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trippiexk · 9 months

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feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART EIGHT

previous chapters | yall are absolutely fucking incredible. truly. i never could have ever expected the response to the last chapter and i'm so so SO grateful to everyone who's been contributing their thoughts and theories over the past week. your engagement and passion for this story means the world to me. so many people wanted so many different things for this chapter and i know i can't please everybody, but i hope this satisfies most of you. thank you so much for being here and for loving this story. here's my kofi if you'd like to leave a tip 💕 chapter summary: you don't know what to think after catching joel at the bar. tasha wants to help in the best she knows how - getting fucked up. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: age difference (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early 20s), innocent/inexperienced reader, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names, mentions of religion, catholic guilt, sexual assault (nothing to do w joel), alcohol, almost penetration word count: 13.6k ao3

You've never felt like this before.

Tasha practically has to drag you into a cab, gripping tight to your hand with an arm around your back as she gives the driver the address of where you're both staying. He barely bats an eye to the fact that you're practically inconsolable, tears streaming steadily down your face as you gasp and sob and stare at the floor with wide eyes. He's probably picked up countless passengers in similar situations and it's not like you can bring yourself to feel any sort of embarrassment over it.

"Shh," she soothes you, still rubbing your back and peering down at you with empathy in her eyes, an expression that somehow makes you feel even worse - she'd told you this might happen. She'd known all along, but you hadn't wanted to believe anything she said about the lack of definition in your relationship with Joel. You'd chosen to believe differently, believe that he was different than the guys your friends have encountered.

How could you have been so stupid?

It's your own fault you're even in this position now, crying in the back of a cab while Joel makes out with some woman in a bar you don't belong in. Your own fault for putting any ounce of faith in someone else for once, for choosing to be blind to the obvious - of course he doesn't want you. Of course you're not his priority. You're not his girlfriend. You're his fuck buddy. You're a warm body and nothing more.

You don't speak for the entire drive, just cry and try desperately to control your breathing. By the time you reach the Airbnb your throat hurts from the sobs, although throwing up on the sidewalk could also have something to do with it. You're just a mess, lightheaded and distant as Tasha guides you into the house and helps you settle on the couch.

"Stay here," she says softly, grabbing a throw blanket and carefully covering your loose and exhausted form, "I'm gonna go get some necessities, okay? This place doesn't have shit."

You nod slowly, just to let her know you acknowledge her words, though you're unsure exactly what necessities she's talking about. She reaches her hand down and strokes your cheek, still looking at you with that sad expression.

"I'm so sorry, honey," she repeats to you for probably the fortieth time in the past hour.

You close your eyes; you can't stand to see the pity on her face.

Tasha returns shortly after with her "necessities", which mainly consist of junk food and alcohol. You haven't moved an inch from where she'd left you, still laying on the couch with bloodshot eyes and a quivering mouth. You listen as she busies herself in the kitchen, putting together some sort of snack platter for the both of you that you already know you won't eat. You're not hungry. You've never been less hungry in your life.

"You were right," you finally manage to croak out as she seats herself beside you on the couch, placing the food on the coffee table and turning to you with that familiar look of pity, "He's just like the rest of them."

She shakes her head, "No, that's not true, I never said that," she rips open a bag of chips and starts munching, seemingly lost in thought.

"Oh, we're gaslighting now, are we?"

She raises an eyebrow, "Girlie, tell me when I said what you just said."

"Boys are mean," you quote hastily, turning a bit on the couch to stare up at the ceiling.

"Yes, it's true. Boys are mean. And so are men," she sighs then, dropping the chips back on the table, "Look, I'm not defending him, I promise, but-"

"Tasha," you state coldly, still staring at the ceiling, "Do not continue that sentence."

"You don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"Yes, I do," you shut your eyes and bring your hands to cover your face, feeling the tears starting up again, "You're gonna tell me we never defined what we had, that he was never my boyfriend, that this can't constitute as cheating because there was no relationship to begin with."

She's quiet but you can still feel her looking at you with that sadness, that sympathy, the look of someone who's been here before and knows how it feels. And it makes you so angry. Because-

"Joel wasn't supposed to do this," you continue, softer now, voice shaky as the tears flow down your temples and into your hair, "He's not a boy, he's not like the guys you date. He- he was different, I-" you choke, throat tightening at the thought of him, the image of him with her at the front of your mind again, "I thought he- I thought that we-"

You can't continue, words turning into cries and sniffles turning into sobs. You feel Tasha's hand on your calf, stroking your skin gently despite the fact that you just criticized both her own judgement and her taste in men in the same breath.

"I'm not trying to hurt your feelings," she says soothingly, "That's the last thing I wanna do. If anything I'm trying to tell you that this doesn't necessarily make him an asshole."

You scoff at that, "Right. Makes sense," you finally pull your hands down to look at her through your tears, brow furrowing, "Tasha he was kissing her. That- that woman, he was- he touched her face."

"I know he did," she murmurs with a frown, eyes casting downward, "And I know it hurts, but-"

"But nothing," you find yourself tossing the blanket to the floor and standing up shakily, not bothering to even look at Tasha as you stomp toward the bedroom. "I don't need this right now," is the last thing you say before slamming the door behind you.

She doesn't follow you. This is the first time you've ever yelled at her, the first time you've ever felt truly mad at her, and even though you know deep down that this isn't her fault... you still feel betrayed. Betrayed by Tasha's nonchalance, betrayed by Joel's actions, but worst of all - betrayed by yourself.

Because how did you manage to get into this mess in the first place?

You practically rip the too-tight and too-short pink dress off your body and stagger to the bed, not even bothering to pull back the covers. You still feel sick, lightheaded and woozy as you press your face to the cool pillow and try to collect yourself. You can't get the image of the woman out of your head; you hadn't even seen her face and yet it's like she's somehow consuming every fiber of your being. All you can see behind your closed lids are those long, perfectly styled braids hitting her bare waist, skin a deep and rich brown that almost sparkled under the bar lights, the way her bare ankle traveled up and down his leg, the soft curve of her cheek as he'd cupped it in his hand-

A sob wracks through you and you pull the other pillow toward yourself, wrapping your legs and arms around it like a koala, remembering how less than twenty four hours ago you'd been in a bed just like this one - except it hadn't been a pillow you were cuddling. And now, what? Who's in that bed now? Another woman? That gorgeous woman who you don't stand a chance against?

You're sure Tasha can hear you crying but she doesn't come, staying in the living room and giving you the space you need. You already feel awful for snapping at her like that - you know she means well, that she's just trying to alleviate the situation in her own way, but you barely even know how you feel about it.

And how do you feel? Hurt? Sad? Angry? Of course you feel all of those things, to a degree you've never felt them before, but underlying all of those emotions is something else entirely, something you can't quite put your finger on - or would rather not put your finger on, because doing so would mean finally admitting something you're not sure you're ready to admit yet.

You try to think about your relationship with Joel up to this point, try and pinpoint the exact moment it went from being something frivolous to being something real, but you find that it's impossible to do so. For you, you could say the moment you walked past his threshold was when it became official. Or when he touched you for the first time. Or when he kissed you. When he made you come. When he called you his babygirl. When you touched his cock. When he put his mouth on your pussy. When you woke up this morning completely naked in his bed.

Any of those moments could have been the moment. But a gnawing voice in the back of your mind reminds you that any of those moments could have equally not been the moment as well. Maybe there was no moment. Maybe this really has just been a whole lot of nothing.

But then you think about the way he looks at you. The way he treats you.

The way he'd comforted and reassured you last night, held you, made you feel safe and secure - "If you just wanna lay here with me, that's okay too."

The way he'd shared his insecurities with you over the phone, been vulnerable, honest and open - "I don't want you to look at me differently".

The way he'd dressed up just in case your mother took you to your lesson, looking like he was ready to attend a church service, purposely putting himself in uncomfortable clothing to make sure things went smoothly - "I wanted to make a good impression."

The way he'd told you about his past on his back deck, related his own childhood to yours, tried to calm your own fears and tell you things would be okay - "You gotta focus on what's right for you, on livin' the life you want, not worryin' about what they'll think".

What did any of it mean? What does any of it mean? Has it just been sex this whole time or does he actually care about you? And if he does, why would he kiss someone else?

And what if he's been kissing someone else... fucking someone else... this entire time? What if it's not just you he's been seeing? The thought makes you want to throw up all over again.

You hear a peal of laughter from the other room, a sound that feels odd in the silence and sadness of the bedroom where you lie. Tasha must have put on a movie or something. You feel bitterness rise in your throat, a sudden urge to run out to the living room and grab the remote and toss it out the window, scream at her for finding something to laugh at when you're literally falling apart at the seams.

But the bitterness fades when you hear her laugh again; you love that laugh, have missed it ever since you came home. Tasha has always had such a free and fun way about her, a natural joy that you've always envied. You'd watched her go out night after night over the past three years, come home with the most bizarre stories that you were never able to fully relate to, and yet she always tried to include you in some way, ask you questions, make you laugh.

You remember the looks of shock you'd received from the other girls when you'd first shared that you were a virgin, that you'd never done anything except kiss. She'd sensed your discomfort immediately, seen your embarrassment, and had quickly flipped the conversation to something else more shocking, more embarrassing - at her own expense. Easier than flipping a light switch. And any time it was mentioned after that, she'd always emphasize how lucky you were, how she wished she'd taken her time, how all you were missing out on was bonehead losers who didn't know how to please a woman.

She's always reassured you, always listened, and has always been your number one fan, even when you had nothing to give. You'd told her all about your upbringing, about the way you'd begun to question everything, and she'd given you her own two cents and made you feel better for the first time in a long time. And when you'd told her you were coming home for the summer she'd said, "Are you sure that's gonna be okay for you?"

You trust her. So why are you in this room avoiding her? Why aren't you listening to what she has to say?

With heavy limbs you manage to climb off the bed and tug on your pajamas, wiping your eyes and letting the sadness and humility settle for just a moment. Yes, this is a fucked up situation. But Tasha wants to help you. Let her.

A few moments later you find yourself back on the couch, this time with Tasha's arm around you as she pours you a glass of wine and shakes away your apology. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she tells you softly, "You're upset, I get it."

You sigh deeply and take a sip, wincing at the bitterness but making no move to put it back on the table. "So," you murmur hoarsely, "Why is he not necessarily an asshole?"

You stay up late talking for hours about the situation and listening to Tasha's theories, most of which center around a lack of communication - based on her own personal experiences. She also has to factor in the fact that Joel is a lot older, a detail she's still beyond surprised over.

"I just can't believe he's fifty six," she faux whispers the number with wide eyes, shaking her head. "Like... this man knows things. How to take care of you, ya know? You're luckier than you realize."

"Lucky," you scoff, "Yeah, that's one way to describe how it feels."

She slaps your hand playfully, "I'm serious. This is yet another reason I think you just got your signals crossed here. I refuse to believe he's trying to hurt you, especially after how considerate he's been with you up until this point. If this was just about sex he would have dropped you ages ago, honey. I mean, no offense but you're not exactly making it easy for him, are you?"

She's certainly blunt. But she's also right. Joel has been nothing but patient with you this entire time, never expecting anything more than what you've been willing to give. If it was just about sex, this thing between the two of you wouldn't have gone beyond that first day in his house when you'd told him you were a virgin.

You slowly begin to come to the conclusion that you should give him the benefit of the doubt. As much as what you saw hurts, as much as it makes you want to crawl in bed and never get up, you were never Joel's girlfriend. There was never an establishing conversation, never a moment where you laid your heart on the line and told him exactly what you wanted, mainly because you haven't been sure what you wanted up until this point. But now you do.

"Communication," Tasha repeats for maybe the fifth time, "Communication is key. He doesn't know what you want, so you need to tell him. You need to stand up for yourself. And if he doesn't take you seriously, you move on. Simple."

"Simple," you echo, your third glass of wine already getting to you as you peer at her hazily with an upturned brow, "Communication."

"Communication," she repeats, "Simple."

Communication. Simple.

It's what echoes in your head over and over after your head hits the pillow that night, and continues to repeat the following morning as Tasha rouses you from sleep to get you ready for your "lesson". You don't feel as hungover as you'd expected - "That's because we didn't get totally fucked up like we were supposed to," Tasha says to you with a roll of her eyes - but your face is puffy from all the crying.

You're splashing your face with cold water when you hear Tasha call out, "Hey, I think you have a text."

Heart pounding in your chest you run back to the bedroom and grab your phone from the nightstand, the first time you've checked it since you got back from the bar. Your eyes go wide when you see not just one but two texts from Joel. One from last night, around midnight:

Hope you're having a good night, babygirl. You deserve to have some fun. I'll see you tomorrow. Be safe.❤️

And one from this morning, around seven:

You get home ok? Let me know x

"Don't text him back," Tasha advises over your shoulder, "Keep him sweating a bit, you're leaving soon anyway."

You nod slowly, still staring at the messages, especially the one from last night. When had he sent that? Had he still been at the bar? Still with her? Did he take her home? That familiar sadness and betrayal from last night bubbles in your throat again, tears pricking in your eyes.

No. You will not cry anymore.

You let your phone fall onto the bed and turn on the spot, marching back to the bathroom like a woman on a mission.

"Tasha, make me fucking hot."

The Plan: Go to your lesson with Joel. Talk to him about what you saw. Tell him how you feel. And look good doing it.

Communication. Simple. It certainly seems easier said than done; you've never been very good at communication. Your whole life has been spent suppressing your true feelings and your true self for crying out loud - the concept of being completely vulnerable and honest with someone is terrifying. But you know that it's necessary for your heart, and you also know that if you're going to be able to be vulnerable with anyone, it's Joel. He's already seen glimpses of the broken parts of you, not to mention seen you completely naked. How much harder can it get?

And nothing can be worse than how you felt last night.

Tasha essentially makes you her very own doll for the majority of the morning - doing your makeup, styling your hair, choosing your outfit - and you're surprised to find that you don't hate any of it, have no notes or critiques or changes to make. You stand in the bathroom staring at yourself in the mirror with your eyebrows raised, lips parted in admiration at a job well done.

"I look good," you say with a smile, and Tasha grins at your reflection, "I mean it, Tasha. Like, I still look like me, but..."

"All I did was accentuate what you already have, my love," she replies, reaching forward to fix a piece of hair that's not sitting quite right, "You're just a gorgeous human, inside and out."

You can't help but feel touched at her words, lips turning down into a pout as your hands come up to touch your heart, "Tasha-"

She waves you away, shaking her head, "Bitch, do not get sappy on me right now. Save those doe eyes for Mr. Miller."

Twenty minutes later you're winding through the suburban streets of your neighborhood. You're about half an hour early; Tasha had wanted you to be fashionably late but there's only so much of yourself you can alter in such a short amount of time, your punctuality being one of them. You figure you'll just drive around for a bit to build up your courage, plan out your words.

Joel, I saw you at the bar last night. I saw the woman. And I'm not mad, I'm just....

Joel, my feelings were really hurt last night...

Joel, I can't believe you would kiss another woman after everything we've been doing. Do I not mean anything to you at all? Do I-

Nothing really seems like the right thing to say. You figure once you're standing in front of him the words will just come naturally, flow easily in a way that makes sense and articulates your feelings properly. You can only hope.

You've still got about fifteen minutes before your lesson but you figure there's no point in continuing to circle the area - you're just delaying the inevitable. With a heavy sigh and a few quiet words of encouragement directed at your rearview mirror, you turn onto Joel's street, gripping the wheel tightly and trying to keep your breathing as even as possible. You can do this. You can do this.

You're a few houses down from his when you see it.

Panic turns to shock. Shock turns to confusion. Confusion turns to anger. Anger turns to sadness.

You're already pressing Tasha's number in your contacts before you can fully collect your thoughts.

"What is it? Did you go in?"

"There's a car in his driveway," you hiss through your teeth, feeling the tears spring to your eyes again, your hand coming up to cover your mouth, "She stayed the fucking night, Tasha. He fucking slept with her."

"You don't know that," Tasha replies quickly, calmly, already trying to calm you down, "Maybe it's his, maybe he has another car."

"He doesn't have another car, Tasha," your voice is stoic despite the lump in your throat, "He has his truck and that's it. Joel Miller doesn't drive a purple fucking convertible."

"A purple convertible?" Tasha repeats, voice faltering now, processing the information, "Jesus Christ."

You stare at the driveway, at the car in question - you're still a few houses down so it's hard to see any specific details, but you're sure you can make out a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror inside. This is definitely not Joel's vehicle by any means. Your stomach is in knots, unsure what the fuck you're supposed to do now; you'd thought briefly of the possibility that he'd slept with her, and up until this moment you'd been prepared to hear him admit it to you. But you hadn't expected it to really be true, to almost come face to face with the woman herself.

"I don't understand," Tasha suddenly says on the other line, "He knows you're coming for your lesson, why the fuck would he still have her in the house?"

"I don't know," your voice is almost a whisper, thick with sadness and disbelief, "I- oh shit." You cut yourself off and sink deep into your front seat when you catch the front door of his house opening, eyes going wide as you watch two figures emerge out onto the front step.

"What's happening?" Tasha asks frantically - you can practically hear her pacing on the other end, "Talk to me!"

"They're coming out!" you hiss, "They're on the fucking front step."

"Oh, honey, you gotta leave. You're not gonna wanna see this, you need to just turn around and come back," her voice is full of disappointment, anger that mirrors your own, "I'm serious, this is just-"

"Shhh," you peer over the dashboard at them, squinting against the sun. You can make out Joel's broad back in the early morning light, can recognize one of his band t-shirts and his signature bedhead, pointing in all directions. You can see him, but it's difficult to make out the figure he's with, his body blocking her almost entirely from you. "I think she's leaving."

You watch with a mix of rage and horror as he suddenly leans down and wraps his arms around her, her own winding around his broad form as her hands interlock together behind his back. Your eyebrows raise in confusion, mouth dropping open.

"It's not the same woman," you whisper.

"What do you mean it's not the same woman?"

"Literally that," you breathe, shaking your head and feeling a few tears begin to make their way down your cheeks, "It's not the one from last night, it's someone else."

"How do you know?"

"Because the woman last night was black and this girl isn't, I can see her arms," you snap, a sob threatening to burst its way past your lips, "And this one's shorter, he has to bend down to hug her."

"To hug her?!" Tasha echoes, "What the fuck?"

You watch as they separate from one another, watch with rage burning in your chest as she walks down the steps toward her car. You can see her better now, get a good look at her in the few seconds it takes her to reach the driver's side door. She's wearing a pink dress, frilled at the bottom with a pair of white sandals - she looks young. You're already redacting your prior statement about her not being black - now that she's properly in view, you can see the brown softness of her skin, her afro textured hair plaited neatly into two rows. But it's not the same woman.

"So, what, he had two girls in one night? Is that what you're telling me?" Tasha is saying in your ear while you continue to stare at the woman, watch her open the car door and climb inside with one last wave to Joel, "Hello?"

"I - I don't know. I'm-" you watch Joel wave to her and then head back inside the house, presumably to wait for you to arrive. Your stomach is tight and painful, bile in your throat all over again. "You were right," you whisper, tears cascading down onto your bare legs, "I didn't need to see this."

So much for not crying anymore.

You're back on the couch again, wrapped up like a burrito staring at the wall while Tasha paces back and forth around the living room in front of you, talking a mile a minute.

"It was a whole different story when it was just the one girl," she's ranting, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed in anger, "But two? Two girls. In one fucking night. And one of them is half his age," she scoffs, almost a growl, "So what, he just does this in his spare time? Fucks around with girls' hearts and bodies and then acts like some tough, macho contractor with a busy schedule? Please."

You don't need to remind her that you're also half his age - you know she'd come up with a reason why you're different, why you're the exception. And you do appreciate that, but the more she talks the more you're starting to realize that maybe that's never been the case. Maybe you weren't some beautiful coincidence that wandered into Joel's life - maybe he's been doing this for a long time.

Your gaze follows her as she walks around, pacing the same circle over and over again around the coffee table; it's typical Tasha - you've seen her do this on numerous occasions before, but never on your behalf. Your phone suddenly vibrates on the table and your heads both snap toward it, plunging the room into silence. You already know it's him - who else would be texting you this early? You reach over and unlock it, eyes scanning the message:

Where are you?

"He's wondering why I haven't shown up," you say quietly, voice still hoarse from all the crying.

"What a fucking prick. Do not reply," she resumes her pacing, "Two girls the night before he's supposed to have a date with you. Who does that? Who actually does that? Men, that's who. Men do that. I'm swearing off them forever after this. Seriously, I mean it. What the fuck."

You appreciate her concern, appreciate that she's no longer arguing on Joel's behalf, but her words cut you deep regardless. The whole situation still feels surreal. How is it that just over twenty four hours ago he was kissing you softly, sweetly, peering at you with those beautiful brown eyes and telling you he had something special planned for your lesson? What had he wanted to try, a fucking threesome?

"I don't know him at all," you whisper softly, sadly, "I never did. He's a stranger. A complete stranger who I was stupid enough to trust."

Your words seem to touch something in Tasha. She stops her pacing, slowly turns toward you with that empathetic look again and then carefully steps toward the couch, sitting down on the end.

"He just... he was there," you continue, lip trembling, "My parents were being so controlling and I was literally thinking about just... just leaving, finding some way to get back to campus without them knowing and then I heard that fucking guitar and-" you hiccup through a sob, clutching your hand to your chest, "I should've known then. I should've just kept walking. He asked me to come in, Tasha. He wanted to fuck me, then and there. And when I said no I guess I... I became some sort of challenge. Just a stupid, naïve little Catholic girl he could fuck and dump. And I fell for it, hook line and sinker."

She places a hand on your calf, just like she had last night, stroking gently up and down, "You're not stupid," she murmurs, "You're just a girl. A girl experiencing something really special for the first time. And I'm sorry he took that experience from you."

You manage to smile at her, soft and sincere. Despite everything, it feels good to have a friend, to not be alone when you're feeling like this. To be validated and comforted. You have no idea how you'd be processing all of this without Tasha by your side, if you'd have even been able to leave your bed this morning.

"This is so not what I wanted this weekend to be," she suddenly sighs, putting her head in her hands, "I wanted you to have fun, be free. And here you are feeling like shit about yourself. It's not fair."

She's right. It's not fair.

You take a deep breath, then carefully pry yourself out from underneath your blanket, rolling off the couch and coming to stand in front of Tasha with a determined expression on your face.

"You didn't dress me to the nines just for me to cry and feel sorry for myself on the couch," you say confidently, doing your best to wipe away your tears without completely smearing away Tasha's hard work, "I don't wanna think about Joel anymore. I don't wanna cry about Joel anymore. You know what I wanna do?"

She looks up at you, a grin slowly spreading across her face, "Go have fun and be free?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

You never thought you'd be the kind of person to go day drinking, but here you are. Tasha had fixed your makeup and then gotten all dolled up herself, ready for a whole day of doing exactly what you'd both set out to do this weekend: have fun.

Your first stop is a little bistro within walking distance of the Airbnb; you already know that neither of you will be fit to drive by the time this is all over, so you stick to places that are relatively close to the house. As you sip your cocktails and dig into a plate of sandwiches, Tasha informs you that she'd purposely booked this house in particular because of its proximity to the local club scene - you're not surprised in the slightest.

Your phone vibrates a few times while you're eating but you don't check it, forcing yourself to avoid reading anything else Joel has to say to you. It's only when it actually rings, two cocktails deep and plate empty, that you briefly consider picking it up.

"Nope," Tasha says, grabbing the phone from you and canceling the call before you can answer, "No more Joel today, we agreed."

"No more Joel," you repeat, nodding. You let her slip your phone into her own purse after putting it on silent - you know she'll keep it safe, and you know it's for the best.

You spend the majority of the afternoon popping in and out of local bars and boutiques, shopping and chatting to your hearts content as your body adjusts to the constant thrum of alcohol running through your system, making your head a bit foggy in the best way. It's like nothing really matters except this moment, right now, the beat of live music here and there as the sun gets lower in the sky, the conversations drifting past, the smell of food wafting out of restaurants. Tasha is a constant presence at your side, arm linked with yours as she dishes on all the drama of her life you've missed thus far this summer.

You don't think about Joel.

It's obvious throughout your little adventures throughout the day that people - particularly men - gravitate to Tasha very easily. You're not sure if it's simply because of how gorgeous she is - all curves and plump lips and dark curls down to her waist, purple cowboy hat askew above her perfectly applied makeup - or because she's simply a light. She's so bubbly and completely herself, smiling and laughing and dancing, never apologetic or ashamed. It feels good to have a girl like that in your corner, helping you out of your shell, only wanting what's best for you.

You realize as the day passes that you're beginning to mimic her behavior a bit. Whether it's due to the alcohol or your admiration for her, you're not sure, but either way you can feel yourself loosening up, allowing yourself to be more uninhibited, less insecure, not caring if people are looking at you. And people are definitely starting to look at you.

"Dude over there is staring at you," Tasha says quietly to you as you sip margaritas on the back deck of a country bar. You're now wearing her cowboy hat, stolen it after what can only be described as a predictable turn of events where she'd rode the mechanical bull and lost it in one particularly hard buck. You'd picked it up off the floor and placed it on your head, laughing hysterically as the bull threatened to launch Tasha across the room.

"Where?" your eyes go wide as you take a long sip, waiting for her to point him out. She nods at something behind you and you do your best to slowly turn around, not wanting to be too obvious. In your drunken state, however, it's not very smooth. You almost topple off the chair as you spin in place to find who she's talking about.

Through your laughter you spot him. Typical young Texan - floppy blonde hair and a strong jawline, sun-kissed skin and a white smile that practically glimmers against the sunset. He nods to you when he sees you looking, tilts his head to the side a bit and winks.

You turn back to Tasha, shaking your head, "He is not looking at me," you feel your skin heating up, not just from the alcohol, "There's no way."

"He is looking at you," Tasha reiterates, placing her empty glass down on the table, "You're fucking hot."

Your mind can't help but flash back to freshman year, that godforsaken party when another boy with a similar appearance had looked your way. The hope you'd felt, the desire, the confidence... all of it fading when he approached and chose your friend to talk to instead, not even bothering to glance your way despite standing right there beside her. You can't help but worry that it's happening all over again.

But then you hear a deep voice behind you, southern and sexy: "Pardon me, but I just had to tell you, I think you're the prettiest girl I ever saw."

Your eyes widen and you spin back around, still half expecting him to be talking to Tasha, not you, but his green eyes connect with yours instead. His gaze holds you there, your lips parting with no words coming out as you stare up at him in shock.

"She was just telling me that you're not so bad yourself," Tasha offers with a smile, nudging you under the table with her heel, "Right?"

"R-right," you manage to stammer out, still staring open-mouthed at this gorgeous specimen that has somehow decided that you're the girl he wants to talk to right now. The prettiest girl he ever saw.

He smiles at that, toothy and beautiful, "I'm Noah," he puts his hand out for you to take and you do, grasping it tightly and trying to hold on to the reality of this moment, the way his soft skin feels against yours, the way your brain is buzzing with amazement - and tequila.

Tasha's foot hits your ankle again and you quickly splutter out your name, releasing his hand and awkwardly placing yours back in your lap. You feel the bare skin of your thigh and you're suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are right now - this dress certainly doesn't leave much up to the imagination. Your thighs and breasts are practically spilling out of it, pink material clinging to your body. But he isn't looking at any of that - he's looking at your face.

"It's real nice to meet you," he says with another smile, "Can I buy you a drink?" he suddenly looks at Tasha, like he's only just remembered she's sitting there, "And one for your friend too, of course."

"She'd love one," Tasha answers for you, nudging her arm against yours gently, "We'll both have another margarita."

Noah nods once, sets his gaze to your face again with a smile, then disappears inside the bar to go order the drinks.

The second he's gone it's like you're released from some sort of spell he'd put you under. Your heart is suddenly pounding in your chest, breaths coming shorter as you turn to Tasha with utter horror.

"What happened to swearing off all men?" you hiss, brow furrowing.

"Please, Noah isn't a man, he's a boy," she scoffs with a smile, twirling her hair between her fingers, "And I know alllll about boys."

You don't know how it happens, somehow lost the plot about halfway into your second margarita, but Noah is going to the club with you.

You are drunk. You know this for a fact. You hadn't been expecting to already feel this fucked up upon setting foot in the club but here you are, Tasha on one arm and Noah on the other. Tasha's had just as much to drink as you but doesn't seem anywhere near as intoxicated as you feel, continuing to be her excitable self when the bass drops and the neon lights start to dance across her skin. She's stolen back her cowboy hat but you've somehow gained your own - you think it might be Noah's.

"LET'S DANCE!" she screeches, pulling you away from Noah and dragging you onto the dance floor. You watch with slightly blurred vision as he goes in the opposite direction, toward the bar, probably to order more drinks.

The music is loud, the dance floor full of people, bodies swaying back and forth, people jumping up and down, grinding on one another, screaming conversations over the heavy bass. The lights are bright and it feels like all of your senses have been heightened, like you can feel, taste, see, and hear everything in your immediate vicinity to the utmost degree. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but you can feel it in other places too - your feet, your kneecaps, your skin.

"I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG!" Tasha screams to you, throwing her hands up in the air and spinning on the spot, smile wide and joyous as she starts to dance, "DANCE WITH ME, COME ON!"

Your senses are overloading but you try your best to match her energy, copy her movements, focus on just this instead of everything else that's going on around you. This is what you've been missing all these years; this is what you've been waiting to experience. Enjoy it. You let your inhibitions flow and just exist in this moment, having fun with your best friend, far away from anyone who would ever judge you for being here. Far away from your parents and your neighbors and Bethany and -

No. You do not think about Joel.

You and Tasha dance to about three songs before she's tugging you away from the dance floor and over to the bar, back to where Noah is leaning with a beer bottle perched against his lips. He smiles when he sees you approaching, gestures to the little mini drinks beside him, small enough to only have about a thumb of liquid in each.

"Shots!" Tasha squeals, clapping her hands together, "Shots, shots, shots!" She picks one up and hands it to you, then grabs her own, "Come on, Noah, do one with us!"

Noah still can't seem to keep his eyes off you, though you've begun to notice that he's no longer just looking at your face anymore. This time his eyes fall to your breasts as he puts down his beer bottle and replaces it with one of the shot glasses, gaze falling down to your legs before finding your eyes again.

You catch a glint of something darker there, something seductive, and as you bring the glass to your lips you're suddenly aware that beneath the alcohol you feel a bit... uneasy.

You're fucked up. You're really fucked up.

Tasha doesn't leave your side, something you're extremely grateful for. You're starting to have difficulty seeing straight, even walking is becoming confusing, let alone dancing. You grip Tasha's shoulders tightly on the dance floor as you both sway to the music, unsure exactly how long it's been since you arrived at the club. She's looking at you with hazy eyes, much drunker now than she was earlier, and your very intoxicated brain is wondering if you're actually going to leave at some point or whether you're just stuck here for the rest of eternity.

You can feel Noah against your back. He's grinding against you to the song, hands on your hips as his groin presses firmly into your ass. It's weird, being in a Tasha-Noah sandwich that you didn't really sign up for. You're too drunk to really know what you want, actually. You feel fine having Tasha this close, feel safe in her embrace, but Noah's presence is starting to make you feel a bit uncomfortable.

"I'm really drunk," you slur, but it's too quiet for either Tasha or Noah to hear you. Tasha just nods as if she understands, head tilting back and mouth popping open as another song begins. She mouths something, probably I love this song, something she's said about ten times tonight.

Noah pulls you in closer, almost like he's tugging you away from Tasha, but your voice is too faint under the music for your protests to be heard. His arms come up to wrap around your middle, and you feel the unmistakable shape of his cock dip down between your cheeks through your dress. At first you think maybe it's unintentional, but then he does it again, and again, like he's using your body to get himself off. On the fucking dance floor.

"Let go of me," you breathe, but it's lost to the music. You watch as Tasha gets further away, your arms dropping completely from her shoulders as she turns and starts to spin on the spot, still staring up at the ceiling, unaware of what's happening. "Stop," you mumble, feeling his clothed cock rub against you again, a sensation you're now familiar with but certainly not in this context. And certainly not with someone who isn't Joel Miller.

The thought of Joel is what does it.

"STOP," you practically scream, yanking yourself away from him and taking a few heavy steps back, shaking your head frantically, "DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME."

A few people are turning to look and Noah seems more than embarrassed, hands going up quickly. He's drunk too, you can see it in his face, in his eyes, but you already know he's certainly not the harmless young Texan you thought he was. That feeling of unease earlier sure as hell hadn't been the alcohol talking.

You feel a hand at your waist and you flinch but only for a second, gaze coming to rest on Tasha who's now standing beside you with a look of pure horror on her face.

"What'd he do?" she asks, voice panicked and quick, almost like she's not even drunk anymore, "Are you okay?"

You nod but you can feel tears in your eyes, threatening to spill over at any second. Your ears are ringing like they had last night, but it's different this time, almost like you're underwater as Tasha grips your arm and leads you toward the front of the club, away from the loud music and drunk people. Away from Noah.

"Oh my fucking god, I am so sorry," her voice is shaking with emotion when you get out onto the street, hand holding tight to your arm, "I didn't even notice what he was doing. Jesus fucking Christ," she pulls out her phone and dials the number for a cab - through your bleary eyes you see a few teardrops dribble down the bridge of her nose, "We're going home, I'm so sorry, honey."

"S'okay," you manage to garble out through your tears, flowing heavily now in your drunken state, "It happened really fast."

"Doesn't make it okay," she replies, bringing the phone to her ear.

No, it doesn't.

"I want Joel," you whisper through your tears once you're settled in the back seat of the cab, Tasha beside you with her hand resting soothingly on your arm.

"What, honey?" Tasha asks softly, "Say it again, can't hear you."

"I want Joel," you repeat, words slurred as your hands come up to cover your face, "I don't wanna go home. I want Joel."

"We can't go to Joel's," Tasha murmurs, stroking your arm, "It's almost three in the morning, he's asleep."

"I want Joel," you repeat, "I wanna see him."

"I need an address," the cab driver says over his shoulder; he's already started running the meter, "Don't got all night, girls."

Before Tasha can say anything you're spluttering out Joel's address through a sob. Tasha starts to protest but you shake your head furiously, tears scattering everywhere, "I'll just walk," you mumble adamantly, "If you change it I'll just get out and walk."

"But-"

"You owe me," you practically spit, "You owe me after what just happened." You don't mean it, but your brain is nowhere near sober enough to fully realize that. And neither is hers.

She doesn't say anything else.

It's very strange being back in your neighborhood not sober. Your mind is still ridiculously fuzzy from the alcohol but part of you is able to acknowledge how crazy it is that you're back here so late at night in such a drunken state, driving through the dark streets while your parents are none the wiser. The cab passes by your house and you find yourself ducking down into the seat, afraid they might see you despite it being almost three o'clock in the morning.

"Can you just keep the meter running?" Tasha asks the cab driver quietly as you approach Joel's house, "I'm not staying, I just wanna make sure she gets in okay and that someone's here to help her."

"You're not coming in," you mutter, voice still slurred and heavy. You don't look at her as you say it.

"I'll just wait in the car for a few minutes then," she says quietly, just as the cab comes to a stop in Joel's driveway.

His truck is here, just like this morning. Except this time there's no purple convertible blocking him in, no other woman standing on the front step hugging him, waving to him.

Anger rises in your chest at the memory.

"I still don't think this is a good idea," Tasha says softly - what happened earlier has clearly sobered her up, almost no trace of drunkenness in her speech, "He's asleep, there aren't any lights on."

"Then I'll wake him up," you mumble, opening the car door and stepping out into the cool night air.

"I'll wait here for a few-," she calls out to you but you slam the door before she can finish her sentence.

You're not sure why you're suddenly being so mean to her. That is, until you stagger up Joel's front steps and feel even more rage bubbling inside you at the thought of standing where he'd stood this morning, where she'd stood this morning. Where the woman from the bar had probably stood too. Oh. You're an angry drunk.

Without any hesitation you push down on the doorbell. You don't bother to wait in silence; you just keep pushing it and pushing it over and over, hearing the dull sound of the bell dinging inside the house. You're vaguely aware of a light being turned on behind the frosted glass as you lean your hand against the door, suddenly feeling dizzy now that you're standing again.

The door opens and you practically fall through it, squinting against the sudden bright light and bringing your hands up to your face as you stagger inside. You feel someone catch you, big hands coming to rest atop both of your arms, and then your name being said in a deep voice, husky with sleep.

Joel.

"Are you okay?" he asks somewhere above you; your ears are ringing again and his voice is loud and muffled, that underwater feeling coming back. You try to mumble something but it comes out an incoherent garble.

You feel him pull you inside, hear the door shut behind you as he kicks it closed with his foot. He guides you inside the living room and your eyes shut tightly against the brightness of the overhead light, shining down on top of you like a spotlight.

"Too bright," you manage to mumble out, bringing your hands up to cover your face. You find yourself being seated on the couch before the light is switched off, plunging you both into total darkness.

"Baby, what happened?" you hear him ask, voice still swimming thickly through your muted ears, "I've been so fuckin' worried about you, where've you been? Where'd you go?" you feel his hands take yours, gripping them tightly. They're so rough and callused, nothing at all like Noah's, and it makes you smile.

"Feels nice," you mutter, already forgetting what he asked you.

"What'd you take?" he asks, and you suddenly realize that there's a very frantic edge to his voice, thick with worry and... fear? "Huh? Tell me what you took so I can help."

"D-didn't take anything," you hiccup, shaking your head slowly.

"Christ, babygirl," he mutters, squeezing your hands again, "Where were you? I called you so many times, I texted you, I-"

"Tasha's got my phone," you mumble.

"Where's Tasha? She alright?"

"In the cab."

"Jesus," he releases your hand and stands up, turns on a dim lamp in the corner of the room so you're not in total darkness anymore. You watch with hooded eyes as he opens the front door again, walks out onto the step and starts gesturing something into the darkness. He looks ridiculous, waving his arms like that - it makes you giggle.

He turns around and walks back over to you with long strides. You can see his face more clearly now, expression lined with worry. He looks tired. He probably is.

"Just wanted you," you mutter, staring at him.

Before he can say anything Tasha is suddenly walking in through the door, expression stoic as she passes the threshold. She avoids Joel's gaze completely, looking only at you.

"What the fuck happened?" Joel asks her, any sort of introductory pleasantries gone out the window, "Where's she been? What'd she take?"

"Nice to meet you too," Tasha grumbles, hitching her purse over her shoulder and walking over to where you sit on the couch, "She's fine, we went clubbing and she got drunk. I'll take her back."

"No you fuckin' won't," he says indignantly, moving to stand directly in front of you with his arms crossed, "How could you let this happen to her? She's never done shit like this before, you know that right? She's never been drunk in her fuckin' life and you bring her back like this? You ever heard of takin' it fuckin' slow?"

"Oh please, like I'm gonna take advice from you," she snaps back, walking around him and reaching down to take your hand, "Come on, honey, we need to go. Now."

"She's not goin' with you, she's stayin' here," his voice is loud, louder than you've ever heard it. In fact, you don't think you've ever seen him mad before. It's strange, seeing the way his eyes narrow, his mouth downturned into an angry frown, fists tight against his chest.

"I only brought her here because she said she'd jump out and walk if I didn't," Tasha argues, voice firm, "She's safe with me."

"Safe, huh?" he scoffs, "So why the fuck do you have her phone? Do you know how many times I've tried to call her in the past fuckin' twelve hours? I was this close to callin' the fuckin' police."

"If anyone here needs the fucking police called on them it's you," Tasha's voice is louder now, every word echoing in your brain, "Fucking creep."

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

Your drunken brain can't process much of what's going on at all, both Tasha and Joel's voices blending into one constant loud noise. You bring your hands up to your head and cover your ears, though it can only do so much to block out their voices. What they're saying still manages to come through, albeit muffled and distant.

"You heard what I said. Fucking. Creep." Tasha repeats, "She knows what you've been doing, you asshole."

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"What, don't have the balls to admit it?"

"Admit what?"

"Stop," you say loudly, bringing your hands down from your ears, "Stop yelling, you're hurting my head."

Joel crouches down, picks up your hands and takes them in his again, peering into your eyes. You can't see him properly anymore and you hate it, can only make out bits and pieces as your eyesight just continues to get worse the longer you sit here. You feel sleepy, almost like you're on the edge of unconsciousness.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, thumbs stroking yours gently, "I'm sorry, babygirl. I'll stop yellin'."

You close your eyes, nodding and breathing deeply in and out, loving the feeling of having him touching you again. It's almost like last night didn't happen, like this morning didn't happen.

Last night. This morning.

You suddenly yank your hands away from him, eyes going wide as you remember exactly why you're even here in the first place, why you wanted to get fucked up to begin with. His face comes back into view again, expression confused.

"I know what you've been doing," you hiss, echoing Tasha's words and scooting away from him. You reach your hand up for her to take and she grips it tightly, helping you get up.

"Babygirl," he says softly, brown eyes tender and soft as he eases himself up from the floor, "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

"We saw you," Tasha says then, linking her arm with yours, "At the bar last night." She means business now, you can hear it in her voice, "We saw you kiss someone else."

His expression changes instantly. Worry, anger, concern... all of it gone in a single second.

"That's what I thought," Tasha says firmly, then carefully eases you out of the living room, walks with you as far as the porch before you hear Joel speak.

His voice is quiet, shaky, "It's not what you think."

"Then what is it, exactly?" Tasha turns then, rounding on him again while you cling to her arm, "You're not playing her? You didn't waste weeks of her life making her feel special only for it to turn out you're just like the rest of them?"

He doesn't say anything and you can't bring yourself to look at him, heart in your throat and tears in your eyes once again as you stare at the hardwood floor.

"I didn't... that's not what..." he finally breathes, "It's not what you think. That's all I can say."

"That's all you can say?"

"Well, I can hardly fuckin' explain myself when she won't remember it, can I?" his voice is raw, hitching on the last few words, "Nothin'... nothin' happened other than some kissin'. It didn't go any further, I swear."

"And I'm just supposed to believe you?"

"I'm not askin' you to believe me," he breathes, "But that's the truth. That's the fuckin' truth, swear on my life."

"And what about the girl she saw leaving this morning?"

He's quiet again for a moment. You're still afraid to look at him, can barely even comprehend that this conversation is even really happening right now.

"That was - Jesus, I never wanted you to find out like this," he mutters, and Tasha laughs without humor.

"Yeah, you thought it'd just stay your little secret, huh?" It's hard to believe she's had just as much to drink as you have tonight - you wouldn't know it by the way she handles herself now, the way she speaks to Joel like she already knows him. She's done this before. She's no stranger to confronting men who did her wrong, or in this case, her friend.

"That was my daughter," he says softly.

Tasha freezes.

The words do their best to seep into your skin, to make their way into the sober depths of your brain that lie dormant, somewhere hidden. You still feel so fuzzy, bleary eyed and heavy and confused, but the words register somehow.

You slowly unhook your arm from Tasha's to finally look up from the floor, moving your gaze to Joel's still form. He's standing there by the couch, arms still crossed across his chest but not angry anymore, a look of pure sadness and shame on his face. He looks small.

"Y-you have a daughter?" you whisper.

"Yes," he replies softly, eyes slowly lifting to meeting yours, "And the woman at the bar, that was her mother. My ex wife." You see tears shining in his eyes, watch as his lip trembles as he softly whispers, "And I swear - I swear it never went further than some kisses. And it won't go any further than that ever again."

You feel Tasha reach down and squeeze your hand. What she's trying to communicate to you, you're not sure. You just stand there staring at him, unable to process this information in your current state, head swimming and ears still ringing.

"I'll tell you everything," he continues quietly, taking a slow step toward you, "When you're feelin' better, I swear. Anythin' you wanna know, I'll tell you." He takes another few steps until he's standing directly in front of you and Tasha, leaning down so he can peer directly into your eyes, "I'm so sorry it happened this way," he whispers, "I never thought - Jesus, I'm just so fuckin' sorry."

You swallow tightly around the lump in your throat, completely unsure of how you feel, of what you're supposed to say or do. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is computing properly.

"You need to take her home," he murmurs, pulling back and turning his attention to Tasha, "Look, I'm sorry for-"

"No, I'm sorry," she suddenly breathes, "I was- wow, that's... I mean, I wasn't expecting that. I'm sorry. I just, I thought-"

"It's okay," he replies, voice still a bit stiff, "Just get her back safe, okay? She's-" he cuts himself off to look at you again, eyes peering down at you sadly. "She's special."

Tasha nods, "I know she is."

The last thing you remember, the last thing that's at least semi-clear in your mind, is the soft look of affection on his face as he stands on his doorstep and watches you go.

You're not sure exactly what time it is when you wake up on Sunday. The only thing you're sure of is that your head is pounding and the sun streaming through the window is only making it worse. You roll over in bed and press your face into the pillow with a low moan.

You're never drinking that much ever again.

There's movement beside you and you open your eyes briefly to see Tasha laying in a similar position, still in her dress from yesterday, face smooshed into her own pillow. You can't remember how you got back, memories extremely hazy and shrouded completely in too much alcohol. The last thing you can remember is being at Joel's house, of the brief conversation he had with Tasha, the words he'd said to you...

My ex wife.

It never went further than some kisses.

That was my daughter.

Now that your brain isn't under the influence, you can finally think straight, can finally process everything he said to you last night. Or at least what you can remember. You roll over again with another moan, sensing nausea in the pit of your stomach.

"The hangover is the worst part," Tasha mumbles, and you turn your head to see her looking at you through messy mascara, smudged and smeared all over her eyes, "But you'll be okay."

You stare at her for a few seconds, everything else from the night before slowly coming back to you in bits and pieces. The club, Noah, the way you'd snapped at her...

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, "Tasha, I was so fucking mean to you."

The part of her lips that you can see curve upward into a smile and she shakes her head slowly, "It's all water under the bridge, babe," she murmurs, voice still heavy with sleep, "You had every right."

"No, I didn't. That stuff with Noah, that wasn't your fault."

"I should've known better than to invite him along," she sighs deeply, "I just wanted you to have fun, you know? I wanted you to forget about..." she trails off, biting her lip.

"I know," you breathe, "And I did, for a while. You couldn't have known about Noah, he certainly had me fooled."

She nods, closing her eyes and nuzzling the pillow a bit. You both lay there in silence, the elephant in the room growing bigger and bigger the longer you go without talking about it.

"So, Joel's got a daughter," you finally whisper, "And an ex wife."

She opens her eyes again, raising an eyebrow, "I'm surprised you remember that. You were pretty fucked up."

You wince, "Did I completely embarrass myself?"

"No, not at all," her hand comes up to touch your shoulder gently, thumbing the skin there, "You stood your ground, you did good. And now... now we know the truth."

"The truth," you echo.

More silence. It's like neither of you really knows what to say to the other. You're sure Tasha has already formulated her own opinion, has probably known since last night exactly how she feels about the whole thing. And that scares you a bit - because what if she doesn't feel the same way you do?

And how exactly do you feel about it anyway?

"I think he texted you again a little while ago," she finally says softly, pointing toward your phone on the night stand, "I heard it when I got up to use the bathroom. And there's a lot of texts there from yesterday. He, uh-" she bites her lip, "He was really worried about you, honey."

You reach over and pick up your phone, taking a deep breath before unlocking it and looking at the damage: 9 texts. 18 missed calls.

Shit. You suppose it makes sense. The last time you'd talked to him was on Friday morning in his kitchen, when you'd told him you were planning on going out with Tasha and having a girl's weekend, finally having your college experiences. He hadn't known anything that happened between then and last night, hadn't known you'd seen him at the bar, that you'd gone to his house on Saturday morning and left again, not giving him any explanation as to why you hadn't shown up for your lesson. To him, it had just been complete radio silence.

With a shaky finger you press his name, heart pounding as the unanswered text messages flood your screen. First, the three you've already seen:

Hope you're having a good night, babygirl. You deserve to have some fun. I'll see you tomorrow. Be safe.❤️

You get home ok? Let me know x

Where are you?

And everything else:

???

Hey, I'm worried about you. Give me a call or a text ok?

Please call me.

I'm outta my mind over here baby. Please let me know you're alright.

I'm scared for you. Last I heard you were going out with your friend and then nothing since. Please call.

Just a text is all I need honey. I promise. If you're not feeling this anymore that's okay. Just wanna know you got home safe last night.

I'm so worried about you. I can't sleep. Please call me.

I don't know what to do angel. Can't stop thinking about you. Wish you were here in my arms. Please be safe.

Please.

The most recent text was sent this morning, around ten:

I'm so sorry. Words can't even describe how fucking ashamed and embarrassed I am. I can't imagine how horrible that must have been for you. I understand if you don't want to see me anymore, but I want to tell you everything, if you'll let me. I hope you're feeling okay today, angel. Drink lots of water, stay with Tasha. Text me whenever you're ready.

"Did you read these?" you ask Tasha softly, eyes unmoving from the last text, scanning the words over and over.

"No," she replies, "Just saw the notifications."

You scroll back up and read them again, and again, like you'll somehow be able to rewind time if you just keep reading them. You can't believe there's this many, can't believe that the man who'd been so distant the past week is the same man who sent you all of these.

The same man with a whole other life he never told you about.

"What do I do?" you whisper.

Tasha sighs, then carefully pulls herself up to lean against the headboard, crossing her legs and looking over at you, "What do you wanna do?"

You lock your phone again and sit up beside her, exhaling deeply, "I don't know."

You both sit there in silence for a few moments, lost in thought. You can't explain it but you feel nowhere near as betrayed or angry as you'd felt yesterday. Rage is no longer present - and neither is sadness. The only way you can describe how you feel is... relieved.

"He has a daughter and an ex wife," you state.

"He does."

"He has a daughter and an ex wife," somehow saying it again makes it feel more real, but the words still don't trigger any strong emotions. You sigh and look at Tasha, urging her to say something else.

"So, other than that, what's changed?" she asks.

You bite your lip and turn away from her again, shrugging your shoulders slowly, "I mean, that's... that's a lot."

"It is," she agrees softly, "It is a lot."

You swallow, fingers playing with the edge of your dress, reminding you that you're still wearing the same outfit from yesterday. God, you need a shower. You need to wash this entire experience off of you.

"You remember where we landed Friday night?" Tasha asks suddenly, "We talked about the possibility of him kissing someone else and we agreed that communication was the way to go, right?"

"That was before we knew he had a daughter and an ex wife, Tasha."

"Yeah, well... now we do know. And we know he's willing to talk to you about it," she twists her mouth in thought, "So do you wanna talk to him about it?"

"...I don't know."

She suddenly eases herself off the bed, stretching her arms above her head and yawning loudly. You watch as she assesses her pillow, grimaces at the dark makeup stains on the white cotton.

"I'm scared," you admit softly, avoiding her gaze.

"What are you scared of?"

You don't know how to answer that, biting your lip and sniffling a bit. You bring your knees up to your chest, hugging them and leaning your face into your warm skin.

"You're falling in love with him, aren't you?" she asks quietly, absolutely no judgement in her voice, "That's it, isn't it? You're really starting to fall and that's why you're scared."

You can't speak, unable to say anything because you know you'll burst into tears if you do. Instead, you nod your head slowly, up and down against your knees.

"Then you gotta talk to him, honey," she kneels down on the bed, places her hand on your shoulder soothingly, "You gotta hear what he has to say."

You groan, bringing your hands up to cover your face as you stretch out your legs again, turning on the bed and scooching downward to smoosh your face back into the pillow.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Tasha murmurs softly, "I feel disgusting."

"Welcome to the club," you mumble into the pillow.

You're vaguely aware of Tasha moving around you, grabbing things from the nightstand and puttering around the room as she gets ready for her shower. You sense her standing close to you for a bit longer than necessary, like she's just staring at you without really knowing what to say. With a roll of your eyes you turn to face her, and you catch the briefest moment that she places your phone back down on the nightstand.

Your brow furrows, "What are you doing with my phone?"

"Nothing," she says quickly, turning around and leaving the room without another word.

You fall back to sleep without meaning to, and when you wake again, it's only because you hear someone talking in the other room, someone with a deep voice. Tasha must be watching a movie. You curl in on yourself a bit, rubbing your eyes and wincing when you feel the makeup smudge across your face. You really should get up and shower.

You suddenly hear footsteps in the hallway, getting closer. But there's something different about them, something heavy in the way they sound against the floorboards.

The door opens and there's just silence for a few seconds, no movement. Then the footsteps return, closer now, slow and unsure.

You know it's him before his weight sinks into the bed.

Oh, Tasha. Of course you did.

You close your eyes as you feel his arms snake around you from behind. You allow him to pull you in close, feel his nose against the back of your neck, his scruff against your shoulder. He smells like his cologne, feels warm and solid against your back, the denim of his jeans brushing against your bare legs.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers.

You immediately turn within his embrace, coming face to face with the man who you've spent the past twenty four hours hating, being angry at, feeling betrayed by - he's looking at you with a tenderness you can't describe, lips downturned into a soft frown that says everything. He's upset. He's ashamed. He's sorry.

"Why did you kiss her?" you whisper.

He takes a breath, "We have this... arrangement," he murmurs, "We've had it for years. Whenever she's in town - which isn't very often, maybe once every three years or so - we sleep together. It's been goin' on for over twenty years now, it's just.. it's just what we do."

You nod slowly, eyes falling to his mouth and then back to his eyes, "But you didn't this time."

"We didn't," he breathes, "I swear to you, we didn't. We went back to my place, we... we were kissin'," he winces but doesn't close his eyes, keeping his gaze on you, "I.. I went to grab a condom out of my bedside table before things got heavy and I-" he cuts himself off, taking another breath.

"What?"

You watch as he reaches down into his pocket, fishes something out. He brings his hand up and extends his fingers, shows you what's sitting in the palm of his hand.

Your crucifix.

"I saw this," he breathes, "And all of a sudden, I just... I just knew I couldn't."

You stare at the gold cross, watch it glint in the sunlight still cascading through the windows. His breath hitches and your gaze goes back to his face, the lines and wrinkles and grey whiskers, his soft brown eyes and curved nose.

"I understand if you can't forgive me," he whispers, tears shining in his eyes, "I don't expect you to, but I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry that I did."

He closes his fist around the crucifix again and slowly brings it downward to your own hand, urging you to open it. He slips the chain past your fingers, goes to pull his hand away, but you stop him. You grip his hand tightly, the cross digging into both of your palms.

"We never established anything," you whisper softly, "We... we've never said that we're anything. It's just been sex."

He doesn't say anything, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks as he waits for you to speak again. He's so handsome, so unreal in a way that doesn't make sense to you, and probably never will.

"I wanna be yours," you breathe, meeting his gaze, "I don't want you to be with anyone else."

He leans forward to gently brush his nose to yours, eyes closing as he breathes deeply, the tears spilling over onto his cheeks.

"Okay," he whispers.

You know there's more for him to explain, so many more details you don't have yet that you do want to know. But in this moment, you don't care about any of it. You just want him.

It doesn't take long for you both to be completely undressed, clothes tossed over the sides of the bed as your naked bodies press warmly up against each other, soft and eager. He presses kisses to your neck, breathes you in, runs his fingers through your hair as he hovers above you with absolute need in his eyes, a look you're sure mirrors your own.

He knows you're still not ready without you having to say it. Knows this isn't the right time. There's no need for any words of reassurance or any questions. He knows what you need. You know what he needs.

His cock moves firmly down against your tummy beneath the sheets, his shaft settling perfectly against your pussy, already wet and aching for him like it had been the second he walked into the room. He puts both hands above your head, leans down to kiss you as he drags himself up and down within your folds, up and down, up and down.

It feels incredible, just having the thick length of him rubbing back and forth against your clit, the wide head catching at your entrance every now and then, eliciting a deep groan from Joel and soft whimpers from you. You grip his back tightly, broad and firm and yours, fingertips digging into his skin as he fucks himself against you.

"Feels so good," you whisper in his ear, voice trembling with every thrust, "Feels so good, Joel."

"I know it does, babygirl," he whispers, kissing your ear and grinding himself against you even deeper, moving his hands down to grip your hips as his cock continues to slip back and forth against your folds, "You're so sensitive, aren't you? That big cock feels so good against your little pussy, hm?"

You nod frantically, arms moving up a bit to wrap around his neck, your cheek brushing against his.

"You want a bit of my cock inside your hole, baby?" he whispers softly, secretly, pushing your hair away from your face, "Huh? You want the tip, honey? Just a little bit?"

You don't even have to think.

"Yes," you moan, "Yes, please, put it in, please."

"Okay, baby," he murmurs, pulling back a bit to look down at the mess you're making together, reaching his hand down to position his cock at your entrance, "Just the tip, babygirl, I won't go any further than that. Don't be scared."

"I'm not scared," you breathe, and you absolutely mean it, looking up at him with what you're sure is a completely wrecked expression, "I want it, Joel. Please."

He places the head of his cock against your hole gently, very gently. Then he takes your hands from around his neck and holds them in his, presses them up against his chest as he looks deep into your eyes. You look back, gaze never leaving his as he slowly pushes himself inside you - just the tip.

You gasp.

"Shhh," he breathes, squeezing your hands and continuing to peer into your eyes, never breaking eye contact, "Shhh, you're okay," he murmurs, "You're okay, angel."

You lay completely still, lips parting and eyes going hazy as you focus all your energy on experiencing this moment, on feeling the way the head of Joel's cock feels inside of you. It's pulsing, warm and wide and big inside your pussy, throbbing against your walls.

It feels fucking amazing.

"Joel," you whimper, eyes still locked completely on his.

"You're mine," he breathes, jaw tense and eyes alight with something you can only describe as pure passion, "You hear me? You're the only one I want. Don't want anyone else, baby. Nobody."

You nod desperately, thighs shaking as the fat head of his cock pushes inside just a little more, making you squirm. He stills his hips, still holding your hands against his warm chest.

"Look at us," he murmurs, "Just look."

Your gaze finally unlocks from his, eyes trailing downward to where you're connected, where the thick length of his cock juts out from between your legs. You rise a bit on the bed, whimpering as you look down at exactly where he sits inside of you, wet and dark and filthy and fucking beautiful.

"You can take all of me," he whispers, "I know you can, babygirl. But not now, not here."

"I know," you breathe, swallowing and looking up at him again with tears filling your eyes.

He pulls himself out of you then, places his thick and throbbing shaft against your pussy again and begins to thrust, moving downward so he's pressed up tightly against you, your hands caught between each other's bodies, the crucifix still hanging between your fingers.

"I'm gonna take you away with me, okay?" he says, almost a whimper as he stares into your eyes again, intense and focused, "We're gonna go away and I'm gonna tell you everything you wanna know about me, alright? And I'm gonna fuck you, baby. I'm gonna fuck you so good."

You're nodding as he speaks, whimpers and whines flowing continuously from your mouth as you near closer and closer to your orgasm, that familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach growing stronger.

"I'll fuck you in the bed, I'll fuck you in the shower, I'll fuck you on the fucking floor," he groans, eyes suddenly shutting and breaking the eye contact he'd managed to hold for so long, his face coming down to bury itself in your neck, "You're mine, angel, you're mine."

"I'm yours," you cry as your climax hits you, knocks the wind out of you as you start to shake beneath him, your hole fluttering against the length of him, "I'm yours, Joel, only yours."

You feel his come hit your stomach, painting your skin as he releases a deep groan into your ear and puts his entire body weight on top of you. You just close your eyes and feel him, exist in this moment for as long as you can, just listening to his breathing match your own as you both come down from your high.

He nuzzles his face against the heat of your neck, squeezes your hand in his between your bodies. The crucifix digs into your palm but you barely feel it.

"I want you to keep it," you whisper in his ear, and he doesn't have to ask what you're talking about, just presses a soft kiss to your neck and finally pulls back to peer down at you with total adoration.

"Okay," he murmurs with a soft smile, "I will."

2K notes · View notes

trippiexk · 9 months

Text

i know it when i see it - part 2

read part one here (ao3)

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 8.6k

warnings: sex work, exhibitionism, voyeurism, literal porn, talking through it, oral sex, dirty talk, praise kink, masturbation, mild angst, more terrible porn puns, sex with other unnamed characters

summary: after your first scene with joel, you can't get him out of your head. it doesn't help that you keep running into him.

You spend the week waiting to hear from Tess.

You paint and repaint your nails. You go to the clinic and get tested, press your results in the book by your bed. You shake quarters out of slot machines on the pier to pay for laundry. You go to bars with the girls you live with and order cocktails you can’t afford, pretending that they taste better than the airplane bottles you buy from the liquor store. The next day, hungover and aching, you all climb up the fire escape and lay topless on the roof, letting the sun soak up the booze from your blood.

You don’t think about Joel Miller.

You don’t, you don’t, you don’t.

Except for when you do. When you’re laying in bed, the day's heat still hanging heavy in the apartment. You think of his hands. The smooth scrape of callouses across your bare thighs. The slide of thick fingers between your soft folds. The grip on your jaw, on your hips, on every inch of skin. You think of his voice, the low tone of it in your ear, coaxing you to open up for him. The croon of baby in his thick Southern drawl. How he talked you through taking his cock, let you know how good you felt wrapped around him.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You come like that, hand between your legs, soaking the sheets, and you really can’t afford to do laundry again.

No one has ever touched you like that, like every soft, sensitive part of your body was sacred. No one has ever looked at you with that kind of heat, that intensity. No one has ever gotten you there, again and again, and looked at you like he still wanted more.

It was so far beyond your teenage fumblings, all the boys you let pull you into the backseat. So much more than your muted, soft-focus fantasies. And part of you really hates that he was your first scene partner, because you’re not sure that anyone else will measure up.

But it was just a role. A part that you played, a face you wore for a little while.

You can’t get caught up in the fantasy of it meaning more than it did. You can’t start yearning. You know better than that. It will crush you, stamp out the fragile future that you’ve wanted for so long.

So you tuck the feeling away, shelving it with other fantasies you’ve outgrown. The pastor’s son who wore your ribbon around his wrist for a week. The prom date that promised to write when he went to college. All the old flings that festered in quiet corners of your heart until you got your feelings hurt.

Joel would have to stay there too.

Your roommates throw a party that spills into every corner of the small apartment. It’s cramped, just shy of suffocating, with bodies splayed across the sofa and tangled together at the top of the stairs. A record plays and skips and plays again until someone flips to the B side. You don’t think anyone is wearing a bra. You’re almost embarrassed that you are.

You’ve been offered weed by three different strangers, all with the vague promise of sensation — This one’ll take you to the moon — Body high like you won’t believe — Want to taste God?

You think of Communion, tasting the body of Christ, the way it sat dry and stale on your tongue. You think of the way Joel tasted you, worshiped you, made you feel holy in a way that church never had.

The thought makes you dizzy, so you politely refuse and sip at the sangria that’s more fruit than wine.

The room is over-warm and slightly sweaty, still in the peak of summer, but it’s nice. Gone are the days of stilted conversations after Sunday service, a napkin folded in your lap, your mother’s hawkish gaze daring you to stay silent. Now you’re surrounded by art students and aspiring stoners, scattered talk of Hua Gofeng and the Nouveaux Philosophes; all the strange people and ideas that have crowded into your life. You can’t remember the last time you felt lonely.

Your roommate shouts your name over the din and waves the telephone in the air. For you, she mouths, red lips wrapping around the unheard words.

You force your way across the room, climbing over the sofa to get to her. You take the receiver and accept her air kiss. She’s whisked away by a pair of waiting arms, leaving behind the lingering scent of orange and incense.

“Hello?”

It’s Tess, though you can barely hear her.

“Jesus, kid, what the hell is going on over there?”

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologize hastily, gathering up the phone cord and crawling out the open window onto the fire escape. You drag the window shut behind you, muffling the sounds of the party.

“Better now?” you ask, perching on the rusting metal stairs, watching the traffic rumble by below.

“Are you living in a brothel? Actually, don’t answer that.” You hear the sound of her long exhale, and imagine smoke curling around the receiver. “I got the cut of the scene you did with Joel.”

Your stomach flips, a nervous coil unraveling.

“And?”

“And it’s good,” Tess says, “Really fucking good. You’re something else, kid.”

You bite your lip, digging your teeth into the smile that threatens to overtake your face.

“Really?”

“Really,” Tess says, “When this comes out, people are going to want more of you. A lot more.”

More of you. After so many years of being asked to be less. So many years wasted trying to make yourself smaller, to shrink into some acceptable size, folding yourself into nothing at the foot of a man’s bed.

You look down at the blinking city lights and feel like you could swallow the whole world.

“So let’s give it to ‘em.”

“Had a feeling you’d say that,” Tess says, and you can hear the grin in her voice, “I’ve seen a lot of girls come and go. But if you really want this, it’s yours.”

It’s yours. So few things had ever felt like they really belonged to you. Not the town that you grew up in that always felt too tight on your skin. Not the house you grew up in or the Bible by your bedside. None of the sturdy little status symbols that were supposed to mean so much.

But this — this could be yours alone.

Tess tells you that she’s going to do some digging, rustle up your next role. The line goes dead, and for a long moment you stare out at the city.

When you go back inside, sliding through the open window, you try to contain the giddy thrill coursing through you. You’re really something. People are going to want more of you. It feels like things are coming into focus, like you’ve been staring at a dark screen for so long and someone just stepped into the projection booth.

x x x x x x x x

You do half a dozen films in a month.

They’re all small roles, short interludes in larger films. You slip into them easily, seducing someone for an afternoon and then stepping back into yourself.

You’re a callgirl, leaning against a lamp post, the muddy light painting lurid shadows on your bare legs. You crawl across the front seat of a Ford Thunderbird, and maybe it looks sexy, but the angle is awful, all elbows. The camera man is crowded into the backseat, his lens only inches from your ear. The windows fog so thickly the director can’t be sure when to call cut.

You’re a virgin, mewling and earnest, oh-so abashed as you get on your knees. Debauched and delicate, blushing and batting your eyelashes. Your co-star comes early, semen splashing across your cheeks, and your ‘deflowering’ is delayed by fifteen minutes before he’s back at half mast. His embarrassment makes him overly attentive, and you leave the scene sore and satisfied in your scraps of lace.

You’re a schoolgirl, in your thigh-highs and tartan, gum popping between your glossy lips. You’re bent over a desk and a nun paddles your ass while you recite the rosary. You have to bite your arm to stop yourself from laughing and twice the director says you look a little too happy about your punishment. But the nun really isn’t much of a disciplinarian. She seems bored by the whole affair, slipping a cigarette from beneath her habit and smoking between takes.

You get really good at it — the strange magic of making yourself desirable. And it’s liberating to lose yourself that way; to be seen by so many and belong to no one but yourself. To come home and take a bath and wash all the slutty little epithets off your skin.

Your roommates ask about the scenes, warm and wine drunk off a bottle that was left too long in the fridge. There’s a girlish, whispering thrill about the whole thing. Is it fun? — weird? — hot?

It is, you tell them. It’s all of it.

It’s both less and more than what you had imagined all those nights in your childhood home, piecing together a future from the pictures you’d seen in dirty magazines. There was always an air of ambiguity when you imagined yourself in porn, when you tried to transcribe your face onto the moaning, writhing bodies you watched on tape. Now that you’re here, you’re in it, some of the mystique has melted away.

You like the sex, but there’s less of it than you might’ve expected. It’s mostly performance, the artful arrangement of limbs, wetting your lips and winking. Much of your day is standing at the edge of scenes, watching the set up, waiting for someone to wipe semen from various surfaces. So much of the world is a waiting room, lingering in doorways and hotel halls.

You see Joel sometimes, in those in-between spaces. The producer’s loft downtown. The seedy motel in mid-city. The house in the Valley that is used so often for porn that the neighbors have put up For Sale signs.

It’s the nature of the thing, the concentric circles you travel in. The same parties, the same bars — the same co-stars sometimes. You do a scene with the housewife from Fix Her, Up Her and try not to think too hard about how Joel had been between her legs.

Every time you see him, there’s that pull, that low simmering heat. And you have to stuff the feelings back on the shelf, relegate him again to the realm of the unattainable.

You’ll see him stepping out of an elevator, the neck of his shirt still damp with sweat, his hair mussed from someone else’s fingers. Or he’ll pass you in the hotel lobby, your cheeks flushed and eyes shining, bruises forming from someone else’s mouth.

It’s mostly just glances, the occasional nod, a murmured hello.

You’re not really sure what to say after someone fucks your brains out. When they do it for a living and you’re just one of many. When you haven’t stopped thinking about him even though you know it’s a waste of time. When nothing has ever felt as good as his hands on your skin.

You’re a maid, and you don’t really revel in the cliche, but you’re having fun with it. Feather-duster in hand, strolling around the luxury estate that’s really a soundstage. Your scene partner is French, and sometimes forgets that the film is not. His low grunts of “oui, oui, oui” keep making you laugh, spluttering and coughing when you’re supposed to be sucking his cock.

The shoot is going late, so you slip outside for a smoke break between takes.

Dusk sweeps slowly across the parking lot, the hills reflecting the pink haze of sunset, casting the whole place in a rosy glow. It’s almost romantic, for a backlot in Burbank.

You’re pinning your stockings into place, a cigarette unlit between your teeth. You left your lighter inside, so it’s just sort of there, the paper stained pink from your lipstick.

You don’t pay attention when the truck first pulls up, the headlights silhouetting you against the cement wall. But you glance up as the driver steps out, and catch a glimpse of familiar boots.

“Hey.”

It’s him.

Standing in front of you, arms folded over the broad expanse of his chest, the sleeves of his flannel pushed up above the elbow. The set of his brow as unreadable as ever. Goddamn inscrutable, infuriating man.

“Oh,” you straighten quickly, slipping the cigarette out from between your teeth. “Hi.”

Joel looks you up and down. You’re naked more often than not these days, but you don’t usually feel it. You’ve lost the scud of self-consciousness. But under his gaze you feel somehow exposed, strangely aware of all the skin he can see.

His eyes land on the cigarette in your hand.

“Need a light?”

You do. He slips a zippo from his back pocket, the sun flashing against the silver surface.

He flicks it open and offers it out. The simple gesture makes your stomach swoop, and you will yourself to get it together. You take a step closer, leaning forward to dip the tip of your cigarette into the flame. It ignites and you step back, leaving some distance between you.

He pulls a pack of Marlboros from his back pocket and lights his own.

For a long moment, you stand in silence, your smoke mingling with his in the air.

“Tess treating you okay?” he asks, flicking ash onto the asphalt.

“She’s great,” you nod, “I think this whole thing would’ve swallowed me without her.”

He glances at you, gaze sweeping over your exposed skin.

“Reckon you can hold your own.”

And you don’t blush, goddamnit. Not even a little. You suck down another lungful of smoke and hope he doesn’t notice the pink on your cheeks.

“That was your first scene.”

You look at him, frowning.

“What was?”

“When we — the cheerleader thing,” he says, not quite meeting your eye, “Tess said it was your first.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Something you assumed was obvious from all of your blushing and breathless laughter. It wasn’t as new now, not as raw, and you wished you had kept it together a little better that first time.

Joel frowns and drops his cigarette, grinding it into the ground with the heel of his boot.

“Should’ve told me,” he mutters, “Would’ve taken it easier on you.”

“Oh,” you swallow, trying to keep your voice level, “No. It — it was good. I liked it.”

His eyes go dark.

And you thought maybe you’d imagined it, this thing between you. The way it rears up in your ribcage whenever you see him, writhing beneath your skin. You thought maybe you had let the memory of that first scene melt into something softer, imagined that magnetism, the pull to him.

But it’s there, in his gaze. Burning.

“And the others?”

“The — what?” you ask, finding it difficult to follow the thread of conversation when he’s looking at you like that.

“The other scenes,” he says, voice low, “You like them too?”

Suddenly your throat feels very dry. You lick your lips to wet them and you see the way his eyes follow the motion.

“Some more than others.”

A door bangs open behind you, and a voice shouts your name.

The moment is broken, and you glance over your shoulder, calling back that you’ll be right there. When you look at Joel again, some of the heat has gone from his gaze.

You stub out your cigarette against the wall, leaving a black smudge of ash.

“Thanks for the light.”

“See you around,” he says, and the curl of his lip looks suspiciously like a smirk.

You tell yourself that it’s nothing. It’s nothing. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s charming. He fucks for a living. You're in the business of sex. Everyone can turn it on and off. That’s just the industry.

You’re still learning how.

x x x x x x

The next time you see him, it’s an accident.

You were given the wrong time — or place, honestly you’re not sure, but no one from the film is anywhere to be found when you arrive at the lot. It’s all sun-bleached and beige, an empty stretch of abandoned warehouses, most of which can be rented for an hourly rate.

It’s how the whole area earned its unsavory nicknames.

Porn Valley. Silicone Valley. Valley of the Sex Dolls.

And so on.

You’re wandering the maze of unmarked buildings when you hear the moans. A good sign, you think. Usually that means you’re in the right place.

You find the warehouse with its service door rolled up, sunlight streaming onto the open set.

Inside, there’s a garage. Or, it’s supposed to be. A stack of tires, a messy workbench, the Pontiac Astre with its hood propped open. Spare parts spread haphazardly across the space. It looked enough like the real thing if you squint, which is the margin of error most erotic films operate on.

The camera is set up to the left of center, the crew looking on. A slate board has the name Tune Her Up scrawled in chalk.

The centerpiece of the shoot is a bright blue Challenger with a half-naked actress sitting spread-eagle on the front. Her back is arched, hands gripping the edge of the hood.

As you watch, her head drops back, and another low moan is pulled from her bright red lips.

“Fuck . . . just like that . . .”

You crane your neck, trying to see between her legs —

Where there’s a familiar head of dark curls, streaked with gray.

Joel’s dark eyes are fixed on her, watching her writhe against his mouth, fingers pumping steadily inside her core. The pitch of her moans rises higher and higher, nails scratching against the smooth surface of the car. And then she’s coming, hard, a shriek of pleasure leaving her lips, legs shaking around his head.

Joel rises up from between her legs, beard shining with her slick.

He looks — fuck. He looks indecent. His white t-shirt smeared with grease, his jeans low on his hips, barely containing the thick press of his erection.

Joel takes the hand that was inside of her, wrist still shining with her release, and smears it over her mouth.

“Open,” he says, and she does.

He takes her jaw in his hand, hinges it open even wider, and spits directly into her mouth. A filthy mix of his saliva and her own release. She swallows it greedily, gazing up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Fucking dirty girl.”

He presses her back so she’s splayed across the hood of the car, breasts spilling from the cups of her bra. It’s a stunning shot, and you admire it in a sort of detached way, even as your eyes trail over to where Joel is tugging down the zipper of his jeans, freeing his cock from the denim.

“This what you want, huh? What you’ve been begging for?”

His hand strokes along his length, lining himself up against her entrance.

You press your thighs together, painfully aware of the arousal building in your core. It’s almost overwhelming, seeing him like this. Hearing the low rasp of his voice. The way he groans as he pushes inside her, filling her with the thick stretch of his cock. A stretch you know, an ache you miss.

You watch him brace a hand against the hood, drawing his hips back so just the tip stays trapped in her soaking folds.

Then he glances up — and locks eyes with you.

You stand, rooted to the spot, unable to tear your gaze away. He stares at you, and you stare back.

A manicured hand drags down the front of his chest, curling into his grease-stained shirt, pulling him back into the scene. He starts to move, grinding his hips into hers, feeding her the full length of his cock. But his eyes stay locked on yours.

“You like that?” he mutters, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to, “Like having that needy little cunt stuffed full?”

He doesn’t give her a moment to respond, pulling out, his cock shining with her slick, before slamming back in. She lets out a high, breathy moan, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

And you know, if you reached between your legs right now you would be just as wet as she is, just as ready.

One of his hands is splayed across her hips, fingers indenting the soft flesh there. The other anchors him to the hood of the car as he increases the speed of his thrusts, pounding into her.

And he doesn’t break eye contact. He holds your gaze, makes sure you watch as he ruins her.

Her moans fill the air, along with the sound of her slick, the thick drag of his cock inside of her.

At the last second, he pulls out. Strokes himself over her stomach and then comes with a long, low groan. The white stripes of his release coat her skin, catching the light.

Joel holds your gaze for a moment longer, breathing hard. Then the director shouts “cut” and the scene breaks.

You quickly step back before anyone can spot you, slipping back down the alley. Your heart is in your throat, and it's like you can taste your own pulse.

That was — intense.

And you’re not sure what to make of it, what to think, so you try to shove it back down, but this time it won’t stay buried. You can feel it sprouting roots, tunneling deeper into your chest, into the very core of your being.

Eventually you find the right warehouse.

You’re five minutes late, but no one seems to mind. Most of the crew is still standing around smoking, a low buzz of late afternoon conversation, plans for the weekend.

You try not to think about Joel as you strip down at the edge of set. Sex is so much easier when you don’t have to think, when you can release the tangle of thought that knots you up and just be a body for a little while.

But it’s almost impossible with what you’ve just seen — what you felt. What your panties are still wet with.

You’re a secretary, and when the boss bends you over his desk, he finds you dripping down your thighs. You can tell he’s flattered from the enthusiasm with which he fucks you. You moan and pant and come hard after a few clumsy strokes over your clit.

But none of it is for him.

x x x x x x

Tess sends you the first cut of the cheerleader film, along with an envelope of $200 in twenties.

You stare down at the bills strewn across the messy coffee table. It’s more money than you’ve ever had in your entire life, more money than you ever thought you could make on your own.

You think of how you used to beg your father for spare change to take down to the paper store on Sundays. How the nickel would sweat in your tiny palm from gripping it so tight. How you would agonize over which piece of candy you would choose, which treat would be worth parting with your precious coin.

You wonder what your father would say now, with more money in your hand than he made in a week. He would probably call you a whore, but the thought doesn’t sting the way you expect it to.

You wait until you're alone in the apartment to watch the tape.

Your roommates go to the beach with no small amount of fanfare, clattering and shrieking down the stairs, returning twice for forgotten sunglasses, a single sandal. You like them all so much it makes your stomach hurt sometimes.

The tape is labeled Lucky No.7, and you smile to yourself as you slip it into the player.

You feel strangely nervous as the scene starts up. You’ve replayed the memory so often it feels frayed at the edges, bleeding into fantasy. You thought maybe you’d imagined it, let the memory melt into something more.

But it’s all there. Caught in halide crystals, reduced to silver metal, the frames spliced together, taped carefully to create the scene. Every touch, every scrape of skin on skin.

He’s there. All over you. Looking at you like nobody’s ever looked at you before.

It’s the same heat that had been in his eyes the other day, when you saw his scene, when he wanted you to watch. And there’s a little thrill of vindication, satisfaction now that you can see it on screen.

It’s hard to tear your eyes off of Joel.

But once you see yourself, you can’t look away.

The arch of your back, lips wet, eyes glossy. The shine of sweat on your skin, the loose furl of your limbs as you come for him again and again. The way your lashes flutter against your flushed cheeks.

You look —

God.

You look good.

All sex and skin and soft shining curls. Every curve correct, every angle alluring. Unposed, unapologetic. Beautiful without an asterisk, without a question, without waiting for anyone to tell you so.

And maybe Tess was right. Maybe you really are something. Maybe you’re exactly what you’ve always wanted to be.

You go down to the pier that afternoon and buy yourself a whole bag of taffy. You make yourself sick on the sticky sweetness, but smile all the way home.

x x x x x x

The house that Tess rents for the shoot is deep in the Valley, and it takes three buses to get there.

A blue-shuttered single family home with a sundial in the front yard and a copse of coral trees in the back. It belongs to a pair of swingers who spend their weekends in Palm Springs.

There’s a familiar truck parked in the driveway.

And Tess hadn’t said anything about Joel being here, but you only make it a few steps off the sidewalk before the front door swings open and he’s there.

He stops short when he sees you.

You shield your eyes from the glare, trying hard not to think about the last time you saw him.

You force a smile, “Hi.”

He nods.

“Hey.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause, and you search for a way to phrase are you here to fuck me without upsetting the neighbors.

“Did you — I mean, are we —”

“No,” he says quickly, “Air con’s bust. Tess asked me to come and take a look at it.”

“Oh, right.”

So, he’s not here to fuck you. Which you knew, because Tess had specifically said she wanted to do another solo shoot. But still. You can’t help but feel a little shallow tug of disappointment.

You wonder, for a moment, whether he’ll bring up the other day. Allude to your little slip into voyeurism, the way he let you watch.

Then the front door is pulled open, and Tess leans outside.

“Still hot as shit in here,” she says to Joel, “The hell am I paying you for?”

He turns, raising an eyebrow at her.

“You paying me this time?”

“Not if you can’t fucking fix it.”

Joel rolls his eyes, folding his arms over his broad chest. “Maybe you oughta start scouting your locations instead of striking deals during orgies.”

Tess narrows her eyes at him. “You’re lucky I like you, Texas.”

Joel shakes his head.

“Like my truck, you mean.”

Tess spots you then.

“Hey kid. Fucking shit show over here.”

She waves you inside, and you have no choice but to step past Joel on the stairs. You can feel the heat of his gaze, the smell of sweat on his skin. Your breath catches in your chest but you keep moving, following Tess into the shade of the house.

It’s dated, but comfortable. Velvet poufs and faded pink curtains. The camera man sits on the sagging floral sofa, drinking a Coke and watching Barretta with the sound on low.

You follow Tess up the carpeted stairs. The walls are covered in snapshots of the owners on cruises or beach holidays, a few family photos.

Even if the air is bust — and shit, it is hot in here — you like the house. Like that it feels real, lived in. And you appreciate that Tess cares about things like that. So many of your shoots are on shoddily constructed sets that always feel a little sterile, a little lifeless.

The hall at the top of the stairs is small, only a few rooms branching off. Tess knocks against the first doorway as you pass it.

“Your dressing room.”

You glance into a small side room, see the lacy lingerie spread out on the bed.

“And we’re shooting in here.”

The curtains are drawn in the main bedroom, and Tess’s vision is immediately apparent — clean white sheets, a lace doily draped over the lamp to soften the light. It’s girlish and delicate. A kind of nymphic quality.

“Really leaning into the good girl angle,” you muse, turning to her, “You know I’m not actually a virgin, right?”

Tess smirks.

“Oh, I know. I’ve got the tapes to prove it.”

It’s more of a production than your other solos. Cables running across the carpet. Lights pointed at the bed, illuminating the sheets in a soft glow. And it would be nice, exciting even, except it’s so goddamn hot you can’t think straight.

“Can we open a window or something?” you ask, sweeping your hair back from the damp skin of your neck.

Tess grimaces. “Sorry kid, no can do. It’ll fuck up our sound.”

You can already feel yourself starting to sweat, and you suppose it's a small comfort that you’ll be naked for most of the shoot.

“Go ahead and get changed,” Tess tells you, like she can read your mind, “We’ll finish setting up in here.”

You strip quickly in the spare room, but even fully naked, the heat is starting to get to you. The lingerie Tess picked out is pretty — a matching white set — but it sticks to the sweat on your skin.

You can’t complain, though. Not after everything Tess has done for you. You’re not a whiner, you’re not going to bitch about it.

You step out of the spare room and almost collide with Joel. He catches you with a hand on your hip, fingers warm against your bare skin, but let’s go quickly. Like you burned him.

He steps back so you’re standing on opposite sides of the small hallway. He’s ditched the flannel — it’s too fucking hot for it — and stands only in his grey t-shirt. You see his eyes scrape over you, the way they linger on your bare legs.

“Just on my way out,” he says.

“Oh. Right.”

You feel a low sting of disappointment, and before you can stop yourself —

“You can stay. If you want.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You sure about that?”

And you are, even if it’s a bad idea. Even if it would be better to keep him at a distance.

It’s his turn to watch.

You shrug. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He swallows. Seems to think about it. Then nods.

“Alright, then.”

You let him follow you back down the hall, feeling his gaze on your hips, the top of your thighs.

The crew is finished setting up, assembled at the edge of the scene. Tess glances between you and Joel, raises an eyebrow but says nothing as she takes her seat beside the camera.

You sit at the edge of the bed, ignoring the way your skin sticks to the sheets, how the heat seems to swell in the small room.

Joel leans against the back wall, arms folded across his chest. And you try not to look at him, try to ignore the way his presence makes your skin prick, how it scrapes at a raw nerve.

A bead of sweat slithers down your spine.

You turn and find Tess watching you, the whole crew waiting for their cue.

“You good?” she asks.

And you are. You have to be.

Even though it’s too fucking hot, the room stuffy and sweltering. Even though you’ve never done a solo in front of this many people before, and you can feel the low burn of self-consciousness. Even though Joel’s eyes are searing a hole through the thin lace of your lingerie.

You’re good. You’re great. You’re a fucking star.

You settle back on the bed, stretching across the soft sheets. You meet Tess’s eye and nod.

“Give us three good ones.” she tells you, before sitting back and calling out —

“Action.”

You start slow.

Teasing your fingertips along the lace of your bra, stroking down your sternum. Trying to ignore the sweat on your skin, the way every breath seems to stick in your lungs.

You let your head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. You try to focus, to conjure some sort of sensuality in the haze of suffocating heat.

You trace your nipples through the fabric, seeking out the spark of arousal. You let out a breathy moan. Practiced, precise. Slide your hand between your legs where you should be wet —

Except you’re not. Not at all.

It feels — wrong. Off in some essential, deeply unsexy way.

It was easier when it was just you and Tess, a single camera, not so many lights.

But now —

Now you can feel every set of eyes crawling over your skin, making it itch. You're embarrassed by your own breath, how loud it sounds in the silence.

You press against yourself, start to grind against the heel of your hand. You’ve done it plenty of times before in the privacy of your own bedroom. But now — it’s not working. The angle is wrong, you’re wrong.

A whine slips through your lips. Frustrated tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

It’s too hot. And you don’t feel sexy. You feel frustrated and embarrassed, and you want to stop, to start over, but you can’t bring yourself to break the scene, can’t handle looking weak when —

“Honey.”

Joel’s voice cuts through the room, ripping through the thin fabric of the fourth wall.

You freeze, eyes flickering up to find his. His gaze is steady, piercing, as he asks —

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You stare at him, breath caught in your throat. Because what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck —

And then you realize what he’s doing, what he’s giving you.

A scene.

Something to play against, to build on.

He saw you drowning and he’s throwing you a lifeline. His eyes tell you to take it.

You hesitate for half a second, your gaze darting to Tess. She gives you a look that makes it clear — I’ll stop this if you don’t want it. Say the word and this ends now.

But you don’t.

Your eyes slide back to Joel, where he stands just behind the camera. Arms folded, jaw set. Ready to give you what you need.

You bite your lip.

“You’re home early.”

He takes a step forward, but stays behind the camera. Out of sight. Just a voice. The unseen narrator of your scene.

“Figured my girl might need some attention. But I guess you got started without me.”

He’s building out the scene, slipping into a role. And it’s so much easier this way, when you’re playing a part. When you don’t have to think.

You pout, pushing yourself up to your elbows.

“I missed you.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah? Missed me so bad you started playin’ with yourself?”

He’s positioned himself so your eye-line stays just above the lens. It looks like you’re talking into the camera, speaking directly to someone watching at home.

“Wanna tell me what you were thinking about?”

That low timbre of his voice, the way it scrapes down your spine, slots itself in the spaces between your ribs. It settles something in you, softens that edge of anxiety.

“I was thinking about you,” you say softly.

He tilts his head. “Is that right?”

You lean back on your elbows. Looking at him. At the camera. At him.

“About your cock. The way it fills me up. Stretches me so fucking good. Feel so empty without it.”

And it would be so easy for any man watching to imagine that it’s him you’re talking to. His cock you’re begging for. Staring down the camera lens, speaking the words directly into some stranger’s living room.

But you’re talking to Joel.

And he fucking knows it.

“That got you all worked up, huh? Thinking about me filling up that tight cunt?”

Your fingers drift over the tops of your thighs, sliding along the lace of your panties. You bat your eyes, but the blush that colors your cheeks is real, his effect on you immediate.

“I wanted to wait for you. But I needed it so bad.”

You tug on your panties, threading through your swollen folds, letting him see that you’re wet, the flash of shining pink.

“I know, darlin’. Such a needy pussy,” he says, “But I’m here now. Just tell me what you want.”

You suppress a shiver. You can feel the heat beginning to pool low in your belly. It’s indecent, what he’s able to do to you with just a few words.

“I want to come,” you murmur, “Want you to make me.”

You can see the way his jaw clenches, and it gives you a little thrill of satisfaction.

“How about you start by showing me those pretty tits.”

You slide your hand up to your chest. Teasing it out, stroking your nipples through the lace, raising them to stiff peaks.

You play with the hem of your top. Slip a strap off your shoulder, but keep yourself covered. Drag your fingertips across your chest, teasing along the edge of your bra. You linger there, waiting for permission.

Joel nods, then seems to remember he needs to speak.

“Go ahead, honey,” he says, “Want to see you.”

You slide down the other bra strap, allowing your breasts to spill out from the cups. You watch the way his eyes rove over your exposed skin. Heated. Hungry.

You roll a nipple between your fingers, feel the zap of pleasure shoot to your core. This time, the moan that slips through your lips is real.

Your arousal has returned in full force, safe in the heat of his gaze. Every soft touch sends a thrum of pleasure straight to your core.

Your free hand comes up to grip your other breast, as your fingers continue to pluck and tease.

“That feel good?” Joel murmurs.

“Mhmmm.”

You reach back to unclip your bra, baring your full breasts. You stroke across your sternum, down your stomach. Letting your fingertips play along the hem of your panties.

Joel’s eyes follow your fingers as they move closer and closer to your sex.

“Can I touch myself?” you murmur, “Please. Need it so bad.”

“Through your panties,” he instructs, “Want to see you soak ‘em.”

You slide your hand between your legs and press your index finger against your clit. You raise your hips at the sudden sensation, craving the friction. You’re so aroused, so fucking keyed up you can tell you’re already close.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you let out a low moan.

“You close already, baby?”

Your gaze meets Joel’s over the camera lens. He’s watching you so intently, and the heat behind his eyes is so intense, it pushes you even closer to the edge.

You bite your lip and whine, fingers moving even faster over your clit.

“Gotta ask for permission, darlin’,” Joel tells you.

And you're not above begging, not when it's him.

“Please.”

He nods, satisfied.

“Go ahead, baby. Finish what you started. Show me how pretty you come.”

Your climax hits you hard, a tidal wave of pleasure coursing through you, forcing the air from your lungs until it feels like the only thing left inside you is Joel’s words, honey-thick as they flow through your veins.

You melt back into the mattress. You don’t mind the heat so much now. Your insides are molten, skin feverish from your orgasm.

When you open your eyes, Joel is staring at you.

He cocks his head to the side. Raises up a finger. It takes you a moment to parse his meaning.

That was one.

And Tess told you to give them three.

Fuck.

When he sees the realization flicker behind your eyes, something like a smile tugs at his lips.

“Did you make a mess?”

You can’t find the words through the fuzz of pleasure still fritzing the wires of your brain, so you bring your knees to your chest, the fabric of your panties pulling taught against you. The wet patch of your release catches the light.

“Take ‘em off.”

You slip the lace down your legs and consider, briefly, flicking them across the room at him.

You wonder what he would do. You imagine him holding the soaked scrap of fabric in his hand. Maybe bringing it up to his face to smell the heady scent of you, tongue slipping out to taste you on the fabric.

The idea makes you dizzy, but it might just be the heat.

You drop back into the pillows and spread your legs wide. All your earlier inhibition is gone now, flooded out by your first orgasm.

You reach between the V of your thighs and spread yourself apart so he can see. Your slick shines in the light, and you can see the way his eyes darken. Devouring the sight of you.

“Shit, honey. Such a messy pussy.”

You meet his gaze. Waiting for instruction, for him to tell you what to do.

“Want to watch you fuck it.”

You bite back a moan at his words, the fucking filth of them, but you don’t hesitate to touch yourself. You slide fingers through swollen folds, tease your fingertips at your entrance. You’re so wet, slick dripping from between your legs, soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Go slow, baby,” Joel tells you, “Start with one.”

You slide a finger inside yourself, feeling the feverish heat, starting a slow rhythm. You feel the way you clench, the tight grip of your cunt, the ache for more.

The low buzz of pleasure is already building back up. Your hips cant up to meet your hand, and you whine when your clit rubs against your palm, chasing the friction.

You hear Joel groan.

“Fuck. Still need it so bad don’t you?”

“Please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re asking for.

But Joel knows.

“Give yourself another one,” he says, “Fuck that little hole for me.”

You slip another finger in beside the first and moan at the sensation.

“That's better, isn’t it?”

Your gaze flits up to meet his. And you’re feeling bold, or stupid, or too fucked out care.

“Want yours,” you murmur, “Want you to fuck me with your fingers. Feels so good when you do it.”

His fingers flex against his arm, and you wonder if he’s remembering. If he’s thinking about how he fingered you in that hallway, how he made you come for him again and again.

"Yeah? You want me to stretch you out?"

And fuck, he's filthy. It shouldn't feel as good as it does.

You can feel the heat of your next climax licking up your spine, filling the spaces between your ribs, every drag of your fingertips bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Oh, fuck," you moan, "I'm so — please, I'm almost —"

You can't get the words out, but Joel is already giving you permission.

“Good girl. Come for me.”

Your back arches off the mattress, vision going white. You feel your walls clench, and a wave of release flowing over your fingertips. It drips down the inside of your thighs, messy and wanton and raw.

You collapse back onto the bed, legs still trembling from the force of your second orgasm. There’s a faint ringing in your ears. And you’re so warm, limbs soft and sleep-heavy. You could just curl up for a little nap but —

“You’re not done yet.”

You look at him from under your lashes. And you know you must be a mess, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to the sweat of your skin.

He holds up two fingers. That was two.

“Gotta give me one more.”

You whine, so fucking overstimulated. And all you want is him to fuck you, really fuck you, but that’s not how this works. You’re not in charge here, not anymore.

“Turn over,” he tells you, voice coaxing, “On your knees.”

You do as he says, rolling over and presenting yourself to the camera.

You know the view must be obscene. Your back arched, the wet spread of your sex on full display, lips swollen and dripping. Your hole clenching around nothing, aching to be filled.

Which is exactly why he told you to do it.

Motherfucking money shot.

You press your cheek against the mattress, staring back at him. Waiting to be told what to do.

“Go on, honey. Rub your clit for me.”

You do as you’re told, snaking your hand between your legs and pressing against your clit. It’s already so sore, so sensitive, and you almost choke on a whimper.

“That’s right, good girl,” Joel says, “Give me one more.”

And you want to, want to be good, want to get there. But it’s so much, the feeling rising up again, clawing at your insides.

“Fuck —” you whine, “It’s fuck, it’s —”

“I know it’s a lot, baby,” Joel says gently, “You’re doing so good, being such a good girl for me.”

And you melt a little at the praise, the warmth that fills you at his words. So you keep going, rubbing firm little circles on your aching clit, your fingertips flashing between your soaking folds.

Joel’s gaze stays steady on yours.

You don’t have the words to ask for what you want, what you need. But he just nods.

“It’s okay. Go ahead, baby. You can come.”

Your mind goes blank as the slow, aching pulse of your third orgasm overtakes you. All you can feel is the blistering heat, the white hot buzz of pleasure that burns away everything else. Your mouth falls open as you moan. Sweat-soaked. Glossy-eyed. Gazing back at the camera.

At him.

“Alright, let’s cut it there.”

Your knees nearly give out, so you roll onto your back, breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Distantly, you hear the door open and shut.

When you look up, Joel's gone.

Your gaze goes to Tess. She just shakes her head.

“Not even gonna ask.”

She stands up and hands you a robe. You take it with trembling fingers, threading your arms through the sleeves but not bothering with the sash. It’s hard to think straight, to focus on anything but the slow ebb of pleasure in your veins.

It takes a second to find your voice.

“Was it — I mean, that wasn’t what we talked about,” you say, “Is that okay?”

She gives you a long look, then her lip curls into a smile.

“You’re gonna make me rich, kid.”

She squeezes your shoulder.

“Just try not to kill the old man while you’re at it, alright?”

x x x x x x

The sun is just starting to set when you step outside, and Joel is waiting in the driveway. Leaning against the truck, a nerve ticking in his jaw, his profile outlined in the sky’s orange haze.

For a moment, you simply stare at each other across the lawn. The air is still thick with the summer heat, and the only sound is the hiss of sprinklers on distant lawns.

“Come on,” Joel says finally, jerking his head, “I’m taking you home.”

The ride back is silent, the air between you tense. He asks for your address, but otherwise says nothing. Doesn’t even turn on the radio to ease some of the tension, just lets you stew in it.

And you know he’s angry, but you don’t know what exactly you should be apologizing for, so you stay quiet, keep your gaze out the window.

You watch the suburbs slide by, the hills rising up and falling back as you drive through the canyon. The lights of the city glow in the distance, that smoggy haze you’ve come to think of as home.

Only when the truck rolls to a stop in front of your apartment, do you risk a glance at him.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, “For — you know.”

Joel doesn’t say anything. His fingers flex against the steering wheel.

“I don’t know what that was,” you swallow, “It just — it won’t happen again.”

Joel scoffs.

“Course it will.”

You stare at him. “Excuse me?”

He turns to face you.

“Would you have stopped it?” he asks, voice low, “If you didn’t want that, would you have said no?”

You blink, taken aback.

“I did want it.”

“That ain’t my point.”

There’s an edge to his voice, a sharpness that’s so different from the way he spoke to you earlier. And it stings of condescension, scrapes at an old wound.

You rise to it, defense mechanisms snapping into place, walls resurrecting themselves.

“Then what is?” you ask.

Joel shakes his head.

“You can’t let anyone make those calls for you,” he says, “You need something, you ask for it. Something ain’t right, you say stop.”

And, God, you really don’t need this right now. You can’t stomach a lecture right now, when there’s still sweat drying on your skin and you reek of sex. Not after you’ve let him strip you down, let him pull you apart piece by piece until he can see your soft, sensitive core.

“I don’t need you to fucking manage me,” you snap.

“Then what was that, huh?” he demands, voice rising, “Looked a whole lot like me managing, ‘cause you didn’t say a goddamn thing.”

And you want so badly to scream, to shout him down, tell him how wrong he is — tell him that you didn’t want to look weak, were so scared of saying something that could ruin everything. But he keeps going, cuts you off before you can speak.

“If you’re not careful, you’re gonna give the wrong kinda person the right opportunity.”

You glare at him.

“Well, I won’t make that mistake again.”

He drops his gaze, seems to deflate slightly. When he speaks next, his voice has softened some.

“You gotta have your own rules,” he mutters, “Otherwise you’re gonna get hurt.”

And you don’t know what to say. Don’t know why he bothered to step in at all if he was just going to chew you out for it. You feel chastened, you feel fucking embarrassed, and you hate him for it.

“We done here?” you ask.

When he looks up, his gaze is hard again.

“Yeah. We’re done.”

You get out of the truck and let the door slam shut behind you.

You don’t look back. Not as you dig in your purse for your keys, hands trembling when you turn the lock. Not when you shove the door open, shifting aside the mail scattered in the front hall. Not even when you hear something that sounds like your voice, shouted behind you, just before the door snaps shut.

And when the phone rings, hours later, you don’t answer it.

You don’t have anything to say.

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trippiexk · 9 months

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Hello please reblog this if you’re okay with people sending you random asks to get to know you better

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trippiexk · 9 months

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The Last of Us 1x01 || The Last of Us 1x08

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trippiexk · 9 months

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— Throughout Heaven and Earth, I alone am the honored one.

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trippiexk · 9 months

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like father, like son

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trippiexk · 9 months

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ok ok ok HEAR ME OUT, Hobie brown x rockstar reader, kinda switching the dynamic.

maybe his friends brought them to an underground punk band’s show (or reader had a mutual friend with hobue idc go nuts) and he sees reader on stage and is just gobsmacked. Like he’s obsessed. And they meet backstage after the show and like fuck in a dressing room or smth maybe (what if reader also interacts with him in the crowd while their on stage?? Like winking at him or smth 🤭)

(basically Hobie is lowkey a groupie?? Bc damn does reader look good on that stage)

(maybe !switch/sub-ish Hobie??)

anon istg im trying to write this im just slightly fighting writer's block and it's winning (aka kicking my ass)

LOVE this idea tho!! i'm doing my best😫

#hobie brown atsv #xkasks #anon <3

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trippiexk · 9 months

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why does no one talk about how hard it is to write reqs?? likeeee im ready to throw the whole draft away

#im like soooo over it #probably because im picky #then im trying to write in a different perspective #like ugh #😭😭😭#im fr stressing over nothing

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trippiexk · 9 months

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sneak peak of the sxtape hobie oneshot im writing rn...dk how i feel about it but i love this part

"Spread that pussy f'me, babe. Fuck, you're a proper star." Your hand snaked down your body, middle finger gathering your arousal before rubbing it over your clit, making your hips jerk into the movement. Hobie smiled, pulling away the camera to watch with both eyes. "Yeah, proper star." He repeated as if he was reassuring the camera and you smiled knowing just what kind of star he was talking about.

#hobie brown #hobie brown atsv #hobie brown x reader #hobie smut #astv hobie #hobie x reader #hobie x y/n #hobie x you

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trippiexk · 9 months

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hobie has a full album filled with polaroid pictures of you and you cannot disagree with me on this.

and yes, some of them are cute pics of you two or pics he takes of your outfits before attending his every show — he absolutely loves your style. however, those cute pics usually end up as his phone’s wallpaper or hung around by you on the walls of your bedroom.

most of the polaroid photos are lewd pictures he takes of you which explains why the album is carefully hidden under a pile of clothes in the closet, only for him to find. you were completely oblivious to him owning this — you knew he loved to take pics of you in very compromising scenarios but had no idea he had a full album of them.

that’s why, one day, as you entered the room, he grabs your arm excitedly and motions you to sit down on the bed with him as he pulls the album out. “wanna see some pics i have of you?” he grins as you sit down. you smile, expecting nothing “damn, that many? you’re a little obsessed”

“me? nah. neva’ “ he smiles as he opens it up, revealing some photos of you in his clothes. the few first pages are pretty innocent pictures as he keeps the more filthy ones a few pages away — he loves shock value. as you analyse every photo and discuss them, he turns to the next page and points at the first photo: a pic of you sucking on his thumb & looking up at him, whipped cream all over your lips. “that’s a winner” he smirks as he watches your expression intently.

“didn’t know you kept that” you blush as you look over the others. they’re all pretty suggestive, like close-ups of markings he left on your skin, pretty pictures of you sticking your tongue out lewdly to the camera or in suggestive positions.

as he turns over a few more pages, you gasp in shock “what the fuck, hobie?!” his grin grows even wider as you press your hand over your lips, mortified. your fingers graze the photo, a little polaroid showcasing your bare back and your upper hips, hobie’s hand pulling at your hair.

the photos started to turn way more explicit: his hands gripping at your breasts, fingers tangled in the hem of your panties, you with your hand thrown back as you rode him (the long t-shirt you were wearing thankfully covering up the way he was burying himself inside of you).

you knew he took those photos, it’s not like it was news to you. he never did anything without asking for consent first and if push came to shove he’d make sure to get rid of them immediately if you told him to. but you didn’t. instead you stared at them, red as a tomato as he watched you intently, grinning from ear to ear.

it was the first time seeing this and honestly.. the whole idea of the pictures, the memories behind them.. it turned you on. you got to the last photo as hobie clasped his hands “ah yes.. my fuckin’ favourite” he points to it, a photo of you two in front of a mirror, naked. this time, the photo is taken by you. your face is covered by the camera as hobie lays his head on your shoulder, hands holding your breasts like a bra. the picture is showcasing you guys’ torsos, glistening with sweat.

you can’t help but smile. that was a good time. you close your eyes a bit, remembering the way hobie slid inside of you repeatedly, commanding you to look into the mirror at how well you took him. your eyes open as hobie shuts the album loudly, leaning over you.

“feel like recreatin’ that last pic?” he smirks as his hands find their way between your thighs.

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trippiexk · 9 months

Text

⋆“mirror pic”⋆

or, you ask hobie to take a picture where his hands are your bra.

nsfw. mdni. fem!reader. hobie holds your chest for a picture. use of ‘boobs’, ‘breasts’, and ‘tits’.

✰

“beg your pardon, love?” he asks, head cocked to the side as he sprawls out on your bed.

you stand in the doorway of your bathroom, a towel wrapped around your top half to keep the bite of the cold away from your chest. you approached this conversation with a lot of confidence, but under his searching gaze it starts to fade.

“can you hold my boobs for a picture?” you ask again, voice growing quieter as you rethink your decision.

the pictures had been popping up all over your socials lately, of boyfriends and girlfriends holding their girlfriends chest like a bra for a photo. you couldn’t help but imagine your favorite spider-punk recreating it with you.

hobie sat up, stepping onto the ground to stride over to you. he leans an arm against the wall as you press yourself back against the doorway.

“and what would that be used for?” he asks, eyes teasing as he looks down at you. it makes you huff, and his smirk widens.

“it’ll just be for me. i just thought it would look cool.” you insist, eyes wide and wet like a puppy as you look up at him.

he smirk widens even more as he leans down to your ear. “let’s do it, then” he murmurs, low and husky against your skin. you swallow, reminding yourself that you’re trying to actually accomplish something. he pouts when you walk into the bathroom, but it quickly disappears when you drop your towel.

it’s not the first time he’s seen your tits, not by a long shot. but no matter how many times he sees them, he can never quite get used to the sight. and you can never get used to the way he looks at you.

you clear your throat, turning to the mirror and beckoning him closer. he steps up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder to look at you through the mirror.

“how do you want me?” he asks, wiggling his fingers on your bare sides. you giggle, taking his wrists and lifting them to your breasts.

“oh” he mutters, and you watch as it clicks in his head. “like a bra.” you smile, taking your phone from your pocket and opening the camera.

while you fiddle with it, he squeezes the soft skin, rolling a nipple between his fingers. you bite your lip, wondering if you ignore him that he’ll stop trying to rile you. he snickers, nibbling at your bare shoulder as he pinches.

“hobie!” you squeal, jumping at the sudden sensation. “chill!”

he chuckes, mumbling a “sorry, babes” against your skin.

you raise your phone, positioning it so that it covers your face. hobie, catching on, moves you hair from one side of your neck and rests his head into the space there. he strokes your breasts softly, and you feel your skin warm as his breathing fans out against you.

when you lower your phone, satisfied at the shot, hobie doesn’t pull away. he instead starts tracing your breasts, exploring and worshipping everything he can touch. you press into him, loosening up in his grasp. you roll your hips back against his steadily growing hard on and he groans against your skin.

one hand slips down your body to cup your crotch. “would hold your tits like this more often if i knew it got you this way, love.” he says as you hump forward into his hand.

“such a needy lil’ thing. y’know all you had to do was ask.”

“shut up.”

“mhm” he hums against your neck, biting at it. “you gonna post it?” your eyes open at that, only to find that he’s been watching you through the reflection of the mirror the whole time.

“I…didn’t think you’d want my boobs on instagram for the world to see.” you answer, voice trembling a bit when his fingers slip into your underwear and curl. he grins when you sigh appreciatively, rocking your hips with the movement of his hands.

“i don’t care who sees this, babe. ‘cause i’m the only one who gets to touch it.” he says, punctuating his statement with a deep thrust of his fingers that makes you whine. “isn’t that right?”

“yes” you answer, eyes once again fluttering closed.

you can feel his smile against your shoulder. “that’s my girl” he whispers as he slips your bottoms down your legs.

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trippiexk · 9 months

Text

not the same anymore

pairing: hobie brown x best friend reader

content warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of blood, wrapping a wound, apprehensive reader, good amount of tension use of pet names (babe, baby, love), p in v, oral (fem receiving), male masturbation, fingering, lots of kissing <3

finished fic to this sneak peek

like and reblog if you enjoyed!!

knock

You stirred, a low hum coming from your throat. It was the middle of the night- or early morning rather, your alarm clock reading 2:46 am in fierce red letters.

knock!

Again, you hummed, eyebrows scrunching in your sleep. A sigh escaped your lips, but you refused to open your eyes.

KNOCK

Now that woke you up. Opening your eyes, you blinked a few times before turning on your lamp and grabbing your glasses from your nightstand, looking towards your window. Yawning, you rolled out of bed, shuffling towards the opposite end of your room and pulling back your curtain.

"Hey."

You widened your eyes, and then frowned, opening your windows and letting Hobie tumble in, a small oof falling from his lips as he landed on the floor, slender hand gripping his arm. It only took you a second letter to notice crimson staining his hand in the dim lamplight.

"What the hell, Hobie?"

"Sorry..." He managed to groan out, tensing as you helped him to your desk. You moved his hand, his body pliant under yours as you checked out his wound. The deep gash right under his elbow wasn't as bad as it seemed, and you let out a sigh of relief after retrieving your first aid kit to wrap it.

"It's 2 o'clock in the morning, Hobie." You mumbled, fingers fumbling with the gauze as you grabbed his arm. "I know, m'sorry." He apologized again, "I just wanted to see you."

"Right." You said, a bit too hard. Sighing, you paused your actions, looking up at him to see his brown eyes already on you. "Sorry, I just- I have class."

"I know. Don't apologize."

Resuming your actions, you couldn't help but let your heart swell at the thought of him coming all this way just to see you- with an injury nonetheless. It had been a little over a week since you two had even talked, and you were beginning to miss his presence.

Your relationship with Hobie was complicated, in the simplest way to define it. He was your best friend, as you called him, and he has been for years. But neither one of them could deny the knowing glances and lingering touches.

They made your heart skip a beat every time, and even now as you tenderly wrapped his arm, you could feel yourself growing nervous under his gaze.

"What time's your class?" He asked, smooth voice dripping over you like water. You shuddered slightly, chills growing up your legs as his knee touched your thigh.

"Ten." You responded shortly, biting your lip as you reached for a pair of scissors. "Probably gonna leave around nine- to avoid traffic."

He hummed in response and you finished, packing up all of your supplies and shuffling to your bathroom, taking a breather before walking back out. He still sat at your desk, watching you intently as you sat on the edge of your bed, facing him. Your eyes avoided his gaze, and you felt your heartbeat speed up as your cheeks heated in anticipation. He did this a lot- watch you that is. And you couldn't help but fidget under his stare.

Of course, he hadn't always made you this nervous.

It was at one point in time, two months ago to be exact, when you hadn't even realized you had feelings for the boy, you two would laugh and joke; you could touch him without your head swelling, you could be in his presence without calculating your every move, you could just be you.

You were still you, obviously, but a random Tuesday two months ago had you realizing just how much you really liked the boy, and since then you felt like an imposter around him. Still avoiding his eyes, you looked around, the soft glow of your lamp casting a gentle illumination, painting the room in a dreamlike ambiance. The posters on your walls, depicting bands and artists you both adore, watch over you like silent observers, unaware of the turmoil swirling within.

"C'mere." Hobie said, gesturing you over with a single nod.

"I am here." You said, quieter than you intended.

"No, you're there. I want you here."

You stood, slowly, walking over to him and standing in front of his figure like a statue. He urged you closer, but you refused, almost taking a step back when he leaned forward. You couldn't do this, you weren't in the right mindset. "Here." Hobie encouraged, grabbing your hand and guiding you into his lap to straddle him. "Hobie-" You started, placing your hands on his chest.

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Like what?" You frowned, feinting innocence as if you didn't know exactly what he was talking about. As if he couldn't tell that you weren't you. He was your best friend, he knew you, he studied you.

"Like you're nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

He looked between your eyes before answering, strong hand caressing circles into your thigh. "You're not...but I can feel your heartbeat." He said, eyes drifting down to your lips, briefly, before grabbing one of your hands and intertwining it with his. Silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for the exchange of feelings to unravel.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You muttered, breath hot and heavy as his hand encapsulated yours. Doubt, fear, and longing tangled together, creating a turbulent storm that threatened to consume you. You had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in your mind, yet now, in the presence of Hobie, every word seemed elusive.

"Yeah?" He adjusted his hips, and you felt the gentle outline of his half-hard cock making a small gasp fall from your lips. "Your heartbeat, baby." He said again, and you knew what he meant. Your core betrayed you where your bodies met. His hands moved up, stopping to rest at your hips as his thumbs rubbed circles around your inner thighs.

"Hobie...why'd you really come here?"

The taller boy sighed, throwing his head back slightly, "I told you I wanted to see you."

"Yeah? That's it?" You spoke earnestly, your tone holding a hint of skepticism, and a knowingness gnawing at the back of your head. He had visited you in the early morning before, but never like this, never with this vibe.

"Maybe..." He looked back up, letting out a deep breath. His hands started to move again, curling over the waistband of your shorts, toying with the elastic. His eyes were desperate, breathing staggered.

"Maybe I was tired of pretending."

"Pretending to do what?"

"Stop it."

You frowned, hand sliding from his chest to rest on his stomach, right above his belt buckle. "Stop what?"

"You're pretending too."

"I'm not- I-"

Out of nowhere, the room around you was blurring, your eyes were drifting shut, and your lips were moving on their own. Hobie kissed you feverishly, as if this was a moment he'd been waiting for and he didn't know how to control himself. 'Stop pretending' he'd said, and he was right, you had been pretending.

Pretending that you never imagine his own fingers replacing yours as you delved deep in your cunt. Pretending that you never moaned his name after you'd come. Pretending you never imagine his mouth on your body, teeth gnashing at your neck and breasts. Pretending that you never imagined the cold metal of his lip piercing against your heat, the contrast making you shiver as you came undone on his face.

Your lips meet in a starved, hungry kiss. It starts softly, tenderly, as if testing the waters of new territory. But the intensity quickly grows, fueled by years of longing, and soon you find yourselves lost in a passionate frenzy.

Hobie's hand roamed your body, massaging your supple skin under his calloused palms. They moved with intent, with purpose. He wanted you, wanted everything you were willing to offer him. There was no time to think, no taking it slow. You could take it slow another day, and think about your actions at another time. The only thing swarming through your mind was I want him, I want this, I want more.

Hobie was the same, mouth attacking your neck as he snuck under your shirt to massage your breast between his fingers. Your desk chair creaked under the weight of your movements and without missing a beat Hobie stood the two of you up, walking to your bed and laying between your legs.

Tangling your hands in his hair you moved your head to the side granting Hobie more access as he continued to attack your neck with his lips and teeth. Soft moans fell from your lips, and you soon found your hands traveling underneath his shirt, attempting to remove the tight-fitting fabric to no avail.

"Wan' me to touch you?" He asked against your neck, breathe hot as it floated across your skin. You whined, literally whined, when you felt his fingers break through the elastic of your shorts, pulling them off. Desperate, you were so desperate. "Not an answer."

"Please- fuck- touch me Hobie." It was hard to make out full words, harder to get out a proper sentence when he was suffocating you with his presence. He pulled his shirt off, finally, finally, and as he pulled away you couldn't help but stare at him in awe through hooded eyes. He was so beautiful, so sweet. He was everything you ever wanted.

Swallowing the saliva that was surfacing in his mouth, he finally pulled the cotton of your underwear away, throwing them somewhere with your shorts. His breath fanned over you making you instinctively clench your thighs with apprehension; he pulled them apart, a string of spit landing on your clit and you let out a surprised gasp. "I hear you, baby," He mumbled gently, your shorts now off as he kneeled on the floor, pretty brown eyes fixated on your cunt as he worked a single up through your folds "Pretty fucking pussy."

God, you sounded like a bitch in heat the moment his lips connected with your clit, and as much as your eyes threatened to roll back in your head, you forced them open, watching the lamplight gently caress Hobie's face, highlighting the amount of slick on his mouth and chin. A loud series of moans fell from your lips, encouraging the boy to continue beneath you.

"Fuck Hobie- feels s'good..." Your voice anguished, your fingers tangled in his hair, your body squirming underneath the grip he had on your thighs.

"Tastes good." He pulled away, digits teasing your entrance. Another whine left your lips once two slender fingers slid inside of you with ease, coated in your sick. Your walls clenched instinctively, and it was Hobie's turn to groan as his other hand unbuckled his belt, dipping into his pants. You watched as he fingered you with one hand and palmed himself with the other- Hobie watching almost hypnotically as his digits moved back and forth inside of you.

You imagined him pretending his fingers were his cock and when he entered you, he fucked into his hand, doing the exact same when he pulled out. As he hooked his finger up, abusing your g-spot, he tightened his palm around his tip and continued his actions.

"Look at 'er. So fuckin' pretty, baby." Hobie sighed, pushing his hips up as he searched for the right amount of friction. "Wanted you t'cum on my face but I don't think we'll make it there." You felt him slowly remove his fingers, watching him lick them clean as he stood up, pulling off his pants.

"Lay back, love." He commanded gently and you scooted away from the edge of the bed, resting your head on your pillows as he climbed between your legs, lips attacking yours once more.

"F'me." You managed to get out between the kiss, attempting to catch your breath, "fuck me please, Hobie. Wan' you so bad." It was pathetic. Seriously. You looked a mess. Your eyes were filled to the brim with lust, with blown pupils and heavy lids. Your lips were swollen, hair all over your head, cheeks flushed, skin hot, and your mouth uttered the most sinful words you could muster as you begged Hobie to fuck you.

"Shit, you're a dream, baby, sh-shit. 'M gonna fuck you, promise." Hobie took his time rubbing his cock across your folds, his pretty dark tip leaking pre cum over your clit as he rutted against you, leaning down to press his lips to yours. The stretch of his cock as he guided himself through your entrance was otherworldly and it elicited another pathetic whine as you scrambled to wrap your arms around his neck.

"Your makin' a mess all over me." Hobie strained, the loud squelching from your cunt echoing through the room as his cock dragged against your walls. You clenched instinctively at his words, mouth falling open when he reached down to rub your clit with his thumb. Pulling away, he pushed your legs back, eyes trained on where your bodies met. He was right, you really were leaking all over him- his entire pelvis was covered in you. He dipped his thumb down, collecting your arousal as lube to continue rubbing tight circles around your clit. The sensation made your back arch off of the bed and Hobie cursed under his breath, realizing he wasn't going to last as long as he hoped

"Wanted this for so long." You choked out, hand traveling under your shirt to tweak your nipples. The sensation made you bite your lip, eyes tearing up at the extra stimulation. "Yeah? How long."

"S-since- fuck- since forever."

Hobie smiled at this, sweat forming on his brow as his hips continued to connect with you. You felt his kiss your cervix and you let out a surprised sound that made him laugh. His strokes were rough and rushed, trying to push you both toward the release you were searching for. "Cunt's takin' me'n so well, love. You gonna cum?" You nodded eagerly and he frowned in concentration when he felt your walls quiver around him, a thin white ring forming on the base of cock.

You were stuck in a state of bliss, small moans now falling from your mouth as Hobie chased his own release. You still massaged your nipples underneath your shirt, bottom lip tucked between your lips as you watched Hobie above you with hazy eyes. Sweat coated both of your bodies, and the smell of sex was so present in the air you doubted a candle would be much help. Hobie attached his lips to your neck when he bent down for the final time, peppering kisses along your throat until he came up to your ear. "Where you want me, babe? Hm?" He kissed you again, and your hands reached for his hair, trying to ground yourself. "B-belly." You whimpered, knowing very well that that wasn't your truth.

Hobie complied though, pulling out with a hiss and using your release as lube. He pumped himself twice before his cock twitched, spilling warm seed over your belly. He groaned, eyes closing as he came, and you watched him, completely mesmerized until he flopped onto the bed next to you. Completely fucked out.

It took him a few minutes to get up and clean you up, all the while you lay there half asleep as he peppered more kisses wherever he could reach, a warm towel dragging through your sore folds as he took his time easing the ache between your legs. When he finally lay down for good, you found yourself in his arms, face hidden in his chest as you inhaled his scent.

"Hobie?"

"Yea?

"I... never mind."

"Yea- yea me too."

#hobie x you #hobie x reader #hobie x y/n #hobie brown x reader #atsv hobie #hobie smut #hobie brown #hobie spiderverse #hobie brown atsv

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