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pascalsbby · 1 year

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Hot Single Dad of The Neighborhood

Summary: It used to be benzos to take off the sharp pain of the day, this life- now it’s Joel fucking Miller.

Warnings: mdni, 18+, eventual smut (c’mon…wouldn’t be a celebration without it)

This is satire. Kinda. It’s me laughing at myself & my love for this fictional man. But you’re laughing along, because you get it. Let me know what you think!!

This is a part of my 700 follower’s celebration. Read the detailed description here 🩷

It all started with this:

Let me set the scene:

It’s 9:45pm on a Friday, and this is better than having the house to yourself. This is the time of week where we tuck our children (and husbands) in, and we gather around this shitty glass table as the tales are whispered through. It starts off with your usual: sugar-salted peach margaritas turned to two, a joint, and then the riveting conversation of, “now who would leave that dick?”

We call ourselves ‘Joel Miller’s Neighborhood Wives’. It’s a mouthful. But we like a mouthful. So- sit down, have a smoke, a wee little drink, and listen to the goss.

The neighborhood wives (Kat, Kali, Chloe on the right of you, Kit, Vic, Bug & Angela to the left) are all cuddled around Kat’s patio, enacting a dramatic retelling of ‘who the fuck is Joel Miller?’ Himself, somewhere across the street, wondering why every now and then he hears a chorus of squeals. Then, he smiles to himself and wishes he had the guts to grace y’all with his presence. He’s not invited though.

This is the first time you’ve hung out with them, and maybe the last, tbh. No way this Miller guy is worth all this fuss.

And, action.

It used to be benzos to take off the sharp pain of the day, this life- now it’s Joel fucking Miller. We take whatever we can get from him, between when we hear his truck two streets over, lightly running across the hollow wooden floors to put on our slippers. The low growl from his truck pipes (or yours) grows louder as he turns the corner onto the street. We watch as he drops out of the truck and thuds against the concrete, slamming that damn door closed. Probably how he lets all his ladies know he’s home. Our eyes follow his form, tapping all the way up to his front door before he takes those goddamn cowboy boots off. We stumble out of the front door and check the mail. Well, only for the third time that morning. What? We are all always expecting something, alright? You catch what you can before his shoulders disappear through the blue-chipped front door, right back into his house. We close the mailboxes simultaneously and sadly drip back to our front doors. No hello’s today.

Sometimes later in the night before supper, you’ll see the door shaped hole widen in the darkness, warmth boasting from behind as Joel’s form takes up the light, smiling as he pats Tommy on his way inside. Tommy usually drinks too much and stays the night, so we sit back and tend to the family. We ride our delusions in the meantime. Then, the cycle continues. It’s like… the cycle of life. You know?

He seems like your typical gentleman, Joel. A Southern-raised man, one who would let you be his nuclear-family sweetheart. Cook for him, clean for him, spread *it open for him, let his massive fucking hands feel any part of you they wanted. Especially if that meant they were to explore more under the stiff shirtwaist dresses. Or in. We would all rather him in.

Spread, what, exactly? Oh yeah dude, sorry. I meant: *Cunt, asshole, any part of you he wanted to look down the middle of and split open, really. We aren’t shy about it when it comes to talking to each other. Obviously.

The aforementioned Tommy?

That’s his brother, probably about seven or eight years younger. He is a beau too, but he doesn’t seem the type to really fuck it out of ya. I mean sure, he has done his fair share of fucking around with the moms’ of the neighborhood, too. Bug even whispered a tale of Tommy going after those mom’s college daughters, swooping in to help clean the pool before setting them gently on the concrete and swiping their panties to the side as he buried his face in them. He always made sure they were at least 22. This is only moments after the pretty younger girls make their way back into the pretty, white iron gates afront their parents' houses.

Fair enough, he has the same curls wrapping down the base of his neck, kissing the skin beneath them. He has the ‘Miller Smirk’ - what the town wives call it. The Miller brothers are known throughout the neighborhood for their distinct brand of charm. Both possess an effortless charisma that begs you to get on your knees. But they never let us. Sad. Their shared features aren’t few, but none are as similar and charming as their half-smiles. Grins always slightly tilted, as if they were sharing an inside joke with each other but not the rest of the world.

So of course Tommy is desired to an extent, physically, of course. Emotionally? Probably not. But shit, you’d have both if you could. Paris looks great this time of year. Anyways.

He wasn’t the Miller we all grappled over and wanted so deeply, despite a metal band around our fingers (or not). His competency and willingness. They way he looks at his daughter. Oh yeah…girl dad. The way he looks in the Texas heat. His back, flexed and sweating through his too-tight shirt. “The day that man wears a white shirt and it’s over 90 degrees- I will drop fucking dead. Someone take care of the kid for me,” Kat.

There’s been one story about Joel that is retold over and over like it’s fuckin’ Genesis Chapter 3, creation and all. The story on how, why, we all got here to begin with. No one can agree who first told it. Angela or Bug, shit…was it Chloe? Okay, okay, it really doesn’t matter at the moment. Just listen.

It was late August, three years ago. Hot and dripping with the dead-end heat of summer. Almost as if it was giving all it could before the last of it sputtered out and away, knowing Fall was right around the corner to take its place- happy to finally have a rest. A for sale sign that had been smiling at you for months was suddenly gone, the dirt still fresh from where it had been happily ripped. Joel Miller, Mr. Texas cowboy himself showed up one day as the crickets started singing, he kissed the cicadas goodbye for the season, unloaded the Miller Construction van and then he never left. A few weeks later after he and his brother fixed up the place, a little girl was running up the concrete to the front door. But there was no wife.

When he moved into the neighborhood, a new era dawned. It was one where the wives would rather mow the lawn, take the trash cans out on Wednesday nights, and tend to the long-forgotten garden. No really, all of our gardens are pristine now. Because somewhere not too far away there was a beautiful, muscular man with a mustache you wanted to wet, and God, his nose. A nose that was prominent even a few houses down, sun setting behind as it sat there strong and just uh- you knew a nose like that would be tickling your clit while he used his tongue other places. Or the other way around, whichever way you were sitting. Whatever way he wanted you to sit.

It was something about that deep navy cotton shirt his chest and shoulders grace about once or twice a week. The other is some form of a Lakers’ tee, yellow or purple, love-worn but scrunched up and stretched in the right places. You’ll see. Maybe that in itself, how it wraps around his sun-bathed/loved/kissed skin is the reason for everyone’s fever induced fluster. Maybe it’s the drawl, and the fact he absolutely drips of sex.

Most interactions end with deep breaths leaning against the door, knocking on your chest. Or texting the group message (we’ll add you in a minute, it’s called JMW)((Joel Miller’s Whores)). He always has something to say, something to coo at you while you in turn try not to purr back… at least with your mouth. Although no, because you would purr around him with your mouth if he’d only ask for it.

But you? Metaphorically, denoting us all. No, he would never look down upon you, between his eyelashes and brooding smile, dark, tanned skin smelling of the day- “want you to pull the pretty dress up and get on your knees. I’m tired from the day, workin’ so hard for this family. Leas’ you could do is suck my cock, no?” And he didn’t know it, but he was right. He did work so hard for this family. He was your maladaptive daydreaming, he’s what you giggle at during fake conversations, he was the cock slipping between your hungry folds at night.

Instead, it was half-baked smiles and short waves in the drop off line in the morning. He walks Sarah in, every single day. She’s getting to the age where she seems like she’d deter the sweet action, but she doesn’t- she loves him that much. We never see him in the afternoon, his barely-present wife (he has to have a wife, right? Like Bug says, “I mean look at him”), was probably the one picking up Sarah. Probably taking her to some even bigger house on the richer side of town because it's her turn to watch her. How the hell could you leave someone like Joel?

But regardless, we never see her. Never have the entire time we’ve peeked out of our blinds, running to turn off the lamp so no one can see the strip of light coming from the window.

He has never brought a woman inside of that house, let alone has anyone left it. Once, Tommy brought a girl to their Thanksgiving dinner and Vic told Kit she had come alone, first, and hugged Joel. That “Joel was extra smiley to her.” Moral of the story, we don’t know for sure if he’s still married or he’s just somehow keeping that dick to himself.

Jesus, Kat retold that story for three fucking weeks. But, we don’t really blame her. It was how it all began.

Don’t get me wrong, Joel Miller is available- if that pesky little wasp hive directly atop your living room window is getting out of hand, and you just happen to be a single mom who so desperately needs a man’s touch. Not like that. Well, yeah like that. Then, you could count on Joel Miller to back up his old blue truck bed into your driveway, set up his ladder, and allow you to spend the next hour watching through the window as his shirt pulls up his stomach as he does his diligent work.

His v-lines kissed by veins and tufted black hair towards his middle, peeking up and saying hello every time his jeans got a little too low. Musta forgot his usual belt. Or maybe his work belt was a tad too heavy today. Uh, to take that pressure off of his back for him, and into your hands.

But him owing you? That’s a different kind of available. It was a week later, the morning before the mom gathering, and you had only seen Joel once. Yes… peaking through your blinds. Then you heard his voice.

“Hi ma’am,” he waved, turning your attention from where you were setting your bags in the car. “Sarah, ask the pretty lady what you wanted, don’t make her wait any longer in this heat.” He was loading his work tools into the bed of his pickup. Another bed of his you’d like to grace.

Shit. Maybe this Miller was worth the fuss.

Part 2 later this week babes <3 It will be an actual fic, hehe.

@justagalwhowrites @cool-iguana @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @netherfeildren @chloeangelic

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