in your head as he sets a dizzying pace.
The sound of his balls slapping against the back of your thighs is enough to attract attention on its own, the loud smacksmacksmack going straight to your cunt. Joel growls behind you, driving into you even harder, the tip of his cock brushing against your g-spot.
“Oh, shit,” you cry. Your pussy inadvertently squeezes him and he curses at your back, low and deep.
“Not going to last if you keep doin’ that,” he warns. “Cunt is too fuckin’ good. Best I’ve ever — uuuhh — had.”
He’s not just saying it for show. It’s true. You know it is, too. He’s told you before, both under the influence of your pussy and not. Waited too many goddamn years to feel like this, he’d said once.
“It’s — fuck, it’s fine Joel,” you mutter. “I’m close too, just keep going, right there.”
A door across the hall creaks open. A pair of footsteps patter across tile.
Do you hear that?
Yeah; what is that noise?
Joel laughs darkly behind you, snaps his hips up, forcing a guttural moan out of you.
“Think they caught us, darlin’,” he says. “Caught you takin’ my cock like you’re fuckin’ made to.”
Oh my word!
Joel is unrelenting, pounding into you despite the voices right outside your apartment, and you fear for a moment that you’ve created a monster. One of his hands leaves its place on your waist, cracks down on the center of your asscheek with a slap, the flesh recoiling under his palm and you gasp.
The feeling travels between your legs, straight to your neglected clit. It pulsates under the hood with every pass of Joel’s cock over your g-spot, and you feel yourself hurtling toward the edge dangerously fast.
If these people don’t leave, they’re going to hear you cum. Do you want them to hear you cum? Yeah, you think, clit jumping again at the thought, I think I fucking do.
“Joel, fuck-”
“You gonna cum?” he goads. “Yeah, can feel you squeezin’ me — you’re gonna cum, aren’t ya?”
This is vulgar!
We should file a noise complaint. C’mon.
His hand snakes around your front then, finds your throbbing bud, and with a few passes of his calloused fingertips, you’re gone, vision whiting out and all noise around you muted.
Joel keeps you upright between him and the door, his grip on you tightening as your muscles slacken. He follows closely behind, cumming inside you with a carnal noise from the back of his throat, rope after rope of his spend filling your cunt.
He pulls out with a grunt, immediately collapsing on the floor. Without his support, you topple over too, falling onto his lap with a satiated giggle.
A banging comes from the other side of the wall then, shaking your kitchen cabinets a few feet away, the clanging of glassware jolting you.
Keep it down next time! I don’t need to hear that!
And then you’re laughing like teenagers, Joel pulling you in for a sloppy kiss, all tongues and teeth.
“Think they’re really gonna make a noise complaint?” Joel asks when you finally come up for air.
“I dunno,” you smile. “Does your offer still stand — for me to move in with you?”
“Always,” he vows, forehead resting against yours.
end notes: ty for reading! pls consider commenting or reblogging if you enjoyed <3
Hello everybody, first of all, I'm so sorry for disappear, I just started uni and it's killing me slowly:(
I have soooo many drafts waiting to be posted but I want them to be perfect for you, it's been a rough time for me, I've been dealing with social anxiety, stress and a lot of works, but I promise I'll be posting something very soon, thank you to all the new people that started following me and you're very welcome here, I love you all and take care of yourselves
feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART EIGHT
previous chapters | yall are absolutely fucking incredible. truly. i never could have ever expected the response to the last chapter and i'm so so SO grateful to everyone who's been contributing their thoughts and theories over the past week. your engagement and passion for this story means the world to me. so many people wanted so many different things for this chapter and i know i can't please everybody, but i hope this satisfies most of you. thank you so much for being here and for loving this story. here's my kofi if you'd like to leave a tip 💕
chapter summary: you don't know what to think after catching joel at the bar. tasha wants to help in the best she knows how - getting fucked up.
rating: 18+ explicit
warnings: age difference (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early 20s), innocent/inexperienced reader, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, mentions of religion, catholic guilt, sexual assault (nothing to do w joel), alcohol, almost penetration
word count: 13.6k
ao3
You've never felt like this before.
Tasha practically has to drag you into a cab, gripping tight to your hand with an arm around your back as she gives the driver the address of where you're both staying. He barely bats an eye to the fact that you're practically inconsolable, tears streaming steadily down your face as you gasp and sob and stare at the floor with wide eyes. He's probably picked up countless passengers in similar situations and it's not like you can bring yourself to feel any sort of embarrassment over it.
"Shh," she soothes you, still rubbing your back and peering down at you with empathy in her eyes, an expression that somehow makes you feel even worse - she'd told you this might happen. She'd known all along, but you hadn't wanted to believe anything she said about the lack of definition in your relationship with Joel. You'd chosen to believe differently, believe that he was different than the guys your friends have encountered.
How could you have been so stupid?
It's your own fault you're even in this position now, crying in the back of a cab while Joel makes out with some woman in a bar you don't belong in. Your own fault for putting any ounce of faith in someone else for once, for choosing to be blind to the obvious - of course he doesn't want you. Of course you're not his priority. You're not his girlfriend. You're his fuck buddy. You're a warm body and nothing more.
You don't speak for the entire drive, just cry and try desperately to control your breathing. By the time you reach the Airbnb your throat hurts from the sobs, although throwing up on the sidewalk could also have something to do with it. You're just a mess, lightheaded and distant as Tasha guides you into the house and helps you settle on the couch.
"Stay here," she says softly, grabbing a throw blanket and carefully covering your loose and exhausted form, "I'm gonna go get some necessities, okay? This place doesn't have shit."
You nod slowly, just to let her know you acknowledge her words, though you're unsure exactly what necessities she's talking about. She reaches her hand down and strokes your cheek, still looking at you with that sad expression.
"I'm so sorry, honey," she repeats to you for probably the fortieth time in the past hour.
You close your eyes; you can't stand to see the pity on her face.
--
Tasha returns shortly after with her "necessities", which mainly consist of junk food and alcohol. You haven't moved an inch from where she'd left you, still laying on the couch with bloodshot eyes and a quivering mouth. You listen as she busies herself in the kitchen, putting together some sort of snack platter for the both of you that you already know you won't eat. You're not hungry. You've never been less hungry in your life.
"You were right," you finally manage to croak out as she seats herself beside you on the couch, placing the food on the coffee table and turning to you with that familiar look of pity, "He's just like the rest of them."
She shakes her head, "No, that's not true, I never said that," she rips open a bag of chips and starts munching, seemingly lost in thought.
"Oh, we're gaslighting now, are we?"
She raises an eyebrow, "Girlie, tell me when I said what you just said."
"Boys are mean," you quote hastily, turning a bit on the couch to stare up at the ceiling.
"Yes, it's true. Boys are mean. And so are men," she sighs then, dropping the chips back on the table, "Look, I'm not defending him, I promise, but-"
"Tasha," you state coldly, still staring at the ceiling, "Do not continue that sentence."
"You don't even know what I'm gonna say."
"Yes, I do," you shut your eyes and bring your hands to cover your face, feeling the tears starting up again, "You're gonna tell me we never defined what we had, that he was never my boyfriend, that this can't constitute as cheating because there was no relationship to begin with."
She's quiet but you can still feel her looking at you with that sadness, that sympathy, the look of someone who's been here before and knows how it feels. And it makes you so angry. Because-
"Joel wasn't supposed to do this," you continue, softer now, voice shaky as the tears flow down your temples and into your hair, "He's not a boy, he's not like the guys you date. He- he was different, I-" you choke, throat tightening at the thought of him, the image of him with her at the front of your mind again, "I thought he- I thought that we-"
You can't continue, words turning into cries and sniffles turning into sobs. You feel Tasha's hand on your calf, stroking your skin gently despite the fact that you just criticized both her own judgement and her taste in men in the same breath.
"I'm not trying to hurt your feelings," she says soothingly, "That's the last thing I wanna do. If anything I'm trying to tell you that this doesn't necessarily make him an asshole."
You scoff at that, "Right. Makes sense," you finally pull your hands down to look at her through your tears, brow furrowing, "Tasha he was kissing her. That- that woman, he was- he touched her face."
"I know he did," she murmurs with a frown, eyes casting downward, "And I know it hurts, but-"
"But nothing," you find yourself tossing the blanket to the floor and standing up shakily, not bothering to even look at Tasha as you stomp toward the bedroom. "I don't need this right now," is the last thing you say before slamming the door behind you.
She doesn't follow you. This is the first time you've ever yelled at her, the first time you've ever felt truly mad at her, and even though you know deep down that this isn't her fault... you still feel betrayed. Betrayed by Tasha's nonchalance, betrayed by Joel's actions, but worst of all - betrayed by yourself.
Because how did you manage to get into this mess in the first place?
You practically rip the too-tight and too-short pink dress off your body and stagger to the bed, not even bothering to pull back the covers. You still feel sick, lightheaded and woozy as you press your face to the cool pillow and try to collect yourself. You can't get the image of the woman out of your head; you hadn't even seen her face and yet it's like she's somehow consuming every fiber of your being. All you can see behind your closed lids are those long, perfectly styled braids hitting her bare waist, skin a deep and rich brown that almost sparkled under the bar lights, the way her bare ankle traveled up and down his leg, the soft curve of her cheek as he'd cupped it in his hand-
A sob wracks through you and you pull the other pillow toward yourself, wrapping your legs and arms around it like a koala, remembering how less than twenty four hours ago you'd been in a bed just like this one - except it hadn't been a pillow you were cuddling. And now, what? Who's in that bed now? Another woman? That gorgeous woman who you don't stand a chance against?
You're sure Tasha can hear you crying but she doesn't come, staying in the living room and giving you the space you need. You already feel awful for snapping at her like that - you know she means well, that she's just trying to alleviate the situation in her own way, but you barely even know how you feel about it.
And how do you feel? Hurt? Sad? Angry? Of course you feel all of those things, to a degree you've never felt them before, but underlying all of those emotions is something else entirely, something you can't quite put your finger on - or would rather not put your finger on, because doing so would mean finally admitting something you're not sure you're ready to admit yet.
You try to think about your relationship with Joel up to this point, try and pinpoint the exact moment it went from being something frivolous to being something real, but you find that it's impossible to do so. For you, you could say the moment you walked past his threshold was when it became official. Or when he touched you for the first time. Or when he kissed you. When he made you come. When he called you his babygirl. When you touched his cock. When he put his mouth on your pussy. When you woke up this morning completely naked in his bed.
Any of those moments could have been the moment. But a gnawing voice in the back of your mind reminds you that any of those moments could have equally not been the moment as well. Maybe there was no moment. Maybe this really has just been a whole lot of nothing.
But then you think about the way he looks at you. The way he treats you.
The way he'd comforted and reassured you last night, held you, made you feel safe and secure - "If you just wanna lay here with me, that's okay too."
The way he'd shared his insecurities with you over the phone, been vulnerable, honest and open - "I don't want you to look at me differently".
The way he'd dressed up just in case your mother took you to your lesson, looking like he was ready to attend a church service, purposely putting himself in uncomfortable clothing to make sure things went smoothly - "I wanted to make a good impression."
The way he'd told you about his past on his back deck, related his own childhood to yours, tried to calm your own fears and tell you things would be okay - "You gotta focus on what's right for you, on livin' the life you want, not worryin' about what they'll think".
What did any of it mean? What does any of it mean? Has it just been sex this whole time or does he actually care about you? And if he does, why would he kiss someone else?
And what if he's been kissing someone else... fucking someone else... this entire time? What if it's not just you he's been seeing? The thought makes you want to throw up all over again.
You hear a peal of laughter from the other room, a sound that feels odd in the silence and sadness of the bedroom where you lie. Tasha must have put on a movie or something. You feel bitterness rise in your throat, a sudden urge to run out to the living room and grab the remote and toss it out the window, scream at her for finding something to laugh at when you're literally falling apart at the seams.
But the bitterness fades when you hear her laugh again; you love that laugh, have missed it ever since you came home. Tasha has always had such a free and fun way about her, a natural joy that you've always envied. You'd watched her go out night after night over the past three years, come home with the most bizarre stories that you were never able to fully relate to, and yet she always tried to include you in some way, ask you questions, make you laugh.
You remember the looks of shock you'd received from the other girls when you'd first shared that you were a virgin, that you'd never done anything except kiss. She'd sensed your discomfort immediately, seen your embarrassment, and had quickly flipped the conversation to something else more shocking, more embarrassing - at her own expense. Easier than flipping a light switch. And any time it was mentioned after that, she'd always emphasize how lucky you were, how she wished she'd taken her time, how all you were missing out on was bonehead losers who didn't know how to please a woman.
She's always reassured you, always listened, and has always been your number one fan, even when you had nothing to give. You'd told her all about your upbringing, about the way you'd begun to question everything, and she'd given you her own two cents and made you feel better for the first time in a long time. And when you'd told her you were coming home for the summer she'd said, "Are you sure that's gonna be okay for you?"
You trust her. So why are you in this room avoiding her? Why aren't you listening to what she has to say?
With heavy limbs you manage to climb off the bed and tug on your pajamas, wiping your eyes and letting the sadness and humility settle for just a moment. Yes, this is a fucked up situation. But Tasha wants to help you. Let her.
A few moments later you find yourself back on the couch, this time with Tasha's arm around you as she pours you a glass of wine and shakes away your apology. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she tells you softly, "You're upset, I get it."
You sigh deeply and take a sip, wincing at the bitterness but making no move to put it back on the table. "So," you murmur hoarsely, "Why is he not necessarily an asshole?"
--
You stay up late talking for hours about the situation and listening to Tasha's theories, most of which center around a lack of communication - based on her own personal experiences. She also has to factor in the fact that Joel is a lot older, a detail she's still beyond surprised over.
"I just can't believe he's fifty six," she faux whispers the number with wide eyes, shaking her head. "Like... this man knows things. How to take care of you, ya know? You're luckier than you realize."
"Lucky," you scoff, "Yeah, that's one way to describe how it feels."
She slaps your hand playfully, "I'm serious. This is yet another reason I think you just got your signals crossed here. I refuse to believe he's trying to hurt you, especially after how considerate he's been with you up until this point. If this was just about sex he would have dropped you ages ago, honey. I mean, no offense but you're not exactly making it easy for him, are you?"
She's certainly blunt. But she's also right. Joel has been nothing but patient with you this entire time, never expecting anything more than what you've been willing to give. If it was just about sex, this thing between the two of you wouldn't have gone beyond that first day in his house when you'd told him you were a virgin.
You slowly begin to come to the conclusion that you should give him the benefit of the doubt. As much as what you saw hurts, as much as it makes you want to crawl in bed and never get up, you were never Joel's girlfriend. There was never an establishing conversation, never a moment where you laid your heart on the line and told him exactly what you wanted, mainly because you haven't been sure what you wanted up until this point. But now you do.
"Communication," Tasha repeats for maybe the fifth time, "Communication is key. He doesn't know what you want, so you need to tell him. You need to stand up for yourself. And if he doesn't take you seriously, you move on. Simple."
"Simple," you echo, your third glass of wine already getting to you as you peer at her hazily with an upturned brow, "Communication."
"Communication," she repeats, "Simple."
Communication. Simple.
It's what echoes in your head over and over after your head hits the pillow that night, and continues to repeat the following morning as Tasha rouses you from sleep to get you ready for your "lesson". You don't feel as hungover as you'd expected - "That's because we didn't get totally fucked up like we were supposed to," Tasha says to you with a roll of her eyes - but your face is puffy from all the crying.
You're splashing your face with cold water when you hear Tasha call out, "Hey, I think you have a text."
Heart pounding in your chest you run back to the bedroom and grab your phone from the nightstand, the first time you've checked it since you got back from the bar. Your eyes go wide when you see not just one but two texts from Joel. One from last night, around midnight:
Hope you're having a good night, babygirl. You deserve to have some fun. I'll see you tomorrow. Be safe.❤️
And one from this morning, around seven:
You get home ok? Let me know x
"Don't text him back," Tasha advises over your shoulder, "Keep him sweating a bit, you're leaving soon anyway."
You nod slowly, still staring at the messages, especially the one from last night. When had he sent that? Had he still been at the bar? Still with her? Did he take her home? That familiar sadness and betrayal from last night bubbles in your throat again, tears pricking in your eyes.
No. You will not cry anymore.
You let your phone fall onto the bed and turn on the spot, marching back to the bathroom like a woman on a mission.
"Tasha, make me fucking hot."
--
The Plan: Go to your lesson with Joel. Talk to him about what you saw. Tell him how you feel. And look good doing it.
Communication. Simple. It certainly seems easier said than done; you've never been very good at communication. Your whole life has been spent suppressing your true feelings and your true self for crying out loud - the concept of being completely vulnerable and honest with someone is terrifying. But you know that it's necessary for your heart, and you also know that if you're going to be able to be vulnerable with anyone, it's Joel. He's already seen glimpses of the broken parts of you, not to mention seen you completely naked. How much harder can it get?
And nothing can be worse than how you felt last night.
Tasha essentially makes you her very own doll for the majority of the morning - doing your makeup, styling your hair, choosing your outfit - and you're surprised to find that you don't hate any of it, have no notes or critiques or changes to make. You stand in the bathroom staring at yourself in the mirror with your eyebrows raised, lips parted in admiration at a job well done.
"I look good," you say with a smile, and Tasha grins at your reflection, "I mean it, Tasha. Like, I still look like me, but..."
"All I did was accentuate what you already have, my love," she replies, reaching forward to fix a piece of hair that's not sitting quite right, "You're just a gorgeous human, inside and out."
You can't help but feel touched at her words, lips turning down into a pout as your hands come up to touch your heart, "Tasha-"
She waves you away, shaking her head, "Bitch, do not get sappy on me right now. Save those doe eyes for Mr. Miller."
Twenty minutes later you're winding through the suburban streets of your neighborhood. You're about half an hour early; Tasha had wanted you to be fashionably late but there's only so much of yourself you can alter in such a short amount of time, your punctuality being one of them. You figure you'll just drive around for a bit to build up your courage, plan out your words.
Joel, I saw you at the bar last night. I saw the woman. And I'm not mad, I'm just....
Joel, my feelings were really hurt last night...
Joel, I can't believe you would kiss another woman after everything we've been doing. Do I not mean anything to you at all? Do I-
Nothing really seems like the right thing to say. You figure once you're standing in front of him the words will just come naturally, flow easily in a way that makes sense and articulates your feelings properly. You can only hope.
You've still got about fifteen minutes before your lesson but you figure there's no point in continuing to circle the area - you're just delaying the inevitable. With a heavy sigh and a few quiet words of encouragement directed at your rearview mirror, you turn onto Joel's street, gripping the wheel tightly and trying to keep your breathing as even as possible. You can do this. You can do this.
You're a few houses down from his when you see it.
Panic turns to shock. Shock turns to confusion. Confusion turns to anger. Anger turns to sadness.
You're already pressing Tasha's number in your contacts before you can fully collect your thoughts.
"What is it? Did you go in?"
"There's a car in his driveway," you hiss through your teeth, feeling the tears spring to your eyes again, your hand coming up to cover your mouth, "She stayed the fucking night, Tasha. He fucking slept with her."
"You don't know that," Tasha replies quickly, calmly, already trying to calm you down, "Maybe it's his, maybe he has another car."
"He doesn't have another car, Tasha," your voice is stoic despite the lump in your throat, "He has his truck and that's it. Joel Miller doesn't drive a purple fucking convertible."
"A purple convertible?" Tasha repeats, voice faltering now, processing the information, "Jesus Christ."
You stare at the driveway, at the car in question - you're still a few houses down so it's hard to see any specific details, but you're sure you can make out a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror inside. This is definitely not Joel's vehicle by any means. Your stomach is in knots, unsure what the fuck you're supposed to do now; you'd thought briefly of the possibility that he'd slept with her, and up until this moment you'd been prepared to hear him admit it to you. But you hadn't expected it to really be true, to almost come face to face with the woman herself.
"I don't understand," Tasha suddenly says on the other line, "He knows you're coming for your lesson, why the fuck would he still have her in the house?"
"I don't know," your voice is almost a whisper, thick with sadness and disbelief, "I- oh shit." You cut yourself off and sink deep into your front seat when you catch the front door of his house opening, eyes going wide as you watch two figures emerge out onto the front step.
"What's happening?" Tasha asks frantically - you can practically hear her pacing on the other end, "Talk to me!"
"They're coming out!" you hiss, "They're on the fucking front step."
"Oh, honey, you gotta leave. You're not gonna wanna see this, you need to just turn around and come back," her voice is full of disappointment, anger that mirrors your own, "I'm serious, this is just-"
"Shhh," you peer over the dashboard at them, squinting against the sun. You can make out Joel's broad back in the early morning light, can recognize one of his band t-shirts and his signature bedhead, pointing in all directions. You can see him, but it's difficult to make out the figure he's with, his body blocking her almost entirely from you. "I think she's leaving."
You watch with a mix of rage and horror as he suddenly leans down and wraps his arms around her, her own winding around his broad form as her hands interlock together behind his back. Your eyebrows raise in confusion, mouth dropping open.
"It's not the same woman," you whisper.
"What do you mean it's not the same woman?"
"Literally that," you breathe, shaking your head and feeling a few tears begin to make their way down your cheeks, "It's not the one from last night, it's someone else."
"How do you know?"
"Because the woman last night was black and this girl isn't, I can see her arms," you snap, a sob threatening to burst its way past your lips, "And this one's shorter, he has to bend down to hug her."
"To hug her?!" Tasha echoes, "What the fuck?"
You watch as they separate from one another, watch with rage burning in your chest as she walks down the steps toward her car. You can see her better now, get a good look at her in the few seconds it takes her to reach the driver's side door. She's wearing a pink dress, frilled at the bottom with a pair of white sandals - she looks young. You're already redacting your prior statement about her not being black - now that she's properly in view, you can see the brown softness of her skin, her afro textured hair plaited neatly into two rows. But it's not the same woman.
"So, what, he had two girls in one night? Is that what you're telling me?" Tasha is saying in your ear while you continue to stare at the woman, watch her open the car door and climb inside with one last wave to Joel, "Hello?"
"I - I don't know. I'm-" you watch Joel wave to her and then head back inside the house, presumably to wait for you to arrive. Your stomach is tight and painful, bile in your throat all over again. "You were right," you whisper, tears cascading down onto your bare legs, "I didn't need to see this."
--
So much for not crying anymore.
You're back on the couch again, wrapped up like a burrito staring at the wall while Tasha paces back and forth around the living room in front of you, talking a mile a minute.
"It was a whole different story when it was just the one girl," she's ranting, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed in anger, "But two? Two girls. In one fucking night. And one of them is half his age," she scoffs, almost a growl, "So what, he just does this in his spare time? Fucks around with girls' hearts and bodies and then acts like some tough, macho contractor with a busy schedule? Please."
You don't need to remind her that you're also half his age - you know she'd come up with a reason why you're different, why you're the exception. And you do appreciate that, but the more she talks the more you're starting to realize that maybe that's never been the case. Maybe you weren't some beautiful coincidence that wandered into Joel's life - maybe he's been doing this for a long time.
Your gaze follows her as she walks around, pacing the same circle over and over again around the coffee table; it's typical Tasha - you've seen her do this on numerous occasions before, but never on your behalf. Your phone suddenly vibrates on the table and your heads both snap toward it, plunging the room into silence. You already know it's him - who else would be texting you this early? You reach over and unlock it, eyes scanning the message:
Where are you?
"He's wondering why I haven't shown up," you say quietly, voice still hoarse from all the crying.
"What a fucking prick. Do not reply," she resumes her pacing, "Two girls the night before he's supposed to have a date with you. Who does that? Who actually does that? Men, that's who. Men do that. I'm swearing off them forever after this. Seriously, I mean it. What the fuck."
You appreciate her concern, appreciate that she's no longer arguing on Joel's behalf, but her words cut you deep regardless. The whole situation still feels surreal. How is it that just over twenty four hours ago he was kissing you softly, sweetly, peering at you with those beautiful brown eyes and telling you he had something special planned for your lesson? What had he wanted to try, a fucking threesome?
"I don't know him at all," you whisper softly, sadly, "I never did. He's a stranger. A complete stranger who I was stupid enough to trust."
Your words seem to touch something in Tasha. She stops her pacing, slowly turns toward you with that empathetic look again and then carefully steps toward the couch, sitting down on the end.
"He just... he was there," you continue, lip trembling, "My parents were being so controlling and I was literally thinking about just... just leaving, finding some way to get back to campus without them knowing and then I heard that fucking guitar and-" you hiccup through a sob, clutching your hand to your chest, "I should've known then. I should've just kept walking. He asked me to come in, Tasha. He wanted to fuck me, then and there. And when I said no I guess I... I became some sort of challenge. Just a stupid, naïve little Catholic girl he could fuck and dump. And I fell for it, hook line and sinker."
She places a hand on your calf, just like she had last night, stroking gently up and down, "You're not stupid," she murmurs, "You're just a girl. A girl experiencing something really special for the first time. And I'm sorry he took that experience from you."
You manage to smile at her, soft and sincere. Despite everything, it feels good to have a friend, to not be alone when you're feeling like this. To be validated and comforted. You have no idea how you'd be processing all of this without Tasha by your side, if you'd have even been able to leave your bed this morning.
"This is so not what I wanted this weekend to be," she suddenly sighs, putting her head in her hands, "I wanted you to have fun, be free. And here you are feeling like shit about yourself. It's not fair."
She's right. It's not fair.
You take a deep breath, then carefully pry yourself out from underneath your blanket, rolling off the couch and coming to stand in front of Tasha with a determined expression on your face.
"You didn't dress me to the nines just for me to cry and feel sorry for myself on the couch," you say confidently, doing your best to wipe away your tears without completely smearing away Tasha's hard work, "I don't wanna think about Joel anymore. I don't wanna cry about Joel anymore. You know what I wanna do?"
She looks up at you, a grin slowly spreading across her face, "Go have fun and be free?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely."
--
You never thought you'd be the kind of person to go day drinking, but here you are. Tasha had fixed your makeup and then gotten all dolled up herself, ready for a whole day of doing exactly what you'd both set out to do this weekend: have fun.
Your first stop is a little bistro within walking distance of the Airbnb; you already know that neither of you will be fit to drive by the time this is all over, so you stick to places that are relatively close to the house. As you sip your cocktails and dig into a plate of sandwiches, Tasha informs you that she'd purposely booked this house in particular because of its proximity to the local club scene - you're not surprised in the slightest.
Your phone vibrates a few times while you're eating but you don't check it, forcing yourself to avoid reading anything else Joel has to say to you. It's only when it actually rings, two cocktails deep and plate empty, that you briefly consider picking it up.
"Nope," Tasha says, grabbing the phone from you and canceling the call before you can answer, "No more Joel today, we agreed."
"No more Joel," you repeat, nodding. You let her slip your phone into her own purse after putting it on silent - you know she'll keep it safe, and you know it's for the best.
--
You spend the majority of the afternoon popping in and out of local bars and boutiques, shopping and chatting to your hearts content as your body adjusts to the constant thrum of alcohol running through your system, making your head a bit foggy in the best way. It's like nothing really matters except this moment, right now, the beat of live music here and there as the sun gets lower in the sky, the conversations drifting past, the smell of food wafting out of restaurants. Tasha is a constant presence at your side, arm linked with yours as she dishes on all the drama of her life you've missed thus far this summer.
You don't think about Joel.
It's obvious throughout your little adventures throughout the day that people - particularly men - gravitate to Tasha very easily. You're not sure if it's simply because of how gorgeous she is - all curves and plump lips and dark curls down to her waist, purple cowboy hat askew above her perfectly applied makeup - or because she's simply a light. She's so bubbly and completely herself, smiling and laughing and dancing, never apologetic or ashamed. It feels good to have a girl like that in your corner, helping you out of your shell, only wanting what's best for you.
You realize as the day passes that you're beginning to mimic her behavior a bit. Whether it's due to the alcohol or your admiration for her, you're not sure, but either way you can feel yourself loosening up, allowing yourself to be more uninhibited, less insecure, not caring if people are looking at you. And people are definitely starting to look at you.
"Dude over there is staring at you," Tasha says quietly to you as you sip margaritas on the back deck of a country bar. You're now wearing her cowboy hat, stolen it after what can only be described as a predictable turn of events where she'd rode the mechanical bull and lost it in one particularly hard buck. You'd picked it up off the floor and placed it on your head, laughing hysterically as the bull threatened to launch Tasha across the room.
"Where?" your eyes go wide as you take a long sip, waiting for her to point him out. She nods at something behind you and you do your best to slowly turn around, not wanting to be too obvious. In your drunken state, however, it's not very smooth. You almost topple off the chair as you spin in place to find who she's talking about.
Through your laughter you spot him. Typical young Texan - floppy blonde hair and a strong jawline, sun-kissed skin and a white smile that practically glimmers against the sunset. He nods to you when he sees you looking, tilts his head to the side a bit and winks.
You turn back to Tasha, shaking your head, "He is not looking at me," you feel your skin heating up, not just from the alcohol, "There's no way."
"He is looking at you," Tasha reiterates, placing her empty glass down on the table, "You're fucking hot."
Your mind can't help but flash back to freshman year, that godforsaken party when another boy with a similar appearance had looked your way. The hope you'd felt, the desire, the confidence... all of it fading when he approached and chose your friend to talk to instead, not even bothering to glance your way despite standing right there beside her. You can't help but worry that it's happening all over again.
But then you hear a deep voice behind you, southern and sexy: "Pardon me, but I just had to tell you, I think you're the prettiest girl I ever saw."
Your eyes widen and you spin back around, still half expecting him to be talking to Tasha, not you, but his green eyes connect with yours instead. His gaze holds you there, your lips parting with no words coming out as you stare up at him in shock.
"She was just telling me that you're not so bad yourself," Tasha offers with a smile, nudging you under the table with her heel, "Right?"
"R-right," you manage to stammer out, still staring open-mouthed at this gorgeous specimen that has somehow decided that you're the girl he wants to talk to right now. The prettiest girl he ever saw.
He smiles at that, toothy and beautiful, "I'm Noah," he puts his hand out for you to take and you do, grasping it tightly and trying to hold on to the reality of this moment, the way his soft skin feels against yours, the way your brain is buzzing with amazement - and tequila.
Tasha's foot hits your ankle again and you quickly splutter out your name, releasing his hand and awkwardly placing yours back in your lap. You feel the bare skin of your thigh and you're suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are right now - this dress certainly doesn't leave much up to the imagination. Your thighs and breasts are practically spilling out of it, pink material clinging to your body. But he isn't looking at any of that - he's looking at your face.
"It's real nice to meet you," he says with another smile, "Can I buy you a drink?" he suddenly looks at Tasha, like he's only just remembered she's sitting there, "And one for your friend too, of course."
"She'd love one," Tasha answers for you, nudging her arm against yours gently, "We'll both have another margarita."
Noah nods once, sets his gaze to your face again with a smile, then disappears inside the bar to go order the drinks.
The second he's gone it's like you're released from some sort of spell he'd put you under. Your heart is suddenly pounding in your chest, breaths coming shorter as you turn to Tasha with utter horror.
"What happened to swearing off all men?" you hiss, brow furrowing.
"Please, Noah isn't a man, he's a boy," she scoffs with a smile, twirling her hair between her fingers, "And I know alllll about boys."
--
You don't know how it happens, somehow lost the plot about halfway into your second margarita, but Noah is going to the club with you.
You are drunk. You know this for a fact. You hadn't been expecting to already feel this fucked up upon setting foot in the club but here you are, Tasha on one arm and Noah on the other. Tasha's had just as much to drink as you but doesn't seem anywhere near as intoxicated as you feel, continuing to be her excitable self when the bass drops and the neon lights start to dance across her skin. She's stolen back her cowboy hat but you've somehow gained your own - you think it might be Noah's.
"LET'S DANCE!" she screeches, pulling you away from Noah and dragging you onto the dance floor. You watch with slightly blurred vision as he goes in the opposite direction, toward the bar, probably to order more drinks.
The music is loud, the dance floor full of people, bodies swaying back and forth, people jumping up and down, grinding on one another, screaming conversations over the heavy bass. The lights are bright and it feels like all of your senses have been heightened, like you can feel, taste, see, and hear everything in your immediate vicinity to the utmost degree. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but you can feel it in other places too - your feet, your kneecaps, your skin.
"I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG!" Tasha screams to you, throwing her hands up in the air and spinning on the spot, smile wide and joyous as she starts to dance, "DANCE WITH ME, COME ON!"
Your senses are overloading but you try your best to match her energy, copy her movements, focus on just this instead of everything else that's going on around you. This is what you've been missing all these years; this is what you've been waiting to experience. Enjoy it. You let your inhibitions flow and just exist in this moment, having fun with your best friend, far away from anyone who would ever judge you for being here. Far away from your parents and your neighbors and Bethany and -
No. You do not think about Joel.
You and Tasha dance to about three songs before she's tugging you away from the dance floor and over to the bar, back to where Noah is leaning with a beer bottle perched against his lips. He smiles when he sees you approaching, gestures to the little mini drinks beside him, small enough to only have about a thumb of liquid in each.
"Shots!" Tasha squeals, clapping her hands together, "Shots, shots, shots!" She picks one up and hands it to you, then grabs her own, "Come on, Noah, do one with us!"
Noah still can't seem to keep his eyes off you, though you've begun to notice that he's no longer just looking at your face anymore. This time his eyes fall to your breasts as he puts down his beer bottle and replaces it with one of the shot glasses, gaze falling down to your legs before finding your eyes again.
You catch a glint of something darker there, something seductive, and as you bring the glass to your lips you're suddenly aware that beneath the alcohol you feel a bit... uneasy.
--
You're fucked up. You're really fucked up.
Tasha doesn't leave your side, something you're extremely grateful for. You're starting to have difficulty seeing straight, even walking is becoming confusing, let alone dancing. You grip Tasha's shoulders tightly on the dance floor as you both sway to the music, unsure exactly how long it's been since you arrived at the club. She's looking at you with hazy eyes, much drunker now than she was earlier, and your very intoxicated brain is wondering if you're actually going to leave at some point or whether you're just stuck here for the rest of eternity.
You can feel Noah against your back. He's grinding against you to the song, hands on your hips as his groin presses firmly into your ass. It's weird, being in a Tasha-Noah sandwich that you didn't really sign up for. You're too drunk to really know what you want, actually. You feel fine having Tasha this close, feel safe in her embrace, but Noah's presence is starting to make you feel a bit uncomfortable.
"I'm really drunk," you slur, but it's too quiet for either Tasha or Noah to hear you. Tasha just nods as if she understands, head tilting back and mouth popping open as another song begins. She mouths something, probably I love this song, something she's said about ten times tonight.
Noah pulls you in closer, almost like he's tugging you away from Tasha, but your voice is too faint under the music for your protests to be heard. His arms come up to wrap around your middle, and you feel the unmistakable shape of his cock dip down between your cheeks through your dress. At first you think maybe it's unintentional, but then he does it again, and again, like he's using your body to get himself off. On the fucking dance floor.
"Let go of me," you breathe, but it's lost to the music. You watch as Tasha gets further away, your arms dropping completely from her shoulders as she turns and starts to spin on the spot, still staring up at the ceiling, unaware of what's happening. "Stop," you mumble, feeling his clothed cock rub against you again, a sensation you're now familiar with but certainly not in this context. And certainly not with someone who isn't Joel Miller.
The thought of Joel is what does it.
"STOP," you practically scream, yanking yourself away from him and taking a few heavy steps back, shaking your head frantically, "DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME."
A few people are turning to look and Noah seems more than embarrassed, hands going up quickly. He's drunk too, you can see it in his face, in his eyes, but you already know he's certainly not the harmless young Texan you thought he was. That feeling of unease earlier sure as hell hadn't been the alcohol talking.
You feel a hand at your waist and you flinch but only for a second, gaze coming to rest on Tasha who's now standing beside you with a look of pure horror on her face.
"What'd he do?" she asks, voice panicked and quick, almost like she's not even drunk anymore, "Are you okay?"
You nod but you can feel tears in your eyes, threatening to spill over at any second. Your ears are ringing like they had last night, but it's different this time, almost like you're underwater as Tasha grips your arm and leads you toward the front of the club, away from the loud music and drunk people. Away from Noah.
"Oh my fucking god, I am so sorry," her voice is shaking with emotion when you get out onto the street, hand holding tight to your arm, "I didn't even notice what he was doing. Jesus fucking Christ," she pulls out her phone and dials the number for a cab - through your bleary eyes you see a few teardrops dribble down the bridge of her nose, "We're going home, I'm so sorry, honey."
"S'okay," you manage to garble out through your tears, flowing heavily now in your drunken state, "It happened really fast."
"Doesn't make it okay," she replies, bringing the phone to her ear.
No, it doesn't.
--
"I want Joel," you whisper through your tears once you're settled in the back seat of the cab, Tasha beside you with her hand resting soothingly on your arm.
"I want Joel," you repeat, words slurred as your hands come up to cover your face, "I don't wanna go home. I want Joel."
"We can't go to Joel's," Tasha murmurs, stroking your arm, "It's almost three in the morning, he's asleep."
"I want Joel," you repeat, "I wanna see him."
"I need an address," the cab driver says over his shoulder; he's already started running the meter, "Don't got all night, girls."
Before Tasha can say anything you're spluttering out Joel's address through a sob. Tasha starts to protest but you shake your head furiously, tears scattering everywhere, "I'll just walk," you mumble adamantly, "If you change it I'll just get out and walk."
"But-"
"You owe me," you practically spit, "You owe me after what just happened." You don't mean it, but your brain is nowhere near sober enough to fully realize that. And neither is hers.
She doesn't say anything else.
--
It's very strange being back in your neighborhood not sober. Your mind is still ridiculously fuzzy from the alcohol but part of you is able to acknowledge how crazy it is that you're back here so late at night in such a drunken state, driving through the dark streets while your parents are none the wiser. The cab passes by your house and you find yourself ducking down into the seat, afraid they might see you despite it being almost three o'clock in the morning.
"Can you just keep the meter running?" Tasha asks the cab driver quietly as you approach Joel's house, "I'm not staying, I just wanna make sure she gets in okay and that someone's here to help her."
"You're not coming in," you mutter, voice still slurred and heavy. You don't look at her as you say it.
"I'll just wait in the car for a few minutes then," she says quietly, just as the cab comes to a stop in Joel's driveway.
His truck is here, just like this morning. Except this time there's no purple convertible blocking him in, no other woman standing on the front step hugging him, waving to him.
Anger rises in your chest at the memory.
"I still don't think this is a good idea," Tasha says softly - what happened earlier has clearly sobered her up, almost no trace of drunkenness in her speech, "He's asleep, there aren't any lights on."
"Then I'll wake him up," you mumble, opening the car door and stepping out into the cool night air.
"I'll wait here for a few-," she calls out to you but you slam the door before she can finish her sentence.
You're not sure why you're suddenly being so mean to her. That is, until you stagger up Joel's front steps and feel even more rage bubbling inside you at the thought of standing where he'd stood this morning, where she'd stood this morning. Where the woman from the bar had probably stood too. Oh. You're an angry drunk.
Without any hesitation you push down on the doorbell. You don't bother to wait in silence; you just keep pushing it and pushing it over and over, hearing the dull sound of the bell dinging inside the house. You're vaguely aware of a light being turned on behind the frosted glass as you lean your hand against the door, suddenly feeling dizzy now that you're standing again.
The door opens and you practically fall through it, squinting against the sudden bright light and bringing your hands up to your face as you stagger inside. You feel someone catch you, big hands coming to rest atop both of your arms, and then your name being said in a deep voice, husky with sleep.
Joel.
"Are you okay?" he asks somewhere above you; your ears are ringing again and his voice is loud and muffled, that underwater feeling coming back. You try to mumble something but it comes out an incoherent garble.
You feel him pull you inside, hear the door shut behind you as he kicks it closed with his foot. He guides you inside the living room and your eyes shut tightly against the brightness of the overhead light, shining down on top of you like a spotlight.
"Too bright," you manage to mumble out, bringing your hands up to cover your face. You find yourself being seated on the couch before the light is switched off, plunging you both into total darkness.
"Baby, what happened?" you hear him ask, voice still swimming thickly through your muted ears, "I've been so fuckin' worried about you, where've you been? Where'd you go?" you feel his hands take yours, gripping them tightly. They're so rough and callused, nothing at all like Noah's, and it makes you smile.
"Feels nice," you mutter, already forgetting what he asked you.
"What'd you take?" he asks, and you suddenly realize that there's a very frantic edge to his voice, thick with worry and... fear? "Huh? Tell me what you took so I can help."
"D-didn't take anything," you hiccup, shaking your head slowly.
"Christ, babygirl," he mutters, squeezing your hands again, "Where were you? I called you so many times, I texted you, I-"
"Tasha's got my phone," you mumble.
"Where's Tasha? She alright?"
"In the cab."
"Jesus," he releases your hand and stands up, turns on a dim lamp in the corner of the room so you're not in total darkness anymore. You watch with hooded eyes as he opens the front door again, walks out onto the step and starts gesturing something into the darkness. He looks ridiculous, waving his arms like that - it makes you giggle.
He turns around and walks back over to you with long strides. You can see his face more clearly now, expression lined with worry. He looks tired. He probably is.
"Just wanted you," you mutter, staring at him.
Before he can say anything Tasha is suddenly walking in through the door, expression stoic as she passes the threshold. She avoids Joel's gaze completely, looking only at you.
"What the fuck happened?" Joel asks her, any sort of introductory pleasantries gone out the window, "Where's she been? What'd she take?"
"Nice to meet you too," Tasha grumbles, hitching her purse over her shoulder and walking over to where you sit on the couch, "She's fine, we went clubbing and she got drunk. I'll take her back."
"No you fuckin' won't," he says indignantly, moving to stand directly in front of you with his arms crossed, "How could you let this happen to her? She's never done shit like this before, you know that right? She's never been drunk in her fuckin' life and you bring her back like this? You ever heard of takin' it fuckin' slow?"
"Oh please, like I'm gonna take advice from you," she snaps back, walking around him and reaching down to take your hand, "Come on, honey, we need to go. Now."
"She's not goin' with you, she's stayin' here," his voice is loud, louder than you've ever heard it. In fact, you don't think you've ever seen him mad before. It's strange, seeing the way his eyes narrow, his mouth downturned into an angry frown, fists tight against his chest.
"I only brought her here because she said she'd jump out and walk if I didn't," Tasha argues, voice firm, "She's safe with me."
"Safe, huh?" he scoffs, "So why the fuck do you have her phone? Do you know how many times I've tried to call her in the past fuckin' twelve hours? I was this close to callin' the fuckin' police."
"If anyone here needs the fucking police called on them it's you," Tasha's voice is louder now, every word echoing in your brain, "Fucking creep."
"What the fuck did you just say to me?"
Your drunken brain can't process much of what's going on at all, both Tasha and Joel's voices blending into one constant loud noise. You bring your hands up to your head and cover your ears, though it can only do so much to block out their voices. What they're saying still manages to come through, albeit muffled and distant.
"You heard what I said. Fucking. Creep." Tasha repeats, "She knows what you've been doing, you asshole."
"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"
"What, don't have the balls to admit it?"
"Admit what?"
"Stop," you say loudly, bringing your hands down from your ears, "Stop yelling, you're hurting my head."
Joel crouches down, picks up your hands and takes them in his again, peering into your eyes. You can't see him properly anymore and you hate it, can only make out bits and pieces as your eyesight just continues to get worse the longer you sit here. You feel sleepy, almost like you're on the edge of unconsciousness.
You close your eyes, nodding and breathing deeply in and out, loving the feeling of having him touching you again. It's almost like last night didn't happen, like this morning didn't happen.
Last night. This morning.
You suddenly yank your hands away from him, eyes going wide as you remember exactly why you're even here in the first place, why you wanted to get fucked up to begin with. His face comes back into view again, expression confused.
"I know what you've been doing," you hiss, echoing Tasha's words and scooting away from him. You reach your hand up for her to take and she grips it tightly, helping you get up.
"Babygirl," he says softly, brown eyes tender and soft as he eases himself up from the floor, "I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"We saw you," Tasha says then, linking her arm with yours, "At the bar last night." She means business now, you can hear it in her voice, "We saw you kiss someone else."
His expression changes instantly. Worry, anger, concern... all of it gone in a single second.
"That's what I thought," Tasha says firmly, then carefully eases you out of the living room, walks with you as far as the porch before you hear Joel speak.
His voice is quiet, shaky, "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it, exactly?" Tasha turns then, rounding on him again while you cling to her arm, "You're not playing her? You didn't waste weeks of her life making her feel special only for it to turn out you're just like the rest of them?"
He doesn't say anything and you can't bring yourself to look at him, heart in your throat and tears in your eyes once again as you stare at the hardwood floor.
"I didn't... that's not what..." he finally breathes, "It's not what you think. That's all I can say."
"That's all you can say?"
"Well, I can hardly fuckin' explain myself when she won't remember it, can I?" his voice is raw, hitching on the last few words, "Nothin'... nothin' happened other than some kissin'. It didn't go any further, I swear."
"And I'm just supposed to believe you?"
"I'm not askin' you to believe me," he breathes, "But that's the truth. That's the fuckin' truth, swear on my life."
"And what about the girl she saw leaving this morning?"
He's quiet again for a moment. You're still afraid to look at him, can barely even comprehend that this conversation is even really happening right now.
"That was - Jesus, I never wanted you to find out like this," he mutters, and Tasha laughs without humor.
"Yeah, you thought it'd just stay your little secret, huh?" It's hard to believe she's had just as much to drink as you have tonight - you wouldn't know it by the way she handles herself now, the way she speaks to Joel like she already knows him. She's done this before. She's no stranger to confronting men who did her wrong, or in this case, her friend.
"That was my daughter," he says softly.
Tasha freezes.
The words do their best to seep into your skin, to make their way into the sober depths of your brain that lie dormant, somewhere hidden. You still feel so fuzzy, bleary eyed and heavy and confused, but the words register somehow.
You slowly unhook your arm from Tasha's to finally look up from the floor, moving your gaze to Joel's still form. He's standing there by the couch, arms still crossed across his chest but not angry anymore, a look of pure sadness and shame on his face. He looks small.
"Y-you have a daughter?" you whisper.
"Yes," he replies softly, eyes slowly lifting to meeting yours, "And the woman at the bar, that was her mother. My ex wife." You see tears shining in his eyes, watch as his lip trembles as he softly whispers, "And I swear - I swear it never went further than some kisses. And it won't go any further than that ever again."
You feel Tasha reach down and squeeze your hand. What she's trying to communicate to you, you're not sure. You just stand there staring at him, unable to process this information in your current state, head swimming and ears still ringing.
"I'll tell you everything," he continues quietly, taking a slow step toward you, "When you're feelin' better, I swear. Anythin' you wanna know, I'll tell you." He takes another few steps until he's standing directly in front of you and Tasha, leaning down so he can peer directly into your eyes, "I'm so sorry it happened this way," he whispers, "I never thought - Jesus, I'm just so fuckin' sorry."
You swallow tightly around the lump in your throat, completely unsure of how you feel, of what you're supposed to say or do. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is computing properly.
"You need to take her home," he murmurs, pulling back and turning his attention to Tasha, "Look, I'm sorry for-"
"No, I'm sorry," she suddenly breathes, "I was- wow, that's... I mean, I wasn't expecting that. I'm sorry. I just, I thought-"
"It's okay," he replies, voice still a bit stiff, "Just get her back safe, okay? She's-" he cuts himself off to look at you again, eyes peering down at you sadly. "She's special."
Tasha nods, "I know she is."
The last thing you remember, the last thing that's at least semi-clear in your mind, is the soft look of affection on his face as he stands on his doorstep and watches you go.
--
You're not sure exactly what time it is when you wake up on Sunday. The only thing you're sure of is that your head is pounding and the sun streaming through the window is only making it worse. You roll over in bed and press your face into the pillow with a low moan.
You're never drinking that much ever again.
There's movement beside you and you open your eyes briefly to see Tasha laying in a similar position, still in her dress from yesterday, face smooshed into her own pillow. You can't remember how you got back, memories extremely hazy and shrouded completely in too much alcohol. The last thing you can remember is being at Joel's house, of the brief conversation he had with Tasha, the words he'd said to you...
My ex wife.
It never went further than some kisses.
That was my daughter.
Now that your brain isn't under the influence, you can finally think straight, can finally process everything he said to you last night. Or at least what you can remember. You roll over again with another moan, sensing nausea in the pit of your stomach.
"The hangover is the worst part," Tasha mumbles, and you turn your head to see her looking at you through messy mascara, smudged and smeared all over her eyes, "But you'll be okay."
You stare at her for a few seconds, everything else from the night before slowly coming back to you in bits and pieces. The club, Noah, the way you'd snapped at her...
"I'm so sorry," you whisper, "Tasha, I was so fucking mean to you."
The part of her lips that you can see curve upward into a smile and she shakes her head slowly, "It's all water under the bridge, babe," she murmurs, voice still heavy with sleep, "You had every right."
"No, I didn't. That stuff with Noah, that wasn't your fault."
"I should've known better than to invite him along," she sighs deeply, "I just wanted you to have fun, you know? I wanted you to forget about..." she trails off, biting her lip.
"I know," you breathe, "And I did, for a while. You couldn't have known about Noah, he certainly had me fooled."
She nods, closing her eyes and nuzzling the pillow a bit. You both lay there in silence, the elephant in the room growing bigger and bigger the longer you go without talking about it.
"So, Joel's got a daughter," you finally whisper, "And an ex wife."
She opens her eyes again, raising an eyebrow, "I'm surprised you remember that. You were pretty fucked up."
You wince, "Did I completely embarrass myself?"
"No, not at all," her hand comes up to touch your shoulder gently, thumbing the skin there, "You stood your ground, you did good. And now... now we know the truth."
"The truth," you echo.
More silence. It's like neither of you really knows what to say to the other. You're sure Tasha has already formulated her own opinion, has probably known since last night exactly how she feels about the whole thing. And that scares you a bit - because what if she doesn't feel the same way you do?
And how exactly do you feel about it anyway?
"I think he texted you again a little while ago," she finally says softly, pointing toward your phone on the night stand, "I heard it when I got up to use the bathroom. And there's a lot of texts there from yesterday. He, uh-" she bites her lip, "He was really worried about you, honey."
You reach over and pick up your phone, taking a deep breath before unlocking it and looking at the damage: 9 texts. 18 missed calls.
Shit. You suppose it makes sense. The last time you'd talked to him was on Friday morning in his kitchen, when you'd told him you were planning on going out with Tasha and having a girl's weekend, finally having your college experiences. He hadn't known anything that happened between then and last night, hadn't known you'd seen him at the bar, that you'd gone to his house on Saturday morning and left again, not giving him any explanation as to why you hadn't shown up for your lesson. To him, it had just been complete radio silence.
With a shaky finger you press his name, heart pounding as the unanswered text messages flood your screen. First, the three you've already seen:
Hope you're having a good night, babygirl. You deserve to have some fun. I'll see you tomorrow. Be safe.❤️
You get home ok? Let me know x
Where are you?
And everything else:
???
Hey, I'm worried about you. Give me a call or a text ok?
Please call me.
I'm outta my mind over here baby. Please let me know you're alright.
I'm scared for you. Last I heard you were going out with your friend and then nothing since. Please call.
Just a text is all I need honey. I promise. If you're not feeling this anymore that's okay. Just wanna know you got home safe last night.
I'm so worried about you. I can't sleep. Please call me.
I don't know what to do angel. Can't stop thinking about you. Wish you were here in my arms. Please be safe.
Please.
The most recent text was sent this morning, around ten:
I'm so sorry. Words can't even describe how fucking ashamed and embarrassed I am. I can't imagine how horrible that must have been for you. I understand if you don't want to see me anymore, but I want to tell you everything, if you'll let me. I hope you're feeling okay today, angel. Drink lots of water, stay with Tasha. Text me whenever you're ready.
"Did you read these?" you ask Tasha softly, eyes unmoving from the last text, scanning the words over and over.
"No," she replies, "Just saw the notifications."
You scroll back up and read them again, and again, like you'll somehow be able to rewind time if you just keep reading them. You can't believe there's this many, can't believe that the man who'd been so distant the past week is the same man who sent you all of these.
The same man with a whole other life he never told you about.
"What do I do?" you whisper.
Tasha sighs, then carefully pulls herself up to lean against the headboard, crossing her legs and looking over at you, "What do you wanna do?"
You lock your phone again and sit up beside her, exhaling deeply, "I don't know."
You both sit there in silence for a few moments, lost in thought. You can't explain it but you feel nowhere near as betrayed or angry as you'd felt yesterday. Rage is no longer present - and neither is sadness. The only way you can describe how you feel is... relieved.
"He has a daughter and an ex wife," you state.
"He does."
"He has a daughter and an ex wife," somehow saying it again makes it feel more real, but the words still don't trigger any strong emotions. You sigh and look at Tasha, urging her to say something else.
"So, other than that, what's changed?" she asks.
You bite your lip and turn away from her again, shrugging your shoulders slowly, "I mean, that's... that's a lot."
"It is," she agrees softly, "It is a lot."
You swallow, fingers playing with the edge of your dress, reminding you that you're still wearing the same outfit from yesterday. God, you need a shower. You need to wash this entire experience off of you.
"You remember where we landed Friday night?" Tasha asks suddenly, "We talked about the possibility of him kissing someone else and we agreed that communication was the way to go, right?"
"That was before we knew he had a daughter and an ex wife, Tasha."
"Yeah, well... now we do know. And we know he's willing to talk to you about it," she twists her mouth in thought, "So do you wanna talk to him about it?"
"...I don't know."
She suddenly eases herself off the bed, stretching her arms above her head and yawning loudly. You watch as she assesses her pillow, grimaces at the dark makeup stains on the white cotton.
"I'm scared," you admit softly, avoiding her gaze.
"What are you scared of?"
You don't know how to answer that, biting your lip and sniffling a bit. You bring your knees up to your chest, hugging them and leaning your face into your warm skin.
"You're falling in love with him, aren't you?" she asks quietly, absolutely no judgement in her voice, "That's it, isn't it? You're really starting to fall and that's why you're scared."
You can't speak, unable to say anything because you know you'll burst into tears if you do. Instead, you nod your head slowly, up and down against your knees.
"Then you gotta talk to him, honey," she kneels down on the bed, places her hand on your shoulder soothingly, "You gotta hear what he has to say."
You groan, bringing your hands up to cover your face as you stretch out your legs again, turning on the bed and scooching downward to smoosh your face back into the pillow.
"I'm gonna take a shower," Tasha murmurs softly, "I feel disgusting."
"Welcome to the club," you mumble into the pillow.
You're vaguely aware of Tasha moving around you, grabbing things from the nightstand and puttering around the room as she gets ready for her shower. You sense her standing close to you for a bit longer than necessary, like she's just staring at you without really knowing what to say. With a roll of your eyes you turn to face her, and you catch the briefest moment that she places your phone back down on the nightstand.
Your brow furrows, "What are you doing with my phone?"
"Nothing," she says quickly, turning around and leaving the room without another word.
--
You fall back to sleep without meaning to, and when you wake again, it's only because you hear someone talking in the other room, someone with a deep voice. Tasha must be watching a movie. You curl in on yourself a bit, rubbing your eyes and wincing when you feel the makeup smudge across your face. You really should get up and shower.
You suddenly hear footsteps in the hallway, getting closer. But there's something different about them, something heavy in the way they sound against the floorboards.
The door opens and there's just silence for a few seconds, no movement. Then the footsteps return, closer now, slow and unsure.
You know it's him before his weight sinks into the bed.
Oh, Tasha. Of course you did.
You close your eyes as you feel his arms snake around you from behind. You allow him to pull you in close, feel his nose against the back of your neck, his scruff against your shoulder. He smells like his cologne, feels warm and solid against your back, the denim of his jeans brushing against your bare legs.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers.
You immediately turn within his embrace, coming face to face with the man who you've spent the past twenty four hours hating, being angry at, feeling betrayed by - he's looking at you with a tenderness you can't describe, lips downturned into a soft frown that says everything. He's upset. He's ashamed. He's sorry.
"Why did you kiss her?" you whisper.
He takes a breath, "We have this... arrangement," he murmurs, "We've had it for years. Whenever she's in town - which isn't very often, maybe once every three years or so - we sleep together. It's been goin' on for over twenty years now, it's just.. it's just what we do."
You nod slowly, eyes falling to his mouth and then back to his eyes, "But you didn't this time."
"We didn't," he breathes, "I swear to you, we didn't. We went back to my place, we... we were kissin'," he winces but doesn't close his eyes, keeping his gaze on you, "I.. I went to grab a condom out of my bedside table before things got heavy and I-" he cuts himself off, taking another breath.
"What?"
You watch as he reaches down into his pocket, fishes something out. He brings his hand up and extends his fingers, shows you what's sitting in palm of his hand.
Your crucifix.
"I saw this," he breathes, "And all of a sudden, I just... I just knew I couldn't."
You stare at the gold cross, watch it glint in the sunlight still cascading through the windows. His breath hitches and your gaze goes back to his face, the lines and wrinkles and grey whiskers, his soft brown eyes and curved nose.
"I understand if you can't forgive me," he whispers, tears shining in his eyes, "I don't expect you to, but I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry that I did."
He closes his fist around the crucifix again and slowly brings it downward to your own hand, urging you to open it. He slips the chain past your fingers, goes to pull his hand away, but you stop him. You grip his hand tightly, the cross digging into both of your palms.
"We never established anything," you whisper softly, "We... we've never said that we're anything. It's just been sex."
He doesn't say anything, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks as he waits for you to speak again. He's so handsome, so unreal in a way that doesn't make sense to you, and probably never will.
"I wanna be yours," you breathe, meeting his gaze, "I don't want you to be with anyone else."
He leans forward to gently brush his nose to yours, eyes closing as he breathes deeply, the tears spilling over onto his cheeks.
"Okay," he whispers.
You know there's more for him to explain, so many more details you don't have yet that you do want to know. But in this moment, you don't care about any of it. You just want him.
It doesn't take long for you both to be completely undressed, clothes tossed over the sides of the bed as your naked bodies press warmly up against each other, soft and eager. He presses kisses to your neck, breathes you in, runs his fingers through your hair as he hovers above you with absolute need in his eyes, a look you're sure mirrors your own.
He knows you're still not ready without you having to say it. Knows this isn't the right time. There's no need for any words of reassurance or any questions. He knows what you need. You know what he needs.
His cock moves firmly down against your tummy beneath the sheets, his shaft settling perfectly against your pussy, already wet and aching for him like it had been the second he walked into the room. He puts both hands above your head, leans down to kiss you as he drags himself up and down within your folds, up and down, up and down.
It feels incredible, just having the thick length of him rubbing back and forth against your clit, the wide head catching at your entrance every now and then, eliciting a deep groan from Joel and soft whimpers from you. You grip his back tightly, broad and firm and yours, fingertips digging into his skin as he fucks himself against you.
"Feels so good," you whisper in his ear, voice trembling with every thrust, "Feels so good, Joel."
"I know it does, babygirl," he whispers, kissing your ear and grinding himself against you even deeper, moving his hands down to grip your hips as his cock continues to slip back and forth against your folds, "You're so sensitive, aren't you? That big cock feels so good against your little pussy, hm?"
You nod frantically, arms moving up a bit to wrap around his neck, your cheek brushing against his.
"You want a bit of my cock inside your hole, baby?" he whispers softly, secretly, pushing your hair away from your face, "Huh? You want the tip, honey? Just a little bit?"
You don't even have to think.
"Yes," you moan, "Yes, please, put it in, please."
"Okay, baby," he murmurs, pulling back a bit to look down at the mess you're making together, reaching his hand down to position his cock at your entrance, "Just the tip, babygirl, I won't go any further than that. Don't be scared."
"I'm not scared," you breathe, and you absolutely mean it, looking up at him with what you're sure is a completely wrecked expression, "I want it, Joel. Please."
He places the head of his cock against your hole gently, very gently. Then he takes your hands from around his neck and holds them in his, presses them up against his chest as he looks deep into your eyes. You look back, gaze never leaving his as he slowly pushes himself inside you - just the tip.
You gasp.
"Shhh," he breathes, squeezing your hands and continuing to peer into your eyes, never breaking eye contact, "Shhh, you're okay," he murmurs, "You're okay, angel."
You lay completely still, lips parting and eyes going hazy as you focus all your energy on experiencing this moment, on feeling the way the head of Joel's cock feels inside of you. It's pulsing, warm and wide and big inside your pussy, throbbing against your walls.
It feels fucking amazing.
"Joel," you whimper, eyes still locked completely on his.
"You're mine," he breathes, jaw tense and eyes alight with something you can only describe as pure passion, "You hear me? You're the only one I want. Don't want anyone else, baby. Nobody."
You nod desperately, thighs shaking as the fat head of his cock pushes inside just a little more, making you squirm. He stills his hips, still holding your hands against his warm chest.
"Look at us," he murmurs, "Just look."
Your gaze finally unlocks from his, eyes trailing downward to where you're connected, where the thick length of his cock juts out from between your legs. You rise a bit on the bed, whimpering as you look down at exactly where he sits inside of you, wet and dark and filthy and fucking beautiful.
"You can take all of me," he whispers, "I know you can, babygirl. But not now, not here."
"I know," you breathe, swallowing and looking up at him again with tears filling your eyes.
He pulls himself out of you then, places his thick and throbbing shaft against your pussy again and begins to thrust, moving downward so he's pressed up tightly against you, your hands caught between each other's bodies, the crucifix still hanging between your fingers.
"I'm gonna take you away with me, okay?" he says, almost a whimper as he stares into your eyes again, intense and focused, "We're gonna go away and I'm gonna tell you everything you wanna know about me, alright? And I'm gonna fuck you, baby. I'm gonna fuck you so good."
You're nodding as he speaks, whimpers and whines flowing continuously from your mouth as you near closer and closer to your orgasm, that familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach growing stronger.
"I'll fuck you in the bed, I'll fuck you in the shower, I'll fuck you on the fucking floor," he groans, eyes suddenly shutting and breaking the eye contact he'd managed to hold for so long, his face coming down to bury itself in your neck, "You're mine, angel, you're mine."
"I'm yours," you cry as your climax hits you, knocks the wind out of you as you start to shake beneath him, your hole fluttering against the length of him, "I'm yours, Joel, only yours."
You feel his come hit your stomach, painting your skin as he releases a deep groan into your ear and puts his entire body weight on top of you. You just close your eyes and feel him, exist in this moment for as long as you can, just listening to his breathing match your own as you both come down from your high.
He nuzzles his face against the heat of your neck, squeezes your hand in his between your bodies. The crucifix digs into your palm but you barely feel it.
"I want you to keep it," you whisper in his ear, and he doesn't have to ask what you're talking about, just presses a soft kiss to your neck and finally pulls back to peer down at you with total adoration.
Fuck, I have so many incredible ideas but I just can't imagine a scenario for each one, it's been a long time since my last fic post and I'm dying to write something new, I just fucking can't 😭
Chapter summary: you've been fucking with Tommy Miller from years now but somehow you didn't notice that the older Miller had secretly feelings for you and one night he let you know that, it's been a week since that and tonight you thought nothing's gonna happen, but the night is young, anything can happen.
General summary: You've lived in Austin since you were 14 years old, you moved in with your dad after your grandfather passed away and left you the house as an inheritance, you grew up with the Millers as a second family. When you started to date guys, one of them specifically broke your heart really bad, and Tommy was always there, helping you getting over him, fucking you, a good friend, but you never noticed that there was other guy looking at you until now.
Warnings: minors do not interact, fluff, filth, very hard Joel, age gap (reader/Alli is 24, Joel is 36, fingering f receiving, dirty talk, semi-public sex?, vulgar descriptions, i think you get it.
Pairing: Joel x Alli/f!reader
It's been a week since Joel Miller himself kissed you and you couldn't help yourself. After his lips met yours he just walked you home and he told you several times that he was grateful with you for taking care of his little daughter.
You've been on Miller's House like 4 times since that and he seemed normal, like that kiss never happened and that was fucking confusing, did he was trying you drive you crazy? Cause he was achieving it.
Tommy and you shared a few days together, just fucking around like always, you couldn't complain about having the younger Miller's dick inside you but sometimes you wished it was Joel's dick instead of Tommy. Joel has always seemed very handsome to you, very hot, he is, indeed, he's carved by all the existing gods in the universe, you had a crush on him since you started having attraction for the boys, but due to his age you found him unreachable. He was a hot single dad that you would never date, but his brother, it was a completely different story.
✿♡♡♡✿
It was Saturday morning, the sun at its best, kissing softly your sleepy face. With a yawn you woke up and made yourself to the bathroom, after that you went downstairs to find your lovely dad making breakfast.
- Hey honey, slept well?
- Yeah, I guess. You said sitting at the dining room table.
- you guess? It was a very hot night wasn't it? I had my fan on and even like that I was still hot
- yeah, i could barely sleep. The night was hot but not in the way your dad was saying, you passed half night thinking bout Tommy's dick inside you and replacing it with your fingers and the other half thinking about Joel's dick.
- we should buy an air-conditioning, maybe Joel can put it up and maintain it, don't you think so?
The simple thought of Joel placing it, all covered in sweat, maybe breathing heavily made your tummy flustered. You squeezed your legs and cleared your throat trying to seem normal to your dad.
- yeah, it'll be nice
A moments later your dad gave you a plate with eggs, bacon and a small piece of Spanish tapas that you bought yesterday.
- what are you gonna do today sweetie? I gotta go t'the city and i don't want you to stay home alone on a saturday, maybe you should call Richie, haven't seen him around for a while, is he okay?
Richie, the fucking asshole that cheated on you with one of your "best friends" after the school ended. You didn't tell your dad 'cause you know that he'd probably kill that boy with his own hands.
- oh, yeah, he's fine and I guess I'll do it, but i was thinking I could hangout with the girls, haven't seen them since prom
- that'll be lovely hon, do whatever you want, i was just giving you ideas
The rest of breakfast passed calmly and in silence, it wasn't an awkward silence, it was a silence, the kind that tends to be between you and your dad since always.
- Okay Alli, I gotta go now but I'll be here for dinner, take care of yourself baby, I love you
- love ya dad, call me when you're there
Then you kissed your daddy goodbye and found yourself in the big house alone lost in your thoughts.
✿♡♡♡✿
It was past two in the afternoon and you were still at home completely alone. Suddenly your phone started to buzz several times.
- It's pizza day! Wanna join us?
A text from your adorable little neighbor, Sarah, Sally how you like to call her due to "the nightmare before christmas", you both were fan of that movie and since the first time you watched it Sally was her nick name.
- Sure, save me some of your cookies 😉
- I'll have to hide them from dad, hurry up!
Right, you forgot Joel was her Dad, anyways, you loved to spend some time with Sarah, she was so lovely and her uncle was too. Fuck, you'll have to face the two Millers today.
After you took a shower and spent half an hour analyzing what clothes were best for the occasion and then deciding to wear white skinny shorts and a purple top that left your tummy discovered, you left your house heading towards the Miller residence. You knocked three times waiting for an answer and then that familiar sound, footsteps approaching the front door and then a male figure, for a second you didn't realize who was but then he spoke.
- oh hi hon, Sarah called you right? Come in sweetheart, the pizzas are almost ready
Tommy said while he stepped to the side inviting you to come in. You greeted him with a kiss on the cheek while he held you by the waist and kissed you the same way.
- Alli! You are late!
Sarah said approaching towards you and then hugging you with flour all over her face, her kitchen apron and her hands, staining you a little with that same flour.
- sorry, had to do some boring stuff. Boring stuff such as choose the perfect outfit to catch both Miller's gaze.
Joel came out the kitchen with his messy brown curls and another kitchen apron stained with flour just like his daughter's. His gaze early meeting your beautiful bare legs and then clearing his throat in an awkward way looking right into your eyes.
- Hey neighbor, how ya doin'?
- fine, thank you
- the last pizza just came out of the oven, take a sit and eat
The afternoon passed away like water, all of you chatting, eating, in some moment a piece of pizza came out of Sarah's mouth accidentally when she sneezed and everyone laughed at that, she was very ashamed but she started laughing as well. Tommy didn't take his eyes off you and he tried to tease you, touching your bare legs, squeezing softly your thighs. Joel catched one of Tommy's tease, he was trying to rub himself in your ass when you two were in the kitchen, then Joel came in and you moved quickly but he got to see what you were trying to do.
- so, how's the grumpy man?- Joel asked with a piece of pizza in his mouth
- he's fine I guess, he had been through a lot of stress this week, his boss is an asshole, he doesn't understand my dad isn't in form for doing so much things and he keep making him do it anyway, I wish I could do something else for him, it makes me feel very impotent.
- Chad's his boss right? I know him, he was in the army with me, he defected 3 months before me, a completely coward and a fucking idiot. Don't worry hon, Steb's gonna be alright. Tommy told you caressing your back up and down and getting yo closer to give you a hug.
Joel cleared his throat -im going for the dessert, who wants a slice of pie?
- Me!- Sarah and you said at one voice making Joel laugh looking at you like if you were the only person alive in this world.
- i'll need some help then, who's gonna be my helper tonight, baby?- He said looking at his daughter
- uh uh, i don't think so
- Oh c'mon, Tommy?
- Im fine brother, thanks
That leaves you, fuck.
- Guess it's your turn Alli
He said your name like if it was very hard for him to say it, like if he didn't want to say it.
- but if you don't want it's okay, I'll go for myself an-
- i'll go, no worries
Once inside the house Joel headed himself to the kitchen taking three plates and placing them in the counter, he was quiet, silent, a painful silent.
Your feet hardly stuck to the floor, cold drops of sweat rolling down your spine, your mouth starting to dry and then
- could you reach me some forks hon, please
- uh, yeah, sure
You managed how to walk like a normal person and headed to the drawer of the cutlery to grab the forks Joel asked you for but before you could make it he stopped you pulling your arm getting you closer to him, his lips softly touching your ear and his beard tickling your lobe.
- you smell so good darlin, guess i'm starting to find out why Tommy likes you
- Joel
- what?
- the kiss t- w- why did you kissed me that night
- Cause I've wanted to do a long time ago. He tried to make you face him until a noise came in from the back door that made you both move quickly, you grabbed the forks from the drawer and handed them to Joel.
- thank you hon. He was acting very normal, like always.
- im starving for a piece of pie! Why are you taking sooooo long in here- Sarah
- oh I'm so sorry your majesty, the pie isn't cutting itself yet so I have to help it a bit
- funny, hurry up!- She said the last sentence leaving the kitchen to the backyard again.
- Tommy have to go t'the city after dessert, I asked him some things, maybe you should stay a while more, since your dad's in the city too, i don't want you to stay alone
And that was everything he said before leaving you in the kitchen alone and thinking what the fuck he's trying to do with you, what is he trying to tell you, "i don't want you to stay alone" what are you supposed to do with Joel later then? You took the slice of pie he let in the counter for you and followed him to the outside.
- Alli can we talk for a moment please? Tommy asked you offering you his hand to walk away from his brother and his niece; you took it.
- i heard Richie's dad came back from vacations so i'm guessing Richie came back too
- WHAT? You screamed very loud that the other Millers turned to you.
- im sorry, but what? I thought he won't be back until fall
- i thought it too, but listen, I have some things to do today but i don't want you to stay in home alone, maybe you should go with Beca or stay here, anywhere else you want, less in your home, okay?
- I don't think he's stupid enough to come to my house after what he did Tommy
- i don't know baby but i don't want to find out, promise me you won't stay in your house until your dad arrives, please
- i promise.
Tommy left a half hour ago or so, you were talking with Sarah about things of school and why she doesn't want to see her friend Bethany anymore. Joel was cleaning the table entering and leaving the house with plates, then the napkins, the drinks, until there wasn't anything else to take.
- lets go inside, it's starting to get dark and it seems like is going to rain- Joel told you both, you obeyed him and without stop chatting you entered the house, Sarah wanted to watch a movie and you offered "the nightmare before christmas" she accepted happily and her dad did the same.
You were sitting on the couch in front of the television, to your left was Sarah who had already fallen asleep as soon as Sally began to sing and to your right, not very close to you, was Joel, the man was spread very focused on the tv like if he hasn't watched that movie 30 times.
You were starting to get cold and Joel noticed that, he offered you a blanket he had and he put it in your bare legs, then he got closer to you and put the same blanket on his legs and hugging you closer, one of his hands traveling to your thigh.
- i'm cold too - He said giving you a crooked smirk
He started to stroke your thigh up and down, very tender and slow, squeezing it sometimes, your breath starting to raise faster with his touch.
- still cold honey? Your breathing heavily
Fucking idiot.
- i'm fine - you glared at him but his eyes were already in the tv
- sure? - he said reaching your core, fucking teaser, his daughter is right beside you.
- Joel - your voice almost in a whisper. He finally deigned to look at you with a crooked smirk.
- what? Did you say something?
- Fuck you
- I think I'll take you up on that honey. He whispered in your ear, his hand undoing your short's button and then taking down the zipper. He traveled down your core and that made you gasp loudly.
- quiet baby, quiet, don't want my sweet kid to see how I fuck with my fingers her dearly babysitter. His voice in a deep whisper making your pussy clench round nothing yet.
He swiped his fingers downwards and then upwards, just enjoying how wet you were.
- fuck, you're so wet baby, all of this for me?
You just shakes your head to nod.
- that's it, you're being such a good girl for me, don't you babygirl? Fuck
He just called you babygirl and that made you get even wetter, fuck, you didn't even know the power that this fucking man had over you
- Joel... You said almost in a mewling, a very pathetic noise that made Joel chuckle
- c'mon baby, what did i tell you?
- m'sorry
- quiet, okay? If you keep being this fucking noisy you won't have what you fucking want, and you know what I mean
He pushed his finger deeper inside you, curling it and softly touching that sweet sweet spot in your core, you were biting your lower lip so hard that you could taste the blood but you didn't even care about it, not now, in this situation, if your lip were bleeding that was the last thing you cared about
Part of you wondered if he was referring to the thing you wanted so badly as a teenager, the thing that made you stay up all night imagining that Joel would walk into your room and not take his hand out of your pajama pants, but the other was dying of shame knowing that Joel had realized how you saw him, what you imagined, what he made you feel every time he came home sweaty from work, completely pissed off.
- S- Sorry Jo-
You couldn't even finish the sentence cause Joel pulled out his fingers and before having them completely outside he introduced them again, harder this time, almost making you cry.
- Mhm, no no babygirl, you gotta be polite, where are your manners? It's Mr. Miller for you
- Mr. Miller - You said sighing, feeling your familiar sensation growing in your stomach and Joel seemed to know that.
He kept pumping in and out of you a few times more before you started shaking and muffling your mewlings and moans in Joel's shoulder.
- Mr. Miller - you managed yourself to speak after one of the best orgasms you've ever had.
Joel raised an eyebrow to your direction nodding.
- What? Babygirl
- Can you kiss me? Please
He didn't need you to ask twice and as fast as he could he leaned over to kiss you, slow and loving, his hand slowly coming out of your pussy making you moan in his mouth, his other hand caressing your cheek.
- We're not telling this to Tommy - You said stopping the kiss for a while.
- Telling what? - he said grinning and then kissing you again.
I'm so mad with Tumblr and even with myself for not understand this shit, this episode was posted when it wasn't supposed to and it wasn't even finished so if you could show some love to this (now complete) episode i wouldn't be more grateful with y'all 🥹🫶🏻
