#AUSTIN COMMUNITY COLLEGE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedgito · 1 year ago

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𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄, 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘, 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇 | BFD!Joel x Fem!Reader

summary | the rich father of your bestfriend, sarah — joel miller, was a mystery to you until one day he isn't and you quickly find that your interest in him isn't one-sided. [12k]

pairing | joel miller x fem!reader

content warning | 18+ content, as always: no use of y/n, au/no outbreak, bfd!joel, ceo!joel, mentions of reader growing up poor/absent parents (joel is ridiculously loaded, it's fic y'all let me live lol), sneaking around, age gap (not explicitly specified, but reader is in final year of college and joel is probs late 40s/50s), vacations, gift-giving, unprotected piv, come swallowing, daddy issues if you squint, one (1) pussy slap, oral (f receiving), semi-public fucking

author’s note | anyways, here’s this. big age gap, some power dynamic stuff but not really. if you don’t like, don’t read & all that jazz. love you babies. xo.

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There was no hiding who Joel Miller was to the town of Austin—a pioneer in the community for rebuilding and building upon the surrounding shopping areas and neighborhoods to save the town from complete gentrification. He owned three companies at this point—one manned by his brother Tommy who dealt with larger businesses, handled the biggest amount of workload when it came to dealing with customers. The other was handled by his wife Maria, more often communicating with smaller businesses in the area. Mom and Pop shops, family owned and locally sourced shops. And Joel dealt with the community directly, building houses at an affordable rate that kept his business booming and well above the surrounding competition.

He was so sought after that the idea of him felt like an enigma.

But, to you—he was just Sarah’s dad. For years you never had the pleasure of meeting him, with his constantly busy schedule he was often away when you came to visit Sarah on their massive—almost too comically large piece of land on the outskirts of Austin, Texas.

A large two-story farmhouse that seemed like something right out of a storybook—pristine and in perfect condition, surrounded by what felt like miles of grassy land and fencing. Horses, chickens, goats, growing piglets that were taken care of by Sarah and Joel themselves.

You’ve known Sarah since you were fourteen, aware of her upbringing and the type of family she came from, but it never deterred her from being the kindest friend you’ve had. And your shared, similar interest led to an easy friendship that lasted well into college. Sarah was also aware of your…less than ideal family situation, living under the roof of a single parent household, given you were an only child it wasn’t horrible—but your father was a drunk and didn’t manage his money well and that often meant going without. It didn’t matter what, but there was always something lacking that you wish you didn’t have to make up for with your already overwhelming amount of college work and lingering debt.

You didn’t have anywhere to go, unfortunately.

But, Sarah was always there.

And it isn’t until your final year of college that you find yourself finally meeting the once mysterious Joel Miller, remembering that Sarah told you something about how he was trying to take a step back, allowing more responsibility on his trusting employees to head the company while he took a step back and managed everything as a whole from a distance—less involved, more time at home around Sarah, it was a win win situation.

With both of you working toward similar degrees, it was helpful and convenient to share notes and study as often as you could, especially as your final term papers were nearing and looming like a dark cloud.

It’s an unsuspecting Thursday night when you and Sarah are pausing the heavy studying to cook a quick dinner when Joel walks into the kitchen, approaching the island and nearly tilting your entire existence on this earth on an axis. Your breath catches briefly, eyes dragging over his figure. You’ve seen pictures—family vacations that Sarah has shown you when they were flying across the country over summer breaks and you were stuck at home.

But, nothing compared to the real thing.

His hair is grown out, curling around his ears. A warm, soft brown that is styled and shaped so perfectly it seems unreal—but the loose curl that falls over his forehead gives it away. There’s a deep cut in his silk-pressed shirt that hangs loosely on his frame, some abstract pattern that shouldn’t work as well as it does on him, but his tan skin compliments the deep tones and varying designs. The faint dusting of chest hair is obscured by the chains that hang in the space the silk-button up creates where he lacks the ability to fasten them, or rather chooses not to.

And you try not to let your gaze linger on the cut of his jeans as they cling snug to his legs, cuffed at the ankles and showcasing a pair of—what you can only suspect are new loafers. A dark chocolate brown accented with a gold metal piece along the center to complement his jewelry around his neck and the few rings placed meticulously on his fingers.

It’s no secret his ring finger sits untouched, lacking the heavy weight of a significant other's mark. Sarah mentioned her mom dying young, much like your own—maybe that’s why you two bonded so easily.

“Got enough for your old man?” Joel questions curiously, tapping away at his phone meticulously before pocketing it, eyebrows raised in question.

“You hate boxed mac and cheese,” Sarah argues flippantly, flicking the empty box at her father across the counter, “so no, I don’t.”

“No, babygirl—I just hate the powder kind.” He flicks it back just as easily and you note how easy their relationship feels, like this is how things should be.

Sarah laughs, scrunching her nose up in amusement. “Charming, isn’t he?”

Oh—she’s talking to you? You look at her for half a second, confused, before you’re quickly nodding in agreement without fully listening to what she had asked.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to lie.” She assures, stirring the noodles in the pot over the stove.

Your gaze lingers selfishly, catching the faint twitch of a smile on Joel’s face as he catches you looking. It’s nothing more than a friendly smile, comforting rather than disarming.

“You know—Sarah never brings her friends around.” Joel starts begrudgingly, eyeing Sarah down before switching to you, “Seein’ as I’ve been hearing all about you for years now and I’m just now meetin’ you in the flesh.”

“Dad, stop scaring her.” Sarah gripes, searching around haphazardly for a couple of bowls, “seriously—just ignore him. He doesn’t know how to act now that he’s home more.”

Joel rolls his eyes dismissively, extending his hand in a kind gesture. You grab it hesitantly and he senses it, pointer finger dragging along the underside of your palm as he holds it delicately and bows his head.

“She’s just mad she can’t get rid of me now,” Joel tells you softly, nodding toward Sarah over your shoulder, “how’s the studying goin’?”

He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately and you don’t try to escape either, allowing the brief moment of lingering contact before you slip it away, shoving your hands into your back pockets.

“Fine.” Sarah’s response is clipped.

It’s stressful, if you’re being honest. But, you could see that Sarah didn’t want to relay that to her father, side-eyeing you wearily.

It’s the first of many interactions that led to the tiny crush you began to have for Joel Miller. Your once a week studies eventually turn into two or three times a week, desperate to spend as much time away from your own home situation as possible.

Eventually, it’s nearly an everyday thing. You and Sarah would finish your day of classes and drive the short distance to her house and spend most of the night studying. Gradually, you were introduced into their own routine. At first, Joel would offer to buy dinner and leave things be, allowing you the space you needed. But, it eventually delves into weekly dinners and sitting down as if you were a part of this pseudo-family situation you’ve interjected yourself into.

Sarah knew you didn’t like it at home, so it was never a problem. Joel caught on after a few weeks—noticing how you avoided any questions about yourself, your family, anything that would allow him any glimpse into who you were outside what Sarah had told him, which wasn’t much at all. He’s trying to make you feel welcomed and you can appreciate that.

You’ve offered to help pay for meals on multiple occasions, but it never works. Quickly thwarted off by Joel’s extended hand as he shoves your cash away, assuring you that it wasn’t your responsibility. This was his house, his gesture, and he didn’t want you to think you owed him anything.

Yet, something in you yearned to do so.

You wanted him to know just how grateful you were.

His curiosity about you comes to a head on a night after a few beers with friends, poker table trashed and the kitchen a mess. You were bringing down the trash from Sarah’s room, the shared dinner you two had had as a treat for your first day without studying—it was relaxing, mostly because your day had been spent here rather than home.

Joel gathers a few bottles in his large palm, slipping the lips of the bottle through spread fingers. “You two enjoyin’ yourselves?” He asks, looking at you casually. It was a question you’ve heard often, a simple conversation starter. And talking to Joel was much easier now.

You nod, lips pulled into a tight smile. “Yes, Mr. Miller.”

“C’mon now,” Joel jests, dropping the bottles into the trash, “none of that—it’s Joel. Shit makes me feel old, darlin’.”

The nickname wasn’t new either. He often called Sarah by her name or babygirl.

Darlin’ though, it was all you.

He takes the dirty plates from your hands and places them in the sink, palm extended against the ledge of the counter while he rests his other hand against his hip.

“How are you doin’?” He asks, voice softer but still gruff. “Not that you have to tell me, I just want to make sure you’re feelin’ comfortable here.”

“I’m okay,” You say through an unsure smile that Joel notes but doesn’t press on, “it’s just easier to study here—I’m sorry if I spend too much time around here. Feels like you should be charging me rent by now.”

“Not a chance in hell, darlin’.” Joel grins, shiny white teeth showing behind his smile. The small bit of his shirt that was tucked in came loose by the rub of his fingers at his hip and drawing your eyes to the skin briefly, “you’re always welcome here.”

And you hate the way you crave even an inkling of physical contact from him. A pat on the shoulder, a hug, a fucking kiss on the forehead. You weren’t his daughter, you didn’t want to be. But, there was something about Joel that you couldn’t pull away from, trying your best to keep it at bay.

“You know what,” Joel says suddenly, pulling your lingering gaze back on his face, feeling guilty as you chewed on your bottom lip, “why don’t you come on vacation with Sarah and I next month?’

“Mr—Joel, that’s—” You’re quickly silenced by his hand actually pressing against your shoulder now—and fuck, when had he gotten so close?

“Sarah was thinkin’ about asking you anyways. We’re gonna take a trip to the Keys,” He rubs gently at the junction in your shoulder, the thick expanse of his thumb pressed against bare skin, “—just consider it, alright? Lord knows you both need a break as much as I do.”

The thing about Joel is that he was such a good father, something you haven’t been privy to in the couple decades and some few years you’ve been alive. You want to feel jealous and angry, spiteful that this was something you couldn’t have naturally. But, it feels nothing like that.

The crush you had on Joel was dangerous. But, that was all it was. A craving to be around Joel, to seek his approval and gain his trust. And bask in the care he provides. A simple case of daddy issues that you couldn’t admit to yourself was actually happening.

You shouldn’t entertain the idea.

You shouldn’t even consider it.

“Oh—okay. Yeah, as long as Sarah is alright with that.” You nod, a genuine, soft smile stretching across your face. Joel squeezes your shoulder tighter and you swear you feel it moving in closer, like he wants to hold you closer, cradle you in his hands. But, then the touch is gone and his fingers are running through his hair, curls separating through his fingertips.

“Alright then.” Joel says triumphantly, “You gonna be okay gettin’ home tonight?”

Sarah was driving you home soon, like usual. You nod.

“Good,” Joel nods, “Goodnight, darlin’.”

“Goodnight, Joel.” You say sweetly, patting your hand against the countertop softly, unable to spare a look his way as you walk in the opposite direction.

But, he can’t help his own fleeting and inappropriate thoughts, eyes dragging along your figure as you walk away, hands gripping the countertop like a vice, internally kicking himself how indecent he was allowing himself to think about you. Still, it didn’t stop the thoughts from flooding in and if he found himself spread out on his sheets that night, cock held tight in his hands as he fucked himself into his fist—well, he could repent for it some other time.

You touch down in the early morning on a Sunday, still riddled with anxiety from the plane ride. Joel had tried his best to accommodate, even buying first class tickets despite his usual tendency to go business. He didn’t care much for amenities but he wanted to treat Sarah and you, making you feel guilty with how quickly your face lit up at the sight. Spacious seats stocked with gifts and snacks, a tiny television molded into the area, it felt like too much.

It was. But, Joel assured you it wasn’t.

There was little planned for the week you had to spend there and you had tried to scrounge up a little cash within the month you had to save, picking up a few extra shifts at your job and stowing it away for this—hoping you could treat yourself to something, anything. Even if it was just a stupid tourist shirt that cost an egregious amount of money.

Joel quickly snuffs out that idea, putting his foot down as he assured you that this trip was a treat. Not just for himself, but for all of you. You never asked how much money the Miller’s had, but it was clearly more than you could ever fathom to be imaginable. He yanks the black Amex from his wallet and hands it off to every waiting server and store owner you three come across.

It’s abundantly clear that they don’t worry about money in the sense that you do—it wasn’t unwelcomed, but it was an adjustment that took a couple days to get over, feeling shame for enjoying it. He’d paid for the plane fare, booked the hotels and the activities you had planned, made sure meals were paid for and then some, even allowing you and Sarah some spending money to go shopping for clothes or whatever you needed.

He didn’t ask, it didn’t matter. He just wanted you to feel welcomed. Like family…or something.

The trip is fairly harmless fun, a few swimming activities that tire you all out and lend to an early turn in on a couple nights, dinners that lended you to learn a lot more about Joel. Still, as much as Joel tried, you weren’t as open. Vague answers, sidewaying the conversation. He didn’t try to pry, though. And you were thankful for that.

But, with fairly harmless came a few instances that didn’t feel so.

The first comes in the deep end of the ocean, floating on a shared longboard in the midst of the calm waves, humid heat sticking to your skin. Fingers fiddling with the loosening tie around the back of your neck as Sarah wades off to the shore for a brief minute to reapply sunscreen. And maybe you shouldn’t have asked, but you see the lingering look Joel gives you, fingers curling subtly against the edge of the board.

“Can you help me?” You ask, slowly edging around the board until you’re beside him, turning before he has the opportunity to answer. “It’s hard to get it tight on my own.”

Joel clears his throat and offers a smile, “‘Course, chin down for me?” And you follow his lead, feeling his fingers brush against your neck and guide your head down, untying the loose not completely and feeling your swim top go slack, covered by the safety of the water and your back turned to him, but it doesn’t stop the touch of his fingertips against your skin as he ties the knot and tugs slightly, assuring that it was secure to his liking. You lift your head slowly when you feel his palm press flat against your back, fingers curling around the point where your shoulder meets your neck.

“Thanks, Joel.” You turn your head over your shoulder to look back at him, earning a small nod as his touch lingers, only loosening when you rescue your grip on the longboard in front of you.

“Enjoyin’ yourself so far?” He asks, always able to ease into steady conversation without missing a beat. “Any complaints?”

“Definitely,” You smile wide, huffing soft laugh through your nose as you shake your head, “I guess I do have one complaint, actually.” You tell him honestly, a subtle nervousness to your voice.

“Well, I’m all ears, darlin’.” He responds, leaning his elbow onto the board as it bobbed slightly.

“I just…you don’t have to pay for everything, Joel.” You find yourself rushing out the words, hoping that it wouldn’t cause an adverse reaction, but instead, Joel smiles wider.

“Look, I invited you on this trip,” Joel explains, “and that means you aren’t paying for a damn thing. Alright?”

You nod meekly, quieting down as Sarah waded back into the ocean toward you both.

With Joel, it was something you would have to learn to accept.

You try to ignore the lingering touch of his fingertips on your neck, but now it feels like a burn in your skin that would only get worse as time went on.

The second instance isn’t as much of a thing, rather than a moment.

Eyeing a sundress that resembled some of the similar outrageous patterning that Joel wore, shapes and blobs morphed around the material yet somehow managing to look chicer than anything you’ve ever come across, strappy and long and deep cut down the center. It wasn’t for modesty, you could assume that much. You run your fingers along the creases and stitching in the fabric, admiring it as you flipped the tag in your hand, immediately gawking at the price.

Joel had been lingering by, browsing the various knick knacks and souvenirs lining the shelves off the small store—all hand-made pieces that he could appreciate, but didn’t find any use for himself. And he’s watching you, has been for a while, noticing the way your eyes kept flicking back toward the dress despite your path around the store.

Joel casually follows the same path, taking a subtle peek at the tag. It was a few hundred dollars, but given the silkiness of the material and him being very familiar with the tone of pricing around the area, it wasn’t an outrageous ask. He slips the dress off the rack, careful as he removes it off the hanger and finds you separated from Sarah as you peruse down a wall of jewelry—some cheap and some not, looking around with no real want, just admiring.

He slips the dress into your hands, rough, overworked palms cupping your own as he makes you physically wrap your fingers around and claim the garment, chest to your back as he speaks, lips a hair's breadth away from your ear.

“It’s a pretty dress,” Joel says calmly, much calmer than your rapidly beating heart and the sudden uptick in your breathing, silk material spread out over your fingertips, “shame for it to go to waste, darlin’.”

“It’s expensive.” You argue, voice soft as he locks eyes with you in the mirror nestled in the nearest corner, “It’s nice to want things Joel, but I don’t need it.”

“I dunno,” He responds, unconvinced, “and—maybe I’m speaking out of turn but I think it’d look great on you.”

And you’ve never been more thankful of Sarah’s obliviousness to certain things, so wrapped up in her own shopping across the store that you two remained unsuspecting, eyes still locked on one another through the shared mirror.

He can see the way your body twitches at the comment, responds, but what he doesn’t understand is how it makes your cunt throb, solid body pressed against your back as he squeezes the backside of your hands with his palm. The willingness of contact was still fresh and new but it never made you feel unsafe—in fact, it had the opposite effect entirely.

Joel speaks again, directly to you in the mirror.

“I might just have to buy it for you, darlin’.” He says quietly, “You alright with that?”

You hesitate for a moment, but nod shakily. “Thank you, Joel.”

“Don’t need to keep thankin’ me.” Joel assures, “I know it’s implied.”

But, the instance that had you reeling for days after, still replaying it vividly in your mind, was a night near the end of your trip. Sarah had long gone to bed and you, riddled by insomnia, find yourself at the hallway vending machine, looking for a snack to cure your growing hunger.

Though, it seemed that Joel had the same idea—fork halfway into his mouth as he turned the corner, a sizable piece of chocolate cake inside of a small to-go tray, looking even guiltier as he caught sight of you, feeling like he really didn’t want to get caught like this. It makes you laugh into the palm of your hand. Joel is acting like the kid that got sneaking cookies in the middle of the night, still not hesitating to lick the fork clean as he tucked it away in the styrofoam box.

“Don’t tell Sarah,” He swears you to secrecy, “she’s already on my ass enough about my sugar intake.”

“You’ve got a sweet tooth,” You shrug, “nothing wrong with that.”

“What about you, huh?” Joel’s eyebrows raise in question, watching as you peruse the various snacks but not finding anything particularly appetizing. “Late night snack?”

“Somethin’ like that.” You chew at your bottom lip, feeling that this was useless.

“Wanna share it?” Joel asks suddenly, pulling your attention to him immediately. “That way I feel a little less guilty about it.”

“Oh—and then bring me down with you?” You tease lightly, “Of course.”

It’s how you end up in Joel’s room that night, no other intentions than to share that stupid piece of cake, lacking a fork so you trade off for a few bites until it slowly delves into you both feeding each other as you talk, one of you hogging the fork more than the other. You curled up in one chair and Joel relaxed out in the other, styrofoam box held to his chest and forcing you to lean closer to assure you didn’t drop crumbs everywhere.

Maybe it should feel weird, but it doesn’t.

“You know—if there’s anything you do need—” Joel begins after a while, meaningless conversation having died out.

“I know—Sarah tells me all the time. I just have to ask.” It feels pointless, rehashing things again. But, Joel feels the need to reassure and comfort. It didn’t help that he was finding himself, at his age, attracted to you in such a depraved way. “I will—if I do, I mean.”

It’s forbidden territory he couldn’t cross. But realistically, that only made him want you more.

Joel feeds you a slow bite, lips catching over the fork but smearing a copious amount of chocolate frosting on your chin. Before you have the thought process to wipe it away Joel is already there, leaning forward in his chair as he uses his pointer finger to clean you up, eyes following his movements carefully after the first initiation of touch.

Your breath catches in your throat, expecting him to use his own mouth to disallow wasting the frosting, but instead he raises it to your mouth in a split decision, his eyes dilating slightly under your shy gaze. Your lips press against the side of his finger in a gentle kiss that quickly spreads, taking the full length of his finger into your mouth as you lick away the excess frosting, feeling the pulse of desire in your belly as it grew, knowing that if Joel wanted to keep you there he could, locked under his gaze with his fingers stuffed into your mouth and you’d let him.

It was despicable. Inappropriate and wrong. But, you couldn’t help how badly your body wanted him, despite your brain telling all of this was a horrible decision.

You pull your mouth away with a soft pop, watching as Joel curl’s his hands into tight fists as he pulls them back to his side lazily, seeming more tense now.

“I should go.” You say softly, terrified to disturb this moment and the tension that blanketed it.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea, darlin’.” Joel says reluctantly.

Things only get worse from then on—and maybe worse is a strong word. But, it soon turns into a game that neither of you can stop, waiting until one of you finally makes the wrong move.

A few weeks later and your laptop takes the shit on a random Tuesday, head buried in your hands as Sarah tries to console you, but it isn’t much use. You knew it was a stretch to think the laptop could last you through the entire semester, and with just a few short months left, it couldn’t be worse timing.

Joel walks in at your inconvenience, keys jingling in his hands as he slips off his leather peacoat, glancing at Sarah who didn’t give him much to go off of. He folds the jacket over the back of an empty dining chair and rests his hands against the top of it, eyes scanning over the both of you at the table, one looking a little more distraught than the other.

“Everything alright?” He asks curiously, earning a subtle head shake from Sarah. He clears his throat, “Or—uh, well, how is the studying going? Feel like that’s all you two do.”

You rub a frustrated hand over your face and sigh, “I’m gonna see if I can get a ride home or something,” You tell Sarah, sliding your phone off of the table, “I’ll deal with this later.”

Joel and Sarah share a quick look of communication, her hand waving toward you sharply, forcing Joel to speak up before you make another rash decision and spend money on a long ride home when had the perfect opportunity standing right in front of you.

“I can give you a ride home.” Joel offers, much to your surprise.

You’ve been alone with Joel a lot now, though inadvertently.

Sarah would sneak away in her room for longer stretches of time just to call her boyfriend—which wasn’t a bad thing, but it felt odd when Joel would come home and there was no one to greet him but you. Still, you stretched your lips into a smile and welcomed him sweetly.

Even if this was his home.

Or times when you just happened to cross each other's path, even in such a large space. Sometimes the front porch when you were taking a break to stretch your legs, his watchful gaze dragging along your figure as he sipped on a hot cup of coffee in the evening, foot stabilized on the deck as he rocked in the wooden swing he sat on, crickets chirping loudly as the sun set.

Or just a simple trip to the bathroom, his bedroom across the hall and a couple doors down, often shut, but there were moments when you opened the doors, nearly face to face, and neither of you could look away. Joel would clear his throat, excuse himself, and kindly gesture for you to walk first. It happened often, too often—but neither of you addressed it. Instead, the tension grew. And grew. Until it felt like poking a sleeping bear. So it hibernated in both of you quietly.

Part of you expected things to change, that the small moment shared in his hotel room would make things hard to navigate, but if anything—it’s easier.

“Okay.” You agree easily, not having the proper energy to fight him over it.

The ride is quiet for the most part and Joel doesn’t need the step by step directions as he knows this town like the back of his hand, but he makes a wrong turn somewhere between his house and yours and you don’t feel like something is wrong, but it definitely feels off.

“Joel, you missed the last left.” You speak up as he continues down the road, glancing around leisurely as you soon delve onto a main street, lined with several shops. “Joel—”

“I’m gonna make a quick stop,” Joel attempts to ease your worries, fingers tapping against the gear shift positioned in the center console, “if you don’t mind.”

The moment he pulls into the parking lot of the electronic store, you know. You can see it in his eyes as he squints, checking that the store is still open and pulls into a parking spot near the front of the store.

“Joel, no—” You grab his wrist suddenly, his free hand reaching for the door handle and he looks down, eyes connecting where your skin touched before slowly flicking up to you, “look—just, I don’t need you to buy me a new fuckin’ laptop. I can handle it.”

Joel’s shoulders shrug in his obnoxiously patterned shirt, like he’s working out a kink in his neck as he repositions himself in the seat but doesn’t pull away from you. In fact, his hand gradually pulls toward your knee, fingers squeezing around your kneecap comfortingly.

“Considering it a loan then?” Joel tries to bargain, “Let me help you out now so you won’t have to worry about it and you can pay me back as you get the money? I see how often Sarah uses her laptop, it doesn't make sense for you to go without when I can help.”

You chew on your bottom lip thoughtfully, staring intensely back at him. You could put your foot down and deny his offer, but the idea of suffering through the rest of the semster without your sole life line to surviving through college—well, that was actually torture.

“I’m paying back every single penny.” You tell him forthright, waiting until he nods in agreement.

“Sounds like a deal to me.” Joel responds.

Joel spares no expense, which doesn’t come as a surprise. He buys you the highest, top notch laptop they have to offer—and even as you stare daggers into the side of his face, there’s an inkling in your mind that tells you he isn’t going to allow you to hold up your end of the deal.

Joel liked to party too—not giant parties that felt overwhelming and unwelcoming. But, he did have a close group of older male friends that he liked to play poker with on the back deck of the Miller household.

Sarah learned to block it out early on, knowing that at some point things would get just a little too loud and not as easy to ignore. But, Joel never made you feel out of place within any of these instances. You were welcome here all the time and Joel was clear about that.

He’s showered you with gifts and accommodation and you hate the way it makes you feel special, wanted—beyond the night in his hotel room it was only innocent glances. It felt like you were misreading things, making something out of nothing.

Things aren’t great at home and you like it here—love it, even. And you feel your mind nagging away to make a stupid, spur of the moment decision. You could ignore it, but then your eyes catch Joel’s through the slight crack in the door, trapping you in his gaze like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.

He squints slightly, lips curling around his beet bottle as he takes a long swig, fist uncurling against his jeans as he rubs out his palm and smiles—he has you hooked in so fucking easy it feels pathetic.

This is wrong. You inhale a shaky breath and turn away, busying yourself with literally anything else—a scuff on the table, the chipped nail polish on your fingernails, something.

Eventually his friends filter out—and Sarah had invited you to stay over the night barring that it was the weekend and she enjoyed your presence just as much as you did hers—if only she could understand the now huge, harboring crush you had on her father. It was harmless, but it felt like a betrayal.

And the feeling only increased as the night creeped along, your burdening insomnia keeping you awake, shifting and turning in the sheets beside her as you tried and failed miserably to fall asleep.

It was quiet out here, less commotion from the city. It was eerie, in a way.

You slip out of the bed quietly, walking barefoot on the hardwood as you tiptoed until you were outside of her room, closing the door behind you. You weren’t hungry, so you didn’t bother with the kitchen, rather heading toward the front door that was already halfway open.

Part of you expected Joel to be sitting on the porch, no real rhyme or reason. But, even he is out of sight. The soft, well-kept grass welcomes the press of your feet as you wander outside slowly, the hug of the warm spring air on your skin even this late at night. You catch one of the Miller’s horses hanging out around the edge of their enclosure, wondering if they managed to nudge their way out of their stable. You approach slowly, still not as accustomed to them as you’d like to be.

But, they were friendly. So, you raised a careful hand and rubbed gently at the horse’s mane, smiling at the soft huff it offered in return, leaning its snout over the fence more.

“Sunshine is always friendly,” Joel says from somewhere you don’t see, startling you out of your body as you jump, whipping your head around to look for him, eventually landing on his approaching form as he left the barn that held the stables, “—sneaky little gal, though.”

You laugh softly, finding it hard to believe that such a sweet horse was capable of escaping.

Joel whistles softly, beckoning her toward him. “Come on.” He nods, silently asking you to join him. You follow eagerly, watching as he unlocks the entrance to the fence for you to slip through, locking it behind you as you pass the threshold, catching up with Joel in a few steps.

“Don’t sleep well, do you?” He asks, heading turned over his shoulder briefly to look at you. You nod quietly, leisurely approaching Sunshine’s stable and watching as Joel locks her back up, rattling the gate for safety this time, ensuring it was secure. “Seems we have a few things in common.”

Joel stays quiet for a moment—in his own head, a deep moment of contemplation, carrying and safeguarding these thoughts he knows he shouldn’t have, wondering how your skin would feel against his palm, how the pulse of your heart would feel as he pressed his hand to the center of your chest and kissed you, full tongue and consumed your essence, this unignorable aura you had around you.

He feels sick, distraught. But, he can’t force himself to avoid you either.

“There’s somethin’ that usually helps me,” Joel tells you, hand pressed wordlessly against the center of your back as he guides you out of the barn and locks it up as well, “just goin’ somewhere quiet—lot of the time it’s just my thoughts keepin’ me awake.”

God, if only he knew.

He did, but that wasn’t the point.

Joel quiets for a moment, stuffing the ring of keys into his pocket as he glances over at the house briefly.

“You wanna go for a quick drive?” Joel asks suddenly, forcing it out before he can find a reason to stop himself.

“As long as it doesn’t end with you buying me another laptop, sure.” You chide deviously, watching the smirk grown on Joel’s face, knowing he still hasn’t taken a dollar from you.

And vehemently refuses every time you offer.

Joel drives you the path further into the land of property he owns, most of it still unexplored by you, eventually finding a clearing near the east edge, right on the edge of a body of water and a dock nestled near the shore. There’s a small boat tied to a post, big enough for a few people.

Under this light, as you exit the truck, Joel looks different.

He’s free of the weight of jewelry he wore, comfortable in his worn shirt and soft cotton shorts. For a while, Joel had been such an enigma that you weren’t sure what to make of him. Sure, he was just Sarah’s dad—but he was also Joel Miller, backbone of the town. His face was plastered everywhere. There wasn’t a single street you could traverse down that didn’t have him nestled away somewhere.

He spots a small mud puddle under your feet as he rounds the truck and quickly catches you before your feet get stuck, hands locked in yours as you jump over the small patch of wet dirt.

You let out an exasperated sigh as you look up at him, silently thanking him with your eyes.

“Can you swim?” He asks casually.

“Yeah…” You respond hesitantly, eyes locked onto the boat several feet away.

Joel releases your hands, but it doesn't matter. His touch still lingered painfully and you want nothing more than to pull him back in. But, now Joel is asking to go on a midnight boat ride with you and—really, how could you turn that down?

Joel rows you toward the center of the lake, your eyes locked onto the mesmerizing sight of the stars in the sky, so much clearer out here and away from the city.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” Joel asks, not bothering to look his way.

You smile slightly, leaning back onto the palms of your hands.

“Yeah, it really is.” You miss the way Joel’s gaze lingers, admiring you.

“Now—sometimes I just come out here and talk to nothin’,” Joel explains when the boat comes to a full stop and he rests the oars inside the boat, knees spread as he resting his elbows on them, “then other times I just sit and enjoy the quiet.”

Your choice—that’s what he’s implying.

You clear your throat softly, finally changing a glance his way.

“I just—I don’t wanna say I’m jealous of what you have here,” You say quietly, “but, it really is a bitter reminder of without Sarah or you, I’d have next to nothing.”

Joel stays quiet, allowing you to marinate in thought and figure out how to convey how you were feeling.

“And—I don’t know. Selfishly, I like it.” Liked him. “But, I don’t want to rely on it and you make that a little impossible. I do have money, Joel. I can pay for things. I just don’t want you feeling like you have to do any of this out of necessity.”

“I’m not,” Joel admits, “Now—what makes you think that, darlin’?”

“I just—I don’t want anyone thinking I need to be fixed, I don’t.” You tell him, “I don’t need charity, either.”

Joel waves his fingers in a come closer motion, taking your slowly extending hands in his own, thumbs rubbing over soft skin tenderly, boring his eyes into your own.

“I’m gonna tell you this once and I need you to listen,” Joel says softly, but his voice feels so loud in the silence of the night, breeze hitting your skin and sending a sharp chill up your spine—but, you’re not how much of mother nature is responsible for that, “really listen, alright?”

You nod slowly, blinking a few times as you feel yourself shrink under his gaze.

“What I give you isn’t charity,” Joel tells you seriously, “and—maybe this is crossing a boundary I shouldn’t but, you’re somethin’ close to family. I take care of people I care about.”

Not family—he couldn’t conitate that with the feelings and thoughts he was having toward you.

“Close to family?” He was praying you wouldn’t harp on it, but you needed to confirm the underlying layer of tension that lingered between you two all the time. It was driving you insane, keeping you late into the night—he was the reason for your insomnia.

Joel smirks slightly, covering it with a quiet chuckle. His hand gradually cradles your face, rubbing along your cheek with a delicate touch, “I think you know, darlin’.”

God, he hoped you did. His thumb dragging along your plush bottom lip, eyes lingering for a brief moment before he pulls away, immediately missing his touch as he reigns himself to the idea that he may have crossed a line, quietly rowing the way back toward the dock.

Neither of you get much sleep that night anyways.

More time passes, lingering touches grow, and Joel is terrible at hiding his affinity for you now. Finding that those few words burned all regards he had toward keeping himself restrained around you. He had enough of a mind to keep it private—but there were comments, sweet little words that he’d whisper as you walked by or he caught you alone.

Nothing scandalizing, but just enough that it had your heart fluttering in your chest.

Until there is a small slip up, helping the Miller’s with dinner one night as Sarah escapes to the bathroom for a brief moment, your arms outstretched into the cabinet to grab for something just out of reach.

“Use the stool, darlin’,” Joel sees your struggle, “safer that way.”

You look around observantly before you find a folded up stool tucked into the only open corner in the kitchen, taking it back to your spot and unfolding it.

“Good girl.” Joel comments quietly, catching the startled look on your face as your head snaps back toward him. And he has the nerve to smile, noticing the hitch in your breath.

And it only grows in intensity until you can’t stand it anymore, cornering him in the kitchen on a night where Sarah is already upstairs gathering herself for bed, thinking you had come down for a couple bottles of water.

Joel is nursing a small glass of whiskey and he’s silent, but his gaze tracks your movement. You move toward him.

There is a belief in you, fully realized, that something is up here.

"Joel," You lick your lips hesitantly, squaring yourself up against the counter, standing straight, trying not to seem like you were teetering near a dangerous edge of delirium, wondering if you were imagining all of this, "can I ask you something?"

There's a severe lack of distance between you two, knees knocking against each other gently from where you both stand, eyes searching out cautiously even though you know there's nothing to worry about. You were alone, something that has happened far too many times over the past few months. Lingering moments of wandering gazes, eyes connecting from across the room even if Joel was surrounded by people, partying with friends while you're tucked away in the corner while Sarah talks to you about the boys at school that you can't be bothered to give the time of day.

Because of Joel. Because your mind is so tainted by the idea of him.

His palm is flattened out against the counter, adorned with a couple golden rings that clack against the marble, gold chains to match that sat perfectly against his chest, framing the small patch of hair that peeked out over his unbuttoned shirt, silk-pressed and adorned in a silly design that somehow always managed to work perfectly with whatever Joel paired it with.

"Course," He assures you, "You need somethin'? 'Cause you know if things aren't alright at home you're welcome to stay with us."

He’s not amiss to notice just how much time you spend here and no one bothers to come around and check on you. Given you were an adult, it was still glaringly obvious you escaped here for a reason.

Joel reaches out to touch your cheek, the warmth of his skin melding with your own as your breath catches in your throat.

Touch wasn't new, but it never got old. Like a brand against your skin that screamed out for more. You look down briefly, mouth opening slightly to say something, but quickly resigns back to its previous position, lips pursed under a soft scowl.

"I can take care of you," Joel reminds, like you could ever fucking forget it, written all over your features and the outfits you wore now, the dainty gold chain that he'd leant to you as a gift when you pointed out how much you liked it—he'd bought it for himself but there was no resistance in offering over it over to you, bright smile stretching across your face in the moment that Joel felt a sickening addiction to, "—if that's what you need, sweetheart."

You nod instinctively, though you’re not sure what you’re answering too.

“We’ve got a spare room,” Your bottom lip pulls between your teeth, the huskiness to his voice shouldn’t feel intimate speaking such meaningless words, “plenty of room for you, alright?”

“Mhm,” You answer weakly, feeling the distance start to close as Joel tries—really fucking tries to fight it, but he can’t help the way his eyes track the way your body responds to his teach, lip trembling when you release it from it’s hold between your teeth, “thank you, Joel.”

“For?” Your heart is racing, terrified of being caught but also enticed by how openly Joel is admiring you, eyes wide with adoration and curiousness, something undiscovered and new to him.

“Taking care of me.” You echo his words, but you��re both quickly retching away at the sound of a door creaking upstairs, separating in an instant.

This was all you had—fleeting moments that would never be.

The logistics are complicated to figure out at first, but finishing up the last few weeks of schooling away from the stress of being at home and somewhere where you could actually focus outside of school made the most sense. You pack a big enough bag to last you through the month, clothes and personal belongings you care about, and make the small guest room your new home.

At least, as much as you could.

Luckily, your final classes are a breeze—thankful that most of your discipline with studying had paid off, you and Sarah would graduate in another couple weeks and allow yourself a real break over the summer before deciding how you both wanted to continue. More schooling or not, you would handle that later—for now, you let your mind rest.

And Sarah, well, she escapes the first chance she gets—the first official day free of responsibilities she’s running off for a weekend vacation with her boyfriend, assuring she didn’t mind you tagging along if you wanted to come, but you could see it on her face—she wanted privacy.

So, you had no problem staying back.

A weekend alone—with Joel? Who could barely keep his eyes off of you know that you were around constantly, even in the early mornings when he’d walk through the kitchen shirtless and fumbling with the old coffee pot he refused to get rid of. It was a side to him you hadn’t seen much of and it was slowly etching itself into your memory.

Everything implodes the first night that Sarah is gone, unknowingly yet not unwelcome. But, it’s a turning point neither of you can come back from.

It’s undeniable the amount of boiling sexual tension that has stirred between you both between Joel’s heated gaze and scandalizing comments, stuff that he tries to hold in but fails when he sees how easily of an effect it has on you.

So, as luck would have it, your restless minds meet again.

Joel stops between his open bedroom door and the wall, watching as you approach quietly, smiling kindly as you reach for the door to the guest room, bidding him a soft goodnight.

He could spend his night writhing in bed, hand around his cock as he jerked himself to the thought of you a few feet over, nestled under your sheets—unbeknownst to him, relieving yourself in a similar way and yearning for the stretch of him rather than your measly fingers. It used to relieve the ache and help you sleep, but now it made things impossibly worse.

His fingers encircle your wrist quick, but carefully, silence your ultimate downfall as you stare over at him curiously, his eyes pleading something so desperate it roots itself into your own mind. Like an invisible string tethered to your bodies, it pulls you both together instinctively.

He doesn’t hesitate with touch now, slowly barricading his hands against the side of your neck, gradually working to cradle your head, tipping your head back as he leaned in, not willing himself to cross that line unless you allowed it. He knew the second you stepped over he was done for, similarly, you knew that to be true for yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” Joel begs, “—tell me and I’ll give this up.”

You double down, pressing your face against his own, nose pressing against each other, speaking against his lips in a venomous tone that seeps into his bloodstream.

“No,” You tell him, steadfast and unwavering, “I don’t think I will.”

Joel breathes in sharply before his reverence is breaking, pressing you up against the solidness of the guest room door and crashing his lips against your own, his grip bruising as he palms at your thighs, hooking a leg around his hip as he grinds into you, the feeling dulled out by layers of fabric but you can still feel him. He’s hard and straining against the soft fabric and making no attempt to hide how much you affected him.

“We’re makin’ a big mistake,” Joel says into your mouth, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth to prove his point, pulling a sharp moan from your chest at the slight sting, “you realize that?”

You find your courage and part from him briefly, open palm rubbing against the line of his cock, slowly trailing up and under his shirt, blunt nails clawing into the stomach, the muscle tensing under your skin, “I’m well aware—are you gonna stand here and have a moral dilemma about it or are you going to fuck me, Mr. Miller?”

It ignites a fury behind his eyes, ravenous and wild. He grips your face tightly, tilting your head up at a slightly uncomfortable angle, pussy clenching around absolutely nothing from the show of dominance, the grin spreading across your face all Joel needed to confirm his suspicions about you.

You enjoyed this—him, the little game you’ve allowed him to play over the past few weeks. And just as he’d said before, he wanted to take care of you—in as many ways possible.

“Say it again,” He warns, squeezing your cheeks together between his tight grip on your face, “—fuckin’ say it.”

“Mr. Miller,” You drone sweetly, best you can through his sturdy grip, “—hm, is that what you want to hear? Is that what gets off at night?”

Joel’s eyes squint slightly, attempting to read your expression. How would you know?

“Always want me to call you Joel because Mr. Miller is just too much, right?” You tease, “I guess you could lie to me, but the look on your face says otherwise.”

The back of your head drops softly against the door, nowhere to go as Joel has you crowded, hand tight on the doorknob and unmoving. You’re trapped and you can’t be bothered to care.

His hand trails to your neck gradually and squeezes, eyes rolling into the back of your head briefly as his jaw clenches, teeth gritting together as he bares them and speaks, “Should’ve guessed you’d like it like this, huh?”

You feign cluelessness, eyes half-lidded and staring back defiantly, swallowing against the solid hand he held against your neck.

“Tell me you want it,” Joel presses, feeling how mutely you attempt to press against hold and fail, “need to hear you say it first.”

“What? That I want you cock, Joel?” You say vivaciously, grinning at how his mouth twitches at your words, cooing out a soft, “Because I do.”

And that’s all the confession Joel needs before he’s breaking the barrier and shoving you inside the guest room, slamming the door closed behind him with a foot as he tracks and approaches you, hauling you from the back of your thighs as your ass hits the bed, scooting back slightly and spreading your legs to allow him to slot perfectly between them.

The fabric of your shirt bunches in his hands as pushes it up and away, lips pressing hotly against your stomach, mouthing at the skin greedily, quickly forcing the shirt up your shoulders until you get the idea and rip the shirt over your head, bare breasts bouncing against the jostling of your body. Joel has half the mind to gawk before he’s latching his mouth around your nipple, biting gently at the flesh despite his choice to be more aggressive than you expected. It’s the right amount of too soft and too much, your fingers curling into his hair at the root and pulling, earning a soft groan in response.

His curls fall freely over his eyes from where he’s looking up at you, lips lingering against your breast tantalizingly, “Let me taste you.” He tells you, his fingers dancing along the hem of your bottoms, his body descending as you find yourself nodding absently, helping him in the impatient push and pull until he has you naked and bare before him, his cock straining prominently against the thin material of his pants, rubbing himself through the fabric as he uses his free hand to spread you wide, marveling at the sight of your slick over the lips of your cunt.

Joel settles against the sheets, broad shoulders supporting your thighs as he adjusts them over him and hovers closely of your cunt, waiting for your eyes to connect in a brief moment of confirmation

You wanted this. And so did he.

He remains wide-eyed as his lips connecting with your cunt, straight for your aching clit as he sucks, flicking his tongue over the sensitive spot with a precision that has you falling slack against the sheets, mouth open in a blissful agony as Joel works away at your pussy like he’s had a million years to study it, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as you continue to pull and twist at his hair, selfishly grinding yourself against his face.

He never breaks his gaze on your face, even when you find yourself with your head thrown back, staring up at the ceiling mindlessly, admiring the hurried rise and fall of your chest as you moan out something intelligible, slowly beginning to make sense in his hazy mind, “Oh—right—right there, Joel. Fuck, please—” You beg sweetly, feeling weightless as he lowers his mouth to your neglected hole and licks inside, his nose pressing perfectly against your clit.

“C’mon, baby,” He murmurs against your pussy, “keep talkin’, let me hear you.”

You sigh in exasperation, feeling the burgeoning ache of your impending climax, “Faster—” Joel is an astute listener, never missing a beat as he picks up his pace and adds more pressure, “–shit, I’m gonna—”

Joel silences you with his eagerness to make you come, words falling flat as he assales your clit with a determination to have you coming against his mouth, feeling the muscles spasm as you crying out his name in desperation, orgasming over his greedy tongue as he laps you up synonymously, forcing your body into overstimulation until you have to physically force him away.

Joel doesn’t have half the mind to speak, eyes darkened to near black as he rises to remove his shirt, pants and underwear following quickly after, undressing under your hazy gaze as you try to calm your rapidly beating heart before he’s fisting himself tightly, tip of his cock rubbing against the line of your pussy and catching your entrance, using the last bit of restraint he had left.

He should be courteous and ask about protection—but there’s a heat behind your eyes when you see his thoughts wandering, quickly snuffing out any worries. You reach gently for the hand not fisting his cock, cradling your knee gently, “We’re safe.” You assure him, the first moment of deep, unsettling reality as he realizes the weight of his choices before him—he’s already committed a few atrocities he knows he can’t come back from, so, what was a few more?

And he couldn’t say no to you, not with you staring up at him so wantonly, eyes pleading something desperate and meek, curious if this was all just a heat of the moment thing. Partly, it was—but this was months upon months of built up tension finally spilling into reality.

Joel isn’t sweet either, as he presses inside you. It shouldn’t surprise you, his impatient nature as he pulls you in close, hands gripping under your thighs and manhandling you until your folded nearly in half, hips pistoning sharp and rough, his gaze locked on the sight of himself disappearing inside of you, the sheen of your slick over his cock as you suck him in greedily.

“Come on, baby,” He grunts roughly, “keep showin’ me how good I make you feel. Show me how grateful you are.”

As if it wasn’t already obvious, obscene noises, feeling the quiet air as you sob out, feeling the angle change as he shifts his knee by your ass, angling your hips up slightly.

“Thank—thank you,” You say softly, broken as he snaps his hips roughly, hitting something sensitive inside of you, the coiling heat in your stomach rebuilding quickly, “thankyouthankyouthankyou,” You ramble mindlessly.

Mesmerized, you watch his curls bounce freely over his forehead, overgrown hair sticking to his skin from the soft sheen of sweat, the muscles in his broad shoulders straining as he holds your legs prisoner in his grips, hips aching dully from the unusual angle but you ignore it. He’s locked onto your pussy for a long stretch of time, entranced until he hears your soft moans, realizing you’ve been admiring him this whole time, eyes locking on you in a moment of vulnerability as he speaks directly to you, hips slowing to a manageable, but still slightly overwhelming pace.

“Always—know how to appreciate things, isn’t that right?” Joel asks, the redundancy not lost on you, “Take everything I give you and never ask. Never greedy—just lettin’ me spoil you.”

“Joel—” You whine, his hand slowly trailing the path to your joined bodies, thumb circling slowly over your clit briefly, “—harder, fuck me—harder.”

“But, look at you now—so fuckin’ greedy for my cock,” He’s speaking through a slight groan, releasing the straining hold on your thighs as he falls, spreading his legs out and using his arms for support as he holds himself over you, hands fisting into the sheets beside your head, “gonna make me cum, baby.”

You find yourself desperate for touch now, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s nearly chest to chest, forehead resting against your own as you whimper into his open mouth, “I want it.”

Joel makes a small noise of question, “Want what, baby?”

“Your cum,” You reply softly, watching the way his pupils dilate at your words, “—please?”

Joel groans involuntarily, feeling the dignified squeeze of your walls around his cock.

“Where?” He asks slightly breathless, panting into your mouth.

You reach blindly for his hand, using his pointer and middle finger to breach your lips, pressing flat against your tongue, “Right here.” You mumble around the thick digits.

It’s the first thing you’ve ever explicitly asked for and who was Joel to deny that.

Joel pulls out quickly, rising on his knees as you push up to rest on your palms, his head hung back as he fucks himself into his hand harshly, a few short pumps and he’s pressing the aching tip of his cock over your tongue, spilling into your mouth with a deep growl, forced through clenched teeth, working himself through the aftershock as he squeezes out the last bit of cum he has to offer into your waiting mouth, forcing your mouth closed with his opposite hand and watching as you tilted your neck up and swallowed, tongue peeking out playfully as you show him your empty mouth.

You have half the mind to think he’s finished, but instead he’s swatting your thigh as he maneuvers your hips until you realize he’s silently asking you to turn over, quickly situating your ass in the air with his strong, domineering grip—burying his face into your cunt without a moment of hesitation, a gasp ripping from your throat. Your hips pull away instinctively out of shock, earning a sharp slap by Joel’s hand against your oversensitive cunt.

“Stay still.” Joel demands.

You answer softly, a pathetic acknowledgement and nod, obeying his order.

“Good girl,” He coos, muffled against your cunt, “Come for me, baby—you’re right there, I can feel it.”

There’s little resistance as his tongue swipes over your clit, sending you into a shorter but immensely more consuming second orgasm, feeling yourself lose consciousness for a brief moment as you sob into the sheets.

“Fuck.” Joel sighs as he rests back on his calves, cock softening between his thighs as you roll onto your back gingerly, thighs shaking from strain, feeling Joel’s comforting touch on the aching muscles as you close your eyes, letting the reality of the situation set in.

You laugh giddily, “Yeah, fuck.”

Neither of you address the glaring issue of what just took place and somehow, that feels like the biggest atrocity to be committed.

Secrets weren’t something you used to harbor, but it seemed like that was all you had now.

Sneaking off with Joel, lying to Sarah—it was the last thing you wanted to do. But, you and Joel had each other in an equally debilitating grip that neither of you could loosen up on.

And with secrets came gifts, more and more outrageous as time went on—big ticket items that had you fearing that, at some point, Joel would drop something like a new car on you—and that, for what it was worth, would help you. But, it was nothing you wanted.

Sex started to feel transactional after a few more weeks, graduation creeping on you.

Joel never lacked in care and attentiveness, but there was this nagging feeling in the back of your mind, like you were this unattainable prize he was paying for and you were eating right out of the palm of his hand.

But, then graduation day approaches and Joel is acting odd.

So odd that it unsettles you. He’s there, along with his brother and his small family, cheering as loud for you as he does for Sarah, the obvious absence from your own family never lost on you or him. Then, night approaches.

He’d decided that throwing a party for the both of you in celebration was a good idea, just a small party with very few friends and he swore—swore that there was nothing else up his sleeve until he’s pulling you and Sarah off together, away from the party and there is a pair of matching, new cars parked in the driveway.

Sarah, given she already has everything she wants, is still thankful. It’s the one thing she had been trying to save up for herself, without the help of her dad. So, while she could be upset, she isn’t. She knows Joel’s intentions are good and that he’s just trying to be a good father—which is all he’s ever been for her.

But, for you, it stings.

You linger, settled a few feet away against his beater of a truck, staring at the car like it was an eyesore.

She doesn’t like it. She hates it, Joel thinks.

You thanked him regardless, but refused the keys. Joel had stuffed them into his pocket and allowed you the space you wanted, eyes pleading quietly. Sarah had hugged you gently, kind words left in your ear before she departed back inside.

“You’re like family,” She says with genuine love, “and he has more money than he knows what to do with—so honestly, just take it. You deserve it more than anyone.”

And that hurts worse, knowing that you’ve been lying to her for months.

You weren’t family. Not to Joel. You were something much more convoluted and dangerous.

A drug. A trap. Something he couldn’t rid himself of, not that he desired to. But, he knew—once you were embedded into his life, it would be nearly impossible to get you out.

–

Joel finds you a while later, away from the party and beyond eyesight from the house, curled up against the front end of the truck and picking away at some of the ripped denim of your jeans, counting the frayed pieces. He takes a similar position, sitting next to you silently.

“You don’t have to take it,” He tells you, “but, it is paid for—”

“Joel, please—”

“What?” Joel asks suddenly, his own annoyance getting the better of him, “What am I doing wrong?”

“Joel—we have sex, you buy me something ridiculous. Or, you buy me something ridiculous without my knowledge and then we end up having sex, how does that look to you?”

“Now, I’m not doing that because of sex—”

“But, you see how it looks? How it makes me feel?” You argue with him, “Joel, I can’t help how I feel about you, like—it feels physically impossible, but the constant gifts makes this seem transactional. I don’t want that. I’m already a secret, I don’t need to be bought either.”

Joel shakes his head in silent disbelief, “You really think that’s how I view you? That’s it?”

“You haven’t tried very hard to make me think otherwise, Joel.” You tell him honestly, “I don’t need you showering me with cars and clothes and shit that I don’t need—and if that’s what you feel like you need to do, I don’t want to do…whatever this is anymore.”

Fucking him, sneaking around in secret. You weren’t dating, but it sure fucking felt like it. One intimate moment from a love confession that would seal the deal on your perception of him.

Joel kicks at the gravel as he rises to his feet, pulling you up by your forearm, an immediate look of both confusion and frustration crossing your features as he turns you and presses your chest against the front of his truck, shadowed by the cover of night. His belt clanks together loudly as he undoes his jeans behind you, tucking them far down enough he can pull his cock from the confines of his underwear, lifting up the hem of your dress and yanking your own underwear down your legs and off, and you should stop him—but you don’t want to.

This was the problem. You couldn’t get enough of Joel.

He slips inside of you with ease, pulling a sharp gasp from your chest that he stifles with his hand, clasped over your mouth, fucking into you with a reverance that was new.

“Joel—we’refuck—we can’t here,” You try to say, yanking his hand away from your mouth, “we’ll get caught.”

Joel grips the base of your neck roughly, fingers curling around the sides as he tilts your head back and looks into your eyes, other hand coming around the bottom of your chin until you’re forced to look up and back at him, not a single speck of warm brown in sight. He looked angry.

But, it didn’t feel like it was directed toward you. Regardless, he fucked you like he was.

“I’ll return the fuckin’ car,” He starts to ramble, “I’ll return everything if that makes you think differently. God—” He snaps his hips harshly, earning a broken sob from you as you reach behind you blindly for something to anchor yourself on, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, “—never want you to think this is transactional, baby. It never—never was.”

Never would be, you want him to say.

“Whaddya want me to say?” Joel asks before you can speak, “That I care about you—baby, I fuckin’ do. I thought that was obvious. Know—know I shouldn’t, that it’s wrong, but I knew—”

You gasp raggedly, his hand leaving your chin to find your clit, just the right amount of pressure to have your hands clawing at his skin, head resting back against his shoulder as he fucked into you.

“And I’ll keep this a secret if—if it means I can have you but this isn’t transactional,” He continues to speak, despite your inability, tipping over the edge of your orgasm as his hips stutter slightly, “it never will be.”

That—that was what you needed to hear. Pulling him taut against you as he buried his mouth into the junction of your neck and nipped, biting at the skin roughly but not enough to break skin.

“Come inside me,” You gasp, chest rising and falling quickly, “please—Joel, please?”

“You like when I fuck you like this, don’t you?” Joel teases, “Never ask for anything but my cum—greedy girl,” You moan at his words, spurring him even further, “tell me baby, tell me how much you want it.”

“So bad,” You whine, “Joel, please give it to me—fuck—all of it, please?”

Joel snaps his hips a few more times before his hand is releasing your neck, crossing over your chest and squeezing tightly at your breast as he pulses inside of you, pumping his hips and filling you full of his spend.

Joel kisses at the exposed skin of your shoulder, pulling out with a soft grunt, the slow jingle of metal sounding behind you as you reached for the underwear he offered you, slipping it back up your legs and into place, despite how Joel’s cum dripped out of you, something he makes point of as his fingers drag along the material, causing you gasp softy at his touch, swatting his hand away. He chuckles lowly at the annoyed glare you shoot his way.

Joel shifts your hips until you turn in his grip, back pressing against cool metal. He crowds you in again, leaving you feeling breathless as he grips your face, but his touch is surprisingly tender.

“What do we say?” He says softly, lips pressing against your own.

“Thank you,” You retort sarcastically, capturing his lips in a quick, bruising kiss as you card your fingers into his hair at the base of his neck, pulling gently, “this doesn’t change anything—I don’t want the car.”

“You don’t have to take it,” Joel settles, “but it’ll be here if you need it.”

You pull away further, looking at him endearingly, watching as his eyes flick briefly toward the house.

“What do we do–about this?” You ask quietly, afraid someone might be listening in despite being alone, “About…whatever this is.”

“Hey,” Joel assures gently, “don’t worry about that—not tonight.”

“Joel—” You plead, eyes searching desperately into his own.

“I care about you, that’s all you need to worry about.” Joel speaks truthfully, his thumb rubbing along the line of your jaw as you swallow, muscles tense under his touch.

And you’re wondering if he’s just saying what you want to her—that maybe this was still a game to him and he was letting you feed into it, nodding to his confession. Joel is all in, offering you his metaphorical hand.

You sigh shakily, “Okay—I trust you.” So please, don’t let me down.

And you know things will eventually implode, but you intend to hold on the brief moment of hope you have now, safe under his gaze as he leads you back to the house, everyone blissfully unaware of the moments you’ve shared, leaving you resigned to appreciate the greedy looks his shares with you across the room.

It was a dangerous game, but you were willing to take the risks.

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #bfd!joel #pedro pascal characters #pedrostories #my writing

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midniqhtt · 1 year ago

Text

joel miller

masterlist • pedro pascal characters • 05/04/24

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

two three four five

𑣲 declined pt2 pt3 I @alltheirdamn

You're on a cross-country road trip when your tires blow, and you're forced to get them fixed at a small town mechanic shop. When your card declines, you only have one other option to get your car back.

𑣲 a happy man I @psychedelic-ink

when your friend sets you up on a blind date, you had no idea how impactful it would be.

𑣲 once again in your arms I @foli-vora

the day of the outbreak, reader and baby were in town and she couldnt call joel (or viceversa) cause the phone lines were down. they were separated for a few years until they arrives at the quarantine zone he's in, and he recognizes them in the crowd.

𑣲 invisible sting I @quin-ns

bill and frank host. tess is jealous. joel is confronted with his feelings. you cry over a shower

𑣲 snowflakes, a fireplace, and you I @swiftispunk

you get more than you bargained for when you end up snowed in at miller's inn on christmas eve.

𑣲 seams I @fuckyeahdindjarin

𑣲 joel drabble I @suzdin

𑣲 as long as you want pt2 pt3 I @auteurdelabre

When you're injured in the stables one morning your patrol partner and enemy Joel Miller is the only one there to help.

𑣲 the not so invisible string I @stylesispunk

you and Joel were made right for each other in the wrong time. Now, thirteen years later your paths crossed when both of your daughters get in trouble at school. Would be the right time for you now?

𑣲 i couldn’t want you anymore I @/stylesispunk

when Sarah's mom came back into Joel's life to fight for their past relationship, Joel needs to convince he is in a happy relationship with the florist next to his gallery in order to make her go away. The problem is, he and the florist can't stand each other's guts or that it's what he thinks.

𑣲 the falling pt2 pt3 I @getitoutofmymindwrites

you catch Joel cheating on you. The world comes crushing down.

𑣲 greener memories of better men I @netherfeildren

Best Story of the Day! South Austin elementary school started a “Breakfast With Dads” program but many dads couldn’t make it and several students didn’t have father figures. The school posted fliers at the local YMCA’s for 50 volunteer fathers… 600 different people from all backgrounds showed up…

𑣲 jealous I @eufezco

you’re a little jealous of tess.

𑣲 soft sweet I @cavillscurls

You share your first kiss with the last man you ever expected: your older, grouchy, overly protective patrol partner, Joel Miller.

𑣲 let me (put my lips to somethin’) I @bluebeary-jay

5 times you wanted to kiss Joel, and 1 time it actually happened

𑣲 needs I @toxicanonymity

Joel wants to find a bed before you go all the way, but neither of you can wait that long.

𑣲 wildflower and barely I @yellowharrington

after deciding to change your age range on a dating app in hope of a change of scenery, you stumble across joel miller.

𑣲 arms tonite I @motherjoel

basically its YOU who gets stabbed by the baseball bat. joel isnt good with feelings. david does not exist david cant hurt anybody. a bit of angst and a bit of fluff. also LOOSELY based on arms tonite by mother mother

𑣲 don’t take the girl I @alt-vera

when faced with a life-threatening choice, joel miller makes a surprising confession.

𑣲 feels so right I @fake-bleach

Your college boyfriend's a dick, and it doesn't help that he dragged you along with him to a bar just to treat you like shit. You plan on catching a ride home after an incident between you two, but turns out that your dad's best friend's there too, and he saw everything. He ends up offering you a ride instead, but there's no promises that you make it back home for the night.

𑣲 sweetheart I @dustydaddyyy

you're home from college for summer '99 to visit your parents, when your eye wanders upon their next-door neighbor, joel miller.

𑣲 honey stained hands I @jolalibrary

He knew what Jackson was when he arrived the second time. A communal, a place where everyone chips in. It's why he doesn't turn his nose up when he's given menial tasks. One of which, is fixing his neighbour's porch. His neighbour, who is pretty and smiles too sweetly, bakes cakes for special birthdays, and stares at the toolbox he's been given with a haunted look, one which raises more questions than answers.

𑣲 softdom joel I @joelscruff

a collection of important moments between you and joel miller, your grumpy new patrol partner in jackson, wyoming.

𑣲 one thing im missing I @/joelscruff

you and joel accidentally end up falling asleep together, and what follows is the beginning of a quiet and tender relationship neither of you saw coming.

𑣲 somewhere to run I @punkshort

You move to a small town in the middle of Texas to escape your past and start over. You don't expect to fall for the town's handsome sheriff.

𑣲 hate when you’re right I @/punkshort

After a heated argument with Joel, you finally convince him into leaving Jackson so you could explore a store for new clothes, and what happens could change your life forever.

𑣲 in the woods somewhere I @eupheme

When a break-in startles you awake, it’s hard not to assume the worst. But when the thief is revealed to be a teenager just trying to help her wounded guardian - you find your heart softening.

𑣲 are you mine? I @/eupheme

A change in your usual patrol schedule, a dash of over-protectiveness, and a gossipy partner leads to you desperately wish you could turn back time

𑣲 hating game I @gutsby

Celebrating your dad’s birthday at the yacht club becomes damn near unbearable when Joel Miller brings a date along too. Jealousy and hate sex ensue.

𑣲 abstaining game I @/gutsby

The only thing worse than an anti-sex retreat is an anti-sex retreat with your former fuckbuddy and dad’s best friend. Especially when sharing one cabin.

𑣲 wingman I @/gutsby

Your bestie braves the tampon aisle for you.

𑣲 kiss to kiss I @jobean12-blog

Joel is grumpier than usual and the only way to make it better is YOU.

#joel miller #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller series #joel miller oneshot #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal #joel miller masterlist #jm masterlist #joel miller fic rec

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mickandmusings · 11 months ago

Text

vi. 'tis the damn season

part of the 'hangman & honey' series!

summary: for the past six months, jake has spent every spare moment attempting to mend communication between he and honey. for months, he uses his phone calls to phone her, leave long voicemails, and writes her multiple letters a week. his efforts come with no avail, she never calls or writes him back. with christmas around the corner, jake makes his way back home to texas, but not before making an important stop along the way.

word count: 6.1k

warnings: 18+ mdni!! (dirty talk, but no explicit descriptions); definite military inaccuracies; definite college inaccuracies; general angst; christmas story in august?

'Dear Honey,

I know this is the third or fourth letter this week, and I'm not even sure if you're receiving these, but I can't just not write to you. I left you another voicemail, and I'm not sure if you're listening to those either, but I have talked to you nearly everyday since we were nine, and, well, that's not a habit you break easily. I called you on your birthday last week and left a message, and I sent you a card, I hope you got them both.

Honey, I'm sorry. I'll say it in every voicemail and every letter until you believe me. I shouldn't have taken so long to tell you the truth. I regret it. If I could take it all back, you know I would. I didn't do it to hurt you, I never want to hurt you. But I know I did, and no words I could say or write will change that. I'm sorry. I'll say it over and over again until you understand how much I mean that.

I know you likely don't want to hear about my time here, but I've always told you everything. If you don't want to hear me talk about it, I thought you might read about it. I can't ever remember a time you weren't reading.

Life here is different. Not bad, just...hard. The weather is certainly cooler than the winters back home. We even got snow, true snow, not the shitty kind we get in Haven. It sticks to the ground, and you can actually play in it, not just bust your ass on ice and sleet. Things are always very routine and strict, but, considering it's a week til Christmas break, things are looking up. Honestly, I've never been more ready to go back home to Texas. Granny said she spoke to you about coming home for Christmas, since you missed Thanksgiving? I really hope you'll come around. I miss you, Honey. I haven't heard your voice since that voicemail you sent me in October. Look, you can stay at the other house, I'll set it up for you before you even get here. Or, I'll stay there, and you can have our my room. You don't even have to talk to me, just please come. Just seeing you would be enough.

My bunkmate, Javy, the one I've mentioned to you for the past few months, he's from New Orleans. He's coming home for Christmas, and he's going to drop me off at the airport there. I'll fly back to Austin from there, and Pawpaw will be there to pick me up. Sometimes, at night or when we have spare time, Javy tells me about his life back home in Louisiana. More often than not, it makes me think of you. They make me think of the birthday beignets you make for Pawpaw, and how you'd make us gumbo in the winter. Frankly, everything makes me think of you. Honey, I see you everywhere. There are these bushes outside Bancroft Hall, and they're full of these little white and red flowers. I'm not sure what they're called, but they're pretty, and I know you'd love them. There's a kid in one of my morning classes, and he's got your accent too. It's nice to hear, I haven't heard your voice in so long. I hope the Magnolia State is treating you well. I imagine you're much happier with your favorite flower all around you.

I don't have much else to tell you about. I'd like to tell you my other stories when we're face to face again. I just wanted to let you know I miss you, and I love you, always. Call me back or write to me whenever you get the chance, if you're feeling up to it.

All my love,

Jake'

Honey holds the paper tightly in her hands, letting it crinkle under the pressure of her grasp. If he'd sent this letter when they'd first split, she'd have balled it up or ripped it to pieces with her blinding, white-hot rage. She had been so angry when she'd first moved away, ignoring his incessant phone calls and numerous voicemails. She had let his letters pile up on her desk, unopened and unread. In the chance that he'd sent this letter just a few months later, she would have stained the ink of his letters with her tears. After her anger came a fierce sadness, one that seeped into her bones and left her incapacitated, ridden with the agony that threatened to pull her under like a rogue wave. But now, as she stares down at Jake's scratchy handwriting across the lined paper, she simply feels numb. His letter does not spark an onslaught of tears or suffocating sobs that leave her chest heaving. She simply folds the letter back up and slides it back into its envelope, placing it gently on her desktop, deciding to deal with it later, much like the emotions it evoked.

She knows she shouldn't, but she grabs the familiar orange sweatshirt that lives on her bed and throws it over her head. It comes to her knees and the sleeves are far too long, but it provides her with a comfort she almost wishes it didn't. In her tiny dorm room in Starkville, her small college town (although bigger than Haven,) she feels isolated. Her entire life for the past six months had simply been going-through-the-motions of life: wake up, go to class, come home, study, finish assignments, work a shift at her on-campus job, shower, repeat. Life had become monotonous, something that her life with Jake never was.

She knows she shouldn't wallow. She should try and get out, make more friends-more than just the lady at the circulation desk in the library-and try to enjoy her life at nineteen. But, once again, that gnawing, creeping feeling infiltrates her chest, Honey wasn't like her classmates. She wouldn't enjoy sitting in a bar or attending a frat party. She'd sit in the corner alone, nursing a drink she likely wouldn't finish, and leave with an Irish goodbye. Now, all she had was a sweatshirt that smelled faintly of the boy she once slept next to each night, and it was her only source of comfort.

Honey knows she should get up and call Mrs. Janet, to let her know that she's okay, and that she was settled. The last time she'd spoken to her or Mr. Jacob had been nearly two weeks ago. She should call Haley and Sarah Grace back, both of her hometown friends had been calling since they'd met up for the last time in October. She knows she should stop shutting those who loved her out-Jake included-but that was a different situation entirely.

Instead of doing any of the aforementioned, she simply sinks into her comforter and puts her headphones on, effectively shutting out the rest of the world. She was glad her roommate had left for her own home state, leaving her alone in the dorm room for the next two weeks. Deep down, Honey knew she was lying to herself. She yearned for the feeling of home, her true home, on a farm in Texas. She craved Mrs. Janet's cowboy cookies that she made at least two dozen too many of, and Mr. Jacob's Christmas ham that took hours to get just right, but was so worth it when it practically melted in her mouth. She missed sitting around a room full of the Seresin family, watching the children open new toys and heaps of candy. She'd laugh as they opened new clothes with sour faces, quickly ditching them for the next box in shiny wrapping. Their childlike joy made her own flare, leaving her chest warm as she giggled quietly in Jake's arms. She missed Jake sneaking them eggnog from the kitchen, and the babbling laughter they erupted into when they realized no matter how much older they got, it was always just as disgusting as the first time he'd snuck it when they were thirteen. Mostly, she missed the warm, peaceful feeling she felt when she was in a room full of people she loved most. In a bout of honesty, she admits that maybe, just maybe, she just missed Jake.

Through her headphones, she can hear the rain patter against her window, and she sighs, the weather only adding to her melancholy mood. Honey knew if she chose to rot in bed, her emotions would only grow heavier, so with a deep sigh, she rolls out of bed and slides on her worn sneakers. She takes off Jake's Longhorns hoodie and swaps it for her own, tosses the hood over her head, and grabs the keys to Jake's truck. She grabs her finished library books to return, and her wallet, deciding to wallow in the secluded section of the library instead. She walks out of her dorm room, locks the door, and takes the stairs down to the lobby. She pushes the door open and heads out into the rain.

Honey would never make it to the library that day.

Two weeks prior...

"You scribblin' away for that girl again, Seresin?"

Javy's voice fills Jake's ears, and Jake doesn't bother looking up as he shoots his roommate a middle finger salute. Javy laughs at the action before climbing into his top bunk, leaning his head against his pillow. There's silence between the two before Javy's voice cuts through again.

"So when are you gonna tell me about her?"

From the second that Javy had met Jake, it seemed like something was weighing his bunkmate down. It wasn't until a week or so later, when they both were calling home, that Javy learned it wasn't something, it was someone. Jake kept information about his girl on lock, so Javy knew little information: her name was Honey, which Javy found odd, but brushed it off. She was studying English at a college in Mississippi, and Jake had, somehow, royally fucked things up with her before he'd come to the Academy.

Jake sighs, stopping his writing as he looks up at his friend on the top bunk.

"If I tell you, will you shut up for ten minutes so I can write?"

Javy nods, his brown eyes sparkling with a stream of questions he'd been burning to ask.

"Fine, what'dya want to know?"

Javy is quiet for a moment, looking up at the ceiling, as if pondering something.

"What's she like? Wait! No, let me guess! She was a cheerleader, pretty little thing, prom queen, the whole nine-yards to your little All-American thing."

Jake lets out a laugh, thinking of Honey as he shakes his head.

"You couldn't be more wrong. Except the pretty part, she-she's gorgeous."

"Really?" Javy sits up and leans over the metal railing of the bunk. "What? Is she like some metal chick with the eyeliner?"

Javy motions around his eye to emphasize his point.

Jake's eyes widened, continuing to shake his head.

"Definitely not."

"Then what's she like? C'mon man, you gotta give me something! You're always callin' her and writin' her, and I never see you get a response. She got you under Love Potion Number Nine or something? She do the whole magic thing? Can't trust that man."

"No, no, she's not like that. She's-," Jake pauses, trying to find the most accurate words to describe Honey. "She's quiet, shy, she's practically the opposite of me. She likes to read, a lot. I don't think there's ever been a time in our lives when she didn't have a book in her hand. She's kind, never lacking patience when it comes to all of my bullshit. And smart, ridiculously so, she's the smartest person I know. Honey is...witty, and funny, she's got this sarcastic sense of humor that you'd never expect from her. W-We've been friends since we were kids. We started datin' in high school, and we had this fight before I came here, and, obviously, she's still mad about it, so...yeah."

Javy notes the glimmer in Jake's eyes as he talks about his girlfriend, a small smile forming across his lips. Javy hadn't known Jake for more than six months, but this was probably the happiest he'd seen his bunkmate. Javy shrugs, giving his friend another incredulous look.

"So what are you gonna do about it, Seresin?"

Jake's jade eyes look up at him, his letter finished but suddenly forgotten.

"What do you mean? She obviously doesn't want to speak to me. The only time she's spoken to me in six months is when she left me a drunk voicemail on Halloween, saying how I made her cry. What am I supposed to do with that? If she saw me, she'd probably knock my lights out."

Javy shrugs. "But do you love her?"

Jake looks down at his well-kept shoes.

"More than she'll ever know."

"You said she's studying in Starkville? You think she's going back to Texas for Christmas?"

"It's unlikely," Jake responds, his voice somber at the admission. "Why?"

"Well," Javy props back onto his pillow, his hands tucked under his head. "I'm driving back home for Christmas, passin' right through Mississippi. It sounds like if you messed this up, you need to be the one to fix it. Show her you haven't given up, and you want her back. If you surprise her, maybe she'll give you a chance to explain yourself."

Jake's heart hammers in his chest, his friend's plan wasn't entirely bad. Jake looks up at his bunkmate, his face set in a knowing look.

"Honey hates surprises."

"And you hate living without her, which one will be worse: her temporary anger, or never speakin' to her again?"

Jake sighs, he hates that Javy was right. Maybe it was a stupid idea, cancelling his flight back home from Austin, tagging along on a road trip with Javy to get the love of his life back. But, a week later, Jake's duffel was slung into the backseat of Javy's car haphazardly as he rode shotgun, giving his friend directions toward a small Mississippi town.

Now, Honey makes her way across the rainy parking lot. Through her blurry eyesight, she quickly finds Jake's truck in the nearly empty parking lot. She fishes the key from the bundle of keys in her hand, sliding it into the key slot on the door and unlocking the door. Before she could remove the key and pop open the door, Honey hears a voice call out her name. She pauses, and for a split second, she thinks she hears Jake's voice. She shakes her head, pulling at the driver's side door. It was often shut too hard, and she had to pull with a good portion of her strength to get it to open. As she tugs on the handle, she hears it again, her name in Jake's voice. She tugs harder, thinking she was finally losing her mind.

"Honey, wait!"

The footsteps behind her alert her that the voice she had been hearing likely wasn't just a hallucination. She turns abruptly, and her heart stops in her chest. There, standing before her in a rain-soaked Navy sweatshirt and jeans, his significantly shorter blonde locks plastered against his forehead, was one Jake Seresin. Honey's eyes widened in shock, the breath in her chest growing short and ragged. She pulls her books closer to her chest, an action of both shock and keeping them as dry as possible. Her eyes dart back and forth between his own. She's quiet for a moment, rendered completely speechless.

"Jake?!" Her eyebrows furrowed. "What the hell are you doing here?! You-You're supposed to be on a plane to Austin right now!"

Jake stands in front of her, motionless, as his eyes take her in completely. It had been so long since he'd seen her, and he simply wanted to peer at her forever. She hadn't changed much, she was still shorter than him in stature, still an avid reader by the small pile of books she'd finally tossed onto the truck seat, but her eyes didn't quite shine like they once had. Jake's heart hammered in his chest, staring at the girl he loved standing in front of him in the pouring rain, arms crossed over her chest, shivering in the cold.

"Jake, hey?!" She waves her hand in front of his face, attempting to gain his attention. "What are you doing here?!"

Honey's voice is loud enough to hear over the rain pelting around them both. Her eyes are wide as he looks down at her, his hands itch to touch her, but he keeps them at his side. He takes another look into her eyes, and he simply loses every ounce of control he has. He takes a step forward towards her, his hands come to rest on either side of her face. Honey wants to knock his hands away, she wants to let her anger simmer forever, but the warmth of his calloused touch provides her with a comfort she hadn't felt in so long. If it had not been raining so fiercely, both halves of the pair would realize the tears running down one another's face. He's silent for a long moment, simply taking in her face for the first time in months.

"Honey, I-I fucked up," Jake starts, his voice trembling with a flurry of emotions. "Honey, I fucked up so, so bad."

He pauses, allowing the rain to soak through both their clothes, his thumb brushing carefully against her cheek. His bottom lip trembles, his hands beginning to shake against her face. Honey says nothing, only braving a look into his green eyes darkening with tears.

"I-I've apologized a thousand times over the past six months and it's not enough. It'll never be enough, because knowin' I hurt you?" He pauses and shakes his head with his lips pressed into a fine line, effectively keeping him from bursting into sobs. "Honey, that shit has ripped me to shreds everyday since you left. I-I never meant to hurt you, ever. I'll spend the rest of my life apologizin' to you if that's what you want." His eyes bore into her own, his breaths shaky.

"I'll spend the rest of my life on hands and knees, grovelin' if that's what you want. A-And if you tell me to fuck off and never speak to you again, I-I'll do it. Just-just know that all of me-body, heart, soul, everything I am-it belongs to you. If you've decided that you're movin' on, and you want to do everythin' we planned with someone else, I won't try to stop it. But, you have to know somethin', and I need you to understand that it doesn't matter if you move to Canada, o-or you stay here, or you move back to Haven, my heart forever sits in your hands. It's yours, forever, whether I have yours or not. That house on my grandparent's farm? I fixed it for you, it's yours. This truck? It's yours, take it. Honey, you can have whatever you want, I'll buy you whatever you want, I'll make it if I can't buy it. Tell me what you want, and I'll make it happen. Whatever it is, baby, it's yours."

His chest moves quickly with his rapid breaths, his hands shaking from his contained emotions. Honey simply looks at him, still a bit shocked that he's standing in front of her. If she wasn't overwhelmed by the landslide of apologies he'd just spouted, she'd have given him her own back. Instead, she stands a bit still, her chest just as heavy as his. He mistakes her silence as rejection, and his face falls as he gives a subtle nod of his head. His hands move from her face, and, in that split second, Honey is shocked into action. She wouldn't lose him again, she couldn't lose him again. In one quick swoop, she grabs the wrists of his sweatshirt, pulling his attention back to her. She speaks a tad louder than her normal tone, ensuring he would hear her over the pelting rain.

"You, all I want is you. That-That's all I've ever wanted, Jake!"

He catches a glimpse of her face, her cheeks pink as she shivers, but her eyes, they were the same love-filled gaze he'd remembered. He wanted to begin another string of apologies, to assure her that he meant everything he said, but he never got the chance. In an action almost completely out of nature for the shy girl he knew, her arms were around his neck, pulling his lips towards hers in a heated passion. He wasted no time in indulging in the action, his hands coming to her hips, lifting her a bit higher to deepen the kiss. The sweet kiss quickly turns to a clash of teeth and heated movements, and Jake quickly hoists her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as if it were muscle memory.

From his car across the lot, Javy shakes his head and smiles as the two embrace one another. He cranks his car back up, backs out of the parking spot and turns back onto the main road. He shakes his head as he thinks of his friend, mumbling to himself as he drives:

"Tis the damn season, Seresin, you lucky dog."

Back at the school, it only takes a split second for the couple's kiss to grow a bit too intense for the parking lot setting, and, without thinking, Jake pulls her through the lobby's double doors and into the elevator, where the two finally break apart for a split second.

"J-Jake, I-I never should've left like that, I-,"

She doesn't get to finish, Jake's lips are back on hers, this time with more fervor than before. Honey shudders, with both the cold from her wet clothes and the heat building in her torso. They break apart as the elevator dings, and Honey is pulling Jake by the hand back to her dorm. She all but shoves him inside, locking the door behind her. Jake wastes no time in crossing back to her, slowly pulling off the hood of her hoodie, his eyes widening when he glances at her mostly dry hair.

"Y-Your hair, it's...shorter."

She chuckles. "Yeah, I just needed a change...you're one to talk, J, I've never seen your hair that short."

He pulls her in closer by her hips, lifting the soaked hoodie over her head as he speaks.

"Yeah, well, plebe summer wasn't my best look, you're just lucky you missed me bald, baby."

Even in the dim light of the dorm room, Jake notes the darkening look of her gaze, her lids growing heavier with desire. Honey's hand comes to the short hair growing on the nape of his neck, her head cocking to the side as she threads her fingers through the new growth, a look on her face he can't quite place. He pulls her flush against him, attempting to read her look.

"Hm, yeah," she starts. "I'm real glad I missed that part. Y'know, why?"

The girl below him moves to kiss the underside of his jaw, making his hands tighten on the grip he has on her hips.

"Why's that, baby?"

Honey's lips move to his neck, his hands slipping past her hips and to the round of her bottom. Above all else, Jake Seresin had been raised to be a Southern gentleman, but his resolve was slipping.

"Because," Honey starts, her accent slipping through, causing the heat in Jake's lower half to grow unbearable as her lips continue their course down his skin. "I like havin' somethin' to hold onto when you're between my thighs."

Long gone was Honey's shy demeanor, and long gone was Jake's gentlemanly resolution. Without a word, he's tossing his own damp sweatshirt over his head and throwing it to the floor with her own. Honey has ditched her drenched shirt and sweatpants, now standing nearly bare between Jake's arms. Without a second of hesitation, Jake pulls her onto the ridiculously small bed, but he pays it no mind, more focused on the grinning girl beneath him. He kisses her lips passionately, his hands resting on her bare thighs. His own heart hammers, and, as he kisses down Honey's neck, he can feel her own beating just as loudly. He pulls away, tossing off his damp jeans to the floor. He looks down at her almost bare frame, his emerald eys heavy with lust, but his voice is cased in affection.

"If this is what you want, that's certainly fine with me, but I need to hear you say it, baby."

Honey looks up at Jake's kind but intense gaze, her heart slowing a bit.

"After that whole The Notebook-esque apology you pulled, yes, I want this."

She nods in confirmation, and Jake wastes no time in attaching his lips back to hers. Honey's hands fly back to his hair, her fingers digging into his locks. Jake's hands come to her torso, carefully sliding off the clothing constricting her chest and tossing it onto the floor. He pauses for a brief moment, staring down as he hovers over her. Honey looks up at him, her head cocking to the side.

"Jake? Hey, what's the matter?"

Jake's mind is in overdrive, and he simply feels the urge to stop and stare at her. She's bare before him, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with affection. Jake swallows thickly as he pushes hair out of her face.

"Honey, you-you're beautiful. I am the luckiest man on fuckin' Earth, baby."

Honey blushes at his compliment, pulling him back in with a heated kiss.

"You're such a smooth talker, Seresin...but right now, I need you to use that mouth of yours for somethin' other than talkin'."

Jake grins from ear to ear, the usual smirk she's used to seeing painted across his face. His thumb brushes against the fabric adorning her hip, gently pushing it down. He tosses them to the floor along with the other clothes they'd shed, and nudges his way in between her legs. Heat fills the space between them completely as he speaks:

"Yes ma'am."

Hours later, in the late hours of the night, Honey is woken by the vibrating of something nearby. Jake-who has her pressed into his chest with the strength of a bear-doesn't budge. Honey, ever the light sleeper, groans, lightly tapping Jake's shoulders. His body moves, but he simply curls back into their shared pillow. She shoves him again, a little harder this time as she speaks.

"Jake," Her words receive no response, so she speaks again. "Jake!"

It's Jake's turn to groan, his arms pulling her closer to his bare chest.

"Hm? What is it, baby?"

Honey's lack-of-sleep induced annoyance fades at the nickname she so adores.

"Your phone is ringing."

Jake groans again, slipping out from under the blush pink sheets and searching for his phone that he assumed was still lodged into his jean pocket. Honey opts to glance at his newly toned arms and strong, broad shoulders, his time training in Maryland obviously having physical gain. He hits the button on the screen, not bothering to look at the caller ID, and speaks:

"Hello?"

"Jacob Thomas! Where the hell are you?!" His grandfather's voice fills his ears, and Jake pales. Shit. He had completely forgotten to tell his grandparents about his detour. "I've been sitting at the airport for three hours, son!"

"Pawpaw, I-I'm sorry, Javy just decided to take me all the way back to-" He's cut off abruptly.

"Look, that's fine, but you could've called. Your grandmother's callin' and she's pissed, son. Just get home, alright? Preferably sometime before Christmas Eve? She's already distraught about Honey not comin' around, so, the sooner the better. Heard?"

"Loud and clear."

"Alright, well, I love you, kid. Be careful."

"Love you too."

Jake hangs up the phone, crawling back into Honey's sheets and pulling her back into his arms. Honey's nose burrows into the crook of his neck, Jake's warm skin against her own far warmer than any blanket she owned. Jake's hand ghosted against her side, the other threading through her hair. His voice is low and soft as he speaks:

"How do you feel about Christmas in Texas?"

Honey's eyes open, looking up at her boyfriend with a shy smile, completely retreating back into her usual quiet self, a stark difference from the heated confidence that had run through her only hours before. Her eyes glimmered in the moonlight, a wide grin on her face as she buries herself back into his neck, his toned arms pulling her in tightly.

"I don't know if they'd even want me there, I should've called Mrs. Janet back, haven't responded in like two weeks."

Jake scoffs, pushing back a hair from her face.

"Don't even think like that. They're gonna be more excited to see you than me."

"Guess we'll find out." Honey pushes up from her spot next to Jake, sliding out of bed and slipping on new clothes before packing a small bag for the road. Jake watches from the bed, a smile across his face. He rests his hands behind his head, his blonde locks tossed about from their rendezvous. Honey turns to him once she's dressed.

"Are you gonna show up like that? Not that I mind this look, but your grandmother might have some issues with it." She laughs lightly, tossing him his now dry shirt. "You might want to get dressed, babe."

Honey stills and grows red when the nickname falls from her lips without any thought. She turns to Jake, his eyebrow furrowed humorously at the nickname, his right pointer finger beckons her closer. She stands next to him beside the bed, his hand pulling her in by the waist.

"Where did that come from?"

"I-I don't know," she admits bashfully. "B-But if you don't like it-"

"Baby, I more than liked it."

He pulls her closer, plopping her back into the sheets with him. She practically rests completely atop him. His hands move to pull up her shirt, his hands resting on her now bare waist. She makes note of his gaze darkening as he looks down at her, his arousal evident against her leg.

"Jake," her voice is a whisper. "We should really get on the road."

Jake smirks, his lips now kissing the sweet spot behind her ear.

"I'll get up as soon as you do."

Unable to resist one another, they were nearly another two hours before they got back on the road. After those hours and a ridiculously long drive back home to Haven, Honey now rested comfortably in the passenger side of Jake's her truck, Jake's thumb rubbing against her thigh. Both of them were incredibly tired from the prolonged trip, and more than ready to collapse into his childhood bed they'd shared for years. As Jake turned onto Seresin Farm Road, Honey felt her nerves kick in. Despite her excitement to return to the home that had nurtured her, she worried that she was going to be a burden for Janet and Jacob. She hadn't told either of them that she'd be coming home, and Jake hadn't either. She slid closer in the seat to Jake, her head resting on his arm. He looks down at her as they pass one of the many fields on the property.

"You alright, baby? You're lookin' a little out of it."

"M'fine, just nervous."

Jake's eyes cut down at her. "Nervous?"

"It's stupid, I know. I just, didn't tell anyone I was coming, and I don't want to be a burden to your grandparents."

"Honey, you're family. You don't have to let us know you're comin'."

Honey smiles, her nerves fading as the house comes into view. Jake parks the truck, the backwards baseball cap over his head covering his short, blonde locks completely. He cuts her a sly grin, a look of mischief drawn across his face.

"Want to really surprise them?"

Honey cocks her head, puzzled. Jake simply kisses her cheek and hops out of the truck, moving to open the door on her side. He comes to the front door, opening it and promptly hiding Honey behind his taller frame. He comes to the entrance of the kitchen, raising his finger to his lips as he leaves her only a few feet away in the foyer. She can hear his boots against the hardwood as he walks.

"Hey," he speaks simply, both Janet and Jacob Sr.'s eyes cutting to their grandson standing in their doorway.

"Jacob! You scared the devil outta me! Get over here!" Janet shuffles the towering young man into a hug after lightly chastising him.

"Sorry I'm late," Jake's voice is muffled against his grandmother's neck. "Had to make a detour and pick up a little surprise for you."

His grandmother pulls away, her eyebrows furrowed as she gives the blonde a questioning look. "Surprise?"

Jake sends her a blinding smile. He pokes his head around the corner, beckoning Honey forward with his pointer finger. Honey shakes her head as she approaches, and Jake slings his arm around her shoulder.

"Hi," Honey speaks quietly. Janet and Jacob Sr. both turn, smiles painting across their faces.

"Honey! Oh my, sweet girl, you did surprise us!" Janet's voice is bubbly as she shuffles over to her grandson's girlfriend, pulling her into a tight hug. "Oh! And look at that hair, it's just darlin' on you!"

Honey feels her heart hammer, and she has to swallow down her tears as the older woman embraces her. Jake's grandfather follows suit, and Honey can no longer stop the tears rolling down her face. Janet wipes them away with the back of her hand.

"You alright there, Hon?" Jacob Sr. fills her ears. Honey nods through her tears, crossing the kitchen back to Jake's arms. He pulls her close, kissing the crown of her head as her tears stain his shirt. Janet's eyes gleam as she sees the two being affectionate again. She had been so worried about them both being apart for so long.

"I'm fine, promise." Honey's voice wobbles slightly. "I'm just really, really happy to be home. I didn't want to be a burden, but, I-I've really missed you guys."

"Oh nonsense! I promise we're happy to have you home, sweetheart." Janet's own face wobbles with emotion. "Now, c'mon, I'm glad I waited to make desserts, now I've got double the help."

She shuffles her bowls of ingredients around on the counter and Honey pulls away from Jake, more than happy to lend a hand with making sweets. Jake slips out of the kitchen to allow them to share their moment, and finds himself lounging next to his grandfather in the living room.

The graying man peers up at him over his glasses, giving him a satisfied look.

"Smart move there, son."

Jake directs his eyes from the black and white film on the TV to his grandfather.

"What do you mean?"

"Bringin' Honey home, makin' things right with her. Me and your Granny learned real quick this place doesn't feel the same when you two aren't around."

Jake smiles, shocked by the amount of emotion behind his usually stoic grandfather's words. The older man only gives him a hint of a smile before focusing on his western movie again. Jake listens as he hears Honey's laughter from the kitchen, and for the first time in six months, he feels content. Exhausted from hours of driving and he and Honey's activities in her dorm, he falls asleep on the couch.

Later, after Honey and Janet have finished their baking for the night, Honey spots Jake sprawled across the sofa, his boots and hat abandoned at the end. She covers him up with the blanket that rests behind him, placing a kiss on his forehead. She hadn't intended to wake him, but his eyes popped open. He's not fully awake, still a little bleary eyed as his hands fumble for her torso.

"C'mon, J, you're tired. Let's go to bed."

"Hm, lead the way, baby."

That night, Jake sleeps with Honey under his chin, tucked comfortably into his hold as tightly as possible. He dreams of Honey vividly-although mundane and simple, his dreams are a comfort: them sitting placidly with one another as she reads and he looks on as her voice fills his ears. For the first time in nearly six months, both of them slept peacefully and deeply, in a way they never could without sleeping next to one another. Tomorrow, when the Texas sun blares through Jake's thin curtains, they'll both be thrown headfirst into holiday preparations. But tonight, under the same roof where their story had ended, it begins again: Honey, in Jake's arms, sleeping content and comfortable in the bedroom up the stairs.

taglist:

@djs8891

@unattainablesillygoose

@psuedochakra

@fraaaaankiiiiieee

@mrsevans90

@86laura11

@cmiguelbilinski

*if you asked me/want to be on the taglist and you weren't tagged, pls message me, i would love to add you!!

#jake hangman seresin #top gun imagine #top gun maverick #hangman imagine #hangman x reader #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin x reader #top gun hangman #hangman x you #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman fic #hangman & honey

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gatheringbones · 10 months ago

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[“This new community Gloria and Cherríe and Audre opened through their writing made room for a multitude of lesbians, and also the multitude that existed within Gloria. My college linguistics professor shared only one part of the woman when she handed out xeroxed PDFs that described how Gloria was punished in grade school every time she spoke Spanish—three licks on the knuckles with a sharp ruler, like what the nuns would give my father when he spoke out of turn. We analyzed how Anzaldúa mixed languages, one of the first to capture the way her community spoke, without ever translating for her audience. The professor chose which parts of her to share and excised the rest.

To this day I’m not sure how my professors kept up this convenient fiction when Gloria, unlike the lesbians before her, left behind volumes of material about her identity, sexual and otherwise, more than I could possibly know what to do with. Borderlands. Her contributions to Bridge. Countless unfinished works she references in interviews. Her personal letters and papers, held at the University of Austin. Interviews. In academia, Gloria wrote, I find that my lesbianism gets hidden behind the overt race stuff.

Her lesbian identity was so important to her that she claimed it in spite of the fact that she could not live up to the standard of purity that the separatists demanded of those who set foot on their lands. I have yet to have a full sexual relationship, a live-in relationship with a woman. She mentions a man lover without dismissing or qualifying their relationship. She embraces her contradictions and makes no effort to resolve them just to make others comfortable. She lays bare how the pain caused by her hormonal imbalance complicated her relationship to sex and delayed her interest in physical intimacy. For a while, I just didn’t have a sexuality. Do you think I’m a lesbian when I’m celibate? Then, in spite of her Catholic upbringing and in spite of the heterosexuality that surrounded her, she made the choice to be queer. Lesbianism was yet another marker of the duality, the plurality, that lived within her. I, like other queer people, am two in one body, both male and female.

Even though Gloria chose lesbian, she did not want to be pigeonholed as a lesbian writer. Middle-class, white, heterosexual people had the privilege of being simply a writer, no pesky little adjective out front to qualify their work. To call Gloria a lesbian writer would deny the other aspects of her identity, the other parts of her self. One’s own body is not one entity. She did not limit Bridge to contributions from lesbians. In place of separatism, which would ask her to deny not only the male within but also the men who joined her in the fight for liberation, she believed in El Mundo Zurdo, the Left-Handed World, a world where the colored, the queer, the poor, the female, the physically challenged would be empowered. I’m married to the writing. The writing is my lover. I call her la Musa Bruja.”]

amelia possanza, from lesbian love story: a memoir in archives, 2023

#amelia possanza #cherrie moraga #lesbian literature #history stuff

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pub-lius · 11 months ago

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Hyper niche question for my autism warrior: What was the perception of aide-de-camps during the AmRev like? I assume it would be viewed as a softer position - though of course, the extent would vary depending who your CO was - but many did see action and a few were reassigned so they could fight

Hey y’all… how y’all doing… i know its been yet another period of many moons since ive posted or answered (i hope this information is still relevant btw), but ive had a lot going on with getting a job, finding colleges, my mommy issues, travel, etc. anyway, im back, and im here to tell you about my main men

It actually was not viewed as a softer position at all! The station of aide-de-camp was highly desirable for several reasons, which i will describe approximately right now

1) people had to compliment you a LOT to get in

Most of the results I got from my research on this ask were letters of recommendation for potential aides-de-camp. Letters of recommendation were high honors for any station, especially for that of a military capacity. According to my favorite source on the American Revolution (which you should know by now), George Washington’s Indispensable Men by Arthur S. Lefkowitz, it was practically impossible to get a job as an aide-de-camp if you did not have a widely positive reputation or a letter of recommendation from someone reputable (or both if you wanted to clerk for the Commander-in-Chief).

I found one letter of recommendation from j*hn ad*ms that i think serves as a very good example of the sort of statements that could land you a seat at a Continental officer’s writing desk:

“There is another Gentleman of liberal Education and real Genius, as well as great Activity, who I find is a Major in the Army; his Name is Jonathan Williams Austin. I mention him, sir, not for the Sake of recommending him to any particular Favour, as to give the General an opportunity of observing a youth of great abilities, and of reclaiming him from certain Follies, which have hitherto, in other Departments of Life obscurd him.”

-John Adams to George Washington, June 19-20, 1775, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (Founders Online, Washington Papers)

Those are my italics btw. These compliments are carefully chosen to suit the honor culture that was so pervasive throughout the 18th century and first half of the 19th century. A liberal education at the time was very hard to come by, and would be of great importance in a clerical position. Great activity also helps, because you dont want some lazy ass writing to Congress under your name, or god forbid George Washington himself, you might get hung (not really). The mention of youth is also intentional, since young men have always been preyed upon by the military. I think it’s especially noteworthy the final phrase of “reclaiming him from certain Follies”, which indicates that he might have previously had a negative reputation- whether it was warranted or not, im not sure.

2) the pay was fucking fire

For this we’re going to be utilizing my super amazing math scores that im renown for throughout the math community (yall dont know about my math tumblr), and we’re going to be using Alexander Hamilton as our lab rat, as per usual.

Alexander Hamilton joined Washington’s staff in early 1777 where a regular aide-de-camp (not a military secretary) made $33 dollars a month, which averages to about $1.10 a day. Meanwhile, according to the University of Missouri, the highest paid laborer in Massachusetts in the same year made $0.50 a day, which is about $15 a month, others making as little as about $0.22 a day, so around $7 a month. If you’re looking for ratios, by the end of the war, a pound of raisins was around $0.30. So, the highest paid Massachusetts laborer could save up every paycheck from 1777 to 1782 and buy 324 pounds of raisins, and Alexander fucking Hamilton could waltz up next to him and buy 712.8 pounds of raisins and rub it in his sad, poor face. And he wouldn’t even share because he was a congressman by that time and congressmen HATE THE POOR.

Disclaimer: Hamilton’s numbers dont include the time he quit the office bc I didn’t feel like googling how long he was away for and also i dont care. And yeah he probably would share his raisins with the guy, Hamilton was pretty nice, but i dont think he’d buy 712.8 pounds of raisins in Massachusetts anyway. Or maybe he would, I dont fucking know, stop asking me questions

3) it gave you a lot of street cred

There are many instances of aides-de-camps rising to higher status after their service, but i dont give a fuck about those nerds going into politics and law and stuff.

Most people now only know about Washington’s aides (or if you’re really autistic you know Lafayette’s too), but at the time, being an ADC to any general would get you fairly well known in society. General Sullivan’s aides seem to have been pretty well known and admired, as they are frequently mentioned in John Adams’ correspondence with other congressmen, as well as that of Benjamin Franklin with French diplomats all the way across the Atlantic.

But I imagine you’re also wondering (or at least i am) about what the everyday enlisted man thought of the ADCs, and that answer doesn’t really change. Of course, the men sitting out in the rain and mud without food for the past week are going to be envious of the guys who get to sleep in a house, but their quarters weren’t the most comfortable either. Aides-de-camp were probably the most connected out of the disconnected officers, if that makes sense. They weren’t fraternizing with the enlisted, but they were seen by them more frequently than the generals, and they were the ones advocating for the needs of the enlisted men. Even if they didn’t have any battle experience whatsoever (which really was never the case, i cant think of an aide who WOULDNT have seen battle), they would still be respected by the men as hardworkers and the only people who might actually get them food and clothes.

Thank you for the ask! I really enjoyed researching it and my family had a great time joking about me hunched over my ipad reading through the national archives while we all watched jeopardy, misspelling like every other word because its hard to type on an ipad. Im going to try to be more active, so please feel free to send further questions! I forgot how cathartic research is for me so id be very happy to do more. I have one more ask in my inbox i’ll try to get done sometime in the next few days. Love yall!

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laceyhearts · 15 days ago

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𓆩 LEILA KALANI WHITMORE ; NO ONE BUT YOU !

about my oc, leila whitmore, for my au, no one but you

𓆩 THE BASICS !

➪ her nicknames are laylay (her aunt and cousins), lia (her close friends), tiger (the hughes brothers)

➪ her birthday is october 12, 2003

➪ she's from nashville tennessee, moved to toronto when she was 12 and moved to vancouver the summer before her freshman year of college

➪ she currently attends the unviersity of memphis as a senior and is majoring in hospitality and resort management to become a wedding planner

➪ she is an only child and is not close to her parents. she started living with her aunt when she was 12 (hence why she moved to toronto). she also lives with her two younger cousins james (currently 13) and penny (currently 8)

➪ she had her daughter, clara, in her freshman year of college

𓆩 QUICK FACTS !

➪ favorite color ; pastel yellow

➪ favorite food ; watermelon w/ balsamic vinegar

➪ favorite season ; summer

➪ favorite sport ; baseball

➪ favorite hobby ; writing

➪ favorite song ; summertime sadness - lana del rey

➪ favorite artist ; britney spears

➪ favorite book ; the unhoneymooners - christina lauren

➪ favorite movie ; the wedding planner

➪ favorite tv show ; the summer i turned pretty

➪ favorite drink ; lemonade

➪ favorite game ; battleship

➪ favorite social media ; pinterest

𓆩 PERSONALITY !

➪ traits ; bubbly, adventurous, independent, caring, intelligent, adaptable, impulsive

➪ likes ; writing, candles, decorating her room, going for walks, the beach, bike rides, car karaoke, traveling, dressing up, cowboy hats

➪ dislikes ; awkward silence, rude people, people who walk slow, milk

➪ hobbies ; writing, reading, working out, pottery

➪ strengths ; adaptive, communication, creative, makes an effort to involve everyone, social

➪ weaknesses ; trusts too easily, her anxiety

➪ fears ; turning into her parents

➪ phrase/word said too often ; save a horse, ride a cowboy

𓆩 MORE ABOUT LEILA !

➪ her dream since she was 13 has been to be a wedding planner ever since she saw the wedding planner

➪ she loves to write as well, has several little poems and short stories scattered in notebooks

➪ he nickname “tiger” after luke told her she reminded him of tigger from winnie the pooh

➪ annotates her books religiously, the kind of girl you would go to when you needed help with sources for your english essay

➪ constantly has a notebook and pen/pencil wherever she goes

➪ a cowgirl at heart, even if she moved

➪ loves to go to rodeos, especially when she goes back to visit austin from time to time because a lot of her friends still live there

➪ probably has way too many pairs of cowboy boots but who cares

➪ she also will occasionally sketch wedding dresses just for fun

➪ along with a notebook, she also always has a sketchbook on her for any dress ideas

➪ has a million pinterest boards for different kinds of weddings not - including one for her future one

#˚ ༘ 𓆩 ꒰ no one but you au ! ꒱

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beardedmrbean · 6 months ago

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When Charlotte Tredgett won a place at King’s College London to study philosophy, the bright, enthusiastic teenager envisaged thoughtful exchanges, intense discussions – even heated debates – about the most pressing moral and ethical questions of the day.

Indeed, the university prospectus promises just that. The course will, it says, “equip students with the skills to develop, analyse and communicate arguments” and “hone their critical thinking” in a “focused environment with plenty of feedback and discussion”.

But the reality was very different.

“When classes started, it became abundantly clear that fellow students did not welcome views questioning the prevailing ideologies around gender, religion, capitalism or colonialism,” says the student, from Colchester.

An hour-long seminar on gender in philosophy provided the ultimate illustration of how “wokeness” is stifling debate on campus.

“It was the most silent seminar I’ve ever attended,” says Tredgett, 20. “We had read an academic paper and were supposed to talk about it, but barely a word was said.”

The teaching assistant running the class worked valiantly through a list of questions, waiting 30 awkward seconds for a response, before giving up and answering each himself.

“For an hour, it was the sound of his voice as he ploughed on,” says the undergraduate. “In that whole time, there were about two comments from the group of about 10 students, and those were very carefully worded – almost rehearsed.”

Self-censoring undergraduates were simply terrified to speak in a climate where saying the “wrong thing” can make you a social pariah.

“It wasn’t that everyone in the room was a ‘sex realist’ or gender critical and afraid to ‘out’ themselves,” says the philosophy student. “There will have been people who were gender positive and people who didn’t know either way, but everyone was scared of wording things wrongly, and the reaction of their peers if they did.”

Tredgett, who attended an independent school on a scholarship and gained four A*s in her A-levels, had already been on the receiving end of students’ moralising “wokeness”, after revealing to her flatmates that she was a Eurosceptic and would have voted for Brexit.

As she explained her views on the EU and British sovereignty, they accused her of not caring about human rights and began to laugh, filming her on their mobiles and sending the footage to their friends.

“There were groups of people whom I had never met who knew me as ‘the racist girl’,” said Tredgett. “If you disagree with prevailing ideological views, you are not just wrong, you are morally wrong and evil, and that justifies almost bullying tactics.”

Ostracising those who are perceived to be out of line has become the punishment of choice across campuses.

In an ongoing case, Leeds University student Connie Shaw was sacked by her student union from presenting on student radio because of her gender critical views. She was told she will only be reinstated if she makes a written apology and takes “mandatory training”. She has also been told by pals that they were warned off making friends with her by fellow students.

This cancel culture can have deadly consequences. Alexander Rogers was in his third year at Oxford University when he took his own life after being ostracised when a student expressed discomfort about a sexual encounter with him. At last month’s inquest into the suicide, the corner warned that “self-policing” was occurring without proper investigation or evidence, and posed a significant risk to student mental health and wellbeing.

Its “chilling effect” on free speech has prompted some American colleges, including faculties at Harvard and the newly opened University of Austin, to introduce “Chatham House Rule” – where comments made in class are non-attributable. It is hoped that lecturers and students will speak more freely in a culture where their words will not be dissected on campus or on social media.

In Britain, university bosses are beginning to admit the severity of the problem. Robert Van de Noort, the vice-chancellor of the University of Reading, warned MPs recently that “rigid ideas and self-censorship” were creating echo chambers on campus.

Research backs this up. A study by the Higher Education Policy Institute, which questioned students on free speech issues in 2016 and again in 2022, revealed they had become “significantly less supportive of free expression”. Some 38 per cent believed “universities are becoming less tolerant of a wide range of viewpoints” – rising to 51 per cent for male students – up from less than a quarter in 2016.

Meanwhile, a global poll of academics found that 80 per cent in the UK agreed that free speech was more limited than 10 years ago, with staff self-censoring out of fear of upsetting or being complained about by students or colleagues. One British psychology academic explained that “any diversion from the accepted line” on issues such as gender, colonialism, the Israel-Palestine conflict and neurodiversity was seen as “meaning you are a bad person rather than just someone who disagrees”.

Link here, it didn't want to embed

Against this backdrop, the Higher Education (Freedom of Speech) Bill, passed under the last government to offer protections on campus, has been paused by the Labour Government to allow it to “consider options”.

Heather McKee, a psychology student at the University of Glasgow, blames the compulsion to condemn those with different views on the “critical social justice umbrella” that has descended like a shroud over UK and US universities in the past decade. Trans activism, critical race theory (CRT) and the decolonisation agenda simplify complex interactions and divide the world into the “oppressed” and “oppressors”.

“Believing in women-only spaces or in tighter borders or in a meritocracy – these are views that are held by the vast majority of people in this country,” said McKee. “Yet because of imposed groupthink, students and academics are too afraid to voice them and are being punished when they do.”

In a recent online discussion about ethics, the mature student brought up the groundbreaking Cass review, which criticised gender services for children and young people and led to a UK ban on the prescribing of puberty blockers to those under 18.

“I got crickets [silence],” says McKee, 44. “Either no one knew what it was, or if they did, they didn’t want to talk about it. When I spoke to one of my lecturers about this, she simply talked about the university being an inclusive environment. I thought, ‘Yes, but not inclusive to my view that sex is binary and biology is important’.”

But some students are beginning to fight back. McKee, 44, is the convenor of the student branch of Academics For Academic Freedom (AFAF). It has more than 1,700 followers on social media and student membership numbers are in double figures. But it is a hard slog persuading young people to put their heads above the parapet.

For McKee, campaigning for free speech is not just about being able to voice her views in seminars without meeting tumbleweed, it is about protecting students’ interests.

She cites members who are studying clinical psychology who are being taught that CRT – which purports that Western structures, institutions and knowledge uphold white supremacy and are inherently racist – is “the truth” rather than a contested theory.

“They are white males and being taught that they are privileged, that they can’t imagine what it is like to be a black woman, for instance. They are training to be psychologists and are supposed to help people work through their problems, but they are being told they can never understand. What are they supposed to do with that?”

McKee and Tredgett are concerned that speaking out will count against them – at university and in their future careers – but both feel the fight is bigger than that.

“There is a shockingly militant echo chamber within the communities of people that are supposed to be pursuing truth,” warns Tredgett. “This is not hysteria, and it is not a small number of cases. It is real and is happening all over the country.”

#nunyas news

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coochiequeens · 3 months ago

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Good news for women and women's sports!

by Nadia Chaudhury Apr 3, 2025

One of Athena Keke’s Liberty watch parties. Izzy Espejo/Athena Keke’s

Nadia Chaudhury is an editor for Eater’s Northeast region and former editor of Eater Austin, who often writes about food and pop culture.

Women sports teams have grown in popularity, with huge fandoms for teams like WNBA’s the New York Liberty; the National Women’s Soccer League; and college gymnastics. People have been packing in arenas and stadiums and bars to track games and cheer on their favorites. To answer that call and love, people have been opening bars dedicated to women’s sports. There’s the Sports Bra in Portland, Rough and Tumble in Seattle, and the brand-new 1972 in Austin.

And now, New York is getting not one but two new women’s sports bars this year. There’s Athena Keke’s opening in late springin Clinton Hill at 222 Greene Avenue near Grand Avenue; followed by Wilka’s Sports Bar on the Lower East at 241 Bowery near Stanton Street.

Athena’s Keke’s co-founders and couple Claudia “Clau” Capriles and Alexandra “Al” Murray had been toying with the idea of opening a women’s sports bar for some time. The two, who had met while working at now-closed East Village restaurant Edi & the Wolf, had been in New Orleans trying to find a bar to watch the Women’s World Cup soccer competition, but failed.

“It was just so difficult to find a place to watch the games, especially if the U.S. team wasn’t playing,” Capriles says. They decided to open their own bar in Brooklyn, shooting for a late spring debut; they got their community board approval in February.

Athena Keke’s will both be a community hub and a place to watch women’s sports. The Brooklyn bar’s namesake is the cat the two adopted in New Orleans when they lived there in 2018 — Athena the tabby also serves as their mascot and logo.

Sports is always political, Murray says, and “to say not would be very naive.” Both co-owners are major women’s sports fans themselves; they have season tickets for the Liberty and the Gotham FC.

“There’s so much money that goes in, and where there’s money, there’s politics and taxes,” they point to the U.S. women’s soccer team’s equal pay lawsuit. “it’s just very reflective of society at large,” they continue, “And I think a lot of good can come out of the crossover of sports, activism, and just caring. In women’s sports, you see that a lot more so played out. It seems to always have been part of it.”

One of Capriles’s and Murray’s inspirations is Caroline Fitzgerald, who is the founder of community organization Women’s Sports Rally. “Her whole goal is to really play on that idea of: ‘Yes, this can be fun and cool and we can support women’s sports, but we can also rally behind something bigger,’” Murray says. “The political climate now is very intense. To just stay quiet about things that we think are important and believe in would be a disservice to ourselves.”

For Athena’s Keke’s pre-opening watch parties (often held at Brooklyn beer bar Berry Park), they’ve partnered with that organization as well as Working Families Party to educate voters about ballots.

When Athena’s Keke’s does open, it’ll have lots of television screens (naturally), a full bar, and a full kitchen. For the latter, Capriles will use her background — from Baltimore and grew up in Bolivia — to inform the bar snacks menu; it’s safe to expect something with Old Bay. The two have been collecting books about queer spaces and queer history and women’s sports so they can build out a library corner.

Along with Athena’s, there’s WIlka’s to look out for. Co-owners and friends Lauren Louise and Melissa Ng’s Manhattan bar will air women’s sports games while serving cocktails, beers, and snacks. The name is a play on the Polish word for wolf, “wilk,” with the idea of patrons being in a wolf pack together, supporting their teams. The two have a crowdfunding campaign so they can install a high-quality television setup conducive for sports bars, among other opening costs. There is no projected opening timeline yet. (In 2024, there had been another New York women’s sports bar that was in the works, Althea’s, but that never opened.)

It has been fun for Athena’s Keke’s co-owners to operate these watch parties in other bars, but they’re looking forward to opening their very own space. “It’s so great to be in a room full of people that obviously are there to watch the sports, to support [the teams],” Capriles says. “There’s a feeling of something greater, something bigger, and that’s important for us. We’re excited to have one space dedicated to it.”

#the Sports Bra in Portland #Rough and Tumble in Seattle #the 1972 in Austin.#Athena Keke’s #Clinton Hill #Wilka’s Sports Bar on the Lower East #Caroline Fitzgerald #Women’s Sports Rally

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pedgito · 1 year ago

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MILLER'S GIRL ✎ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter One: Teacher’s Pet

Chapter Summary: First day woes and a difficult semester ahead, you find solace in your caring, attentive creative writing professor who shows you just a little more attention than everyone else, or so you think. [5k]

[student/teacher relationship, age gap, no outbreak, power dynamic]

Chapter Warnings: fem!reader, professor!joel miller (his teacher persona is v different from outside of the classroom, so if he seems slightly ooc....close your eyes), dom!joel, sub!reader, reader is a little obsessed with joel (and delusional), mentions of infidelity (not by joel), sarah doesn't exist here, background tess x joel, inappropriate relationships/actions, talks of literature and lots of random writing topics, dream smut, gratuitous descriptions of mr. miller's body and personality.

note: thanks to @planet-marz1 for the last minute beta.

— AO3 | PLAYLIST | PINTEREST

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec

There’s a deafening silence that surrounds you when you step into the lecture room, not nearly as big as your other main course classes, it’s intimate. Close. If you kicked a foot out from the chair you were sitting in you could touch the professor’s desk.

Part of you wonders if you were the only person taking this class, sitting for a few minutes alone, not another person in sight—until one files in, then another, until there’s about ten of you seated sparsely in the small space. It’s mostly bare aside from the few books shoved away on a nearby shelf, antiquey books that, no doubt, had a thick layer of dust.

The problem with the class was that you weren’t sure if it was ever going to be a real thing—applying you had the expectation of who your teacher would be, what you could expect from the coursework, and just how manageable it would be amongst the rest of your classes. But, there was little known now.

All you did know was that they had to find a replacement quick, which they did, and you were sure that a sign of their lacking punctuality was a great start, tucking your chin over the bag placed on your desk as you waited in silence amongst simmered voices, feeling starchly out of place.

You didn’t know this place—it was new, Austin. You moved clear across the country on a whim, wanting a new start in a place you’ve never seen before. You’d plucked a community college out of the bunch, not worried with the semantics of applying to some big, ivy league school. You wanted something manageable, something attainable. This seemed like the easiest option, unsuspecting and unknown, you could slink by and go about your life peacefully.

That is what you wanted, after all.

Until you meet Mr. Miller.

Joel could’ve pursued music, or carpentry, or about a billion other things he was skilled at—yet somehow, teaching seemed to be the easiest option. It gave him the familial feeling of caring and guiding that he did enjoy, molding young minds and helping them bloom. He worked at a local high school in Austin for years—fifteen good, long years.

But, he too needed a change. His life was slowly crumbling in on himself.

He sees the job opening on the last weekend of summer, still teetering with the option of returning to his teaching job at the high school—it isn’t as manageable as it used to be, finding that in his older age that dealing with the behavior and arguments with ill-managed kids was more of a hassle than it needed to be for the pay he was receiving.

So, fuck it. He applies.

He gets a call the following Monday and he’s officially added to the staff by the end of the week—and of course, he’s never stepped foot on the campus until his first day. So, he’s lost. Joel realizes how unprofessional it looks, scrambling with his bag as he throws it over his shoulder and haphazardly adjusts his tie, hoping that his hair wasn’t too askew and wild, despite the wind flying through his hair in the chilly bite of the autumn weather.

Things couldn’t have been off to a better start.

There’s the slightest trickling of a thought that you should leave, give up that this class might be an ultimate failure but then he’s walking through the door. You knew his name, but that was as far as your reach extended. Mr. Miller. J. Miller, to be specific.

James. Justin. Jonathan. It was all a mystery to you.

You find that his appearance is less than prepared, mostly disheveled and he seems breathless as he offers a subtle nod of awkward acknowledgement as he slings his bag onto the desk. Thankfully, he seems to understand that there was a tinge of urgency with him being late and he quickly reaches into his bag and pulls out a stack of papers.

Class syllabuses. He hands them off silently to the person on the farthest side of the room and hoping they would get the idea, pass them off until they reach the final person. It’s crisp, stark white paper covered in a boring black-inked text. Nothing seemed out of the norm—different methods of writing you would try over the course of the semester and specific assignments that would pop-up throughout. You enjoyed the predictability of it. Though, there is a significant surprise when your professor begins to speak, pulling your attention to the front of the room.

He’s gathered himself rather quickly, assuming he’s had his fair share of time in the field.

He writes his name out in clear, dignified letters on the board.

Mr. Miller, the screech of a solid drag as he underlines his name.

“I know I’m not who you all were suspecting.” He begins, placing the chalk down, hand wrapping around a balled fist as he cracked his knuckles, walking slowly until he can lean against the edge of his desk, soles of his shoes squeaking against the floor.

“And I’ll admit, I’m new to this,” He waves vaguely around the room, “I’m used to public school and the shittiness that comes with that—so I hope that if I can take this seriously, you all can extend that gesture too.”

You notice how comfortable he seems in group settings, relaxing his broad shoulders as he crosses his arm, glancing around the room casually, never lingering for too long.

“I won’t pester you too much today, given I already wasted some of your time,” Someone snickers softly toward the back of the room and Mr. Miller cracks a subtle smirk, seemingly embarrassed but not offering anything to pick at. “But, I’m willing to answer any questions you have while we have the time today.”

Questions flow in easily: what the semester would consist of, more elaboration outside of the syllabus, some of Mr. Miller’s favorite pieces of literature—part of you expects him to inject the usual ‘around the room introduction’ scheme, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans into the more engaging questions asked, answering as freely and as interested as he can.

He loves Robert Frost, which makes sense. You’re not sure why, but it is predictable.

He is predictable. Sipping on a large mug of what you can only assume is coffee, the smell permeating toward you with where he’s resting against his desk, only a foot or so away. You haven’t managed to catch his gaze yet, which you’re partly thankful for. It allows you to study him, examine his expressions—admire…No.

And while he can continue his talk about favorite authors for days—the class draws to a close sooner than you expect, and you move lazily as most of the class disperses at the first opportunity with it being their final class of the day.

You’re throwing your bag over your shoulder when you hear his voice, addressing the only other person in the room.

You.

“Intimidating?” Your face screws up in confusion, head tilting his way as your eyes connect for the first time. “Oh, uh—sorry, I’ve just been doin’ this a while. I can tell when someone is anxious in class.”

And, while it wasn’t necessarily anxiety—it was more the idea of adjusting. This was new, this place wasn’t familiar and you were just trying to settle in. Mr. Miller seemed like the guy to have deep roots planted into these grounds, familiar with this town like he’s been here his entire life.

He has, but that wasn’t the point.

“No,” You answer indifferently, shrugging your shoulders, “I think your radar might be a little off.”

Joel chuckles softly, tapping his fingers against the leather cover of his bag as he leaned the tops of his thighs against the edge of his desk, “You know—you didn’t partake much in class discussion just now.”

You weren’t sure where he was driving his point, gradually stepping toward his desk, fingers wrapped around the straps of your bag, pulling against the tight material of your shirt as it stretched over your breasts, “And you were about—fifteen minutes late, too.”

Touche. He nods, lips pursed together.

“Just, fair warning—class discussion is a good chunk of your grade, participation and all that. I want you to feel comfortable enough to join in so…however I can help with that.”

Your eyebrows knit together, thoroughly thrown off by his forwardness—or well, so you assumed. He quickly realizes his misstep.

“No—not like…I mean, if there’s anything that you like or are interested in that you want covered over the semester, let me know. I don’t want it to be so focused on stuff that only appeases a few people. Alright?”

You think on his words, chewing at your bottom lip quietly.

He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s standing on the edge, waiting impatiently for your response—but when you do, it feels like he can breathe. Joel didn’t want to fuck this job up and he already felt like he’s stepped off on the wrong foot.

“Alright.” You confirm simply, nodding politely. “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

He nods in response, the smallest twitch of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Have a good day.” He bids kindly, waving at you haphazardly as you left.

And now the day felt even weirder than when it started.

The first few weeks of class are actually…a delight. You find yourself looking forward to them as the weeks grow on and drag out, slowly making your way through the day and finding that Mr. Miller’s was the only class you could successfully relax in, not so pressure to participate because it was as equally engaging on both ends.

Mr. Miller liked to talk and argue just as animatedly as most students who had a point to prove—and you see why he must’ve been hired on a whim, the ability to charm and wit himself in and out of any scenario he wanted. It was…mesmerizing in a way that intoxicated you and infected your body and mind. He had you locked in every time he opened his mouth, finding your eyes dragging along the planes of his face and his well-kept appearance now that he arrived on time, sharp. Never early, never late.

He was as punctual as they come, slowly littering his classroom with more and more personalization. More literature books, smaller books of poems, packets of some of his favorite script writings and a few non-fiction pieces he thought to be intriguing.

But, the most interesting thing you notice is the small tan line around his ring finger. The advantage of the small classroom allowed for such details to be revealed, alongside knowing when he had taken a certain morning to do a fresh shave of his facial hair or spill a small spattering of coffee against his shirt, dull brown staining the white, crisp button-up he usually dawned alongside the occasional navy blue or black.

So, he was married—you assumed. He just didn’t wear his ring.

The more you indulged in him, the more complex he seemed. The ever mysterious J-something Miller, finding that no matter how hard you looked you couldn’t seem to find any information on him or an inkling of what his first name might be.

He must be a private person—no socials, no good deeds leading to news articles about him, or anything of tangible evidence to allow such information to seep out to the public. He was good at hiding, integrating himself in places he might not belong. He was a natural chameleon, much like yourself.

And you’d like to think you were good at writing considering you were attempting to pursue a career in it, mostly focusing on the aspect of screenwriting and film, not entirely sure what you were after but knowing that was where you wanted to go. You were great at convoluting things and empowering your far too creative imagination—often dangerous. You were never lacking in ideas, but your first assignment is a struggle.

It was something pertaining to non-fiction, a boring topic that Mr. Miller wanted to be intrigued by—he wanted something so mundane to be eye-catching and page-turning. Hanging on the edge of his seat, as he’d said so menacingly.

So, here you were, writing about the monogamous lives of certain breeds of penguins and they’re mates—whatever the fuck that was all about. It’s like he picked obscure topics for this very reason, the difficulty and the need for assistance. He wanted to help and you learned that quickly.

You could’ve been stuck with global warming, so it wasn’t all that bad.

Mr. Miller is leaning against an empty desk as he’s talking to a student a few desks away—yeah, the unlucky one who snagged the global warming topic. His expression is sour, tapping his pencil against the desk rapidly as Mr. Miller talks quietly, nothing that you can make out. He travels around the room gradually, eventually landing on you with a raised eyebrow, seeing that you had some, if not very little outlined.

He looks amused, knowing how you were pulling an absolute fat nothing over this topic. You could sit there and lay out the facts, but that’s not what he wanted. He wanted it to be explained in a way that held you close and dragged you along. It all came down to wording, at the end of the day, and as much as you wanted to prove you were a decent writer, you still had a lot to learn.

“This is so stupid,” You gripe, looking up at him briefly before you continue to stare daggers into the notebook you were scribbling in, “—pardon my language, but what the fuck is this topic?”

Mr. Miller chuckles deeply at that, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

“I’ll let that slide but try not to make it a habit,” He comments, acknowledging your foul language and understanding the frustration, “—it’s meant to challenge you. The obscurity of it. It’s not complicated, but you don’t want to just write a research paper.”

“Isn’t that…exactly how non-fiction works?” You ask curiously.

“You’ve read biographies, right? Auto-biograhpies and all that?”

You nod quietly.

“And I’m sure some of that caught your intention, right?” He asks and you respond with another nod, though meeker than before. “Non-fiction work is just as important as story-telling. Do some more research, explain why monogamy is sacred to them, explain their mating patterns, the behaviors—are you following?”

“Yeah—because some penguins mate for life, right?” You ask, feeling ridiculous asking him such an obscure question. “At least, I thought they did.”

“Most do.” Mr. Miller nods, “If you find yourself learning enough about the topic and actually finding some interest it won’t come out so…bland. Just look into it and write something you’d find intriguing to read, don’t stress over it that much. It’s just one assignment.”

It eases your worries slightly, but still, the frustration stuck.

“Okay,” You mumble, “Thank you.”

Mr. Miller offers a soft pat to your forearm as he nods silently in acknowledgment.

You were determined to make that assignment your bitch. Plain and simple.

Class discussion days are much easier. You switch between a certain selection of poems to snippets of scripts that Mr. Miller has pulled apart for the class to dissect and mince the words, learning how to write screenplays in a way that was both descriptive but directive and still managed to somehow keep the flow. Poems always seemed a little silly, but it was nice to debate the meanings and nuances of it all, always finding that you preferred to sit back and hear the thoughts of others until Mr. Miller decides he’s had enough one day—two months into the semester when he finally calls on you directly.

It was something he didn’t do often, but you find yourself going wide-eyed. He was always so polite to you, even when he’d catch you staring or lingering on his form for a moment too long, like he knew what you were thinking.

He was tall and—as was glaringly obvious, broad. His shoulders were immense and large as he extended his hands out and talked animatedly, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, slacks stretching over taut, tight muscle as he planted a foot in a nearby chair or stretched his stance out slightly as he stood—often finding it hard to stay still the longer class drew on.

You pull your attention to him, an innocent gaze glazing over your features.

“Why don’t you read the next poem?” He asks curiously.

“Oh—um,” Your eyes flick toward the poem book held tight in your grip, flitting to find the the place where the class last left off, so distracted you find yourself scrambling, but Mr. Miller is quick to lean over without much show or way of embarrassing you, pointing out the spot where the class last left of, blunt nail scratching against the paper as you follow the trail of his finger, you clear your throat and start:

“How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.”

The point was to interpret the words and form an explanation for why they were used, what they were trying to explain, but you lose any sense of thought when your eyes drag up to meet Mr. Miller and he’s staring right back, allowing you all the attention in the world.

Like no one else in the room existed. It was all a delusion in your own head, something you weren’t privy to then, but you believed whole-heartedly in the moment. He was just allowing you the floor and sharing you the same attention he had with everyone else.

At least, that’s what he tried to do.

Mr. Miller clears his throat to subtly bring you back down to earth when he notices your mind fleeing from your body, asking an easy, “So, what do we think about this one?”

No one answered, staunchly disinterested as they stared at you, waiting for a response as you were the only one who had avoided participating all day.

“Uh, it—it sounds like the love isn’t being returned,” You start slow, dissecting the words in your brain as Mr. Miller nods, “but that person is willing to show up and offer more to make up for it, maybe even to their own…undoing, I guess.”

“There’s really no right or wrong,” He addresses the class as a whole but pointedly acknowledges your observation, “and that’s the best thing—you’re allowed to think as individuals and come up with your own conclusions. Good job.”

The final part is directed at you. It makes you feel warm, gooey—like you were being given a star for good behavior or gentle praise under the guise of friendly language.

You despise how hard it is to stay focused some days with how often Mr. Miller likes to pick on you and point you out—but he sees potential there. Real potential. Not to say that it isn’t within the rest of the class, he just sees…more. And it intrigues him in a way that feels dangerous, but he wants to ensure that you are given the proper support needed, even if that means a little extra attention.

It was harmless, after all.

Your first big assignment comes three months into the semester.

It’s a simple writing assignment but tactful and heavy, given a week to complete it before you were due to turn it in for a final grade. A collection of self-written poems, the outline for a possible script idea for a scene, and a small creative writing assignment that must include some kind of supernatural element. You appreciate the Mr. Miller never allowed things to lay stagnant with his work, always giving you something to think about.

And everyone loved him, that much was blatantly obvious. He was, easily, one of the hottest professors at the college for someone his age—you could only assume he was somewhere in his late 40s. But, there remained the unknown of if he was married, something people debated often, but you examined in the privacy of your own mind.

There was no indication of another—no pictures lingering on his desk as his classroom continued to collect belongings, no screensaver on his phone or laptop (because yes, you were observant) that gave you any idea of what his partner looked like. And he never mentioned anything outside of his own interest in literature. The curiosity with no discovery was only slightly disappointing, because despite that, Mr. Miller showed his attention toward you like you were the only person in the room.

And maybe it was like that for everyone, but it felt special to you. There was always a little extra to give to you that he didn’t offer to everyone else.

You turn in your assignment a few minutes before it is due, well into the late hours of the night.

Mr. Miller, unbeknownst to you, smiles when he sees the notification on his computer as he sits in his office at home, scrolling down the deep troves of porn in the darkened space, quickly clicking away to another browser as he hears the door creak, his wife poking her head through the crack with a smile.

“Hey, it’s late—you comin’ to bed soon?” Tess asks, eyes ringed with a deep exhaustion.

Joel nods, scratching at the side of his face, blinking tiredly.

“Yeah. In a bit,” He excuses, “Just tryin’ to catch up on these assignments and then I’ll be done.”

It’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Things had been rough since the affair—finding that Tess had been sleeping with her boss at her law firm for a few months, something she swore meant nothing, despite how long it dragged on in secret. Joel forgave her, mostly. They were managing, attempting the idea of marriage counseling, but he still couldn’t bring himself to put his wedding band back on, despite how proudly she wore hers still.

He had his own reservations on the matter and while he was trying to work things out, he wasn’t sure they could ever resume the same rhythm they had before, thinking that this was something he had for life, slowly crumbling and falling between his fingertips.

This was why he needed a change of pace, something different.

And maybe he was stupid for entertaining the obvious affection you showed toward him—he definitely was, but he does it anyways. It was playful, so meaningless and harmless that he didn’t even think twice about it. He could see you craved the attention and while he couldn’t be bothered to save that energy for Tess anymore, he could try to offer it to you.

Because you—you had so much potential. It was refreshing, seeing so much of his younger self in you, drive and dedication. The willingness to question stuff without fear.

He clicks on the email notification with your assignment, opening in a separate browser as he rises to lock his office door quietly, before returning to his other browser as he sat and unbuckled the thick leather belt around his waistband, a dignified zip that echoes throughout the confines of the office, reverberates and reminds him of his own loneliness.

And he shouldn’t picture your face as he finds himself aching and fucking deseprate into his fist, soft gunts muffled behind clenched teeth. But, he does. And he loves it.

He’s so fucked.

The comments on your assignment come a few days later, curled up in your bed in the small apartment you rented out, scrolling desperately to find out any further information on Mr. Miller but coming up with absolutely nothing. What a fucking ghost he was.

You’re curious, though—so you quickly switch to your emails to check his response and what your grade ended up being after how hard you worked to make sure it turned out perfect. Better than perfect actually. You hoped that with his obvious relationship woes he would appreciate the angst and underlying meanings in your poems, a bunch of bullshit you couldn’t relate to but hoped, on a whim, that he might.

‘Way to press on the idea of heartbreak, well done. Very expressive and real. Thank you for pouring those feelings into your work, though I hope no one has ever broken your heart that bad. Wonderful job.’

And he scores you a 90/100.

Which—whatever. You could accept it. Still, you wondered if those lingering ten points lied with him and his own bitter dealings. You’re fingers are curled around the laptop, ready to close when you get another notification blaring through your speakers.

You lift the laptop to stare at the screen, seeing an email come in from an unknown sender—though, the name grabs your attention immediately. First name, last name, followed by a series of number you can only assume is a birth year—not the school email Mr. Miller had previously sent you a response from.

You perk up, legs crossing over each other as you take a peek at the contents of the glaring email, seeing that it had links to a few books, followed by:

‘I hope you don’t mind my emailing you like this. But, I have a few pieces I think you may enjoy and would help with some of what you’re trying to convey in your writing. You have a beautiful way of expressing feeling and you should harness that. Let me know what you think. :)’

In hindsight, Joel should’ve never sent it. But, there was an urge there he couldn’t fight.

Maybe it was out of spite for his life and his wife betraying him, his urge to try and do some real good for someone, seeing that potential in you no matter how inappropriate it may be to go around school ruling and message you from his private email.

But, now you had a sliver of information. A peek into who Mr. Miller—Joel Miller, was.

It sends you down a spiral, searching and scouring for any information available online.

You find out that he’s 48…or 49, not entirely sure of his actual birthday. Only going off the year designated in his email. And that he’s a published author, but nothing of significance. He used to be a high school teacher and he was…or is, married. It’s all vague and unassuming, but it has your mind stirring. Wondering what was so interesting about him, what part of him had crawled into your mind and refused to get out.

And him messaging you on a private email—complimenting you with unnecessary eagerness, even when it wasn’t needed. You can’t be this delusional. There’s something there, even if neither of you have spoken on it explicitly.

The faint touches and smiles traded, the hard-gazed looks and glances over his shoulder as he does a sweep of the room, always spending just a smidgen of extra time over your desk when you ask for help.

It makes you feel special. And that’s exactly what you need.

You fall asleep that night with a wild idea in your head, wondering just how brave you could be in this situation. It burrows into your mind and seeps into your dreams:

You’re pressed against the edge of a desk in a dark office, the solid wood pressed flat against your cunt as you lean forward and capture the lips of the person in front of you, a shaky breath coming from their mouth.

“Want that pretty mouth ‘round my cock.” He says—your heart skips, nearly stops.

You don’t know why you’re surprised to hear Joel’s voice, but it clears your mind and his hazy face finally comes into view in all of it’s intricate detail, right down to the soft crinkle of skin around his eyes, eyebrows furrowed as he pulls away to look at you, lips puffed from the kissing and seeming so innocent as he spoke in such a depraved manner.

Delicate fingers drag along the shape of your lips, stopping at your cupid’s bow before he’s pressing two fingers inside, grabbing the hand relaxed at your side and pressing it over the front of his slacks, the hard line of his cock pressing against the zipper.

There’s no other word to offer than intimidating, his size morphing any idea that you might’ve had–which, you did. His slacks are well-tailored, form fitting, and if he stretched just the right way in class you could see the head or outline of his cock press against the fabric for a split second….and you observed. A lot.

“Wanna stuff your mouth, huh?” He asks, eyes rolling back as his fingers press down on your tongue, quickly pulling out as he grips your face, spit spreading across your cheek, gasping at the suddenness of his movement. “Think it’ll fit?”

He sounds so condescending, eyeline over you but downcast on your figure from where your perched against his desk, idle hand exploring the soft, plush skin of your thighs as he drags his fingers along the full expanse of your cunt and it sets your whole body on fire, like you’re feeling everything dialed to an impossible level, every nerve in your body coming to life.

You shake your head meekly, gasping when he yanks you forward suddenly.

“Guess we’ll have to train that filthy mouth then, won’t we?” His eyebrow quirks up salaciously, earning a less than subtle grin as he presses his fingers into the wet spot of your underwear, not breaking the barrier but allowing you to feel the pressure.

And just as you feel yourself grabbing onto something tangible, hands gripped in the lapel of his suit jacket, pulling him impossibly closer, you’re startling awake with a gasp.

You could feel your imagination mixing with reality, falling lazily back against your bed as your chest heaved hurried breaths, palms pressed over your chest in an effort to calm down, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The room was hot, too hot to feel comfortable anymore.

Your lip pulls between your teeth, chewing thoughtfully at a bad idea.

You reach blindly for your laptop laid out near the end of your bed, opening the device with a swiftness, squinting at the blinding screen that burned at this time of night.

Nearly two in the morning—this was pointless.

But, you hit reply on his email anyways and slowly type out a response.

‘Thank you for noticing, Mr. Miller. It’s greatly appreciated and I will definitely look into those sources and give you a full, detailed review. :) I appreciate you thinking of me as someone so esteemed. I would love to talk more about literature, if that feels appropriate.’

The lines were already blurred. He’d blurred them. You were just smudging them a little more.

You never said that starting fresh meant you had to stay on your best behavior. Because really, there was nothing innocent about what game was developing between you both.

It was a game of chess and you felt a million moves ahead, nearing a checkmate—and you would do anything to have Joel Miller in the way you craved. Anything.

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