Fucking CHRIST! Who Told Him He Could Go Out Looking Like Prince Fucking Charming?!

Fucking CHRIST! Who told him he could go out looking like Prince fucking Charming?! 🫠🫠🫠

PEDRO PASCAL 30th Annual Screen Actors Guild Awards (February 24th, 2024)

HE DESERVES IT SO MUCH!!!! 😍😍😍

Y’all, please welcome SAG AWARD WINNER PEDRO PASCAL!!! OMG!

😍😍😍

𝓞𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓷

SoftDark!Joel Miller x afab!fem!reader

Summary: Explicit pictures of you taken by a man you cheated with find their way to your boyfriend's father's desk. He isn't too impressed with the artistry. Good thing he can make it right. He’s a photographer after all.

Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. No outbreak, NONCON, DUBCON, coercion, blackmail, manipulation, power imbalance, implications of revenge porn [not by Joel], infidelity, girthy age gap [reader is in her early 20s, Joel is in his early 50s], explicit photographs and photography, petnames, praise kink, daddy kink, minor size kink, soft dom!Joel, sub!reader, fingering, edging, just the tip action, creampie, cumplay?, unprotected P in V [be better!!]. Let me know if I missed anything 🫶

Word Count: 5.9K

A/N: Surprise Joel Miller smut because why not. This is my first time writing for Joel, so please be gentle. Going for the subtle horror meets porn vibes. Hope you nasties enjoy. mwah 💗

Masterlist

“S’ just a hobby.” Kind, gentle mister Miller had scratched the back of his neck modestly, towering over you as you inspected the black and white photo negatives freshly hung on his walls. He just seemed happy that someone appeared to be taking up an interest in his retirement activities. It was an interesting choice, you thought, to hang up the negatives. 

That was your first time visiting the Miller household, and had you known your boyfriend’s father was as unassuming and sympathetic as he turned out to be, you wouldn’t have been as worried about meeting him as you were. You surely wouldn't have been able to guess looking at his pictures. But his scowl melted away into a soft, subtle smile the moment you walked through his door, and so did your reservations. 

You learnt a lot from him that evening– about cameras and such. He indulged you in conversations about your life and interests– you had many in common. There were quite a few people at the Miller’s Christmas party, and he made sure you weren’t too lost in the crowd. It was nice to have a listening ear.

Humble as he was, it was only months later you discovered his pretty pictures in a photography magazine. At the hotel you were staying in while on vacation with his son. It was the last vacation you ended up taking together. Switzerland. 

Since that Christmas you visited him every once in a while, occupying the couch in his office to help him sort through his prints, tidy up his gear, and chart out subjects he wanted to capture. His son didn’t really like making the twenty minute commute back home, so you brought his well wishes with you. Mister Miller liked the strawberry puff pastries you baked, so you brought them along as well. 

He was a quiet guy, and after all these years alone seemed to enjoy the company of someone in the house. His face lit up just that little bit whenever you came over. Enough to let you know you were welcome back anytime. 

His office was cozy. With a large Persian rug at its center, and tufted, walnut brown, leather furniture. He had an expansive library of literature beside his desk, one that he’d fitted to the wall himself. Reading- another one of his retirement hobbies. 

His desk was tidy, almost completely empty save for a picture of him and his brother Tommy, sitting on a ledge with their arms slung around each other, an in-progress construction site for background. Judging from the lack of gray hair on his head, and the absence of the little crinkles beside his eyes, the photograph was at least twenty years old. It looked like it belonged to an alternate universe. 

Mister miller looked a far cry from the sophisticated, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, middle aged man you knew. A regular ol’ Joe, or Joel, rather. He had this rugged boyish charm about him. He was smiling wide, he looked happy. There was a jarring absence of that tired look in his eyes. Whether he looked more handsome back then, or now– you couldn’t decide. 

It was late July. You watched the menacing, dark gray clouds drift lazily towards you from your living room window. It was 4pm, but you had the lights on, and the oven going in your kitchen. The younger Miller was not yet back from work, even though he was supposed to be off by 2:30. At times like that one you hardly regretted your unfaithfulness. 

You had your little dinner date with Mister Miller that evening, but from the looks of it you might have had to reschedule. A crack of thunder reverberated along the walls of your two bedroom, and had you reaching for the kitchen timer you’d abandoned on your center table– the dial dangerously close to hitting ‘0’.

It felt more wrong than it should, calling it a date, considering the circumstances. You couldn’t say you didn't feel guilty still meeting his father, telling him that things were going great when they really weren’t. You wondered what Joel would think of you if he ever found out about your little secret. 

It was difficult not to wonder how two people could be so similar and different at the same time. Why, save for some of his good looks, Mr. Miller’s best qualities did not seem to pass down to his son. Admittedly, you thought about it a lot. You thought about it when you found a shade of lipstick that surely didn’t belong to you stain the collar of his cream sweater. 

Things had spiraled far out of your control since that moment. Into your secret paradise of hotel rooms and weekend getaways. Worst of all, you knew your partner was living a parallel life to yours. You could have ended your relationship, but things were just never that easy. Especially when consciously, or subconsciously mister Miller was part of the mix. 

You reached in the oven and pulled out the pastries. Looking between the custard you’d put into your piping bag, and the strawberries you’d cut lengthways laying beside the powdered sugar. The clouds were closer than they were five minutes ago. Your backyard was no longer the lush Eden of green and purple it was in the morning. You thought of Mister Miller– spending the night alone at home, sitting at his desk, with no dessert to enjoy after dinner. 

You reached for the piping bag and sighed, beginning to assemble the sweet treats and lay them in the pink paper box you’d picked out for him from your kitchen cabinet. 

—

By the time you got to his house thick droplets of rain were already coming down from the sky. It was about three shades darker than it was when you left home, and the minacous clouds had caught up with you. You glanced at your phone. 

7:00 pm 

You felt a drop trickle down the side of your cheek as you ran up the front staircase leading to the main door. You rang the bell. It sounded full, and new. He must have fixed it recently. 

Mister Miller opened the door. He always wore some variation of the same flannel shirt and dark jeans. Like a cartoon character. It was quite charming. You liked it. It was soft, and smelt like his perfume. Tobacco, Sandalwood. He rubbed your back soothingly when you hugged him. 

You handed him the pink box. It had a darker pink ribbon wrapped around it, folded at the top into a big bow, with a small card wedged in between the loops. 

“To Joel Miller :) ” 

He chuckled, then smiled. “Thank you, sweetie.” You didn’t need his gratitude, he was nice enough to you as is, but you did appreciate it. In the past months he had become your only real excuse to bake. 

He welcomed you inside, and soon enough you were settled in the dining room. He’d hung up a new painting since you’d last visited, and changed the light switches on the wall. Every time you were over there was a new addition to the home. You figured he liked having something to do. 

By the looks of it he’d lit the candles there a while ago, and laid the table. He’d butterflied napkins in their napkin rings, and set out glasses for red, white, and dessert wine. You felt a lot better about not canceling. You noticed the brand new table runner against the table’s wood. He told you he bought it that morning. He sounded excited. 

You helped him bring in the pot of stew from the kitchen, as well as a plate of cheese and a loaf of warm bread set on a wooden board. He served you some stew, then cut a few slices of the bread he’d baked and placed them on your side plate. It was surprising that he’d taken up an interest in baking. He always said he preferred to cook on the stove. He did it well. 

“Taking after you.” he’d said, reaching for the wine decanter. 

You wondered if he ever taught his son to cook, and if he did why the latter never liked to do so. You recognised the cheese on the platter. It was from the shop beside your house. You’d served it when he came home in February, with berry jam, marmalade and grapes. He hadn’t been back since then. 

He was mostly quiet during dinner, as always. He listened to you ramble about the show you were watching, and how you found your grandmother’s recipe book in your attic. You assured him you’d be trying every recipe in that book. He said he hoped so. Other than that it was quiet. A comfortable quiet. And you watched wax dribble away from the candle wic, and pool at the base of the candelabra. 

He cleared up while you brewed some tea and placed your pastries on the hand painted porcelain tray you’d gifted him for Christmas. You padded across the hardwood floors to his office, and it was only then you noticed how heavily it had been pouring outside. 

You peeled back the white lace curtains to find a sheet of rain clouding your vision. You made out the dim, golden lights coming off the neighbor’s porch, and the street lamps flickering gently. You were glad you came. It was all quite welcoming, and warm and golden in the Miller household– far more than you would be if you decided to stay back home. 

The door clicked open, and you felt him walking up behind you as you stood at his bookshelf. You pointed to the clock on the wall above it. “It stopped.” He exhaled heavily, with his hands on his hips, and looked up to the pathetically stuttering hours hand. It looked like it was fighting for its life within the confines of the glass– spluttering, struggling. 

“Fixed it two days ago.”

You peeled your eyes away. 

He eased himself into his leather office chair, reaching below the mahogany table to lift a large cardboard box filled to the brim with film. Used, unused, polaroids, disposables. It had red electrical tape around its edges, and the words ‘32, spiral cord and wire’ scribbled in black sharpie. 

“Gotta sort these.” He looked at you apologetically, but you reassured him with a smile, and poured him a cup of tea while he inspected the box. Your eyes wandered to the wooden clock, the hand still pleading for help. You heard it's garbled tic. The contents of the box clattered to the desk, rhythmically with a crack of thunder outside. 

You placed a plate and cup in front of him, then took your seat on folded legs across the table. The white curtains momentarily set ablaze, followed by another hard, violent thrum. You foredged through the pile, lightly covered with residual dust. The rings on your fingers sparkled when they caught the light of his table lamp. 

Amongst the many treasures were some polaroids of the lake mister Miller liked to fish in, the cabin he built upstate, and the back end of Tommy's Miller’s orchard. They looked like test films to you. Not as fixed on composition as Joel was. The settings on the camera all over the place. 

In the pile, under an oversaturated photograph of an apple tree, two familiar eyes peered up at you– much of the face covered and lost to the clutter. You reached for it. Bound together with a thin, blue paperclip were three separate photographs flimsily hanging on to one another. 

You felt sick to your stomach.

The eyes were familiar, because they were yours. 

A mangled torso, waxy, glossy legs, a chest glazed with the sheen of sweat. You looked more like a deserted mannequin than you did yourself. The dark gray “lighting” rendered your body and its surroundings lifeless– ironically, you remember quite enjoying it in the moment. But the polaroids were far more reflective of what you felt of them at present– plagued with regret and shame, and lifelessness. 

How long had he known? Importantly, How did he find them? It hurt you to even think about it. The sound of the stuttering clock was deafening in your ears, ringing like an ominous, cruel joke. 

You distinctly remember taking those pictures. Worse, you remember thinking of mister Miller as your partner had clicked them. You thought of what he’d think if he ever saw them. You could have never guessed you would actually find out. 

“How long, sweetheart?” You forced yourself to look up, finding his eyes already boring you. He was upset, and angry, and there was something brewing behind his eyes. But worst of all he was disappointed in you. And out of all the possibilities, somehow that was the worst. You’d rather him be yelling, because there was something about that soft, gentle voice of his that unnerved you. 

“Why didn’t’ ya say somethin’?” It was like a car crash, you just couldn’t look away from the polaroids in your hands. Your spread legs, bare breasts, panties thrown to the side. You opened your mouth to say something, but you just couldn’t manage it. 

“Really shouldn’t let just anyone take those kinds of pictures.” Your eyes welled with hot tears as he reprimanded you. The whole ordeal had you feeling like you’d been sent to the principal's office, sitting across from him at his desk, both his forearms leaned on the table as he threatened you with consequences. He continued to speak, despite being met with your silence. 

“You’re lucky these ended up here, would be a shame if he found out about it before you did.” While your little affair hadn’t ended well, you surely hadn’t expected whatever this was from your ex partner. He must have still thought your boyfriend lived at his childhood address. Boy did he make a miscalculation. You didn’t know which outcome you preferred. 

You wanted to explain yourself, wanted to assure him you weren’t some cheating, lying piece of shit. That you and his son were just not working anymore, that you felt guilty, and never did it again, that the man who took those pictures was the last one you slept with. That you couldn’t just end things with his son because you didn’t want to lose him. “Mister Miller- I-” 

He cut you off, snatching the images from between your fingers. You watched with burning eyes and your heart hammering in your chest as he inspected them. The man would never look at you the same. He sighed, his downturned, disappointed eyes catching yours. That look, it broke your heart. 

“I mean, look at these babygirl. Ya’ look dead.” 

With your palms cold and sweaty, and cheeks set ablaze, you sure felt like it. The burning in your chest and neck had become almost unbearable. 

“Such a cute lil’ body ya’ got there. And this-” he shook his head, his unblinking gaze forcing your eyes to his. “This boy fuckin’ ruined ya.” He tossed the polaroids on his desk, and leaned forward. 

It took you about ten seconds to realize that mister Miller’s real quam with the pictures was, for better or for worse, not the fact that they existed, or worse, weren't taken by his son, but that they were bad. Not morally, or ethically, especially considering how they’d landed in his possession, but artistically, formally. 

“Would be a shame if my son were to say, find em, layin’ ‘round.” The room began to spin in slow circles. In a second a flash of lighting struck through the curtains in the window behind Joel, his frame completely backlit by the blinding light momentarily. You winced as another harsh crack of thunder descended upon the quiet office. 

“No, mi- Please-”

“‘Specially to see ya like this, catch ya like this. In these god awful pictures.” He took your chin between his fingers, eyes filled with faux concern, brows furrowed. But behind the obvious facade there was something sinister and cruel. Something you wished you had seen before. Because you were sure it had always been there. 

“How ‘bout we fix ‘em, huh babygirl?” your eyes widened at the realization, at the weight of his implication. His grip on your chin was unrelenting, a warning, a little taste of what was to come. Had he forgotten somehow that you were in fact his son’s girlfriend and not his? A girl who was to him, until about ten minutes before, his future daughter in law? 

“You gonna help daddy fix ‘em for ya?” Time seemed to lose its cadence, every moment  stretched endlessly as you remained trapped under his dead eyed, unwavering gaze. His words sent a jolt between your legs, that name sent a jolt between your legs, and had you squeezing them together shamefully as you struggled to blubber out a response. 

He raised his brows in question, once again offering you the artificial choice before you were sure he would take what he wanted himself. You swallowed thickly, and nodded. It was a lot less difficult than you let yourself believe. What were you going to do? 

“Hmm good girl. Get on ya knees sweetie.” Still gripping your chin he reached for the camera on his desk. A polaroid SX 70– the one he used to click a picture of you blowing out your candles on your birthday. In that same office, where he sang to you alone, because his son was on a work trip. 

He pinched your cheek, and got up to round the table. You knew better than to talk back. You were reminded when you saw how his frame towered over you, like that first night you’d met him. Except this time his broad shoulders and muscular arms were threatening, intimidating, and undeniably making you weak in the knees. 

Pushing your chair back you got on your knees on that once thick, soft Persian carpet. It’s weave like a thousand needles piercing your skin, and no longer the cloud on which you liked to sit. 

“Would’ve expected more from a smart cookie like you. Didn’t I teach ya better sweetie?” It was sick. You knew he was talking of not only your carelessness, but those pictures. You should have known to come to him. He would have helped you figure it out. Your relationship troubles, and how to take those photographs. He squatted down to your level, eyes raking over your body like you were already on display for him. 

“Lemme see ya sweetie.” You wished he would just rip off the bandaid and do it himself. It would feel less humiliating. Reaching for the buttons of your sweater you undid them one by one. He watched your every movement, eyes trained on your chest as you exposed the swell of your breasts. 

He reached forward, and brushed his thumb over your skin, hushing you soothingly when you shivered. Your hot skin burned further under his feather light touch. It was like you’d always imagined– gruff and rugged, but skillful. Just like him. His fingers were rough, and reminded you of the photograph of him and Tommy on his desk. He suddenly looked a lot more like the man in that picture.   

It was like he was eating you up with his eyes with each bit of clothing you discarded on his floor. He hummed when you got to your white, daisy print ankle socks, and caught your wrist when you reached to pull them off. 

“Keep em’ on.”

Once brimming with vitality, his brown eyes turned lifeless, devoid of any flicker of emotion or human connection. You found yourself questioning whether you ever really knew him– the gentle, unassuming man you adored. If he even existed in the first place.

Left in nothing but your bra and panties you sat on your knees in front of him, unable to meet his eyes. Pink lace. You’d worn them on purpose, because your little dates were always a special occasion. You weren't planning on him seeing them. 

By the looks of it he seemed quite pleased with your choice. 

“All f’ me, babygirl?” His voice had dropped three octaves, almost slurred thanks to his smooth southern drawl. You swallowed thickly, and nodded your head. As much as you hated to admit it, he was, in some convoluted way, one hundred percent correct. 

Excitement defiantly swirled in your tummy as he let his hands roam your mostly bare body for a few seconds. Like he was examining and inspecting you. He lifted your limp arm to get a better look at your bare waist, then let it fall by your side and reached for the straps of your bra– loosening them to the point they were barely hanging on to your shoulders. 

The room began to spin a little faster when he gently pushed you back against the carpet, one palm planted firmly on your stomach to hold you there, the other hand folding your knees and planting your heels on the ground. The cup of your bra slipped off your chest, your breast now bare to the cool air. You felt exposed, for reasons less obvious than they really were. 

You heard the violent swish of the wind outside. It felt far and distant, and like it was right in that room, all at the same time. 

He began inspecting you again. It was odd, surely he liked the sight of your body, you could tell when you eyed the obvious bulge in his pants, but he was looking at you like you were some prop– like a little sex doll for his little photoshoot. He was moving you around as he pleased, positioning your limbs and tilting your head like an inanimate object. You didn’t fight back, let him take control of your body. It made your stomach churn, your core tingle. 

He nudged and then kneeled between your legs, fully clothed, looking at you methodically. You felt the cool air brush the wet spot that had formed on your panties as you gazed up at the ceiling, far too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

You watched him reach upwards towards his desk, and shift the lamp there till it was barely hanging on to the edge. The light hit you in the face, and forced your eyes shut till he turned it away and towards your chest. You tilted your chin to get a look at him, despite your better judgment. 

He hummed, swiping your dripping seam with his thumb, only stopping to eye you in warning when your body understandably jerked at the contact. The dark look in his eyes reminded you you weren’t really there for your own enjoyment, and more for his. It was like your natural movement was some sort of inconvenience to him, something that was hindering and interfering with his creative process. 

It was nauseating. But despite the fear that bubbled in your chest, you couldn’t deny the thrum of excitement that ran through your system when he began adjusting the settings on his camera. A part of you, a much bigger part of you than you'd like to admit, was enjoying the entire experience. 

“Look at that.” He chuckled, presumably at the way the fabric of your panties clung messily to your wetness in spite of your seemingly unwilling demeanor.  You felt a drop of sweat roll down between your breasts in anticipation. 

He teased your clit over your panties, switching between watching your face intently and finding the best angle. Leaning backwards and forwards. You knew better than to move around this time. “That boy doesn't know a thing about angles does he?” He was mumbling, excessively concentrated on properly composing his shot. 

“‘S’ okay sweetheart, we’ll fix it.” Hooking two fingers under the seam of your panties he pulled them aside, exposing your bare cunt to the chilly air. “Daddy’ll fix it.” He watched himself run his fingers through your wetness, and you watched him swallow thickly at the view. You chewed on your bottom lip, summoning all your restraint not to wiggle your hips in his direction. 

“Thought ‘bout this cute lil cunt all fuckin week.” 

Your disobedient mind encouraged the desire that pooled in your core, and you turned your head side to side to rid yourself of the disturbing thought. 

He must have noticed your strained expression, the way you were so clearly begging to be touched, but refused to admit it. Your creased brow was not one of intense pleasure, but anxiety, uncertainty and perpetual frustration. His shoulders dropped defeatedly, and he looked at you like he was about to unleash on you another set of debased instructions. 

“Gotta look like you’re enjoyin’ yourself more than that babygirl.” 

Caught slightly off guard, but admittedly thankful nonetheless, a breathy sigh escaped your lips as he began drawing soft circles on your aching clit. “That’s it babygirl” His praise licked between your legs, going straight to your core. Fingers wet with your slick he rubbed your throbbing pussy, and you let your head fall back against the carpet. 

“So fuckin’ wet f’ daddy.” 

Increasing his pace ever so slightly his fingers moved to tease your aching hole, just barely pushing in. You felt a moan bubble in your throat, forcing its way out of your mouth. It was more than embarrassing to admit you were enjoying his attention. 

“Let go babygirl. Daddy’s gonna make ya’ look so pretty in his pictures- like ya’ really are, like ya' deserve.”

He bit his lip to keep from smiling when he heard the soft moan slip past your lips. “That's better.” You didn’t know if he was more pleased with your pleasure, or the fact that you’d look better in the photographs.  

As your chest rose and fell with his movements you were more and more convinced. It was undoubtedly better to play along and give in. There was little point resisting by the time the thought even occurred to you. Admittedly, embarrassingly late. At least that's what you told yourself when you moaned and sighed below him. 

“Shit sweetheart. Wish you could see what ‘m seein’.” You imagined what Joel could see through the lens. It felt dirty, and contrite, but also exhilarating, and warm and right. 

You felt the tension build in your hips, between your legs. He had been resisting fucking you with his fingers, and your need to be filled was only increasing with each touch to your sensitive clit– your aching hole clenching around nothing. Your mind wandered to the way you’d undoubtedly seen his cock twitch in his jeans at the sight of you. How you’d been wishing secretly for him to fill you up. 

The coil in your belly tightened, and tightened, and you felt yourself reach the edge, the very peak of your pleasure. You made out a beam of white lightning through your half closed, lust clouded eyes. 

He brushed his thumb over your clit, ever so slightly. You were so so close, feeling the tension reach its highest point in a split second and then dissolve entirely. You gasped, back arching off the ground. 

In the deafening silence you heard the shutter and click of the camera. The sound was menacing. And it made your tummy flutter.  

“That's it baby, good girl” 

Your slick pooled at your entrance, running down your thighs and making you shift uncomfortably. You felt numb in your toes, something in you prompting you to kick your feet just a little. At the lost pleasure. The word was leaving your mouth before you could even register it. 

“Daddy” 

“I know, I know-” Fuck. He sounded so gentle. Like the Joel you knew. The Joel you loved.  “just a little longer sweetheart, you can take it.” He rubbed the inside of your thigh. 

He rested his camera on his knees and reached forward to cup your cheek, stroking your warm skin with his thumb. His fingertips were ice cold, and made you wince. “Just think of how pretty they're gonna turn out-” The look in his eyes was pleading, like you even had a choice in the matter. You wondered if he thought you did. Either way it seemed to work on you. “How pretty you’re gonna look.” 

“C’mon be a good girl f’ daddy.” His words made you mewl. Joel pinched your hip in warning, but kept his voice steady. 

“C’mere” Hitching both your legs on his shoulders and on either side of his head he scooted forward on his knees. Your skin tingled in anticipation, and you wondered what it would be like to have his head between your thighs. 

Admiring your white ankle socks he ran his thumb along the base of your foot, making your squirm in his hold. He engulfed its arch in his large palm, placing a kiss to your soul and then your ankle, moving forward to nuzzle your calf with his nose. 

“Goddamn, such a cute lil thing.” 

You watched him palm his bulge through his jeans, then undo his belt with his eyes still trained on your messy, wet pussy. As if he’d caught you staring he reached forward and tilted your chin back up towards the ceiling. Surely, you straining your neck to get a good look at him was doing nothing for his shot composition. 

You felt him let go of your shin in favor of guiding his cock along your throbbing seam. His tip bumped your clit, making you mewl and inadvertently lift your hips in his direction. You wished you could see him, on his knees in front of you, his cock teasing your dripping cunt. 

“Poor thing, can feel how bad ya’ need it.” Exhaling heavily he continued to rub his cock against your wet folds, eyes fixated below him. He cursed lowly under his breath, and lined himself up with your entrance, pushing in just a little. 

Your mouth fell open in a wordless cry at the slow stretch of him, and you attempted to grab fistfulls of the carpet beneath you. He’d barely put it in , but it was enough to send your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Cute lil pussy can barely take my cock, baby.” 

He fucked you, giving you just the tip, over and over and over, unwilling to burry himself in you to the hilt. You felt him twitch inside you, the slow pace and minimal contact enough to keep you both on edge, and not enough to provide any semblance of relief. 

You whined in protest. 

“Shh babygirl, I know.” He fucked you in slow shallow strokes, hips barely moving. You felt his eyes glued to your face, as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to snap his shot.

He thumbed your clit, his own breath quickening when your walls clamped around his cock. 

You’d never reach your peak this way, and it looked like he noticed. It seemed to be quite a large part of his artistic vision, and you were more than glad. 

He groaned and thrust himself to the hilt in a single slow push, picking up his pace just enough to where you could feel him hit that sensitive spot inside you. His cock throbbed against your aching walls, the drag of him sending your eyes rolling back into your head. His hands gripped your thighs, lips dragging across your calves every now and then as he fucked your warm, wet pussy– slow and deep. 

You felt full, unlike you ever had before. With the way he was making you feel it was difficult to think of who he was, and how he’d got you into this position. Neither your boyfriend’s existence, nor the reality of his intimidation took away from the soaring pleasure that made your body sing. 

It was all too much to bear, and you could feel your orgasm building in your core once again. 

The ominous sound of the wooden clocks garbled tic found its way back to your ears, this time in rhythm with your pounding heart. It sounded oddly comforting, like it was pushing you closer to the edge. 

“Daddy-” you reached for his hand, bringing his large palm to squeeze your breast. He obliged, his free hand moving from there to tug and pinch at any part of you exposed to him. 

“Daddy, gonna cum-” Joel sat back just a bit, still fucking into your soft cunt. “Cum ‘f daddy babygirl, fuck, that’s it.” It was all you needed, the tension that had been building in your core for what seemed like forever finally snapping. Your body went rigid, eyes screwing shut and back arching off the ground once again, legs tingling. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he slowed his pace, coaxing you through it. He hit that sweet spot inside you over and over, seemingly enjoying the many waves of your orgasm just as much as you. 

Between the ticking and Joel's labored breaths, and ringing in your ears you barely heard the click of the camera, but the soft sound sent a jolt through your body, like an electric aftershock. 

You took more than a moment to catch your breath, face tingling and head buzzing. 

When your eyes fluttered open you noticed Joel had abandoned his camera on the ground beside him in favor of grabbing your thighs. Still sensitive you shivered as he fucked into your pussy, fast and hard. You looked up at his face, twisted in pleasure, the little wrinkles on his skin accentuated thanks to his frown and furrowed brow. 

“So fuckin tight babygirl” You felt him pulse and throb inside you, emptying himself in a few final, sloppy thrusts. 

He looked so handsome, with his hair just slightly out of place, and flannel wrinkled and messy. The thought of being filled up by him had your tummy erupting with butterflies. 

Still catching his breath he reached for his camera, pulling out ever so slowly. With your legs still on his shoulders he tucked himself back into his jeans and fixed his belt, slowly easing himself on his stomach in front of you, and dropping your legs on either side of his head. 

You couldn’t see him, but you felt him chuckle against your bare thigh, his breath tickling your skin. “Show me how full ya’ are of me babygirl– how messy ya’ are f’ daddy”. You bit your lip as you pushed, and heard yet another click of the camera echo across the room. 

“Fuck. look so fuckin’ pretty, full’ve my cum” His spend leaked out of your fluttering entrance, and you felt him swipe his finger against the cut of your pussy and push anything that escaped right back in. He shifted your panties back in place, the material already dampening once again, this time with both your and his juices.

He sat up with his legs stretched out in front of him, back resting against the legs of his couch beside you. He pulled you to rest your head on his lap. You watched him intently as he reached beside him for the photographs. They must really be something, because mister Miller sure looked impressed with himself. 

When he turned to you you were probably met with his most wide and genuine smile yet, the three fresh new polaroids pinched between his thumb and index. You watched as the white light from outside invaded the room, and struck his face, illuminating it for a split second. The garbled tic of the wooden clock had subsided into the white noise of the background, along with the steady hum of the rain. You relaxed into his embrace. 

“Make the prettiest little model, don’t ya think sweetheart? Daddy’s gonna have to use ya’ more often” 

And no, I'm not a jerk

I would ask if you could help me out

It's hard to understand

'Cause when you're running by yourself

It's hard to find someone to hold your hand

You know it's good to be tough like me

But I will wait forever

I need someone else

To look into my eyes and tell me

"Girl, you know you've got to watch your health"

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

Going to hell for this one. Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs keep me writing. I also want to re iterate please be careful about who you send or let take explicit pictures of yourself. Never show your face and stay safe. Dividers by @ saradika and @cafekitsune 💗🐝🫶

Thank you for including me! 😘

Friday Fic Rec Week Two

What a successful second week of fic recs! Thank you all again for submitting your recs and for sharing your love of others' work with me, and the tumblr-sphere!

Personal recommendations 💜 Personal recs but also suggested by y'all 🌸 Self-Rec because I'm a classy slut~ ♦️ My fics y'all Recc'd 🫠

In order of submission:

Stars too Far - Ch 1 | Mandalorian x fem reader | @foomoosworld

Beach Walks | Continuation of Night Walks Perv/Creep!Joel x Reader | @toxicanonymity 🌸

When I move You Move | Pre-outbreak!Joel x F!Reader | @ghotifishreads

Wildflowers | Joel x F!Reader Drabble | @tightjeansjavi

I know it When I See it | Pornstar!Joel x Pornstar!Reader | @bageldaddy 💜

Over Again | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @burntheedges

Liminality | Frankie morales x F!reader Werewolf AU | @something-tofightfor 🌸

Beskar and Kyber | Din Djarin x F!Reader | @penvisions

Yearling | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @justagalwhowrites

Sweet Child O' Mine | Joel Miller x F!Reader | @macfrog

Ch4 of Devotion | Cult Leader!Joel Miller x F!Reader | @noxturnalpascal 🌸

No Shortage of Sordid | Joel Miller x F!Reader + extra | @covetyou 💜

On The Waterfront | Dark!Chubby! Frankie x F!Reader | @beefrobeefcal 💜

Strangers | Dave York x F!Reader | @wildemaven

His Clothes Fit you Better | Joel Miller x Reader | @holacia3

The Day Before Was Always Difficult | Dieter Bravo x F!Reader | @nerdieforpedro

Need | Din Djarin x Cobb Vanth | @theywhowriteandknowthings (Me aha) ♦️

Fix your sink Frankie | asshole!Frankie x F!Reader | @theywhowriteandknowthings (me aha) 🫠

The Dark Side of The Moon | Vampire! Marc Spector x Reader | @melodygatesauthor 💜

The Ghosts of Babylon | Joel Miller x Reader | @sixhours

Hold Fast | Frankie x F!Reader | @jeewrites

Dirty | Mystery P!Boy x Reader | @bitchesuntitled

The winners circle | dieter brave x f!reader | @popcornforone

Usually I am not a fan of period pieces that go to the way back of cowboy days… but this?! Holy shit! This is SO good!

A Strange Fate

Masterlist

pairing: young Silva x f!reader

summary: Practically forced into a marriage with a handsome stranger, all you want is to be wanted by him. Unfortunately, all he wants is something he isn’t sure he can have.

warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] age gap (about 8 years); reader is 17 (which was not all that young for the time period), naïve & inexperienced; unprotected p in v sex; oral (f receiving); fingering (f receiving); some slight fluff(?); some drinking; some angst; use of American Old West terms (lil glossary at the end)

word count: 6136 (ish)

Important a/n!: First off, the age issue: reader is 17 at the beginning of this fic. Please keep in mind that during this time, marriage at that age wasn’t all that uncommon, particularly in the Old West. I decided to make her this age rather than 18 on purpose to emphasize the situation in which she finds herself. If that creeps you out, no biggie - just scroll on by.

Second, I’ve always been interested in women’s side of things, both in history and in literature, when things were written from men’s points of view and gave very little regard to women’s perspectives (i.e., all the goddamn time). Obviously, at some point, Silva had someone in his life with whom he had a son. Since his son was with him rather than absent from his life, I think it’s safe to surmise that he likely had a wife (as opposed to just having gotten a prostitute pregnant). I decided that I wanted to tell the story of that woman, if only to satisfy my own curious mind. This is not intended at all to take away from the very complicated story of Silva and Jake, nor is it meant to be any kind of commentary whatsoever on Silva’s sexuality.

Finally, I intend for this to be a two-parter and I have a portion of that written but no real timeline as to when it’ll be posted.

Kisses & affectionate spankings to my girls: @for-a-longlongtime @arcanefox207 @pink-whiskey-woman @magpiepills @exquisiteserotonin @legendary-pink-dot @sparklefarts38 @redhotkitchen

divider: @cafekitsune

You were fifteen the first time you set eyes on him, sixteen when you met him, seventeen when you married him four months later. It wasn’t by choice. There was no romantic courtship, no sweet proposal, no joyous wedding. Girlhood dreams of romance and warm, comforting love leading to you in a white dress, your future husband at your side, gradually destroyed by a series of uncontrollable events.

Once your mother died, her husband - your former uncle - didn’t know what to do with you. Your father was killed when you were three, leaving your young and frightened mother the little red ranch home, the horses, and acres upon acres of land to tend to alone. Your father’s older brother John swiftly swooped in, playing savior to her and you. United in their grief, he swept your beautifully sad mother off her feet. They married quickly, giving you a replacement father figure and her the security and safety she craved. Then, last winter, just before your fifteenth birthday, your mother became sick. A storm had made travel difficult and killed the majority of the crops in your small garden plot. Her fevers wouldn’t break and the doctor couldn’t make his way to treat her. You nursed her as well as you could while John, useless in his worry and premature in his sadness, nursed one of the last bottles of apple jack. She passed a week after, and everything of hers became his: her land, her home, her horses, and you.

He could’ve kept you around to tend the house and care for him, but his sorrow had convinced him he needed to escape. He’d heard tale from other drunkards in town that there was still gold to be found in California, and he set his sights upon those golden dreams. Dreams that didn’t include you. He put the little red ranch and the acres of land up for sale. Grief can be selfish, and when you asked in a panic where you were to go, he paused, seeming to consider you for the first time.

“You’re smart and capable. I’ll take you into town and you’ll find your way,” he’d said. At your age, you knew you would be fated to become one of the soiled doves in a saloon, having your youth and innocence used up by men of all ages, most of whom you’d never see again.

Then, one day, Silva came to purchase. He’d been to your homestead a year prior to buy a horse from John. Too shy to speak to him that time, you had watched him from among the sunflowers in your garden, admiring the shape of his body from his broad shoulders down to his narrow hips. Eight years older than you, he was handsome, with a trim, dark mustache and golden skin. Tall and lean, he walked with the self-confidence just shy of a rooster’s strut. You wondered why he hadn’t married already.

He had lovely dark hair and strong, capable hands that made your skin tingle with the thought of them on you. A foreign feeling rose low within you as you observed him, and your cheeks heated when he happened to turn and notice you, the timid girl with the sad eyes among tall and proud sunflowers. The corners of his mouth turned up, revealing a dimple in his right cheek, and he tipped his hat in your direction. That foreign feeling in your belly surged south. That night you lay in bed, unable to sleep with thoughts of the way he had glanced back at you as he guided the horse away, the red clay dust swirling about him until it swallowed his image from view and he was gone. You let your hand slip under your nightgown, instinct and desire guiding your fingertips through the warmth between your thighs, and imagined your touch was his.

Silva drove a hard bargain for the ranch from what you could hear of the conversation. Even harder when John asked about one of his horses. You had felt his eyes on you while you toiled about at the stove, your already-heated skin flushing deeper under his gaze. You sneaked glances at him, taking note of his soft brown eyes and full lips, his exotic accent like a melody.

It didn’t take long for their discussion to include you. “She can read and write, smart as a whip, taught her to shoot so she can protect herself, but she’s biddable ‘n does what she’s told.” Then, quieter, “a real piece of calico.” John spoke of you as one would a prized horse, but then he probably would have treated a prized horse with more consideration and respect.

Silva turned to you, pausing before he addressed you with a softer tone. “Would you like to stay here and live with me?”

You studied him, blood coursing ice cold through your limbs. You didn’t know him from Adam, didn’t know what kind of man he really was, but what choice did you have? Service one man you’d seen but never met before in your own home, or many men who were strangers while also paying a madam in a bed-house?

“I can provide for you,” he continued. “I will need a wife to tend the home, cook.” He took a step forward. “I have no bad intentions toward you.”

You glanced over at John who wouldn’t even look at you, pathetic barrel boarder he was. Resigned, you nodded.

Silva gave John a few days to pack his things and leave before making your home his own. You never saw him again. For the days that followed, you moved around each other in a dance of domesticity. He slept on the small bed in the corner of the bedroom that had been yours and allowed you the larger one. You noted his morning routine: rise early, make coffee if it was available, feed and care for the horses, tend to the much-needed repairs on the homestead. You arose once he went outside, made his bed and yours, fed and gathered eggs from the hens, prepared breakfast and more coffee for him, and kept house. You mended his shirts, polished his boots, laundered the clothing and linens. You ate together, mostly in silence, save for a polite exchange here and there, though there was no unpleasantness. You simply went about your business and he his own. When you did have some semblance of a conversation, he never mentioned family but sometimes spoke of a man, a friend named Jake, with whom he worked. You didn’t meet Jake until after your wedding.

Two months passed, and the nights became cooler. The fire burning in the stove wasn’t enough to drive away the chill. Meekly, you requested that he join you in your bed for warmth. He was reluctant but quickly agreed once he heard the chatter of your teeth between words spoken through shivers.

He took the old threadbare quilt from his bed and draped it over you before sliding in behind you. Tentatively, he rested his arm around your waist, careful not to touch you anywhere too intimate. You tucked yourself back against him, instantly warming your body. A few shivers passed through you, and you heard his breath catch as your body moved against his.

“Better?” he whispered in the dark.

You nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

While you were now warm, you were unable to sleep. He had invaded all of your senses: his scent filling your space, his solid body and strong arms around you, the sound of his breathing behind you. A strange sensation settled low in your belly, like what happened when you watched him tend to his horses, his broad back and shoulders shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. This time, however, the sensation grew and built upon itself. You shifted your hips to relieve the not-unpleasant ache, and as you did so, you heard Silva inhale sharply behind you.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. You felt something solid and heavy against your backside before he moved away just slightly from you.

He sighed, deep and slow. “It’s fine. Just go to sleep.”

When morning broke, you woke alone. A note left on the modest kitchen table told you he had left for town and would return in a week. Though it wasn’t the first time you’d been left to fend for yourself, you had become accustomed to the feeling of security that a capable male presence provided. You found yourself missing his company.

Shortly after lunchtime exactly one week after he left, you heard the distant galloping of hooves approaching. Expecting only Silva but hearing the sound of at least two horses, you snatched up your rifle and peered out the window. In the distance was Silva, sitting tall and proud on his favorite chestnut horse. Riding a few paces behind him was another man, older and lined with age under his derby, sporting a badge that flashed in the desert sun.

Putting the gun down, you stepped out onto the porch to greet them. Silva arrived first, dismounted and tied up his horse, giving it a few soft rubs on its velvety nose before coming to you.

“Who is that man?” you asked as the man tied up his horse and withdrew a Bible from his satchel.

He gave a cursory glance at the older man and turned to you. “It’s time we marry. We’ve been living too long together without you being my wife. This is Justice Rogers, he’s come to marry us here.” Silva’s words came tumbling at you, so much all at once and so matter-of-fact, devoid of the romance you’d come to expect from the proposals in the few novels your mother owned. Most of those engagements lasted more than a few minutes, though.

The justice tipped his hat at you. “Miss. Mighty fine home you keep here.” He smiled warmly at you, seemingly in an attempt to provide some sort of comfort.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

At the same time, Silva suggested, “Why don’t we let the Justice come in and have a drink and some lunch?” He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the door.

“Oh… yes, come in, please.” You weren’t sure of the proper etiquette for such entertaining. No one had ever taught you, so you did your best, mimicking what you could remember from the few times your mother welcomed guests. You found yourself wanting to please Silva, perhaps even impress him.

While he and Justice Rogers talked, you busied yourself reheating the remainder of the cornbread and stew you’d made for supper the night before. You were considering whether you should change from your day dress and apron to something more presentable and appropriate for a spur-of-the-moment wedding, or at least put on the one pair of stockings you owned, when you were addressed by Silva.

“Hermosa, pour us two whiskeys, will you?”

Hermosa. You’d never heard the word before and didn’t know what it meant. He’d only ever referred to you by name if he referred to you at all.

“Oh, none for me, thank you. I will have coffee if you have it?” Justice Rogers smiled.

You retrieved Silva’s whiskey and began brewing Justice Rogers’s coffee before serving the men their food.

Justice Rogers took a bite and hummed his appreciation. “So, about your wedding,” he began.

Silva interrupted him, “No wedding. Neither of us have family. We only want something more official than common law.”

Justice Rogers looked over at you for your assent.

Looking first to Silva for guidance, you spoke when he nodded to you. “Yes, that’s correct. We would like for you to marry us today. Please.”

“And how old are you, dear?” the Justice asked.

“Seventeen.”

The man hesitated, his lips pursed. He opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off.

“My parents are dead, sir. He is all I have.”

He sighed and frowned but ultimately acquiesced. “Very well then.” He stood and motioned for Silva to stand beside you. “Do you have rings?”

You looked at Silva who pulled a single small brass band from his pocket and held it in his palm.

The Justice began reciting marriage vows, which you each repeated. Silva put the ring on your finger and squeezed your hand gently.

“You are man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Your eyes darted to Silva’s. He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to yours in a chaste kiss.

Silva paid the man, and with a congratulatory handshake to Silva and a nod to you, he left.

If it was uncomfortable between the two of you before, it was downright awkward now. You knew what was expected of wives. Were you supposed to do that now? Later? You resolved to allow him to take the lead. You assumed he would know; most men his age visited the saloon girls often, or so your mother had told you.

Silva simply stared back at you, his soft brown eyes moving from your eyes to your lips and back. Feeling bold, you decided to kiss him again, keeping your hands to yourself and pressing your lips to his. This time, his mouth opened more and his tongue darted out to swipe over your lips. You’d never been kissed before, and you found it heavenly with the way he placed his hands softly on your waist and pulled you closer as his tongue danced around yours.

You could’ve kept kissing him for hours, but he pulled back from you, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

You shook your head. “No, I liked it.” The warmth of a blush spread over your cheeks.

He reached out and touched your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

You expected to. Even more, you expected him to want to. You sort of wanted to. “I thought…”

He interrupted you with a clearing of his throat. Stepping back, he shifted on his feet, suddenly nervous. “Right, well…” He gestured toward the window. “Looks like a storm is coming. Need to take care of the horses.” With that, he turned on his heel and went outside.

The remainder of your day was spent tending to the house, wondering if you’d done something wrong or if you weren’t to his liking somehow. Had he found your kisses distasteful? Was your eagerness to kiss him again too forward? He remained out of the house, busying himself with outdoor tasks. When the sky dimmed and thunder rumbled among the mountains, he sat in the rocking chair on the porch, his worn and dusty boots propped up on the railing, and stared into the distance until night fell and the rain began to pour.

As you did every other night, you prepared dinner, this time making an extra effort by lighting more candles and setting the utensils like proper folks would. It was your wedding night, after all. When he came to sit down, he took note of your efforts but gave you only a brief tight smile. To your dismay, you ate dinner in silence, drinking too much of the wine you had poured for both of you. You didn’t even like wine, but it proved a warmer and more willing companion than your new husband.

“It’s very good.”

“Hmm?” You’d barely heard him, lost as you were in the way your head had begun to feel light on your shoulders.

“The food,” he said. “It’s very good.”

“Oh.” You looked up at him but looked away quickly. He was so handsome, dashing even. Whether it was the wine or the novelty of being his wife, you weren’t certain, but tonight, he was nothing short of beautiful. Something in the way the candlelight cast over the curve of his nose and the fullness of his bottom lip, highlighting the slight dip in the middle, made your heart race and your breath hitch. His skin, so brown compared to yours so fair, was lit golden.

His brow furrowed and a smile began to spread across his mouth. “You seem to be enjoying the wine more than the meal.” He winked when you looked up at him.

Your cheeks burned in embarrassment and you cast your eyes down at your lap. Now he likely thought you a drunkard and fool of a girl. Before you knew it, tears you couldn’t hold back fell to your skirts. You didn’t know how to be a wife. Why had you ended up with this life? You should’ve resigned yourself to the saloons in town. At least you would feel wanted there.

Silva rose from his chair and knelt next to yours. His hands, so much larger than your own, took hold of your own. He brushed his thumb over the thin band now adorning your finger, then tilted your chin up to look at him. You tried to avoid his eyes but he tilted his head until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Would you like to dance?” He brushed away an errant tear near your jaw with a calloused knuckle.

“There’s no music,” you sniffled.

“Of course there is. Listen.” He pointed up, where the rain was battering the roof and random rumbles of thunder accompanied flashes of lightning. “That’s music enough,” he said, smiling softly. “It’s our wedding night. We have to have our first dance, yes?” He seemed sincere but how could you really know?

“You’re teasing me.”

You stood from your chair to begin cleaning up, and he rose to his feet before you. Without saying a word, he led you to the middle of the room and pulled you into his arms. He guided your hand to his shoulder and held the other in his own. Goosebumps rose over your skin as his other hand came to your waist. He began leading you through a slow, swaying dance. Still embarrassed and feeling timid, you couldn’t look him in the eyes. Instead you studied the small tear in the seam of his plaid shirt, teasing it with your index finger and making a note to mend it for him later.

He, however, kept his eyes on you. He admired the way strands had escaped from your pinned-up hair just so, casting a glow about you when the candles’ flames chased away the shadows from your face. He had found you lovely from the moment he first saw you a year ago, hiding among sunflowers that only served to enhance your own fairness. In between then and now, your features had sharpened the way they often do as girls turn into women. Now he found you beautiful.

Although he was still young, he believed he knew what love felt like. He believed he loved Jake, though that love hadn’t yet been expressed and was still confusing to him. He didn’t yet love you, and he was positive that you didn’t love him, but he felt that with time, perhaps you could at least grow to care for one another. From the beginning, you managed to move and work around each other like a well-practiced couple. You mostly kept to yourself and kept a good home for him, as was promised. You provided everything a wife should, save for his baser needs. Those were easily satisfied by the women he met on his travels, the whores and barmaids in town. He was only sullying your good name by remaining in a home with you without being married.

He wouldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want, but you were going to have to consummate the marriage sooner rather than later. He would also be lying if he said that he didn’t want to be with you in that way, or that he didn’t want his lineage carried on through children. It was all he could do not to touch you beneath your nightdress on that unseasonably cold night that you requested he keep you warm in your bed. He was certain you could feel him become hard as you nestled your body against his. And when, once pressed against him, you arched your hips even closer, he thought maybe you also wanted to touch him.

Now, holding and moving with you gently to the music of the desert in a spring storm, the desire to know you as a husband knows his wife swelled within him. He had intended only to make you stop crying, as there was nothing more uncomfortable for him than a weeping woman. He didn’t realize that you would react in such a way to his gentle teasing about how much wine you had. Now you wouldn’t even look at him, although your fingers gripped tight to his shoulder and hand.

You seemed to warm to him with every sway and, clearing your throat, you asked quietly, “What does ‘hermosa’ mean?”

He found it endearing that you attempted in earnest to pronounce it the way he had. He asked you to repeat your question so he could hear it once again.

“‘Hermosa’. What does it mean? You called me that this afternoon.”

He moved his hand tentatively from your waist around to the middle of your back and guided you closer to him. “‘Beautiful’. It means ‘beautiful’.”

Your face tilted closer to his. “You think I’m beautiful?”

In place of an answer, he let go of your hand to tilt your face to his. Your eyes looked to his lips, full and slightly parted, and he took that as an invitation to press them to your own. He was gentle, his hands coming up to cradle your face and his kisses soft and easy. He pulled away, but you chased his mouth with your own, kissing him with more urgency. You put your arms around his neck to keep him close. You never wanted to stop kissing him, enjoying the way it made your stomach feel like you’d swallowed butterflies and your lower belly fill with warmth.

His hands went to your hair, pulling out the two pins that held it in a loose bun and letting it fall around your shoulders. His lips changed course, moving to a spot just under your jaw and eliciting a sigh of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, still feeling too shy to thread them into his soft, dark hair, but wanting to pull him nearer and nearer.

He, however, knew exactly what to do with his hands. As he distracted you by making his way down your neck to your shoulder with kisses, his hands traveled around to your ribs, thumbs teasing the undersides of your breasts. When you didn’t object, they traveled further up until they grazed and circled over your nipples through your dress.

The sensation was so new, creating a deeper want for him within you. You wanted his hands everywhere, all at once, and you struggled to find the words and the courage to tell him so. Instead, all you could muster was a soft sigh.

Mustering up every ounce of courage within you and emboldened by want, you reached behind you to unbutton the top of your apron and untie it, letting it drop to the floor. You reached out for the buttons of his shirt, but he took easy hold of your hands.

“We should go to the bed.” He took two of the candlesticks from the table and blew the others out. He started toward the bedroom and stopped, turning to face you. “Bring the wine,” he said with a smile. You would later be glad for the suggestion.

He poured you another glass and slowly took off your dress. You stood watching him in your camisole and pantaloons, still sipping from your glass as he removed his boots and shirt. He took the glass from you and finished what was left before setting it down on the little table beside the bed. He kissed you once more, and directed you to lay down. Removing his belt and trousers, he lay beside you in his drawers. You could feel him, solid and heavy against your hip but you didn’t dare look or touch yet. Your breaths caught in your throat as he reached over to untie the bow at the neckline of your camisole. The three buttons on it followed, and he splayed the fabric open. A chill coursed over you as his fingertips ghosted over your collarbone, your chest, and finally your breasts. He spiraled around your nipple before leaning down to take it into his mouth.

You took a deep, shuddering breath and arched up to him as if on instinct. He took your movements and quiet gasps as permission to proceed, treating your other nipple to the same attention while his hand grazed over the soft skin of your stomach. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, deciding to keep them occupied beside your body by taking hold of the quilt beneath you. He looked up at you before sliding his hand just beneath the waist of your pantaloons, leaving just his fingers beneath the white cloth with his thumb soothing back and forth over your skin. Assuming he was checking on your comfort level, you nodded to him and lifted up to kiss him.

His hand slid lower and teased at the hair there between your thighs before moving lower. The very tip of his middle finger ventured between the lips of your sex, parting them just so and grazing over some small part of you that made you inhale sharply, your hips jerking unintentionally.

“Shhh,” he quieted you with a smile. “It’s OK, just relax.” He placed his hand on your inner thigh and eased your legs apart further. You felt his whole hand cover you softly then, two fingers simply caressing up and down, applying more pressure as they made their way up.

You focused on the way his body warmed your right side, the feel of his breath drifting over your bare skin, and the delicate attention he was paying to your pleasure. Your lips parted and you felt your muscles tense ever so slightly with every pass of his touch. Soon, your hips rocked gently into his touch. He chose that moment to ease you open, parting you further and swiping his fingers through the wetness gathering there.

He kissed up your neck and flicked his tongue over your earlobe, earning him a shiver from you.

“Open your eyes. Look at me,” he instructed.

You obeyed, gazing into his warm brown irises, and he smiled. Caught up in realizing just how much you adored the dimple in his right cheek and just how beautiful you found him to be, you didn’t notice the increased pressure to his touch between your thighs until he steadily slid a finger inside you.

“Ohh…” was all you could manage as he moved it in and out of you. It was a foreign and different feeling, but with every slow slide in and out, you found you needed more, although of what you weren’t exactly sure.

“Please,” you requested, wanting whatever he believed you needed.

In response, he added a second finger, stretching you more than you had felt before. You had tried two of your own in the dark desert quiet of night once, but your fingers were much smaller than his. His own provided a fullness altogether intense and incredible.

He moved slowly, in and out, in and out, letting you adjust to the feeling. You were already so wet for him, so he bent his fingers just barely as he moved, trying to beckon your release forth. He knew it was unlikely you would be able to come your first time taking him, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to last within you, so he resolved to try to make you feel it at least once by his hand.

“Does that feel good?” he asked in a whisper, noting that your hips had begun to move in time with his hand.

It felt incredible. So incredible that you were at a loss for words, so you only nodded, eyes closed and lips parted. Soon, you felt his mouth on you again, tasting the skin between your breasts and moving lower and lower, over your stomach, beside your hip bone. He removed the rest of the clothing keeping you from him, instructing in a whisper that you also remove your camisole.

As you lay back down and opened your eyes to meet his gaze, he gave you a sly grin. He bent his head, nuzzling his nose against the soft curls at the apex of your thighs. Instinctual shyness and ingrained shame made you try to close your legs and make him stop what he was about to do.

“No… wait… you don’t have to…” You didn’t really want him to stop but you thought this was how you were supposed to act. You weren’t supposed to have the same want for him that he had for you. You’d been taught it wasn’t proper.

He looked up, concerned. His hands soothed up and down your bare thighs gently, but stayed where he had moved to kneel between them, keeping them spread. “Does it not feel good?”

Pausing, you took a deep breath and told him the truth. “It… it does. It feels very good. I just…” You weren’t sure how to explain how you felt.

He took your left hand in his, intertwining your fingers. “You’re a wife now. My wife. You’re allowed to have this. If you want it, of course.”

“I do.”

“Then let me make you feel good. It will… help. For later.” He gently pushed your legs apart, exposing you fully to him. He seemed to study you there for a moment, then lowered his head once again and placed a kiss between your thighs.

Your sharp intake of breath accompanied the rushing warmth coursing down your body. He tasted you, his tongue smoothing over you, dipping inside you, his lips sucking and kissing at one little spot that made your toes curl. Your hands gripped the blanket beneath you when he grasped one of them and placed it in his hair, silent permission to guide him and direct him back to areas that felt best.

You chose to keep your eyes closed and focus on how he was making you feel. He kept up a rhythm, triggering your hips to rock against him, and you felt him slide his fingers back into you. Everything felt so right, so complete that you wondered how you’d be able to carry on without him filling you in some way. His fingers moving in time with his tongue was all so much. You felt something building, sensations piling up and muscles gathering tight until, all at once, they released inside you.

It was unlike anything you’d felt before. A climb to a precipice then a dive, the feeling of falling, a blood rush to the very center of you. Your hand had tightened involuntarily in his hair, and he groaned into you, sending little shivers and pulses through you when you thought it was ending.

He eased your hand away from his hair, looking up with a smile. “You’ll scalp me if you’re not careful, querida,” he chuckled.

You barely heard a word he said. Placing your hands to his face, you urged him up to you and kissed him. He tasted of you, of wine, and something distinctly him. All you knew in that moment was that you wanted him. You wanted him so badly. Unsure of how to articulate it properly, you resorted to pushing at his remaining clothing, wanting to feel all of him against all of you.

Once you were skin-to-skin, he took your hand and placed it on his length, wrapping his hand around yours. He guided your hand up and down, and a moan escaped his parted lips. His eyes closed briefly as he tightened his hand around yours. You marveled at how velvety his skin was while also so solid. When a bead of liquid gathered at the tip, you instinctively swiped your thumb over it.

He turned your head to the side and pressed his lips to the spot just below your ear. “Are you ready for me?” he asked.

You nodded, not completely sure what he meant. “Yes.”

He reached down and lifted your knee up high on his side. You moved your other the same way. Soon, you felt him, solid against your soft, sliding up and down, and then inside.

You soon felt a pinch and gasped, whining quietly as he pushed forward slowly.

“Shhh,” he soothed, but didn’t stop. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he continued and the discomfort intensified. “It’s OK,” he said. “Just a bit more… just take it.”

Take it you did, resisting the urge to push him away from you and holding your breath to keep tears at bay. Soon, he was fully seated within you, and he held still though his breathing was ragged. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, and bent to kiss you. As he did, he started to move, and what had been painful and sharp became pleasurable. It felt right, like no one else would ever be able to give you what he could. Now that you were married, it was unlikely anyone else ever would.

His hand came to the back of your upper thigh to hoist your hips higher as he drove into you faster and deeper. In turn, you smoothed your hands down his back, enjoying how his muscles moved beneath your palms as he took you.

He cursed in Spanish under his breath and his rhythm stuttered before he withdrew and finished on your lower belly. He held himself over you to catch his breath, kissed your forehead, then got up and left the bedroom. Curious, you dipped a finger in what he’d left behind on your skin and brought it to your lips. Your nose wrinkled at the taste, salty, musky and somewhat bitter. He returned just as you pulled your finger from your mouth, and gave you a strange look but said nothing.

He’d retrieved a small bowl of water and a washrag. You watched as he cleaned himself off, noting the light pink tinge to the water when he wrung the cloth out. He wiped his spend from your belly, then moved to swipe gently between your legs. You placed your hand over his to take over.

“Let me,” you said. His eyes flicked up at you, but he let go, nodding once. When you finished, he took the cloth from you, blew out the candles, and lay back down next to you. He fit his body against yours, and you turned onto your side to face him, wincing at the slight ache between your thighs.

“How do you feel?” He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead.

You shrugged. “I’m alright, I suppose. Sore. Tired.” Your limbs felt heavy, your body exhausted. At the same time, your feelings were confusing to you. Everything was so new to you, being with him this way was so new, that you were unsure as to how you should act and what you should feel. You wanted to cry, laugh, wrap yourself around him and never let go, let him have you in every way possible.

“It’ll get better each time,” he said with a smile. “C’mere.” He pulled you into his arms. Too tired to think too much about it, you slid your bare leg over his and snuggled yourself against him.

Silva stared up at the ceiling, listening to the rain batter the tin roof. He felt your body relax further into his own after a while and heard your breathing deepen as you fell asleep. He looked down to your left hand resting over his heart, at the wedding band now present. A brief wave of panic jolted through him when he considered what he’d done, and then how he would explain it to Jake. Would he need to explain it? He hadn’t even really made his feelings for Jake known yet. There had been glances, insinuations, hints given, but that was all. The part of him that told him that’s all there should be reminded him that he was now married and that he needed to abandon any fantasy of a life with Jake. It could never and would never happen.

Still, as his eyes began to close and sleep started to overtake his body, there was only one person on his mind, and it wasn’t you.

~~~

American Old West terms & slang

soiled doves - prostitutes

biddable - docile, obedient

a real piece of calico - a girl or woman, usually an attractive one

bed-house - brothel

barrel boarder - a bum, no-good

apron - not a traditional apron; a sleeveless layer that usually buttoned at the neck and either tied or buttoned at the back of the waist & was worn over a woman’s day dress

camisole and pantaloons - women’s underwear/undergarments

drawers - men’s underwear

FINALLY got around to reading this 😍😍 So good!

Difficult - One Shot

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit 18+ minors dni

Word Count: 12,030

Summary:  How can you be part of a love story when you don’t believe in love?

Content: Pre-Outbreak, late 90’s – early 2000’s, soft!Joel, Sarah is about 7, slight age gap but no specific ages mentioned (21ish/late 20’s), lots alcohol, drug references, cigarettes, cheating/infidelity, no physical descriptions of reader other than she has hair and delicate ankles (picture is just vibes), much swearing, mention of suicide reference in passing, pathological fear of using the phone, some fluff, some smut; semi unprotected PIV (reader is on the pill but condoms would have been sensible here people), no use of y/n, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, pet names, bit of a daddy kink, slapping, and just a note we’re very fleabag coded here. Let me know if I missed anything.  

A/N: I was writing something quite different when the idea of reader and Joel came into my head and I couldn’t let her go, so here we are. She’s a hot mess but I love her. This is the first Joel fic I’ve written and actually been brave enough to share – I’ve not written fiction for eons and I’ve probably broken one million unspoken fandom rules so I’m very open to constructive feedback (as long as you’re stroking my hair and calling me pretty at the same time, thanks). I don’t have anyone else reading this so apols for any typos as I never learnt to spell, soz. Get a cup of tea and I’d love to know what you think. Oh, also some British references may have slipped in by mistake!

I have been so inspired by the incredible writing of @chloeangelic @netherfeildren & @bageldaddy  in particular, they are insanely good at creating flawed characters who we still root for and I hope I’ve managed to capture even the tiniest bit of that with our girl.

Listen to: Gracie Abrams Difficult (obvs) and Rockland.  

DIFFICULT

You’re cruel to them, these boys who adore you. You simply don’t care for their feelings at all. Do they have feelings? Probably not. You flit from one to another without a second glance, promising one thing and delivering, more often than not, nothing at all. Well, your body, but nothing of emotional value. Outwardly you look like you’re searching for love, for some connection, but in reality, nobody penetrates deeper than your need for them to want you.

“Please, please, don’t kiss me and run off with someone else this evening?” And you swear you won’t, you swear to him, this sweet boy that’s supposed to be your friend who you shouldn’t be kissing in the first place. Soon enough you’re tangled with someone else on the dance floor and if you have a conscience, it doesn’t even graze it. Goes hurtling right past in a blaze of vodka and bummed cigarettes.

It’s your pattern and other than the occasional Suicide Tuesday, you’re not looking to change a single thing. Fuck it. Fuck them.

So, there’s nothing really out of the ordinary with the man you’re flirting with this evening; he’s a little bit older than your usual suspect but he’s looking at you the same old way. Hungry for your on display flesh and barely hiding it behind darkening brown eyes, strong hand reaching to touch you more with each sip of his drink. Your thighs are sticky on the booze soaked bench under you, your denim mini skirt is much too short to be decent, but fits in with the vibe of the dingy downtown Austin club perfectly. You lean in to hear his soft Southern lilt over the din of the music.

“Joel Miller.”

“Mr Miller, pleasure to meet you.” You notice a boy you were toying with earlier approach the table, but you purposefully ignore him, turning your body all the way towards Joel. This is much more fun. Joel’s confident in his handsomeness, a natural charisma oozing out of him that feels a little bit dangerous. He shoots a warning glance at the stranger.

“You know this guy?”

“What guy? I only see one guy here.” You take a sip of your drink, focusing your gaze on only Joel and let your hand trace up onto his knee.  You’ve never been one for subtly. Taking a moment to admire his aquiline profile and surprisingly delicate chin under the scruff of dark facial hair, you give him your best bedroom eyes; “You wanna get out of here?” Joel shoots you back a fine-looking smirk in response, one single dimple visible through his patchy beard and you want to lick it.

“I can’t, I’m here with my brother Tommy, can’t leave him. Liable to get into some trouble if I don’t keep an eye.” He gestures over at a rowdy group of boys by the bar who practically spell out ‘caution’. Your kind of fun normally, probably would have made some big eyes at the equally dark haired brother if you hadn’t spotted Joel first.

“Dance with me then?” You pull Joel up by the hand, thighs unsticking for the bench unpleasantly and link your fingers with him in an overly familiar way for a first meet. He’s warm, feels hot against your skin and it’s good. You brush past your bestie Gracie as you weave through the tightly packed crowd, keeping a hold of Joel’s hand as you lean into the beautiful shell of her ear and suggest she’ll have fun with the boys at the bar.

“Looks like you’re having fun already,” She purrs back to you, giving Joel an instant appraisal with the flick of her sharp eyes. “Enjoy.” You hear her behind you, calling out, “Which one of your handsome men is Tommy?”

“You are something else.” Joel is right up close behind you now, there’s a pleasing scratch of his scruff of him against your neck as he shakes his head; you’re going to have fun making him want you.

You’re a good dancer, natural to the music and Joel surprises you, for a tall, broad guy he’s got rhythm and just the right amount of presence; keeping you close to him but not crowded. Letting you show off your body without needing to paw at you, making each touch deliberate and leaving you wanting more, more, more, please. It’s hot, sweaty and intuitive; your body is pressed against his and you can feel him hard against his jeans. Just the way you like them. You turn then, intentionally slowly, so you can drag your body against his in a way that makes him dig even more into you, with eyes now locked into yours. You have to lean up to kiss him, arm around his neck when suddenly you feel like you’ve been stung. A jolt of something when you connect with him that makes you pull back quickly.

“I think you just static electric shocked me?”

“Think it was a lightning bolt, Babygirl.” You laugh loudly against his ear; this is how they should all feel. ‘Babygirl’ looks good on you. You pout up at him and lean back in for another kiss; it’s delicious, like he’s savouring every moment of you and being greedy at the same time; teeth and tongue and want. You effortless move to the music and a hand pulls your face closer, while another lifts your body higher by raising your heel off the ground; you’re enveloped in him; you nudge your body very gently up and down on the ball of your foot so you’re almost imperceptibly grinding against him. It feels fucking fantastic.

“Sweetheart you are doing something to me, I am not going to be able to contain myself for a minute longer.” He gives your ass a squeeze under your skirt and you wonder if he can feel the heat coming from you, becoming more and more desperate for him. He swoops in for another kiss, lighter this time, playing with your tongue in a way so intimate you feel uncharacteristically exposed, something akin to nerves fluttering within you. He pulls back and brushes your cheek, “Let’s go outside for a smoke shall we? I need to cool down, before I do something that gets us thrown outta here.” You’d like to see what that is, but you happily follow that wicked grin outside. You grab two shots on your way out, crossing hands and pouring into each other’s mouths. You kiss again, vodka burning. Sitting down on an empty bench outside, you watch as he lights two cigarettes, passing one to you and you hook your ankles over his broad thighs and cross your arms. You know you look good when you smoke, it’s one of the reasons you do it, draws attention to your mouth. His hands are so warm and tight around your ankles, you flex them a little, enjoying how delicate they look under his firm grip, little dainty stiletto heels poking out from under him.

“You ever buy a cigarette in your life, kid?”

“No need, always find a willing old man to sort me out.” He’s probably not even 10 year older than you, but it feels fun to tease. You take a slow drag, looking down your nose at him as you exhale the smoke in the opposite direction, admiring how the obvious natural litheness of his twenties is turning into something more solid. This feels sultry and charged, the heat between you fizzing with energy and he gives your ankles a squeeze again, pulls them up closer to his crotch so you’re heavy against him. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow, enjoying every moment of his want.

“Tell me some stories Joel. What’s your naughty little brother up to?”

“Always up to somethin’. I’d rather hear about you Babygirl, seems like you’ve got a legion of admirers in here tonight. I gonna have to fight anyone for your hand?” You snort a laugh, the man is playing you like a dream, hitting all your high notes, drawing you in with that devilish smile and how it produces those beautiful crinkles around heavenly soft, brown eyes.

“A woman can’t live on bread alone Joel,” Your eyes roll coquettishly, and you give your bare shoulders a little shake, “you wouldn’t want me if no one else did anyways.”

“I’d want you if I was the last man on earth.” You move your ankle ever so slightly, so you’re rubbing against his jeans, searching out his hardness and locking him in with a flash of your lashes while you take another drag. “Something else…” he starts to say, leaning towards you in the hope of another kiss, but trouble bursts into the courtyard instead. The distinct shape of Tommy in a brawl with someone, might even be your ‘friend’ from before. You turn away quickly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. This is what happens when I take my eye off… TOMMY!” Joel roars into life and jogs off after the bouncer, his brother and whoever else that is.

You watch him go, realising he didn’t get your number and immediately fall in a sulk. Now a number of things happen; you’re bored, the wrong side of drunk and turned on. You keep drinking and your eyes are wondering the club; Gracie and you dance like maniacs for a while, slut dropping with the best of them and yes, you keep drinking. You’re outside the club waiting for a cab you end up kissing your friend JT, again, because he’s there and he says he’s in love with you and it is just too easy not to. When he starts pestering you about actually going on a date, you tell him in no uncertain terms to fuck off. Disdainful, mean. He surprises you, because he’s actually furious. Some of those boy emotions you don’t believe in coming and hitting you right in the face.

“Why do you always do this to me? You lead me on again and again, and then you just dump me without a second thought. You know I’m in love with you, right? You’re a cold hearted bitch, you know that too?” And you do an awful thing. You laugh. Because you do not care. Oh no, no, that’s not the most awful thing. You turn, and you know what you’re going to see before your drunken eyes settle on him. Joel has come back to find you and you are certain, in an instant, he’s seen it all. The ugly kiss, the hurt, the nasty cruel laugh.

“You are fucking chaos kid.” Joel’s shaking his head in the worst possible way - disappointment. It hits you in the stomach like a punch.

“Thanks.” You curtesy, why not, and hop in a waiting cab, pulling Gracie in behind you as she gives Joel a shrug of the shoulders. Same old, same old for her.

“Girrrrrl…” Gracie holds your hand as you stare out of the window. You simply will not cry.

“Shhsss don’t say anything. I fucked it ok?”

“That man did not look happy.”

“Some man though, right?”

“Fine as hell babe. Thought you…?” You nod but have to shake your head to stop the sudden, unexpected, tears that are spiking your eyes, looking up at the taxi roof and forcing them back in. You don’t cry about boys - they cry about you. That’s the whole fucking point. You steel yourself and find your composure. Yet you’re finding it hard to shake off that look he shot you, like you’d let him down. Like maybe he wasn’t just viewing you as a piece of ass for the night.

“You got any more to drink at yours?” Gracie gives your hand a squeeze

*****

You manage a little cafe in town and it’s fine. You make the sandwiches, get to drink all the coffee and the kids you work with are all just like you. They’re your little found family. Today is your normal Saturday; everyone is battling a hangover and desperately trying to get thorough the shift, so you dig deep to keep them motivated, get everything out on time and personally handle all the difficult regulars. You accidentally ‘drop’ a cake on the floor which means it can’t be served and you can all share it. The café has a tiny open plan kitchen behind the counter, so the four of you are surreptitiously wolfing the cake down behind the cake fridge and groaning about your heads when you see a floating child appear above the cash register. You brush the crumbs off your face and whip round.

“Hi miss, what can I get you?”

The child is not floating. She’s attached to Joel fucking Miller’s shoulders. Fuck. Your hangover lurches and you feel genuinely like you might be sick for a second, the blood has drained from your face and your scraped back hair feels achingly tight against your skull. You wish you’d at least washed off last night’s eyeliner.

“You’re fucking married?” It tumbles out of your mouth just loud enough for him to hear. Joel is quick to mask his surprise at seeing you and gives you a searching look, like he’s trying to work something out. Don’t go down that rabbit hole my friend, you want to warn him.

“I am not married. I’ve got a kid.” He leans in real close, “Do not swear in front of my kid. Please.”

Your try and shape your face into something neutral, but a quick glance at the mirror by the coffee machine and you know you look harsh, smudged eye make-up adding to the overall impression of moody teenager about to slam their bedroom door.

“How can I help you, sir?” You voice is clipped and your colleagues turn round, knowing you only use this voice on the most obnoxious of customers. It’s your kill with kindness routine. Doesn’t fit at all with the handsome dad standing in front of you with the adorable kid draped around his shoulders.

“Sarah, what would you like bug?” He squeezes her hands, raises a devastating eyebrow at you, “Tell the nice lady.”

“Do you have milkshakes?”

“Sure do missy, chocolate, vanilla or strawberry?” You soften your features for her, giving her a little sneaky smile and whisper conspiratorially, “I hear the strawberry one comes with sprinkles.”

“Daddy, can I?”

“Whatever you’d like sweetheart.”

“Please may I have a strawberry milkshake?” Impeccable manners, you’re impressed.

“Of course honey. Would daddy like a milkshake?” Your hand instantly flies up to your mouth, you couldn’t help yourself, your face light on fire and you struggle to hide your pulled in lips and wide eyes. Your eyebrows have almost hit the ceiling. Tasha behind you audibly gasps. Whoops. You start to stutter a sorry, but he cuts in quickly.

“Just a black coffee for me please. We’ll take the table by the window.” He sets Sarah on the floor and she clambers up the small set of steps away from the counter and up into the cafe. He hangs back a moment, licks his lips, turns his full gaze on you with a tilt of his head.

“Careful.”

The coffee machine jumps into life grinding fresh beans and you turn your back to him, walking the two small steps to your prep area. Trying real fucking hard to breathe normally.

“Who was that?” Tasha and Sam are instantly standing either side of you, pressing into the small space where you make the sandwiches, backs to the cafe.

“Oh, some guy I hooked up with at a club the other night. Didn’t know he had a kid.”

“That was In. Tense.” Sam is absolutely buzzing, she lives for this shit. “Daddy? Would Daddy like a milkshake? Daddy?” Sam croons to herself as she stacks some plates above your head.

Adam leans in and rests his head on your shoulder, “Did Daddy get some? He seems kinda pissed at you.”

“He got a little somethin’ somethin’. But no, not the full special.”

“Unlucky for him. You are one hot mess babe.” He gives you a playful kiss on the cheek with all the intimacy of friends who’ve fucked but love each other despite it. Sam slaps his head away from you quickly, because of course Joel is back at the counter. And yes, you want to shout at him, yes, everyone gets to kiss me, you mister, are not special.

“Could we please have a slice of the carrot cake as well? Two forks?” Sam leaps into action, flicking a strand of poker straight blonde hair over her shoulder as she taps it into to the till.

“No problem at all sir, we’ll bring it over with the drinks.” Joel nods, shoots you a glance you can see reflected in the mirror above your station and stomps off back to his table. Everyone grimaces at each other, before a giggle makes its way round, the four of you trying to silently laugh and do your jobs at the same time. It’s a miracle the milkshake makes it to the tray in one piece. Tasha, Adam and Sam all place one hand on the black tray, desperate to take it over.

“I just wanna look at Daddy’s face again, please, please?” Sam gives you her best wide eyes and perfect pout.

“I’m gonna tell him what a great fuck you are?” Adam sweeps his long floppy fringe out of his eyes, smirks as Sam whacks him again. Little Tasha just grins at you.

“Fuck’s sake. I’ll take it over.” You take a deep breath, redo your hair and pull out a few strands at the front so it’s not so severe, brush the bread flour from your apron. This is your domain, your stage, you’ve worked here on and off since you were 16 and you’ve served plenty of boys you’ve kissed. No biggie. You skip up the steps, very conscious of the others watching you, let your hips sway a little as you pop the drinks down and place the extra large slice of carrot cake in the middle. Two forks. Sarah squeals with delight and you smile easily at her, turning briefly to let Joel enjoy the last second of it. When he smiles back it reaches his eyes with such a playfulness it brings a heat to your chest, almost like a blush beginning to bloom. Not that you blush for boys. That would be pathetic. Your hand reaches up to your exposed neck and you feel a warmth prick at your skin. He’s still grinning at you.

“Enjoy!” You spin back around, trey pressed to your chest.

The lunch rush has hit by the time Joel and Sarah get up to leave, you’re fully in the sandwich making zone as they stroll past the counter and down the stairs to go out through the shop below. Joel calls out ‘Thanks guys’ and everyone trills ‘Thank you’ in unison and erupts into laughter immediately.

“Subtle guys, subtle.” You sigh at them, taking a big swig of coffee before plating up a ciabatta; “Table four please.”

Sam comes running back into the kitchen, making an almost off-the-scale high-pitched sound.

“Daddy left his fucking NUMBER on the bill. Here, here, here!” And it’s there, signed Joel. With a $10 tip. Sweet.

*****

It becomes Sarah and Joel’s routine, every Saturday morning for a milkshake and coffee, maybe a slice of cake, after Sarah’s soccer practise. You like watching Joel with Sarah, wondering what the set-up is if he has her every Saturday. Slowly, over the months, you learn that he has her all the time, that Mom isn’t in the picture at all. You try and piece it all together quietly, understanding he must have had her when he was even younger than you, observing their ups and downs, seeing how sometimes they’re bickering and at other times Sarah is attached to his lap the whole morning and peppering him with little kisses and grubby hands. One morning after a particularly busy rush, Joel invites you to sit with them and catch your breath. From then on, rather than nipping out for a smoke break, you always find time to sit with them for at least a few minutes, have a corner of their cake or bring them something new you’ve made for them to try. Sarah likes to talk to you about her school friends or the fairies at the bottom of the garden and you like to listen. Like to feel close to Joel for a few moments, have him look at you with those dark eyes and remember what it was like to kiss him. It’s your little window into the beauty of their everyday domesticity.

Your problem is Joel now has a clear view of your Saturdays too. He can see when you’ve been out the night before, when you’re so hungover you’re functioning on a zoned out autopilot, when you’re clearly wearing last night’s clothes or worse, someone else’s clothes. It’s written all over your body; the hickey from the latest boy, the stamps from last night’s club, someone else’s too big band t-shirt and a pair of emergency flip flops you keep in your locker. You couldn’t be a starker contrast to his perfect little unit. Sometimes last night’s conquest comes for a coffee and you have to desperately try and get rid of them before Joel and Sarah arrive, whipping whoever he is up a sandwich and pushing him back down the stairs.

“Call me babe, thanks for the coffee. Don’t worry about the shirt.” This one grabs at your ass, steals an on the lips kiss, pushes past Joel and Sarah on the too small staircase. You grimace, acrid taste of last night still in your mouth. You can’t even remember his name. You can see Joel trying not to stare, a flash of something over his eyes.

“Morning sunshine,” You pat Sarah gently on her pretty little head, “I found one of your fairy books at the thrift store, let me get it for you.”

“Oh, thank you, I love them! Daddy says they’re out of print, that’s why they’re so hard to find.” You pull it out from underneath the counter and gift it to her.

“Let me give you some money.” Joel reaches for his wallet.

“Nah it’s fine, it was like a dollar and you have more than paid for it with your generous tipping.” You try and distract him with a half-smile, hope he can’t smell the nameless boy on you.

“Morning Joel, hi Sarah,” Sam gives them both one of her pageant winning grins, “We’ve got some raspberry ice cream in for milkshakes if you’d like to try it sweetie?”

“Yes please! Thank you, Sam.”

Sarah makes her way to their usual spot of table six by the window but Joel hangs back for a second, you can see he’s hesitating. You take a moment to savour his handsome face, playful eyes and strong profile, always a bit pouty lips under that deliciously patchy beard. You’d like to tug at one of those almost curls in his messy, dark hair.

“You never called me.” The team all stop in their tracks for a heartbeat, quick glances confirm you’re stood frozen behind the counter. They all chime in at once;

“She never calls anyone.”

“She’s never called me in my life, and we’ve been friends since we were 17.”

“She makes me phone all our suppliers.”

You shrug your shoulders, all true. You’ve kept his number saved in your phone like a security blanket all this time, happy it’s there but knowing you’ll never use it.

“Pass me your phone.” You pull it out from your apron, unlock it and hand it over. He calls himself and hangs up. “Ok fine. Now I’ve got your number and I will call you…” He looks up at everyone, “Does she answer the phone?”

Adam begins to answer no, but Tasha chips in with a giggle; “She will if it’s you.”

“I guess I will if it’s you.” You share a flirtatious smirk with Joel. Tasha almost starts clapping.

*****

That evening your mobile goes and you see it’s Joel. He’s wasted no time at all.

“So, who’s shirt were you wearing today?”

“Oh, just a friend’s.” You’re blasé, you’re not going to see whatever his name was again if you can help it.

“You kiss all your friends goodbye?”

“Joel, I kiss everyone. I thought you knew that by now.”

“You’re telling me I’m not special.”

“Oh no you’re special. You’re my first proper stalker.  Normally they only show up at my work once, you’ve really committed. Dragging in poor Sarah too! Stole my number as well… I should be calling the cops really.” He doesn’t rise to the bait.

“You’re telling me he’s not going to show up again?”

“Who?”

“You are somethin’ else aren’t you?”

“So you keep telling me.”

“I really don’t like to share.”

“Important part of growing up surely, learning to share? Bet you teach Sarah that all the time. Hey! You share a cake with her almost every Saturday, sometimes you let me have a bite too?”

“Fine. I don’t want to share you. With anybody.”

You swallow thickly, you don’t have a smartarse answer for that. The truth is, you don’t know if you could do it, you’ve cheated on every boyfriend you’ve ever had.

“You still there? I scared you away?”

“I’m not good at this Joel.”

“I don’t need you to be ‘good’.”

You play with your hair, worry at a hangnail.

“I gotta go. See you Saturday?”

Joel sighs; “Sure, see you Saturday.”

*****

This Saturday, Joel rushes up to the counter, looks a bit flustered, very unusual for him. Sarah still sits at their usual spot.  

“I just got a call, Tommy’s at the police station, could I ask a massive favour? You can say no, you’re working I know, but could I leave Sarah here for an hour? Just while I sort him out? Our neighbour who normally looks after her is away and…” he sighs, “I don’t want to take her to the police station, again. She doesn’t need to see it.”

You answer without pause; “We can take our breaks with her, it’s not a problem.”

Sarah is an absolute delight. Sam sits with her first through the lunch rush, draws on the back of the till roll paper with her, creating monsters with a silly fold up game and hooting with laughter. You feel a bit jealous, that maybe Sarah is having a better time with Sam than she does you. Adam resigns himself to reading some of her fairy book to her, voices and all, but Tasha is the winner. The cafe has quietened down a little and she plays an exuberant game of find the hidden teaspoons with Sarah racing around searching in all the little corners and wondering loudly how customers can lose them down the back of the cushions. You finally take your break and are sharing a cupcake with Sarah when you look up at the clock and realise Joel’s been gone far longer than an hour.

You hate hate hate calling people. But.

“Hey, is everything ok?” It always makes you feel a bit physically sick holding the phone.

“Shit, I am so sorry I completely lost track of time, I’ve managed to bail Tommy out and I’m just driving him to his place now. He’s a bit of a mess. Is Sarah ok?” Joel sounds tired.

“Yeah, she’s fine. We’ve filled her full of sugar for you… think she’s earned us half of our tips today as well. She’s a treasure Joel, we might keep her.”

“I really appreciate today. I’ll come get her as soon as I can.”

“I… I get off in like 10. Why… why don’t drive her to yours? Then you can go straight home? Sounds like you’ve had a hell of a day?” Your heart is in your mouth as this feels like maybe you’re crossing some kind of line.

“That would be a real help, are you sure?” Relief washes over you and you make an affirmative noise, watching Sarah look expectantly at you, “I’ll text you the address. Sarah knows where the key is if you get back first.”

*****

Joel arrives back at the house almost exactly the same time as you do, inviting you in for pizza and a glass of wine. It’s strange to be in Joel’s home, surrounded by the detritus of his and Sarah’s every day; little shoes scattered by the front door, pictures of baby Sarah framed on the walls and half-finished art projects discarded on the dining table. There’s a warmth in the domesticity that makes you feel homesick for something you’ve never had. You love listening to Sarah chatter away and you’re proud of your little friendship when she requests you read her a bedtime story. Once her teeth are brushed, hair braided and jammies on, Joel nods his approval for you to disappear up to her butterfly filled bedroom with her favourite fairy story in hand. It’s the one you gave her.

When Sarah is safety tucked up in bed, you find yourself sitting back in Joel’s kitchen finishing a large glass of red wine with him and enjoying the first time you’ve been on your own together since all those months ago at the club. You keep shooting each other little glances, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

“I think about you all the time.” He pours you a second glass of red. “Think about what would have happened if I hadn’t had to run off in that club.”

“I would have dragged you home. Had my wicked way with you.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second Babygirl,” You keen at his nickname for you, shooting him a sultry look over your glass, “But maybe this is better? Getting to know you… I like spending time with you at the cafe and watching you at work with your team. You run a tight ship. I can see they really care about you…” He hesitates for a moment, before continuing, “Not everything is about making people want to fuck you, you know?”

“Maybe with Adam.” You roll your eyes, “Again.”

“Ok. Definitely Adam, but you know that’s not what I’m talking about. You act like everyone is only after one thing and that that’s all you care about… but there’s so much more to you. Surely you can see the cafe lot respect you? You’re kind and respectful to them, won’t let customers talk shit to them, make working a crappy job better.”

“I like my crappy job.”

“And so do I. Look, I’m trying to give you a compliment here that isn’t about how good you look or how much I want to touch you again, got it?” You take a long sip of your wine, flustered; flirting is your forte, but you always resist it becoming too real. This is feeling dangerously close to having the top layer of skin removed. Boys don’t tend to use words like respect and kindness around you.

“What about what I did to JT? You like seeing that?” Your face is scrunched, you don’t want to meet his eyes.

“That poor boy outside the club?”

You take a nervous sip. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t like it one bit darlin’. I don’t understand why you gotta be so cruel to those who want to love you?”

You freeze.

“I’m just mean.” You choke out a laugh, tilt your head with a mock, overly exaggerated shrug. Like it’s nothing.

“Don’t believe that for a second. I see how you are with Sarah, that’s not a mean person.”

“I…. Sarah’s special. I know she has feelings and emotions and depths and…. I… boys are different. I just don’t… I don’t think…”

“You don’t think men have feelings?” Joel is astonished, genuinely shocked for a second. His eyebrows reaching sky high. “Or, you don’t want them to?”

“I don’t know. I guess… I rationalise that I’m not like, a real person to them? They only care about how I make them physically feel, but not about actual me? And I want that, I want them to want me but I don’t… If I don’t let myself feel anything for them, it means nothing can hurt me. And I know they don’t mean it when they say they love me. They can’t possibly…  It doesn’t make any sense if I say it out loud.” You’re quiet but he is incensed, shaking his head and running his hands through his hair.

“Fuck, Babygirl you really think I don’t care about you? That I don’t worry about you and want you to be ok? Like seeing you on a Saturday morning isn’t one of the best parts of my week? We’ve been coming in for months.” He’s grabs you off the high stool you’re sitting on, forcefully pulling you up to his chest and practically shaking you by the shoulders like he’s scolding you; trying to make the words go into your resistant body.

You whisper up to him: “I think you just want to fuck me.” His grip falters, softening around you before coming up to clasp you much more gently by the jaw, holding your gaze.

“Jesus Christ kid. Yes! Yes, I want to fuck you.” So tenderly now, “Think about it all the time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care?”

“No...” he doesn’t let you finish, can’t wait any more to kiss you. A first, delicate kiss quickly becomes desperate, weeks and weeks of not touching meaning you don’t want a second apart, licking into each other like you’re starving.

“I knew you wanted to fuck me.”

“Shut up and kiss me.” He’s pushing you hard against the kitchen counter with his whole body, it’s almost painful but you don’t care, you love the weight of him, want it to hurt more, his hands running up and down your body like it was just ten minutes ago you were dancing in the club.

“I need you to be silent.” He whispers into your ear and you bite down onto your lip, your cheeks are flushed and you feel like you’re burning between your thighs, nodding desperately at him. “Get upstairs, now.” 

Joel pulls the bedroom door closed and leans back on it, soaking you in. You grin wickedly at each other for a heartbeat before he picks you up and your wrap your legs around his waist, arms around his neck and you’re kissing like your lives depend on it. Fuck this is hot. He lies you down on the bed and takes no time at all in removing your clothes, pulling you black tank top over your head and you unhook your leopard print bra; he takes a moment to take each of your nipples in turn in his mouth before kissing his way down to the small dove tattoo on your ribcage. You curl away from him, giggling as his scruff tickles your skin and he pulls your leggings and thong down over your ankles.

“You need to get naked too.” You whisper hoarsely at him, yanking his soft grey t-shirt over his head and quickly unbuckling his belt for him. You take the opportunity to slip your hands down his pants and feel the weight of him, so hard and desperate for you. Just as it should be.

“Fuck Joel, feels so big.” You run your hand down his length and very gently pulse, feeling the heat pool in you with every movement.

“Gonna have you get you ready for me, do you want that?” He whispers into your ear and you let your thumb circle his already leaking tip  before you lie back down, spreading your legs for him as wide as you can.

“Fucking perfect babygirl, just like I dreamed it.” You stifle another giggle, lift your hips to meet his mouth against your cunt, so sweet and wet and ready for him. You gasp at the contact of him, warm and purposeful against your clit and then deep inside of you, he’s drinking you up and you can feel his enjoyment, rubbing your foot against his boxers and feeling him strain against them.

“Fuck me, you taste like heaven Babygirl.” You’re smiling so much it’s almost hurting, rising your hips up and down in tiny increments as he uses his tongue against your clit to make you moan, slipping a finger into you and curling to find where it makes you buck against him. You want to laugh as you feel the heat building in your core, hands finally able to pull at his hair in the way you’ve been fantasising,  with him now lost between your legs and clearly loving every second by the sounds that are coming out of him. He adds another finger and looks up at your, eyes locked in and so quiet but wicked, “you gonna come for me?”

“Yes, fuck yes, Joel….” You’re trying to be quiet but his tongue is back against your clit and your whole body shudders with pleasure and you have to push your face into your arm not to scream his name as you come. He’s immediately up and kissing you, scruff wet with your release and it’s tastes like sex and heaven all at once. You prop yourself up on your elbows, half dazed.

“I’m on the pill.”

He pulls you up into a sitting position, lets you straddle him and slowly, inch by glorious inch, lower yourself onto his perfect cock. So thick and hard and ready for you.

“That feel good, being full of my cock?”

“Yes Daddy” You catch the light in his eyes as he slaps your ass, “Oh you like that, don’t you, Daddy?” He groans and this might be the most fun you’ve ever had, bouncing on Joel’s dick with your legs wrapped around him and sat in his lap. One of his hands is palming your nipple and the other circling your clit as you nip and suck at his neck, palms flat on his hard chest as you use it to push yourself up and down.

“Gonna make you feel good, gonna make you come again, you going to be a good girl for me?”

“Yes” you pant, “yes please Daddy” he pushes your arms back behind you, so your weight is on them and it’s pulling you so tight around him, allowing him full access to your clit and you can only make the smallest of movements with your hips as he puts all his focus into circling you into oblivion. Your thighs are still draped over his and they begin to shake as you feel another wave of pleasure building and flooding your senses; you feel yourself throb around his dick and burst out with a chime of laughter, it feels too good. His hand is around your mouth in an instant, “Shhs Babygirl, you gotta keep quiet.” But he’s laughing too, drowning in your pleasure as you playfully lick his fingers. He flips you easily, so you’re facing the headboard and holds your hands firmly over your head, pushing your thighs apart with his legs and slamming his dick back into you. Fuck it feels good.

“You feel that, feel how good you’re taking me? Like you were made for me.” You nod your head vigorously; you’re losing the power of speech. Joel has you locked in position with one hand, you arch your back so you can feel every inch of him as he fucks into you, his other hand steady on your hip as he hits just the right angle again and again. A moan escapes that you have no control over, you struggle to keep kneeling for him as your body thrums with pleasure, he’s kissing you and you bite down on his lip as he messily loses his rhythm.

“I’m coming Joel, I’m coming.” You let out a silent cry and feel him losing control, emptying himself in you with a groan so loud he has to push his mouth into your back to try and conceal it. You’re both laughing silently as you collapse together in the bed, hot and soft and entwined.

“I hate to do it… but I don’t have people staying over… Sarah… you know, it can be confusing. Are you ok to get home? I can call you a cab?”

“Oh no it’s fine, no worries. Totally get it.” It stings a little, but it’s not the first time you’ve been kicked out of bed, won’t be the last. He’s pulling on his boxers, dragging a t-shirt over his head. You say, “I’ll drive it’s not too late.”

You contemplate your body for a minute, enjoying the slightly dull ache between your legs where he’s been, the mess of him spilling out of you, think for a moment of all the things you’ve put it through. All the bad hook-ups. How depressing you’re back here again, planning creeping down the stairs like someone’s dirty little secret. At least it’s not a sleeping mother you’re slinking past, that was bad one. You let a little shudder of cold run down your spine. Something had felt different this time but you guess you were wrong. Same, same.

“You ok Babygirl, you’ve gone awful quiet.” You switch on your smile for him, lean in for a quick kiss and feel nothing, blank yourself back into neutral. You will not let this hurt.

“All good. See you Saturday?”

“Ah, Sarah’s got a playdate, so we can’t make it.”

There it is. He’s got what he wanted, and you’ll not be seeing him again.

“See you around then.” And you’ve bolted, clothes half on and keys already in your hands, you’re out the door before he even realises what is happening. You don’t see, but he’s still sat on the bed, mouth half open in shock.

*****

“Joel is here…” Sam hisses at you as your crawl up the stairs to the cafe, head pounding and uncharacteristically half an hour late for your shift.

“Fuck.”

“He’s got fucking flowers. Babe, he saw you get out of that guy’s car through the window. I think he’s angry. Tasha started to cry, I sent her to the restroom to hide her.”

“Fuck.”

“Babe… what did you do?”

“I fucked it up again, didn’t I?”

“You look awful, are you ok?”

“I really don’t know.” You sit down on the top step, staring back down the stairs and contemplating throwing yourself down them and just running home. You’re not even sure where you’ve left your car. Adam brings over a coffee, stands behind you and leans down to stroke your tangled hair.

“You’re a hot mess honey. He’s coming over.”

You can’t look up, can’t bear to see the pitiful state of you reflected in his eyes. He squeezes down next to you on the stairs and sits beside you. He’s too big for the space, feels hot and heavy next to you.

“You’re supposed to be on a playdate.”

“I swapped so Sarah went to theirs. Thought I’d surprise you… Realise now that was a mistake.”

“I told you I’m not good at this.”

“You didn’t even give it a chance? I tried to ring about five times?”

“I thought you were done with me.” A wave of nausea hits you, you put your head between your knees, everything is spinning a bit. It tilts. Did he really say he was done with you? Or did he politely ask you to not confuse his kid and then try and ring you all week… you bolt upright.

“I’ve gotta be sick.”

He’s gone when you eventually emerge from the bathroom, beautiful pink peony’s left on the counter.

*****

Joel hasn’t come into the cafe for two weeks and it’s driving you mad. He hasn’t tried to call and there’s no way in hell you’re ringing him. The text with his address sits there as his last message to you but you won’t give in, won’t text him. What would you say? Sorry I’m a slut? Please don’t hate me? Love me? You shake your head and carry on ferociously slicing lettuce. Your mood has infected the tiny kitchen behind the counter, the team are mute as you storm in the small space. A regular tries to complain that the avocado in their toastie is too brown and you realise too late that you’re waving the large bread knife in their direction as you tell them in no uncertain terms it is FINE. You’re beginning to look slightly unhinged.

“Doll, why don’t you take an early lunch, you look like you’re going to stab someone and I don’t want it to be me.” Adam manoeuvres you away from the prep area, handing you a coffee and points you towards the almost empty cafe. “I’ll make you your halloumi bruschetta, table six is free.”

You huff and puff your way to the table with a scowl seared onto your skin, grabbing a paper from the rack so you can angrily flick through the pages and not absorb a single word. You’re sitting in Joel’s usual seat and find yourself replaying his greatest hits, memories crashing into your mind relentlessly and you push your hands against your eyes to try and squish them out. Your stomach turns cold as you remember the weight of him sat next to you in the too small space on the stairs, a sharp contrast to the heavenly feeling of him carrying you to his bed. ‘Fuck’ you hiss at yourself. You’re pushing your bruschetta listlessly around your plate when you catch sight of Joel out of the window and there is the briefest moment of relief before you make sense of what you’ve seen; he’s with someone else. Someone polished and clean looking, make-up carefully but sparsely applied so her natural beauty shines through with a warmth and comfort you know your face will never, ever give.

“GUYS!” You yelp almost feverishly, your face is pressed against the window, starring down, and the other three run from the kitchen. Tasha is still holding a tea towel and the cup she was drying; they join you at the window.

“No fucking way!” Sam gasps, “They cannot be coming in here? I’ll spit in both their coffees!” You give her arm a rub as a thank you. You can see this woman is trying to come into the shop downstairs, but Joel shakes his head at her and you swear you can detect anxiety in his furrowed brow as he steers her back down the narrow street. He’s not quite leading her by the hand but she’s leaning into him, clearly angling for some contact. He glances back up at the window and grimaces as all four of you wave pointedly at him, heads all tilted to one side. You chew on your lip, defeat aching at you.

“We’re going out this evening, yes?”

“Yes ma’am” the three of them chorus at you.

*****

“You can’t be here, you can’t behave like this?” Joel’s eye bore into you, like he’s questioning who you even are. You’re the fucking idiot that drank half her bodyweight by 8.30pm and got in her car to come and give him a piece of her mind, obviously. You’re stood outside his front door, waving your arms around like the crazed person you are and roundly berating him.

“Who is she? Did you fuck her? Are you fucking her?” You haven’t even considered ‘she’ might be here until that second and you try and peer around him into his hallway. He steps forward to block you out.

“You have no right to ask that. We both know what you’ve been up to.” He sounds exasperated but you feel yourself physically brush off his perfectly reasonable response and the heat in you doesn’t dissipate, you might be a hypocrite but you’re also mad as hell and for these briefest of moments you feel some sort of justification.

“But you… you’re supposed to be obsessed with ME. You want me? Why don’t you want me?” Somewhere within you, under the rush of booze and blood in your veins, you’re aware this isn’t your finest hour but something has snapped and you can’t let it go.

“You’re drunk. You need to go home. Did you drive here?”

“What do you care?” You spit out, you’ll crash the car and then he’ll be sorry. “I’m a big girl, I can look after myself.” Joel rolls his eyes at you.

“Yeah, seems to be working out just fine for you.” The sarcasm is simply dripping from him and you practically hiss at him and turn to storm away, keys in your hand, but Joel is much bigger and quicker than you, whips the keys right out of your hand and yells for Tommy who appears almost instantly. You come to your senses gradually; realising you are making quite the spectacle; Tommy must have been waiting in the wings to see if he could help and it’s then you notice Sarah is hanging by the front window. Her little face is creased with concern. You lose your fight instantly.

“Fuck. I’m…”

“You’re nothing. You’re leaving.” Joel is so angry he’s gone almost completely still, his eyes look wild and furious, a deep frown on that beautiful face. He presses your keys into Tommy’s chest. “Tommy can you drive her home? I’ll pay for your cab back.”

“Sure Joel, come on kid.” You traipse dumbly after him.

*****

You did a stupid thing. You called Joel. It is so unusual for you to phone, ever, he picked up on second ring and you pleaded with him to come over. So you could apologise, so you could make it right again. Sensible enough, if you hadn’t been drinking again with the cafe lot since close at 5pm and it’s now 11.30. You’re barely coherent. Even in this fuzzy state you know it’s a mistake, know you’re making it worse as he’s looking at you crumble in front of him. There’s pity there and it’s making you choke. You dread to think what he’s had to do to have someone look after Sarah at this hour, all so he can rush over and find you broken and desperate.

“Please, please,” you’re begging Joel, spiralling into hysteria, “I just need you to stay. You don’t have to fuck me, you don’t even need to touch me. Just sleep next to me, please.” Great heaving sobs are escaping your chest, it’s both physically painful and excruciatingly humiliating. You feel like a child. You’ve never really cried like this, even as a kid you bottled everything up and pushed the tears down, put on the brave face of the eldest daughter. Sometimes you let a few escape but your self-control won’t ever allow more than a smattering, more pinpricks than actual tears. You don’t know how to handle this madness or make it stop as it’s crashing out of you. You feel almost panicked, more vulnerable than even your Mom has ever seen.

Then before you know it, somehow, rage.

Anger rips through you; you need to feel some power again, need to lash out and hurt him the way you’re hurting. You leap up towards him, slapping at his broad chest and trying to push him to the door.

“Fuck you then, fuck you. Leave, just leave. I don’t want you any more.” You’re screaming at him and any semblance of sanity just got up and left. Joel is remarkably calm, stands stock still and lets you keep going, crying and hitting in a frenzy.

You feel like a wild animal; you just want him to be in physical pain and then maybe, maybe, it will mean you won’t be. You don’t know how long this goes on for before you collapse in a heap on the floor, your arms ache from the exertion and you can’t scream any more. You just ugly cry, cry, cry. Joel quietly goes and gets you a glass of water and a tea towel, gets down on his haunches and meets your narrowed eyes. He goes to touch your shoulder but you flinch from him, snatch the tea towel out of his hands and half-heartedly try and wipe some of the snot from your face.

“Babygirl this isn’t good. It ain’t right.” He’s using a voice you imagine he used when Sarah was a toddler and had thrown an enormous tantrum. You feel so ashamed.

“I bet you wish you’d never met me.” You feel so ugly, right through your soul to the tips of your toes.

“I could never think that. But this is chaos… I want to be with you but I don’t think I can fix this. I need you to want to be with me, to see that this is my real life… Maybe we need a break from each other, maybe you need to be on your own for a bit?”

“I can’t… I can’t… I’m scared to be on my own.” The tears are still uselessly streaming down your face and you try and stem them by placing the flat of your palms over your eyes. “I’m just so tried.”

Joel disappears for a few moments and when he comes back, you let him touch you. You let him pick you up off the floor and carry you to your room, where he’s cleared the bed and remade it quickly, it feels welcoming when he lays you down. You’re so limp and pliant underneath him, feeling almost boneless as he tucks you in. You try and kiss him, little muted, desperate kisses on his face, but he turns from you so you can’t reach him. It physically hurts. You’re crying again, quietly this time, tiny whimpers like a wounded animal.

“Stop.” Hands firm against your face he leans over the bed to you, kneeling on the floor. “Listen to me. I do love you, I do…. But I can’t pretend that this can work like this, Sarah needs stability and I have to give that to her. I gotta be selfish for her. I don’t think I can be the one to piece you back together when you’re falling apart... I need to step back, I can’t be broken and get up in the mornings and fix her breakfast. It hurts Babygirl, but I know this ain’t right.”

He hasn’t said I love you to you before. Lots of boys have; weaponised it or cajoled with it, got their dick wet with it or placated with it, thrown it around without a care like it didn’t mean a thing or begged you with it. Joel doesn’t want anything and you don’t know what to do other than break in half. You hide your face in your pillow, shaking with tears you can’t bear him to see any more.

He stills you with a kiss that feels like a goodbye. “Please take care of yourself.” You hear a distant knock at your front door. “I called Gracie from your phone, I’ll let her in. You stay in bed.”

You can hear them in the hallway, a whispered exchange that might as well be happening in another world.  You so desperately want to be asleep, to block everything out.

“She’s a bit of a mess. Please promise me you’ll stay with her; I don’t want her doing anything stupid.” You can’t hear Gracie’s reply, but you do hear Joel, “Please Gracie, she can’t come to the house again. It’s not fair on Sarah.” Then he’s gone.

When you next wake, Gracie is in the bed with you, watching trash tv and sipping on a hot tea.

“I’m here babe and I’m not going anywhere. I called you in sick to the cafe tomorrow.” You try to say thank you, but the tears are back and she gently strokes your hair and lets you weep.

*****

Joel’s POV  

“Hey Sam, is she here?” Joel had tried to stay away, tried to stop thinking about you, to stop worrying, but it’s been impossible. Seven long weeks since he saw you break down and no word from you, nothing. He’d even gone back to the club on a random Friday night, hoped he’d accidentally run into you. Sat nursing a terrible, cheap whiskey until 1am when he was absolutely certain you weren’t going to sneak up behind him and rest your arms on his shoulders, whispering secrets. He’d thought about messaging Gracie but it felt like checking up on you, so he’d left it. Just sat at home and fretted he’d made a terrible mistake. Made increasingly random plans for Saturday mornings so Sarah wouldn’t ask about going to the cafe or ask about seeing you. Her expectant, disappointed eyes making it hurt all the more. How much she missed seeing you helped make his mind up.

Joel hasn’t seen Denise again, felt stupid for agreeing to go out with her on a date in the first place. He’d been hopeful that she’d take his mind off you, a much more sensible match for a single dad in need of stability, but it only proved him there wasn’t room in his head or heart for anyone else. The pull he has towards you isn’t just physical; he can’t shake the feeling that rather than thinking you need a fixer, you want his understanding and acceptance. A comfort in the chaos.

His chest tightens as he mulls on the possible impact of this confusion on Sarah, the weight of the responsibility he’s been carrying since her beautiful, unexpected arrival seven years ago. Their future has always looked uncertain and scary, he’s constantly living in fear that he’s fucking it up and that he can’t give her everything she deserves. He wants to be Sarah’s anchor, but he also knows life is messy and it might be madness, but he wants you to be part of this tumultuous ride he’s on. You accepted Sarah from the moment you met her, quietly let her into the gang and showed her a purity of love that made his heart hurt. Maybe he can be a little selfish for once - he knows he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life wondering what might have been.  

So, here he is, walking up those same old too small, winding black stairs to the counter of the cafe, searching for your face behind the cake fridge in the tiny open-plan kitchen. Tasha is manning the coffee machine, her miniature frame shrinking from him as he makes his way up the last steps. He’s always felt like he took up too much space here, that he’s awkward against the pretty coffee cups and fancy cakes, it was just you that fastened him to it; the time spent together here always felt stolen and special, like he saw you when you were at your very best. Even the smell of freshly ground coffee reminds him of you now, the sound of the machine bringing him back to so many mornings watching you from table six; as you worked and laughed, flirted and scolded. He really hopes he’s not too late.

Sam shakes her head, looks back at Adam, who appears to have been promoted to chief sandwich maker, as if checking what to say. 

“She left Joel. Like, she quit kinda left. She went back to her Mom’s?” It feels like his stomach just dropped out of his body, a physical sensation that’s so sharp he has to put a palm down onto the cold counter to steady himself.

“Where is that?”

“I’ve got it.” Adam rips off a bit of till paper, copies the address from his phone. “She was talking about maybe going back to school…” Adam trails off, gives him a hard stare but Joel feels like there is a silent understanding there; people who love you really love you, feel fiercely protective however much you let them down.

As if on cue, Tasha blurts out; “She couldn’t keep working here, it reminded her too much of you. And Sarah.” She’s blushing, handing him a black coffee in a takeaway cup. “It’s on us.”

“Thanks guys.” He nods his head, waves the scrap of paper at them before sloping off down the stairs again.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Sam yells after him.

It takes him about an hour to drive to you. Nondescript suburbia, rows of 60’s builds that look identical and suffocating. He knows them well, grew up in something similar, absentmindedly reaches to smooth his hair into submission as if anticipating a telling off.  Maybe he’s going to get one. He’s anxious your Mom is already going to hate him and think he abandoned you when you needed him most. Damn it, that’s certainly how he feels. He’s not sure what his plan is here but he knows he can’t not see you, can’t not make sure you’re ok, has to tell you he needs you just as much as you need him.

He tried to call before he set off but, of course, you didn’t answer.

*****

You hear your Mom opening the front door and letting someone up, so you brace yourself, glancing around your girlhood bedroom and quickly deciding there is nothing to be done with the chaos. You sigh to yourself, knowing your Mom will have been as dishevelled as always and with the ever-present cigarette on the go. You wonder who it could be; Gracie isn’t due back until the weekend. You’re in bed, as you have been for weeks now, crumpled and tired but sober. Boy sober and alcohol sober. A miracle.

Nothing felt right in your old apartment and it’s not ideal here, but you at least feel safe surrounded by your old things and the familiar faces on the fraying posters and pictures of you and your school friends. Before you became jaded, sharp and cynical, spiky edges catching on the boys that you so desperately wanted to need you. There is no simple solution to this; you won’t just wake up one morning open and warm, beckoning a change for the better with wide arms and a song in your heart. But, you are changing. You understand that you can profoundly hurt and in turn, what it feels like to have your very heartbeat broken. You broke it yourself. It was you, you, you.

You have an old purple Lakers t-shirt on, faded and yielding, the kind of comfort you’re seeking right now. The creak on the stairs, you think for a moment it sounds almost like Joel’s footsteps making their way up the cafe stairs, but you must be mistaken. You close your eyes and hope, heat behind your eyes burning and your mouth feels hard and drawn down, with hands cold and clenched together. 

“Babygirl.” You let out a guttural sob as Joel drops down to the edge of the bed and you crawl into his embrace, wrapping your legs around him and he’s got you held so tight against his hard chest and soft tummy. You breath him in, drunk on his smell and heat. He holds you impossibly close, your face buried in his neck as you feel a tear roll down onto his hot skin. He kisses it away. Pulls you so you are eye to eye, breath tangled and no room to hide.

“You left the cafe?”

“ I couldn’t face it. I’ve let everyone down. I fucked everything… everyone.”

“I shouldn’t have left you, I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” You stop him speaking by kissing him almost chastely, before pulling yourself down against his chest and resting your head over his heart, one hand tucked around his broad shoulder and the other linked into his hand. So close, you’re so close, you can’t believe this is real.

“No, I needed to break the cycle. It was all getting too brutal. I couldn’t bear that I hurt you like that…  that I could’ve hurt Sarah… I don’t want to be that girl anymore, the hot mess. Gracie helped me move out, helped get me here.”

“It should’ve been me.” He shakes his head but you only lean closer, squeezing his hand.

“No, you were right… I needed some time on my own, away from everything, ease up on the drink and the boys. I’m so sorry for hurting you.”

“It’s enough now… enough. Sarah and I, we want you back in our lives. We need you.”

You breath hesitantly, anticipating waking up at any moment; “I see you every night in my sleep.”

“Me too Babygirl, me too.”

It feels like a dream, soft around the edges, the usual sharpness of contact melting instead into a haze of warmth and slow, deliberate movements. You don’t think you’ve ever been intimate with anyone without the cushioning of alcohol or weed, but somehow this seems even more unreal. You can feel everything. The numbness that often takes over is replaced with a quiet want. You lay down, let Joel pull himself over you on the bed, slowly kissing you and letting his tongue dance with yours with the gentlest of pressure. You love the weight of him, heavy and strong, pushing  you into the forgiving mattress in a way that is both comforting and burning.

“Let me love you.” He isn’t asking you; he’s telling you.

Gently peeling your clothes from you, it feels almost ceremonial as Joel removes the past and reverentially presses kisses down your body, holding you firm under his touch yet delicate like he’s afraid he might break you. His fingers brush at the inside of your thighs and you open for him, welcoming his mouth against you and disappearing into the honeyed daze of his featherlight lips and tongue exploring you. The silent room is woken with your low moan as the touch makes you gasp, Joel’s movements still so gentle and loving, tiny licks and sucks at your clit making you pulse against him. Your hand is in his hair, savouring the feeling of his almost curls again, lost in the tenderness he’s devouring you with. He looks up at you and when your eyes meet, something changes. The otherworldly atmosphere becomes thick with sex and desire, his slips a finger into you and you find yourself rocking against him hungrily, suddenly much more urgent, much more frantic to chase the pleasure that is now building in you, a knot that’s rapidly coming undone for Joel and Joel alone. His movements go from languid to rushed and eager, his tongue now flat against you and his tilts his head quickly from side to side  and it’s drawing out sweet moans from your open mouth as you tip closer to the edge. He adds another finger and curls against your walls, quickly finding where it makes you start urgently whispering his name and tugging at his hair. It’s never happened this fast before but you’re crashing against his mouth and greedy for him, clenching around his fingers as you feel your whole body flood with heat and bliss.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming.” He’s drinking you up, easing the pressure as he feels you gush so beautifully underneath him. You pull him up for a deep kiss, wanting to taste everything and make sure this is really happening. He shucks off his t-shirt, yanks down his jeans quickly.

“You love me.” You sigh into his beautiful face, those gentle eyes still hazy with desire. You reach for his cock and guide him into you, leg hooked over his hip so you can take him all in, feel the burn of how big and hard he is. Desperate now, hungry kisses as he takes a fistful of your ass and drags you back and forth.

“You love me.” he groans back into your neck, pulling your hands above your head and pining them there as he grinds into you at a relentless pace, all softness forgotten. Pulling almost all the way out and then fucking you hard, he frees one hand to slap you ass before grabbing you to pull you on top, slotting your knees on either side of him and you have your hands on his chest so you can use him as an anchor to roll your hips and feel every inch of him, his hands tight on your waist.

A hand finds it’s way to your jaw and you hold it close against you, his thumb pushing into your mouth and you bite down, it’s all becoming so much, you’re so full of him as you roll back against him quickly and feel a hot, dull throb within you as he uses his wet thumb against your clit. You lean back and lift your hips, let him have full access to you as you moan his name and feel your orgasm build and melt through your body making your arms collapse underneath you. Joel sits up quickly to catch you and lets you sink into your bliss, still rocking against you and kissing your tummy.

Then you are on your back again as he hooks your legs over his shoulder and pushes into you, all rhythm gone as he messily fucks deep into you, and it’s too much and not enough all at once, you both gasp a ‘fuck’ as he comes, pulses into you and he folds onto you, letting your legs drop to the side. A kiss on your forehead before he’s searching into your eyes again, hands brushing the hair out of your face and a hot, messy kiss, all teeth and tongue.

“My girl” he says, kissing the tears from your face, you can feel him still in you and you tighten around him, willing him to stay joined like this forever. In all your suppleness and warmth, in uncomplicated devotion.

“My man.” You sigh and hope, hope, hope you mean it.