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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

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𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐚 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐝

pairing: pre outbreak!joel miller x f!reader, one sided tommy miller x f!reader

genre: angst, smut, romance, slow burn, mutual pining, secret relationship

series summary: After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

word count: 4.8k

chapter summary: Due to a power outage in your home, you have to stay with Joel and Sarah for a couple days until it gets fixed.

warnings: female masturbation, accidental eavesdropping, pillow humping/fucking (joel)

Chapter Five || Chapter Seven

You only see butterflies.

You see them fluttering at the window, in your kitchen, in your bedroom. You see them sitting on top the mirror in the bathroom, you see them in the cupboards. They’re everywhere. They consume you. In every shape and color, you see them. You see stars on top of their wings, circles, hearts. Some are white, some are pink. But most of them are blue.

They remind you of him. Of Joel. And you draw—you paint.

You sketch wings on paper. Paint colors that become them. It’s him. It’s Sarah. It’s Tommy. It’s Olivia. Your brother. Your grandfather. It’s everyone that lingers in your heart, in your mind. You see them in the shapes that you draw. All of them distinctly different.

Joel is a dark red, a dark purple with splattered white. The wings are sharper, longer, the largest butterflies. The ends of his wings have long extensions like antennas. It is beautiful, ethereal, strong.

Tommy’s butterflies are similar to Joel’s, only softer around the ages and smaller. Blue, golden, a light shade of red. His wings glimmer under both sunlight and moonlight. Sarah’s are the smallest, pink and blue with a lighter shade of purple. Her design is the most elegant, her wings curl at the end, more fairy-like.

Olivia’s are green, her wings long and slender. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t drawn inspiration from Tinker Bell—green, yellow with light blue specs.

It’s the early hours of the morning, soft sunlight only just starting to spill from the windows. Despite your sweatshirt and the blanket you had haphazardly thrown over your shoulders, the early chill settles in your bones. You narrow your eyes, tilting the sketchbook, you hold it towards the overhead light. It’s hard to see and your eyes sting when you blink. But you don’t stop, you can’t stop. They’re everywhere and you need to draw them, you need to put them on paper before they disappear. It’s been months since you’ve painted anything. Now that the colors were splashing over white you don’t want to stop. It’s a breath of fresh air.

Finally, you’re breathing again after being submerged for so long.

The realization that you had feelings for Joel, and Tommy for you, make this unrestrained desire to create even stronger. You’re breathing because of Joel—because he had told you to draw butterflies. You want to show him what you’ve made, you want to show Tommy as well. It should make you afraid. The things that you feel. He has someone after all, no matter how serious their relationship might or might not be, however, isn’t this the perfect motivator for any kind of artist? You feel pain. A different kind of pain that you can actually use instead of the grief that aches in your bones.

Pain is one of the fundamentals of art. The beauty of art comes from within, and so does pain, it’s the process of creating it not the end product. It’s the journey. Some of your favorite artworks are derived from pain; Dorotea Tanning’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Dali’s Elephants, and The Broken Column by Frida Kahlo.

Despite being transfixed by Dali’s work (his work with butterflies has been a strong inspiration in what you make), you feel most drawn to Tanning’s style of showcasing pain. You always saw yourself as the girl within the Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, walking down the blood-colored carpet, a giant sunflower in front of her, tattered and ruined. You were always curious about the cracked open door ahead, wondered what might be laying within the only room with an open door.

Your thoughts seep through the pencil, become shapes and lines on paper. You admire the texture of the clean sheets, the lead against it music to your ears. You draw and draw, some making less sense than others. Page after page your butterflies become something else, they become more gruesome with split heads and sharp, glass-like wings. You swallow. The sweat clinging to your skin is cold, your fingers numb.

And just like that you’re buried in muted darkness.

“Shit.” you hiss, looking up accusingly to the light. “What the fuck?”

You get up and head to the window, your fingers curling around the edge of the curtains. It’s early but it seems like some of your neighbors are already awake—and has light.

“Fuck,” you say again.

The sun warms your back. You’re staring at the blank screen of the TV. You hear the faint murmurs coming from the Miller’s kitchen, Joel paces back and forth, his socked feet silent. Anxiety clawing at your chest, you shove your hands between your thighs and keep them there. Joel appears. You look up at him as he leans down, placing the phone on the coffee table.

“So it looks like the power outage is gonna take them a couple of days to fix, maybe even a week,” your heart sinks at his words. He notices and a soft smile tugs at his lips. “Don’t look so worried. You can stay here, we have a spare room. I’ll check on them to see they're doing everythin’ right.”

“Oh,” you say, a hint of worry etched into your voice. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you with all that. I was just thinking of just calling up my brother, or I can stay at Olivia’s.”

He waves you off in dismissal. “You ain’t troubling anyone. Besides, it’ll be easier to just bring what you need here. Or if you forget somethin’ you can just go and get it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, darlin’,” he answers, voice dropping a beat. “Stay.”

A shudder settles at the base of your spine. You nod. You feel a thick knock in your throat as you swallow. You can still see the lines of sleep mapping across his cheeks, his bed hair a sight to behold. Looking down at the coffee table, you try not to think about how good he looks with his gray sweatpants hugging his thighs—you especially try not to think about the night you drew shapes across his hand and forearm with nothing but your fingers.

You dream of painting him. Putting him on a blank canvas and hanging it on your wall. He’s a beautiful man. Strong body, a pronounced nose, warm eyes.

Sarah's sudden jump off the last step startles you and interrupts your thoughts. When she sees your expression, she looks puzzled herself.

“Mornin’,” she greets you, ready for school. “Did something happen?”

“Power outage,” Joel answers on your behalf, Sarah turns to him. “She’s goin’ to be stayin’ with us for a while.”

Your heart melts at how wide Sarah smiles, you can see the glimmer in her eyes. “That’s great!” she sits next to you. “Well, not great great, but we can have a sleepover! It’ll be fun, you can teach me how to draw.”

“Sarah…” Joel warns.

You cut him off before he can say anything else.

“That sounds great,” you smile. “I actually have a couple of drawings I’ve been meaning to show you guys.”

“Really?” Joel asks.

“Yeah, really.” you answer, grinning at his surprise. You pull out the sketchbook from your bag and place it on your lap. Heat grows between your legs as Joel sits next to you, the meat of his thigh pressed snug against your own.

Both Miller’s lean in closer, staring at your drawings—themselves, in a way. You don’t think they’ll notice, especially not Joel, but you realize that maybe Sarah does. Her fingers delicately move over the drawing that you did thinking of her.

Sarah grabs your arm and diverts your attention back to her, “Butterflies.” she murmurs.

“How do you like your coffee?”

“With milk,” you answer. “A lot of it, preferably.”

“So milk with a dash of coffee,” he grins, amused. “Got it.”

It’s been a couple of days since you moved in with Joel and Sarah. It was much easier to live with the father-daughter due than you initially had thought. Tommy came over in the mornings, dropping you off to work and Sarah to school, and the brothers went to do their own thing after that.

With Joel’s back turned to you, you look down at your sketchbook and add another line to what is supposed to be his unruly hair. He really needs a haircut.

Surprisingly living with him isn’t weird at all. He made you feel welcome. No awkward glances, no awkward touching. Just neighbors helping each other out. He places the steaming mug next to you and leans on his elbows. He looks at what you’re drawing and raises an eyebrow.

Joel brings the mug to his lips.

“You’re paintin’ me?”

“I’m sketching you,” you answer. “You’re a lovely specimen.”

“Is that so.”

The scent of coffee fills your lungs. Lifting your gaze, you observe his facial structures. You see the imperfections, take in the sight of his eyes, his bushy eyebrows, and the bald patches in his beard. You want to touch the small beauty park right in the corner of his eye that’s impossible to see unless you’re an inch further away.

If he knew how you saw him—if he knew how big he was in your mind— Joel would be terrified.

“Do you like art?” you ask, taking him by surprise. He takes a sip of his coffee and your gaze drops back to your sketch.

He hums, fingers thrumming the kitchen counter. “I like your art.”

“I should take you guys to an art gallery or something,” you say, smiling. “If you like mine, you’re going to go nuts over the things that are out there.”

Joel pouts and you roll your eyes. “What are you looking at me like that for?” you ask.

“I like your drawings. They’re—They feel close. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

It’s because it’s you who I think of when I create them.

“Do you know Salvador Dali?” you ask, then quickly add. “Or Dorothea Tanning?”

“Sweetheart, the only artist I know is Da Vinci and I’m not even a hundred percent sure he is one.”

“He is,” you affirm him excitedly, looking back up. “I love surrealism. It’s when everything gets really weird basically. So—wait let me show you. I think I have a couple of pictures between the pages.”

You miss the way Joel’s lips slowly curl up, adoration and fondness adorning his face, softening the edges. He comes closer. Your pulse quickens as your fingers rush to find the images, and when they do you basically rip them out from between the pages

“Look.”

All of them are images from Dali’s artwork. Mainly butterflies. Joel observes them carefully, touching them as if fearing he might stain them. You urge him to take a closer look by placing one between his thick fingers. It’s The Butterfly Rose.

“Never thought you would do homework for a hobby.”

“It’s not—” You let out an exasperated sigh, cutting yourself off mid-sentence. “Do you think I want to work at the coffee house forever? It’s not just a hobby. And of course, as an artist, I look at other art to be inspired. They make me feel things.” Seeing the startled expression on his face, you add, “Don’t you get like…shivers or something when you see a very nice wooden table?”

Oh, you made him uncomfortable. You sense that in an instant. His fingers trace the image of the painting, looking down, you notice the crease between his brows deepening with concentration. Was he concentrating on the image? In your words? You have no idea—the only thing you know is that this man concentrating on art is making your insides clench with a need.

“Sorry,” he grumbles. “I didn’t mean it like that. I do think you’re a serious artist. It’s just…fuck that came out wrong. I just didn’t think you would put in this much effort to somethin’ I said,” he shakes his head. “Shit, I’m bad at this.”

That undeniable need to touch him comes rushing back. You bite the inside of your bottom lip instead. “ I think I might’ve overreacted after hearing the same thing from my brother all the time. It’s all good. You might be the only one that takes me seriously so it was unfair for me to jump to conclusions like that.”

“He don’t support you?”

“He does…” you trail off. “In his own way, I guess.”

“That doesn’t sound like support,” he answers, clicking his tongue. “And just FYI I like your butterflies better, sweet tea.”

“Sweet tea?” you ask, lips curling with amusement and eyes widening with shock.

He shrugs. “You said you liked Dorothea…somethin’---”

“Tanning.” you quickly say. “So Sweet Tea as in…the last syllable of her name?”

“Would you rather I call you Tea?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope!” you grin, your heart elevated. “Sweet Tea is perfect.”

With a soft smile, Joel places the picture in front of you and gently taps on it.

“Well then, Sweet Tea,” he says. “Tell me more about this surrealism thing.”

You and Tommy are waiting by the truck for Joel and Sarah to buy snacks from 7-Eleven. You remember the funny looks the Millers gave you when you suggested buying snacks at the cinema instead. Joel had just shaken his head and steered you towards the truck, his hand on your waist. The touch burned you.

Then he proceeded to explain the thrill of sneaking something through the cinema doors, and how they deserved it due to their overpriced snacks. The latter you couldn’t really object against. However, you had no idea that the Millers were such kleptomaniacs.

Tommy had a cigarette between his lips, he pulls it out and exhales a puff of smoke. You watch it mixing into the dark blue night.

“How’s it like staying with my brother and niece?” he asks. “Hopefully Joel ain’t given’ you too much trouble.”

“Oh. Not at all,” you smile, waving your hand. “He’s been nothing but kind. You have nothing to worry about.”

Tommy nods, and he flicks the cigarette to the pavement, stepping on it, he comes closer. “Good good.” you feel his heat, his breath. You shudder. “I miss spendin’ time with you…I mean without anyone else.”

His voice is a low hum in your ear. You had missed hanging out with him too, but now it's clear that your feelings don't quite match his. Your gaze drifts to the windows of the 7-Eleven, where Joel and Sarah are at the register, scanning the items and chatting. A burst of laughter from Joel warms your heart.

Tommy touches your chin, pulling your gaze back to him. Your pulse quickens under his touch. You swallow.

“You’ve been distant lately,” he states. “Did I do somethin’?”

“What?” you gasp, then furiously shake your head. “No. No, of course, you didn’t. I’m…It’s just been hectic with trying to get the power back and the drawings—It doesn’t mean anything, I promise.”

“If you say so, sweetheart.” he smiles and you fight the urge to let out a breath of relief. “Don’t think about it so much. Joel said the electricity will be back in no time, he might’ve…” he clears his throat. “He might’ve threatened them a bit but it was all light-hearted.”

You snort. “How can a threat be light-hearted?”

“You know,” he grins. “When you place a hand on a guy’s shoulder and just squeeze it a bit while smilin’. It’s unnervin’ really. He does that a lot, gives me the creeps sometimes. But then again, a man gotta do what he’s gotta do.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” you gently kick the pavement with the tip of your shoe. “But no threats necessary. I’m sure they’re going as fast as they can.”

“We got the goods!”

Sarah comes running, a wide smile stretched across her face as she hugs her jacket tight around her. Joel follows, a lopsided smile on his lips.

When Sarah reaches you and Tommy, she looks around then back to you, she opens the front of her jacket. “See,” she smirks, showing you the various snacks hidden underneath the thick layer.

Tommy whistles. “That’s quite a haul, baby girl. How long is this movie? Five hours?”

“I wish,” Sarah snorts. “I’ve been waiting for this a loooong time uncle Tommy. Let me enjoy it.”

Joel appears next to you, his own jacket also looking a bit tighter. You look up, smiling, and he parts his jacket, showing you, as Sarah had dubbed, “the goods”.

“I just want to say for the record,” you exclaim, opening the back door. “If you two get sick I’m not cleaning up after you.”

“You break my heart, Sweet Tea.” Joel answers, hand on his chest as if he’s been shot. “And here I thought you had my back.”

“I do but not for self-inflicted stomach aches.”

Sarah slides in after you and Joel takes his place at the passenger seat. Tommy looks at you through the review mirror as he buckles his belt.

“Sweet Tea?” he asks.

“Long story,” you answer, “I’ll tell you later.”

The cinema. A place where every art form, visual or otherwise, shakes hands and comes together to create the most amazing of worlds.

Ever since you were a kid you had this connection to the atmosphere. The scent of popcorn, the dim lights, the other movie enthusiasts excited to witness the magic of it all. You don’t know what it is that draws you to it. From memory, you remember instances where it would only be you and your brother at the movies, the two of you practically owning the dark room for about two hours. It was fun, it was almost magical. Just you and him. That’s it. It was a small town so it wasn’t a hard thing to come by.

Now it’s the opposite. The screening room is filled to the brim, not one seat empty. Joel is on your left side and Sarah on your right, next to her sits Tommy. You notice she keeps patting her jacket. A small smile tugs at your lips, it almost looks like she’s afraid that the snacks would disappear.

Despite the past and the present being drastically different, the feeling is the same. It’s a similar feeling to returning home after a long time. You’re excited, giddy almost. And it’s not because of the movie you’re about to watch—Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, one of Sarah’s favorite franchises— it’s from the memories of it.

The lights turn off completely, the commercials start to play.

Joel leans in, his shoulder brushing against yours. His lips touch your ear and your stomach tightens. You’re happy he can’t see your face. It would’ve been a dead giveaway if he did.

“Pass these to Tommy,” he whispers, handing you a box of milk duds. You do as you’re told, Joel then pulls out a pack of Reese’s Pieces. “I do prefer the cups,” he mutters into your ear, you’re not listening, you just focus on the warmth of his breath and the way he turns your hand over. “But these will do for now.”

You feel the small bite-sized peanut butter and chocolatey goodness falling into your sweaty palm. Throwing back your head, you plop them all into your mouth. You feel his gaze but purposefully keep your eyes glued to the screen. He’s too close. His presence bearing onto you like a heavy blanket.

The movie finally starts and you do everything to keep your non-existent attention span on the large screen.

An hour in, goosebumps begin to rise over your skin. It’s cold. The chill is something you always forget about the cinema. You didn’t really have a need to bring your jacket with you when you went out, the night air being warm. But of course, you’d forgotten that you always got chilly in the cinema, no matter how hot it was outside.

Joel must’ve felt your shivering because soon enough you feel his fingers curling around your wrist. He shuffles closer.

“Are you cold?” he murmurs and you nod. His fingers don’t desert you as he moves over Sarah to grab his jacket. He throws it over you, warmth immediately coiling around your body. “Better?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.”

You’re hyper-aware that his hand remains on your wrist, some portion of his jacket covering your tangled limbs. His fingers tighten, thumb smoothing over your heated skin. Your skin prickles under his touch and soon he starts to skim your forearm up and down with the tips of his fingers. You cheat a glance at him but his sole focus is on the screen. His lips are pressed tight, brows pinched together. When a specifically bright scene appears on screen, you can see the vein meandering down his neck.

You want to stare at him forever but you know you can’t. Your eyes flitting back to the screen, you ignore the way his fingers continue to move. His touch is much rougher compared to your own. More textured. His blunt nails scrape against your skin, the pads of his fingers travel to your knuckles then move back up again.

It almost feels like he’s returning the gesture from before. The thought strikes fear. Is this his way of telling you that he knows? That he’d sensed your emotions through your fingertips and telling you; I see you.

You want to snatch your hand away and your fingers twitch with the need for it. You haven’t heard Asha’s name for a while— But it’s not like Joel talked much about his personal life, and when your alone times with Tommy became limited you heard very little from the ongoing relationship.

In the end, you don’t pull your hand back and he doesn’t stop touching you. The darkness hides the want, the need, the attraction. Because that is what this is right? Attraction. You’re not alone in your feelings. You can’t be. This was a silent message. A plea for you to say, I see you, back.

And you do see him. You always have.

The feeling of his fingers long lingers even after the intermission has come and passed. It stays with you as you exit the movies, as you listen to Sarah excitedly talk about her favorite parts, as Tommy bids you three farewell and drives on home.

It lingers still.

You don’t know what time it is. The only thing you do know is that it’s late. Very late. But no matter how much you toss and turn you can’t sleep. Your mind is wide awake with thoughts of Joel and nothing else. Him and his fingers, his lips, his neck.

It shouldn’t surprise you that you end up sneaking a hand under your shirt, feeling yourself and imagining it was him instead.

The sensation of your fingertips brushing over your sensitive skin is electrifying. You close your eyes and imagine it's Joel's hands exploring your body, his fingers tracing circles around your nipples and teasing them until they become tight and hard. His lips trailing down your neck, leaving a burning trail behind.

You bite back your moans as your hand moves further down, slipping between your thighs. Your fingers tease and stroke, exploring every inch of your wetness. You press down harder, your body aching and begging for more, as you think of Joel's hands exploring you. His fingers slipping in and out of your folds, tantalizing and teasing you until you can't take it anymore.

“Joel,” you whisper into the darkness, a prayer. “Joel, please.”

Your breathing becomes shallow as your orgasm builds, and you moan out his name as you let go. The sensation washes over you, and you can almost feel Joel's hands on your body, his lips on your skin. When you pull out your fingers, you feel like a ragdoll, your limbs buzzing with your fading orgasm. You let out a breath.

The phone rings.

Your eyes narrow when you see Tommy’s name flashing on the small screen. Confusion and worry clouding your post-coitus haze, you pick up the phone.

“Tommy,” you answer. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” he lets out a breath, his voice sounds frenzied. “I…I saw a—” whatever he was about to say he must’ve decided against saying it because the rest never comes. “I want to ask you somethin’”.

“You can ask me anything.”

You say it but in hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have. Your heart is restless, your stomach clenching and unclenching in the span of seconds. You hear him breathing heavily from the other line.

“Would you like to go out with me?” he asks in one exhale. “Like…on a date.”

Joel doesn’t want the day to start. It’s unbearably warm, and unknowing to him, he had cast his shirt to the floor sometime during the late night. The morning chill settles over his back. His eyes are closed, his cock hard. He presses temptingly into the pillow between his legs. He has no idea how it ended up there, but he’s grateful for the added pressure. Joel doesn’t think he could ever forget what happened last night.

The way he touched your burning skin under his jacket, the way you kept stealing glances from him—it was all still too vivid in his head. But then…then you went to bed, and so did he.

When he woke up in the middle of the night to get water, he didn’t expect to hear his name coming from your room. He waited and listened, you whispered it again. It was such a faint sound that if it wasn’t the dead of night there was no way he could’ve heard it. His cheeks heat up at the memory. He just stayed there, like a deer in headlights, and fucking listened to you get off with his name tenderly falling from your lips.

Joel had turned and rushed back to his room, his parched mouth now filled with saliva, water forgotten.

And now, with those thoughts swirling in his head, he grinds himself into the soft pillow. A low groan echoes from the back of his throat. He squeezes his eyes tighter. What were you thinking about? Was it images of him tasting your cunt? Him fucking his cock deep into your sopping heat? Which one was it? What was it that forced those sounds out of your lips?

Frustrated by the lack of friction, his eyes snap open with something resembling anger. Joel kicks off his sweatpants, brings the pillow underneath him, and squeezes the ends together, forming a crease. He shoves his aching cock between them, wishing it was you instead.

He leans back, letting the warmth of the pillow engulf him, and takes a deep breath. His body is trembling as he moves his hips slowly. He lets out a low moan as his hips grind against the pillow, the sensation of it rubbing against his hard cock setting off sparks of pleasure throughout his body. The morning sun pours from between the curtains, kissing his skin. His hands grip the pillow tight as he moves his body faster and faster, letting out a series of moans and gasps.

He imagines it's your body he's thrusting against, your soft curves, your tight embrace. His breathing becomes laboured, his balls draw tight, his stomach clenches. He sees a dark patch growing across the fabric. Joel collapses, his face pressing into the sheets as he rocks his hip forward like a dog in heat. His skin feels raw and over-sensitive. Every time the fabric rubs against his skin, he hisses.

With one final thrust, he lets out a long, drawn-out moan as he comes hard, his mind filled with thoughts of you.

He falls onto the pillow, panting heavily. The aftershocks of his orgasm ripple through his body. His cock is still pulsing with pleasure as it slowly softens. His hands run over the pillow, feeling the warmth and wetness left behind from his release. He can still feel the tightness of his orgasm, the pressure inside him slowly fading away. He closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath and letting out a satisfied sigh. Joel wants to feel you against him, to cage you in between him and the bed.

His cock twitches.

Joel turns onto his side, his body feeling heavy. The guilt gnaws at his insides. What the hell is wrong with him? First, he touches you during the movies like a man possessed, then he listens to you through the door, and now he’s fucking his pillow with thoughts of you. He groans and flips over to his back. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, another groan leaving him.

He has a fucking girlfriend, and no matter how lax the relationship was, he couldn’t continue on doing this. He needs to break up with Asha, then he needs to talk to you, get things sorted.

When he allows his arms to fall to his sides, Joel entertains the thought that maybe—just maybe—everything might work out.

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