coquettepascal

[coquettepascal]

next day rb !!! i forgot to link my masterlist and stuff oopsie but it's all on my pinned post ♡♡ still getting back into the groove. thank you all for so much love on this fic !!!

brave girl

summary: you decide to try something new when you believe you're home alone. joke! you aren't home alone. at least joel is willing to help.

tags: 18+ smut, joel miller x afab!reader, dbf!joel (it's mentioned twice,) pillow humping, f!masturbation, sexual frustration, getting caught, crying, insecurity, anxious!reader, softdom!joel (kind of idk,) soft!joel, neighborly!joel, tooth rotting sweetness, clit rubbing, kind of size difference-y, praise, nicknames like baby, sweet girl, sweet one, brave girl, etc.

a/n: yayy i wrote a fic !!! this is VERY birthday girl adjacent btw so if you liked that you'll like this (and vice versa!)

wc: 2.2k (not beta read)

You know this isn’t how he wants you.

No guy willing to fuck around with his best friend’s daughter wants it to be like this, where she’s sniffling and crying into his shirt, pushing herself not to squirm away from him. The normal idea of this would be for him to meet you at a beach, or a barbecue, or something else summer-y and sexy, and then you’d fuck and then oops-wait-you’re-his-daughter!? That’s how this should be, right? 

But no, instead you’re in the midst of your semester off, and sure you had met Joel a few times over the holidays when you came down to visit your old man, but you didn’t think this would be happening. 

Joel shifts behind you, reminding you that the position you’re in sucks for him. You’ve heard him complain about his back before, and now the ridge of your twin size bedframe is digging into his spine. You wish you had the energy to move or help him, but your eyes are bleary and your body is frozen from anxiety, which is better than the embarrassment of earlier. Thinking about the humiliation… a flash of hot red runs up your neck at the memory.

You had been trying something different. After scrolling online for a little while on some forums, you made the decision to try humping your pillow. Penetrative sex wasn’t something that felt good for you, and rubbing your own clit gets boring after the fourth night in a row. So yes, you decided to desecrate the pillow you’d been frustratedly tossing and turning on for the past week. 

It had started out okay. And literally just okay is how you would describe the experience. After being excited at the idea all night last night, and into the morning before your dad left for work, you had basically jumped onto your pillow the second the door clicked shut. Your flimsy undies were supposed to work as some sort of extra friction, and they kind of did, but eventually you just resorted to rubbing yourself while you were hunched over your pillow. The friction just wasn’t right, your pillow was too soft and there was nothing to truly rub against so it just frustrated you more. Your anger peaked when you realized that you had been all excited for no reason and you quickly lost steam on the jerking-off part of your morning, resorting to huffing and puffing into the pillow which pissed you off so bad. 

But when he had found you, or rather, just opened the door, you were crying. 

For whatever reason, you felt embarrassed about the pillow situation. You’re how many years old and you can’t make yourself come? Fingering yourself feels “weird” so instead you humped a pillow? Shame quickly overtook your frustrated feelings and you ended up crying into your sheets, clit abandoned and fingers slightly wet. Maybe you just weren’t meant for something like this, maybe you just weren’t meant to have sex or be sexy. What kind of girl were you? Surely a broken one, surely a stupid one. Nothing could feel worse than this self-created humiliation. 

Except, obviously, Joel finding you. 

“Are you oka– woah,” is what he had said before slapping his free hand over his eyes. Joel was annoyingly quiet sometimes. Without his work boots clomping beneath him he was a quiet guy with quiet movements so long as he was on carpet, so you had no clue he was in your house. He wasn’t there last night, so what the hell was he doing there now?

A little yelp had left you as you tugged your shirt down and shoved your pillow back to its rightful spot on the bed in a flurry of movement. Blush pink had crawled onto your face and shameful red snuck up your spine, seizing your neck to stiffen your posture. 

“What are you doing here?” You had asked, a guilty lilt to your tone.

Joel was standing there, clearly also flustered, with his hand still over his eyes. 

“Your dad kept sayin’ he’d fix the cabinet in the upstairs bathroom but he didn’t,” Joel begins to explain, his hand dropping from your door knob. “He’s back at work now and I uh— It’s my day off so I figured I’d lend a hand. Then I heard you crying or uh, something.”

You decide to stare into the bottom corner of your room, beside Joel’s feet.

“I was crying.” It isn’t a lie. 

Joel nods, almost takes his hand off his eyes, then decides to keep it on. 

“Why?”

And you probably shouldn’t have answered honestly. You should not have told Joel that you were crying because you feel like your pussy is broken, or maybe that your brain’s broken, and that you haven’t come in weeks because you keep getting so in your head about it. But you did, and that wouldn’t have been so bad. Would it have been bad to vent to your dad’s friend about how you can’t bust a nut? Yes, always. But it’s worse because it’s Joel, Mr. Fix-it-Felix himself, who just has to help everyone. 

But you didn’t exactly say no when he offered.

So now, you’re here, with your body cradled between his thick thighs, the denim of his jeans scratching at your lower back while one of his arms cradles the upper part of it. Joel said it was fine for you to put all your weight on him, and so you did. Your head rests on his shoulder, eyes focused on the aging, freckled, skin of his neck. 

You had warned him you’d probably keep crying, but he said it was okay. 

“You bare under the shirt, baby?” Joel asks softly. Your head nods your answer, eyes burning. 

The shirt is draped between your thighs as your knees are propped up but apart. Joel’s hand comes down and hesitantly hovers there, fingers just brushing the fabric before cupping you through the fabric.

“Can I touch underneath?” He asks.

It takes you a second. Humiliation is still coursing up and down the lengths of your arms in little waves of tingles that tickle weirdly. Can Joel touch underneath? You barely know how okay you are when you’re touching yourself, can you really handle him doing that? 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

His chest moves heavy underneath you, a steady beat of up and down that reminds you of those automatic baby rockers. Joel doesn’t move his hand from where it is on you, and he doesn’t look down at you either, thank God. The anxiety, the unsure tension in the room, it’s stunting you from getting what you need. You don’t know what you can and can’t handle, you don’t know your body anymore. Something about this situation, which is already twisted, is only made worse now. Both of you know that much, but Joel seems to know more.

“Do you want to know?” 

His voice is quiet still, a rumbling noise that still shudders with nervousness as he says want, like he knows you might say no. Joel is someone you can stand saying no to, you know he’s faced greater disappointments than not helping his best friend’s daughter get off. But, you don’t want to say no. You don’t want to say no, but you don’t want to say yes either. 

You just want it to happen. 

One of your hands, the one that was reached up to clutch onto his shoulder, trembles as it comes down to guide his hand underneath. Your shirt drapes still, allowing you some modesty, a shield from his eyes.

“‘M not shaved,” you say apologetically, your voice tight from tears. His hand is just sitting there, motionless, and that sense of frustration is back. You don't want this from him, if you wanted something still you'd go back to humping your pillow. 

Please, you want to say to him, please show me this can be good, that I can feel good still. Take me somewhere I can't.

He's too hesitant, gently cupping over the somewhat trimmed hairs. Deep down you know why he's hesitating, he feels bad about this, but you're already crying so what's the use in anxiety?

“Joel,” you say his name like a reminder, even though you're just as scared as he is. He responds quickly, nodding and saying “yeah, sorry,” before his hand is finally moving.

“M just gonna start like this, okay sweetie?” His voice swims in your ears, quiet as you rest yourself against his chest again. Joel's movements are slow, practiced, as he rubs just over your lips, applying pressure to your clit in a gentle way. Everything he does is him testing the waters, making sure it's still okay. 

“Are you scared?” he asks. 

And no, not exactly. You aren't scared of anything in particular, you're just overwhelmed, but that's a lot of words and you can't find the words to put together a sentence right now. You hum something similar to a “kinda” and luckily he gets it.

Finally, he sinks a finger deep enough to actually feel how needy you are. A puff of breath leaves him, and maybe he’s surprised at how wet you are considering how scared you are. Another weird noise escapes your chest as you push your face higher, nose to his adams apple as you try to disappear beneath his jaw. Slowly, he begins to rub over your clit. It’s only one finger, a little overwhelming, and you squirm at the pressure. “Too much,” you complain. 

Joel, thankfully, doesn’t seem insulted by this, and instead eases up with the pressure. Your knees start to close together subconsciously, everything in you feels so conflicted and you don’t know if having Joel Miller help you was the best idea. But then he starts talking.

“Don’t want you to focus on my hands, sweet one,” he says. It isn’t self deprecating, but more of a suggestion. “Want you to focus on me, okay? It’s just me.”

Your eyes, which had previously been squeezed shut, open. You can see the freckled, tan, skin of his neck. It’s bumpy, and you can see little hairs that stray from his normal beard pattern. There’s a birthmark just below his collarbone that you’ve seen before when his shirt’s neckline slides the wrong way, so you must be tugging on his clothes in some way. You focus on that spot as his voice continues to lull your mind.

“It’s just me, right? Just Joel, you know me, hm?” He asks. It’s as if he wants to keep you in the moment, to keep you as awake as he seems to be. Joel’s head settles down more, his bristled chin resting on the top of your head as his hand works a little more intensely. 

You barely even recognize that you’re still crying as you let out a soft “uh-huh.” Big, hot, tears are rolling down your cheeks as you cling to him. His wrist is warm as it rests between your legs, his hand even warmer, but you try and listen to his words. 

“Yeah, it’s just Joel. I’m just helpin’ you for a bit, okay baby? You gonna let me help you?” It’s working. You can feel your stomach tightening, and even as tears still spill out, you’re nodding yes. If there were any words you could get out of your mouth you’d tell him yes, yes please help me, but unfortunately nothing will come out. Joel isn’t doing anything specifically technical with his movements here, just rubbing your clit slowly, using any of the wetness that leaks out of you to his advantage as he talks in a smooth tone. 

“You’re doing so good, so perfect. You just keep focusin’ on me, alright? I’m right here, I’m holdin’ ya,” he reminds you. Your eyes shut for a moment again, and your hands that were flopped beneath his bent knees are now gripping at your sheets. He notices you squirming and tilts his head down so his cheek rests on your head now. Against your back is his chest, his heart thumping beneath his skin at a steady beat. If he is hard, you don’t know, but you don’t care either. He’s helping you right now, this is about you. It’s about you, tucked under all his warm, soft, body. It’s about how he feels so safe for no reason, and how he’s encouraging this. It’s about how he’s fine with you crying, that he isn’t pulling away or asking if you’re okay. Joel knows it’s okay because he’s making it so, he’s grounding you with words and setting fire with his hands. “Just me and you, me and my brave girl,” he says. 

It’s probably the softest orgasm you’ve ever been brought to. A choking feeling crawls up your chest, choking your noises while rushes of blood bloom up your body to your head. It leaves you dizzy, breathless, boneless, and nearly deaf. You can barely hear what Joel is saying, but he’s definitely realized that he’s helped you plenty.  Your chest is heaving as he presses a kiss to your scalp, mumbling words about how brave you are, how pleased he is. It’s the first real orgasm you’ve had in a really long time, and maybe he knows, because he doesn’t make you move at all. Joel lets you lay back on him, removes his hand and adjusts your shirt so you’re covered again.

“That’s a brave girl now,” he murmurs softly, “you just rest now.”

[coquettepascal]

afternoon rb !! i forgot to tag people oopsiess... i was out sorry ♡♡♡pls enjoy

brave girl

summary: you decide to try something new when you believe you're home alone. joke! you aren't home alone. at least joel is willing to help.

tags: 18+ smut, joel miller x afab!reader, dbf!joel (it's mentioned twice,) pillow humping, f!masturbation, sexual frustration, getting caught, crying, insecurity, anxious!reader, softdom!joel (kind of idk,) soft!joel, neighborly!joel, tooth rotting sweetness, clit rubbing, kind of size difference-y, praise, nicknames like baby, sweet girl, sweet one, brave girl, etc.

a/n: yayy i wrote a fic !!! this is VERY birthday girl adjacent btw so if you liked that you'll like this (and vice versa!)

wc: 2.2k (not beta read)

You know this isn’t how he wants you.

No guy willing to fuck around with his best friend’s daughter wants it to be like this, where she’s sniffling and crying into his shirt, pushing herself not to squirm away from him. The normal idea of this would be for him to meet you at a beach, or a barbecue, or something else summer-y and sexy, and then you’d fuck and then oops-wait-you’re-his-daughter!? That’s how this should be, right? 

But no, instead you’re in the midst of your semester off, and sure you had met Joel a few times over the holidays when you came down to visit your old man, but you didn’t think this would be happening. 

Joel shifts behind you, reminding you that the position you’re in sucks for him. You’ve heard him complain about his back before, and now the ridge of your twin size bedframe is digging into his spine. You wish you had the energy to move or help him, but your eyes are bleary and your body is frozen from anxiety, which is better than the embarrassment of earlier. Thinking about the humiliation… a flash of hot red runs up your neck at the memory.

You had been trying something different. After scrolling online for a little while on some forums, you made the decision to try humping your pillow. Penetrative sex wasn’t something that felt good for you, and rubbing your own clit gets boring after the fourth night in a row. So yes, you decided to desecrate the pillow you’d been frustratedly tossing and turning on for the past week. 

It had started out okay. And literally just okay is how you would describe the experience. After being excited at the idea all night last night, and into the morning before your dad left for work, you had basically jumped onto your pillow the second the door clicked shut. Your flimsy undies were supposed to work as some sort of extra friction, and they kind of did, but eventually you just resorted to rubbing yourself while you were hunched over your pillow. The friction just wasn’t right, your pillow was too soft and there was nothing to truly rub against so it just frustrated you more. Your anger peaked when you realized that you had been all excited for no reason and you quickly lost steam on the jerking-off part of your morning, resorting to huffing and puffing into the pillow which pissed you off so bad. 

But when he had found you, or rather, just opened the door, you were crying. 

For whatever reason, you felt embarrassed about the pillow situation. You’re how many years old and you can’t make yourself come? Fingering yourself feels “weird” so instead you humped a pillow? Shame quickly overtook your frustrated feelings and you ended up crying into your sheets, clit abandoned and fingers slightly wet. Maybe you just weren’t meant for something like this, maybe you just weren’t meant to have sex or be sexy. What kind of girl were you? Surely a broken one, surely a stupid one. Nothing could feel worse than this self-created humiliation. 

Except, obviously, Joel finding you. 

“Are you oka– woah,” is what he had said before slapping his free hand over his eyes. Joel was annoyingly quiet sometimes. Without his work boots clomping beneath him he was a quiet guy with quiet movements so long as he was on carpet, so you had no clue he was in your house. He wasn’t there last night, so what the hell was he doing there now?

A little yelp had left you as you tugged your shirt down and shoved your pillow back to its rightful spot on the bed in a flurry of movement. Blush pink had crawled onto your face and shameful red snuck up your spine, seizing your neck to stiffen your posture. 

“What are you doing here?” You had asked, a guilty lilt to your tone.

Joel was standing there, clearly also flustered, with his hand still over his eyes. 

“Your dad kept sayin’ he’d fix the cabinet in the upstairs bathroom but he didn’t,” Joel begins to explain, his hand dropping from your door knob. “He’s back at work now and I uh— It’s my day off so I figured I’d lend a hand. Then I heard you crying or uh, something.”

You decide to stare into the bottom corner of your room, beside Joel’s feet.

“I was crying.” It isn’t a lie. 

Joel nods, almost takes his hand off his eyes, then decides to keep it on. 

“Why?”

And you probably shouldn’t have answered honestly. You should not have told Joel that you were crying because you feel like your pussy is broken, or maybe that your brain’s broken, and that you haven’t come in weeks because you keep getting so in your head about it. But you did, and that wouldn’t have been so bad. Would it have been bad to vent to your dad’s friend about how you can’t bust a nut? Yes, always. But it’s worse because it’s Joel, Mr. Fix-it-Felix himself, who just has to help everyone. 

But you didn’t exactly say no when he offered.

So now, you’re here, with your body cradled between his thick thighs, the denim of his jeans scratching at your lower back while one of his arms cradles the upper part of it. Joel said it was fine for you to put all your weight on him, and so you did. Your head rests on his shoulder, eyes focused on the aging, freckled, skin of his neck. 

You had warned him you’d probably keep crying, but he said it was okay. 

“You bare under the shirt, baby?” Joel asks softly. Your head nods your answer, eyes burning. 

The shirt is draped between your thighs as your knees are propped up but apart. Joel’s hand comes down and hesitantly hovers there, fingers just brushing the fabric before cupping you through the fabric.

“Can I touch underneath?” He asks.

It takes you a second. Humiliation is still coursing up and down the lengths of your arms in little waves of tingles that tickle weirdly. Can Joel touch underneath? You barely know how okay you are when you’re touching yourself, can you really handle him doing that? 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

His chest moves heavy underneath you, a steady beat of up and down that reminds you of those automatic baby rockers. Joel doesn’t move his hand from where it is on you, and he doesn’t look down at you either, thank God. The anxiety, the unsure tension in the room, it’s stunting you from getting what you need. You don’t know what you can and can’t handle, you don’t know your body anymore. Something about this situation, which is already twisted, is only made worse now. Both of you know that much, but Joel seems to know more.

“Do you want to know?” 

His voice is quiet still, a rumbling noise that still shudders with nervousness as he says want, like he knows you might say no. Joel is someone you can stand saying no to, you know he’s faced greater disappointments than not helping his best friend’s daughter get off. But, you don’t want to say no. You don’t want to say no, but you don’t want to say yes either. 

You just want it to happen. 

One of your hands, the one that was reached up to clutch onto his shoulder, trembles as it comes down to guide his hand underneath. Your shirt drapes still, allowing you some modesty, a shield from his eyes.

“‘M not shaved,” you say apologetically, your voice tight from tears. His hand is just sitting there, motionless, and that sense of frustration is back. You don't want this from him, if you wanted something still you'd go back to humping your pillow. 

Please, you want to say to him, please show me this can be good, that I can feel good still. Take me somewhere I can't.

He's too hesitant, gently cupping over the somewhat trimmed hairs. Deep down you know why he's hesitating, he feels bad about this, but you're already crying so what's the use in anxiety?

“Joel,” you say his name like a reminder, even though you're just as scared as he is. He responds quickly, nodding and saying “yeah, sorry,” before his hand is finally moving.

“M just gonna start like this, okay sweetie?” His voice swims in your ears, quiet as you rest yourself against his chest again. Joel's movements are slow, practiced, as he rubs just over your lips, applying pressure to your clit in a gentle way. Everything he does is him testing the waters, making sure it's still okay. 

“Are you scared?” he asks. 

And no, not exactly. You aren't scared of anything in particular, you're just overwhelmed, but that's a lot of words and you can't find the words to put together a sentence right now. You hum something similar to a “kinda” and luckily he gets it.

Finally, he sinks a finger deep enough to actually feel how needy you are. A puff of breath leaves him, and maybe he’s surprised at how wet you are considering how scared you are. Another weird noise escapes your chest as you push your face higher, nose to his adams apple as you try to disappear beneath his jaw. Slowly, he begins to rub over your clit. It’s only one finger, a little overwhelming, and you squirm at the pressure. “Too much,” you complain. 

Joel, thankfully, doesn’t seem insulted by this, and instead eases up with the pressure. Your knees start to close together subconsciously, everything in you feels so conflicted and you don’t know if having Joel Miller help you was the best idea. But then he starts talking.

“Don’t want you to focus on my hands, sweet one,” he says. It isn’t self deprecating, but more of a suggestion. “Want you to focus on me, okay? It’s just me.”

Your eyes, which had previously been squeezed shut, open. You can see the freckled, tan, skin of his neck. It’s bumpy, and you can see little hairs that stray from his normal beard pattern. There’s a birthmark just below his collarbone that you’ve seen before when his shirt’s neckline slides the wrong way, so you must be tugging on his clothes in some way. You focus on that spot as his voice continues to lull your mind.

“It’s just me, right? Just Joel, you know me, hm?” He asks. It’s as if he wants to keep you in the moment, to keep you as awake as he seems to be. Joel’s head settles down more, his bristled chin resting on the top of your head as his hand works a little more intensely. 

You barely even recognize that you’re still crying as you let out a soft “uh-huh.” Big, hot, tears are rolling down your cheeks as you cling to him. His wrist is warm as it rests between your legs, his hand even warmer, but you try and listen to his words. 

“Yeah, it’s just Joel. I’m just helpin’ you for a bit, okay baby? You gonna let me help you?” It’s working. You can feel your stomach tightening, and even as tears still spill out, you’re nodding yes. If there were any words you could get out of your mouth you’d tell him yes, yes please help me, but unfortunately nothing will come out. Joel isn’t doing anything specifically technical with his movements here, just rubbing your clit slowly, using any of the wetness that leaks out of you to his advantage as he talks in a smooth tone. 

“You’re doing so good, so perfect. You just keep focusin’ on me, alright? I’m right here, I’m holdin’ ya,” he reminds you. Your eyes shut for a moment again, and your hands that were flopped beneath his bent knees are now gripping at your sheets. He notices you squirming and tilts his head down so his cheek rests on your head now. Against your back is his chest, his heart thumping beneath his skin at a steady beat. If he is hard, you don’t know, but you don’t care either. He’s helping you right now, this is about you. It’s about you, tucked under all his warm, soft, body. It’s about how he feels so safe for no reason, and how he’s encouraging this. It’s about how he’s fine with you crying, that he isn’t pulling away or asking if you’re okay. Joel knows it’s okay because he’s making it so, he’s grounding you with words and setting fire with his hands. “Just me and you, me and my brave girl,” he says. 

It’s probably the softest orgasm you’ve ever been brought to. A choking feeling crawls up your chest, choking your noises while rushes of blood bloom up your body to your head. It leaves you dizzy, breathless, boneless, and nearly deaf. You can barely hear what Joel is saying, but he’s definitely realized that he’s helped you plenty.  Your chest is heaving as he presses a kiss to your scalp, mumbling words about how brave you are, how pleased he is. It’s the first real orgasm you’ve had in a really long time, and maybe he knows, because he doesn’t make you move at all. Joel lets you lay back on him, removes his hand and adjusts your shirt so you’re covered again.

“That’s a brave girl now,” he murmurs softly, “you just rest now.”

[coquettepascal]

brave girl

summary: you decide to try something new when you believe you're home alone. joke! you aren't home alone. at least joel is willing to help.

tags: 18+ smut, joel miller x afab!reader, dbf!joel (it's mentioned twice,) pillow humping, f!masturbation, sexual frustration, getting caught, crying, insecurity, anxious!reader, softdom!joel (kind of idk,) soft!joel, neighborly!joel, tooth rotting sweetness, clit rubbing, kind of size difference-y, praise, nicknames like baby, sweet girl, sweet one, brave girl, etc.

a/n: yayy i wrote a fic !!! this is VERY birthday girl adjacent btw so if you liked that you'll like this (and vice versa!)

wc: 2.2k (not beta read)

You know this isn’t how he wants you.

No guy willing to fuck around with his best friend’s daughter wants it to be like this, where she’s sniffling and crying into his shirt, pushing herself not to squirm away from him. The normal idea of this would be for him to meet you at a beach, or a barbecue, or something else summer-y and sexy, and then you’d fuck and then oops-wait-you’re-his-daughter!? That’s how this should be, right? 

But no, instead you’re in the midst of your semester off, and sure you had met Joel a few times over the holidays when you came down to visit your old man, but you didn’t think this would be happening. 

Joel shifts behind you, reminding you that the position you’re in sucks for him. You’ve heard him complain about his back before, and now the ridge of your twin size bedframe is digging into his spine. You wish you had the energy to move or help him, but your eyes are bleary and your body is frozen from anxiety, which is better than the embarrassment of earlier. Thinking about the humiliation… a flash of hot red runs up your neck at the memory.

You had been trying something different. After scrolling online for a little while on some forums, you made the decision to try humping your pillow. Penetrative sex wasn’t something that felt good for you, and rubbing your own clit gets boring after the fourth night in a row. So yes, you decided to desecrate the pillow you’d been frustratedly tossing and turning on for the past week. 

It had started out okay. And literally just okay is how you would describe the experience. After being excited at the idea all night last night, and into the morning before your dad left for work, you had basically jumped onto your pillow the second the door clicked shut. Your flimsy undies were supposed to work as some sort of extra friction, and they kind of did, but eventually you just resorted to rubbing yourself while you were hunched over your pillow. The friction just wasn’t right, your pillow was too soft and there was nothing to truly rub against so it just frustrated you more. Your anger peaked when you realized that you had been all excited for no reason and you quickly lost steam on the jerking-off part of your morning, resorting to huffing and puffing into the pillow which pissed you off so bad. 

But when he had found you, or rather, just opened the door, you were crying. 

For whatever reason, you felt embarrassed about the pillow situation. You’re how many years old and you can’t make yourself come? Fingering yourself feels “weird” so instead you humped a pillow? Shame quickly overtook your frustrated feelings and you ended up crying into your sheets, clit abandoned and fingers slightly wet. Maybe you just weren’t meant for something like this, maybe you just weren’t meant to have sex or be sexy. What kind of girl were you? Surely a broken one, surely a stupid one. Nothing could feel worse than this self-created humiliation. 

Except, obviously, Joel finding you. 

“Are you oka– woah,” is what he had said before slapping his free hand over his eyes. Joel was annoyingly quiet sometimes. Without his work boots clomping beneath him he was a quiet guy with quiet movements so long as he was on carpet, so you had no clue he was in your house. He wasn’t there last night, so what the hell was he doing there now?

A little yelp had left you as you tugged your shirt down and shoved your pillow back to its rightful spot on the bed in a flurry of movement. Blush pink had crawled onto your face and shameful red snuck up your spine, seizing your neck to stiffen your posture. 

“What are you doing here?” You had asked, a guilty lilt to your tone.

Joel was standing there, clearly also flustered, with his hand still over his eyes. 

“Your dad kept sayin’ he’d fix the cabinet in the upstairs bathroom but he didn’t,” Joel begins to explain, his hand dropping from your door knob. “He’s back at work now and I uh— It’s my day off so I figured I’d lend a hand. Then I heard you crying or uh, something.”

You decide to stare into the bottom corner of your room, beside Joel’s feet.

“I was crying.” It isn’t a lie. 

Joel nods, almost takes his hand off his eyes, then decides to keep it on. 

“Why?”

And you probably shouldn’t have answered honestly. You should not have told Joel that you were crying because you feel like your pussy is broken, or maybe that your brain’s broken, and that you haven’t come in weeks because you keep getting so in your head about it. But you did, and that wouldn’t have been so bad. Would it have been bad to vent to your dad’s friend about how you can’t bust a nut? Yes, always. But it’s worse because it’s Joel, Mr. Fix-it-Felix himself, who just has to help everyone. 

But you didn’t exactly say no when he offered.

So now, you’re here, with your body cradled between his thick thighs, the denim of his jeans scratching at your lower back while one of his arms cradles the upper part of it. Joel said it was fine for you to put all your weight on him, and so you did. Your head rests on his shoulder, eyes focused on the aging, freckled, skin of his neck. 

You had warned him you’d probably keep crying, but he said it was okay. 

“You bare under the shirt, baby?” Joel asks softly. Your head nods your answer, eyes burning. 

The shirt is draped between your thighs as your knees are propped up but apart. Joel’s hand comes down and hesitantly hovers there, fingers just brushing the fabric before cupping you through the fabric.

“Can I touch underneath?” He asks.

It takes you a second. Humiliation is still coursing up and down the lengths of your arms in little waves of tingles that tickle weirdly. Can Joel touch underneath? You barely know how okay you are when you’re touching yourself, can you really handle him doing that? 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

His chest moves heavy underneath you, a steady beat of up and down that reminds you of those automatic baby rockers. Joel doesn’t move his hand from where it is on you, and he doesn’t look down at you either, thank God. The anxiety, the unsure tension in the room, it’s stunting you from getting what you need. You don’t know what you can and can’t handle, you don’t know your body anymore. Something about this situation, which is already twisted, is only made worse now. Both of you know that much, but Joel seems to know more.

“Do you want to know?” 

His voice is quiet still, a rumbling noise that still shudders with nervousness as he says want, like he knows you might say no. Joel is someone you can stand saying no to, you know he’s faced greater disappointments than not helping his best friend’s daughter get off. But, you don’t want to say no. You don’t want to say no, but you don’t want to say yes either. 

You just want it to happen. 

One of your hands, the one that was reached up to clutch onto his shoulder, trembles as it comes down to guide his hand underneath. Your shirt drapes still, allowing you some modesty, a shield from his eyes.

“‘M not shaved,” you say apologetically, your voice tight from tears. His hand is just sitting there, motionless, and that sense of frustration is back. You don't want this from him, if you wanted something still you'd go back to humping your pillow. 

Please, you want to say to him, please show me this can be good, that I can feel good still. Take me somewhere I can't.

He's too hesitant, gently cupping over the somewhat trimmed hairs. Deep down you know why he's hesitating, he feels bad about this, but you're already crying so what's the use in anxiety?

“Joel,” you say his name like a reminder, even though you're just as scared as he is. He responds quickly, nodding and saying “yeah, sorry,” before his hand is finally moving.

“M just gonna start like this, okay sweetie?” His voice swims in your ears, quiet as you rest yourself against his chest again. Joel's movements are slow, practiced, as he rubs just over your lips, applying pressure to your clit in a gentle way. Everything he does is him testing the waters, making sure it's still okay. 

“Are you scared?” he asks. 

And no, not exactly. You aren't scared of anything in particular, you're just overwhelmed, but that's a lot of words and you can't find the words to put together a sentence right now. You hum something similar to a “kinda” and luckily he gets it.

Finally, he sinks a finger deep enough to actually feel how needy you are. A puff of breath leaves him, and maybe he’s surprised at how wet you are considering how scared you are. Another weird noise escapes your chest as you push your face higher, nose to his adams apple as you try to disappear beneath his jaw. Slowly, he begins to rub over your clit. It’s only one finger, a little overwhelming, and you squirm at the pressure. “Too much,” you complain. 

Joel, thankfully, doesn’t seem insulted by this, and instead eases up with the pressure. Your knees start to close together subconsciously, everything in you feels so conflicted and you don’t know if having Joel Miller help you was the best idea. But then he starts talking.

“Don’t want you to focus on my hands, sweet one,” he says. It isn’t self deprecating, but more of a suggestion. “Want you to focus on me, okay? It’s just me.”

Your eyes, which had previously been squeezed shut, open. You can see the freckled, tan, skin of his neck. It’s bumpy, and you can see little hairs that stray from his normal beard pattern. There’s a birthmark just below his collarbone that you’ve seen before when his shirt’s neckline slides the wrong way, so you must be tugging on his clothes in some way. You focus on that spot as his voice continues to lull your mind.

“It’s just me, right? Just Joel, you know me, hm?” He asks. It’s as if he wants to keep you in the moment, to keep you as awake as he seems to be. Joel’s head settles down more, his bristled chin resting on the top of your head as his hand works a little more intensely. 

You barely even recognize that you’re still crying as you let out a soft “uh-huh.” Big, hot, tears are rolling down your cheeks as you cling to him. His wrist is warm as it rests between your legs, his hand even warmer, but you try and listen to his words. 

“Yeah, it’s just Joel. I’m just helpin’ you for a bit, okay baby? You gonna let me help you?” It’s working. You can feel your stomach tightening, and even as tears still spill out, you’re nodding yes. If there were any words you could get out of your mouth you’d tell him yes, yes please help me, but unfortunately nothing will come out. Joel isn’t doing anything specifically technical with his movements here, just rubbing your clit slowly, using any of the wetness that leaks out of you to his advantage as he talks in a smooth tone. 

“You’re doing so good, so perfect. You just keep focusin’ on me, alright? I’m right here, I’m holdin’ ya,” he reminds you. Your eyes shut for a moment again, and your hands that were flopped beneath his bent knees are now gripping at your sheets. He notices you squirming and tilts his head down so his cheek rests on your head now. Against your back is his chest, his heart thumping beneath his skin at a steady beat. If he is hard, you don’t know, but you don’t care either. He’s helping you right now, this is about you. It’s about you, tucked under all his warm, soft, body. It’s about how he feels so safe for no reason, and how he’s encouraging this. It’s about how he’s fine with you crying, that he isn’t pulling away or asking if you’re okay. Joel knows it’s okay because he’s making it so, he’s grounding you with words and setting fire with his hands. “Just me and you, me and my brave girl,” he says. 

It’s probably the softest orgasm you’ve ever been brought to. A choking feeling crawls up your chest, choking your noises while rushes of blood bloom up your body to your head. It leaves you dizzy, breathless, boneless, and nearly deaf. You can barely hear what Joel is saying, but he’s definitely realized that he’s helped you plenty.  Your chest is heaving as he presses a kiss to your scalp, mumbling words about how brave you are, how pleased he is. It’s the first real orgasm you’ve had in a really long time, and maybe he knows, because he doesn’t make you move at all. Joel lets you lay back on him, removes his hand and adjusts your shirt so you’re covered again.

“That’s a brave girl now,” he murmurs softly, “you just rest now.”

[coquettepascal]

dropping today!! keep an eye out for 12pm pst 🩷🩷

scheduled for tomorrow at noon !!!

lalalalala.... 🎶

[coquettepascal]

Blue balled anon here !! 🫐 I'm so happy to see you back and I can't wait to read whatever you release !! LOVE your brain

EEEEE hi blueball anon!!!!!! ♡♡♡♡ thank you thank you im excited to be back too :D and i love YOUR brain !!!

[coquettepascal]

scheduled for tomorrow at noon !!!

lalalalala.... 🎶

[coquettepascal]

also YES sorry this blog has been.. so fucking dead. ugh. school is kicking my ass and being on here is still so difficult sometimes but i LOVE YOU GUYS !!!

[coquettepascal]

long time no post !!!!!!!!

releasing something very birthday girl adjacent soon...

[coquettepascal]

happy lunar new year to those who celebrate 🐍🐍🐍

[coquettepascal]

offers

pairing: joel miller x f!sex worker!reader

wc: 5.2k

summary: Joel comes back to you like clockwork. He has a proposition for you.

part 1 & 2 to cherry

warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [f!receiving oral, semi-public car sex], praise kink, reader is a sex worker, protective and defensive Joel, misogyny, smoking (reader), reader briefly soliciting a man who is not Joel and is fairly degrading to her (they don't sleep together), poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, mentions of hunger and eating, mentions of violence and self destructive tendencies, very hurriedly edited

a/n: please let me know what you think! thank you for reading!

Joel becomes your regular. 

Each Friday, you shimmy into a too short dress and make the long drive out to the club, far enough away from the town you live and work in to avoid anyone you might know. 

You smoke, and drive with the windows down, listening to the ancient rattle of the engine, the whine that sounds like a threat, the slow buckling of delicate machinery. 

The very last thing you can afford is a mechanic. The tenuous tightrope you walk would snap beneath your feet, send you plummeting into the abyss of true financial disaster. 

It makes you sick, a curl of dread settling in your chest, writhing in the pit of your stomach along with all your other woes, until you turn on the radio to drown out the thoughts, drown out the sound of the failing engine. 

One wrong move and your whole life collapses before your eyes. The shame that wells up into the back of your throat is debilitating, to have to return home and look your mother in the eyes and say she was right, going to school was a fool’s dream, a mistake that could fill oceans of other worlds. 

So each Friday, you swing through the doors of the club, little red purse on your shoulder, fingers adjusting the hem of your dress that barely covers your ass, ready to work. 

Since meeting Joel, things have been a little easier. He tips well and you’ve been able to afford better groceries, have time to relax on Saturdays because you don’t need to work again. 

He pays you so much, you feel guilty for accepting it. Then nauseated because you’d fucked him for it, and finally shame for the whole terrible cycle. Guilt for being paid, when he was the one seeking out a whore in the first place. 

Still, he’s gallant compared to most and you don’t dare to let yourself assume Joel will be there. 

But each Friday, Joel is already there, patiently waiting for you at the bar like he never left in the first place. 

The static edges of your brain immediately settle, your worries fade from your mind. It gives you one less thing to fret over. Joel is familiar now. You know how to handle him, what he probably wants you to say and do, what gets him off the quickest, what he enjoys the most. 

You don’t have to try on a new personality, carefully consider and construct each word you speak, be the fantasy they want for a few hours. 

With Joel that all sloughs away. You don’t have to think for the next few hours. 

You aren’t willing to admit to yourself that you hardly put up a front with Joel. Often, the real parts of you unspool in his lap, your real worries and fears, desires and wants. He satisfies you like no man ever has, and you’ve told him things you don’t dare speak aloud in your real life. 

Crystal chastises you, reminds you of the few things she’d taught you, the few rules that get her through this life unscathed, the first night you tossed yourself to the wolves and got burned. 

They’re all the same. And if you start to think a man isn’t, he’ll just disappoint you. Her brow had lifted, lips puckering around a cigarette. Or break your heart. 

Chastity, on the other hand, seems to think you’re in the beginnings of a Pretty Woman situation. She’s a romantic and not yet broken, peering out at the world through rose colored glasses, even here. 

She encourages you. Even keeps Joel company until you get there some evenings, when you’re late on purpose just to see what he’ll do, half hoping sometimes that Crystal will smile and say someone else took him home with a knowing glint in her eyes.

But he’s always there, waiting patiently, guiding you out with a hand softly laid against your back, finger tracing your spine. 

This evening, Joel is nowhere to be seen. 

You’ve stalled long enough that Crystal stopped by the bar. She’d dug her nails into your arm and cautioned you again against relying on one man, smoke from her cigarette billowing into your face. “What are you going to do? Go home empty handed and cry? He isn’t here. Get over it and get on your knees.” 

You’d shaken her off roughly. “I’m deciding.” 

“Baby this is the busiest we’ve been in months. Take your fucking pick, huh?” Her cigarette ash had landed on your arm before she spun away, angry for god knows what reason. 

Five minutes have passed since then, time allotted to yourself to cool down and stop the shaking in your hands, overstimulated from the amount of people in the room, Crystal’s closeness. 

The room sways with heat, bodies jostling in cresting waves around you, bathed in unholy red light, neon and flashing. One of the dancers takes her top off and the din of men roaring at her makes something better ignored twists in your gut. 

Before you can go work the crowd, a man sidles up to the bar, a beer bottle already in hand. You don’t look at him but you can feel his gaze, appraising, assessing. 

You can’t wait any longer than you already have for Joel so you push your chest out and squeeze in your elbows. You let out a dreamy little sigh that sounds more like a moan, so your tits lift and fall, strain against the neck of your top. 

The neckline of your dress is low, plunging between your breasts, already not much left to the imagination. 

“Well, look at you. You don’t look like you’ve been run through yet.” 

Men have said much worse to you. The disgust you feel barely registers, so it doesn’t show on your face, in your body language. 

Not that he would notice if it did. 

Instead, you assess him quickly. 

What kind of woman did he want you to be? More like what kind of girl. He clearly thinks you’re young, maybe new to the job, naive even. 

You giggle and turn toward him, fluttering your lashes. “Am I being that obvious?” 

“Nah,” his eyes flick over you, hungry and wolfish in the dim, ruby light. “I’m just no stranger to a whore. How old are you, honey?” 

Joel had once asked you the same question, though in a different tone, an agonizing, guilty one. This man clearly has no such qualms. 

The back of his free hand presses into your thigh, sliding back and forth over your skin. His touch feels wrong, after so many weeks with only one man, too warm and a little damp and uncomfortable.

His hand looks ancient against your skin, leathery and unforgiving; the skin between the fingers dry and cracked. 

Joel’s broad palms flit to the forefront of your mind, the familiar creases and grooves, scarred and seasoned and skilled. You dream of those hands, long for their firm touch on your skin, between your legs and in your mouth.

You like the way Joel’s hands look against your skin, aged by not old. 

You push Joel from your mind and keep your eyes down, blinking shyly. Nineteen year old you, new to this, embarrassed at being called a whore maybe. “Just turned nineteen last week.”

“Well happy birthday, sweetheart.” 

You giggle again and fidget a little when he curls his hand around your leg, then shifts his fingers to the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your cunt. Testing you, seeing if you’d squirm.

You do a little and he grins. “You like that?” 

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly and turn toward him. “I could, um, I could make you feel good too?” 

“Aw,” he lifts his hand to run a finger along your cheek, the edge of your mouth. “How many men you fucked so far?”

You count on your fingers, pretending to think. In your peripheral vision, you watch his grin grow. “Four? So far. But one of them fucked me a couple times.” Your voice is bright, a little defensive of your single digit number. 

“Only need one hand to count ‘em all up? You are green, girl.” 

He releases his beer and runs his finger along the bust of your dress. Crimson light pulses over his face, convulsive and metamorphic. His touch makes your skin crawl, beads of moisture slip over his fingers and onto your skin. 

It’s unpleasant to say the least. The wooden bar feels far away and sticky beneath your elbow, his touch rough and demanding when he gropes you, pinching your nipple. 

You moan quietly, biting your lip until he releases you.  “Oh, I guess so.” 

This corner of the bar is dark, and although the club is packed, there’s a breadth of space between you and the next person at the bar. It’s clear he wants to look at your tits, so you turn toward him, your back to the crowd, and push your chest into his hands. 

“And so fuckin’ sweet,” his hand trails higher on your leg. A familiar floating feeling overcomes you, your mind slipping away from your body, the comfortable distance your mind provides from the world. Only distantly do you realize you haven’t felt that with Joel in awhile. “You wanna suck my cock and I’ll be your lucky number five?” 

“Yes,” you murmur.

He laughs and squeezes you hard. “How much you cost?”

You open your mouth when you catch sight of a familiar shadow across the room. Joel, ever faithful, apparently, just a little late.

Dizzying relief washes over you, followed by a self loathing so intense you feel it curdle and squirm in your belly.”

You widen your eyes at him, then glance away. If you want me, come get me. 

The man next to you doesn’t notice, too busy staring at your chest, sliding one finger beneath the neck of your dress, pinching your bare nipple when he gets to it, muttering in your ear about fucking you right here, showing everyone what a little slut you are. His breath is hot on your skin. 

A shadow falls over you. 

“Howdy, Cherry.” 

“Joel!” You jerk back in feigned surprise. 

The man releases you reluctantly, hand sliding back from your leg and chest. Your chest feels sore from his clumsy ministrations and not in a pleasant way. “Oh god,” you say, clasping the man’s hand against the counter. “I’m so sorry. I totally forgot I was meeting Joel.” You roll your eyes, the picture of a too ditzy girl. 

“Well, now, honey, see, we already agreed—”

The shadow looming over you seems to grow thicker. Joel’s hand slots firmly against your back. 

The man clears his throat, “Hey all right, I get it.” He looks at you again, one last soul sucking appraisal. “I’ll find you some other time then, baby.” His hand lands on your ass and squeezes before he pulls away.

Joel starts to turn after him, but you hook a hand against his elbow. “No. Don’t, please. That’s just part of it.” 

“He ain’t got the—” 

“Joel.” 

He meets your gaze, eyes flicking over you, assessing for a long moment. “All right. You okay?” 

“Of course I am,” you dismiss. 

You tuck your hand in his elbow and tilt your head toward the door. But he doesn’t budge. “I’m serious.” 

You blink. “So am I, sweetheart. That was nothing.”

“Nothin’,” he scoffs and shakes his head, but gently guides you ahead of him. 

Joel walks you across the crowded club as he has for many, many weeks in a row now. Too many weeks. You feel the penetrating, disapproving gaze of Crystal on your back.

No doubt she saw him start to turn, how defensive the slope of his shoulders have been. It scares you a little, too, that he apparently feels that protective over you. A bigger part of you likes it, feels safe in the cup of his palm. 

The air outside is hot, penetrating in its humidity but not stifling with the acrid tang of sweat and wanting bodies. Spring had long since transitioned to summer. Even there, in the desolation of the long concreted strip of this poor industrial area, you can hear the songs of night bugs. 

“Not everyone is as gentlemanly as you, as I’ve been telling you for many months,” you remind him. “That’s just how they are. They want to treat me like a whore and I let them.” 

Joel’s jaw is clenched tight, and for a moment he doesn’t answer. “Yeah,” he acquiesces when you reach his passenger side door. “Don’t mean it’s right.”

“Remember the night we met? And I said if you were a different kind of man I’d say I was freshly eighteen?” 

“Yeah,” he answers warily. 

You lean against the side of the truck. “Well, he’s that kind of man, sweetheart.”

He’d wanted to defile you, make you feel the grimy life you’d entered into. The worse part was, as used to it as you were, it still would have stung. He still would have made you feel like trash. 

Joel doesn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze persistent in sweeping you from head to toe and back again. You wish he wouldn’t have seen what he did, because it seems to have unsettled him. He buzzes with a violent, rattled energy. “I didn’t like seein’ him touch you like that.” 

Your stomach sours, a pit opening up that your anxiety plummets through. Fuck. You’re ruined in eyes. Can’t pretend you’re anything other than what you are now. 

“I’m sorry you had to,” you breathe. “Really. I thought you weren’t coming. I’m saving to fix my car so—”

Joel shakes his head. “Ain’t what I meant.” 

You blink. “What do you mean?”  

He opens the door for you, and, like always, gives you a palm to balance on as you settle into the cab. 

The answer never comes. 

Instead of shutting the door and moving back around the cab, he braces one thick forearm against the open door, and looks you over. Joel hooks his opposite hand against the back of your knee, thumb rubbing a soft circle into the flesh. 

You reach for him, untucking the hem of his shirt from his jeans to run your fingers along his belly, the indents of hidden hipbones. You get as far as unbuttoning his jeans when his free hand captures both of yours. “Hold up. I need to. . .We gotta talk.” 

“Oh?” 

“How do you—” He stops and thinks for a moment and you wait, touching him lightly again when he releases your hands. Joel’s skin is warm against your hands, sweat beading on his sides in the heat. 

You tuck your fingers in the waistband of his jeans. His face is shadowed and hard to read. “What? Whatever it is, I want to give it to you.” 

“Ain’t that,” he says, breath hitching a little. He coils his fingers around your wrists and holds them still. You let your fingers go slack in his and he squeezes. “Hell with it,” he mutters, glancing up at you to search your eyes. You tilt your head, waiting. “I worry about you damn near all the time and—”

A bright red flag swings up in your mind and you bristle, hackles raising. You keep your voice sugary sweet anyway. “Do I need to remind you of what this is? I’m not your girlfriend, Joel—”

“I know.” He interrupts, thumb tracking back and forth over the back of your hand. It sparks a confusing warmth. “That isn’t what I meant. We go through this song and dance every week, me comin’ here and pretending like we don’t know what’s about to happen.” He shakes his head and doesn’t continue, eyes fastened to the ground for a long moment as he thinks. 

His jaw works, muscle straining in his throat. Sweat beads in the hollow and you wish more than anything to taste him, sweep your tongue up his throat, feel the bristles of his beard on your lips. 

You meet his gaze and hold it for a long moment when he glances back up, deciding that you believe him, that he understands. “Say it,” you murmur softly, sitting up so your faces are close together, his breath falling over your lips. “Tell me.” 

The muscle in his cheek twitches, fingers tightening on your wrists, like you might disappear once the words flood out. “I want you to come to the hotel, stop comin’ to this godforsaken place. Just come to me.” 

“You’re asking for—you want. . .exclusivity?”

“I guess so,” he sighs, slowly releasing your hand to rub his jaw slowly, nodding almost to himself. “I’ll send you money every Friday, even if I can’t make it out here. Book the hotel, so you can still get away if you need to. If you need somethin’ I want you to tell me. For groceries, rent, hell, I can get your car fixed—”

He seems in no mood to stop talking for once, so you cut him off, shock rolling through your body from head to toe. Already the lines between you are blurred, twisted together into something more than just paid for sex.

This is something else altogether. Uncharted, dangerous waters. 

“Joel, wait, hold on. I think. . . you’re describing a sugarbaby,” you point out and he winces. “I don’t mean to offend you, but can you afford something like that?”

“You don’t gotta worry about that.” 

“Kinda do,” you say, tilting your head to keep his eyes on yours. “It’s, like, the whole point.” 

“I mean I’m good for it.” 

You eye him, still unsure. You like Joel, but you aren’t stupid enough to trust any man at his word. “Are you serious?” 

He dips his head. “Yeah.” 

It’s a much more intimate and personal, formal, arrangement. How much he would expect from you, what he would pay you?

You say as much. 

“I know. We got things to talk about. For now, would ya consider it?”

“Yes.” The agreement jumps out of you before you can stop it. There’s no harm, you tell yourself, no harm in thinking about it, talking about it. 

Joel slides his broad, warm, achingly familiar palm up your thigh instead, leaving your fingers hooked into his belt. You stroke your thumbs there, and his breath catches, sways in the warm breeze around you. 

It’s quiet for a long moment. The lot is desolate around you, the buzz, pop, and flicker of the streetlamp at the corner, the distant hum of traffic on the main road, and the ever present hum of cicadas your only company. 

“Well, okay. Good.” 

Your favorite word on his tongue, the sweet caress of it lodging in your belly, wanting. 

“Do you want me to start calling you daddy?” 

He chuckles, the sound pleasant and surprised, like a balm to your worry. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.” His eyes slide over you, hook into your gaze as his fingers trail up the inside of your thigh. “Don’t mean much, but I’m sorry for being late.” 

“It means something. I really didn’t want to suck that guy’s dick.” You pluck at his belt buckle again, but leave it in place when his shoulders go still. “You want to tell me about it, sweetheart? Why you were late?” 

He pushes you back across the seats, the leather is warm against the wings of your shoulders. The encroaching darkness paints him in shadow, hands warmer than the humid air when they press your knees wide. “This is what I want.” 

“Okay.”

Joel looks up at you, then around the deserted parking lot. Some of the lust clears from his gaze.

“This parking lot has seen much worse, Joel.”

You get the sense that he’s forcibly letting go, unfurling, untangling the hesitation. You spread your legs wider, trying to show him it’s fine, you don’t mind. It’s not like you have a whole lot of honor to defend in any case, and the parking lot is deserted besides 

He leans over you, huge in the door of the truck, imposing.

Thick fingers tug your underwear to the side, slide through the folds of your pussy, already damp. “C’mere,” he says, the slurred word like a command, arm threading behind your back to tilt your hips in his direction. 

The position is slightly uncomfortable until Joel squeezes your thigh and shifts your leg a little, bent against the seatback. 

His gaze locks on yours, intense and dark, one finger pushing into your slowly. 

Heat blooms in your chest, travels to your throat to lie there in a thick heap. He slides a second finger into you, treading now familiar ground inside you. His fingers move at an agonizingly slow pace, building up the pulsing heat inside you. His face is shadowed, brows tugged down over his eyes in concentration. 

You arch your back, a moan caught in your throat when he strokes your walls, thumb heavy against your clit, messily trailing back and forth across your pussy. 

He fucks you slowly, watching your face until you squeeze your eyes closed and roll your hips against his hand, back arched against the seat. 

You gasp when he presses his mouth to your cunt, lips sealing around your clit, tongue flicking before he sucks harshly. 

You comb one hand through his hair, blinking down at him to watch him finger you, eat your pussy like a starved man. He groans quietly when you pull his hair, short locks falling through your fingers softly. 

He grips your ass and pulls you closer, encouraging you to close your legs around his head. 

The warm weight of an orgasm curls in your gut, twinning around your spine, reaching feathered hands between your ribs, a sharp contrast to the way his facial hair feels on your thighs, a rough burn that you adore. 

He’s patient about drawing it out, taking it slowly from you, to wind your pleasure around his fingers like puppet strings.

Joel groans against you when your cunt pulses around his fingers, the pleasure he gives you like a slow moving storm, a gradual blooming through your veins, body straining to keep his mouth against you, until it passes and exhaustion replaces it. 

His tongue sweeps through your folds, he retracts his fingers and you shiver when you feel his tongue dip inside you instead. Only when you whine does he pull away, swiping his fingers on a napkin in the door. 

You sit up slowly and adjust your skirt, flip down the vizor to glance at your face. There’s something in your features that you like and don’t like, like you’re freshly fucked but, rosy eyed too, virginal.

It’s terrible. 

Maybe Crystal is right and you’re playing with fire, asking to be ruined, but you don’t care. Not at that moment. 

“Are you at the same hotel?” You ask, just to say something, snapping the mirror closed with a bit more force than you mean to. 

“Yeah, same place as always.” 

You lean forward and reach up to swipe your thumb against the seam of his lips instead of lingering on whatever you saw in your own face. “Did you think I’d agree?” You ask, pulling your hand away, sucking your thumb into your own mouth for just a second, to taste yourself from his mouth.  

“I was feelin’ optimistic we’d, uh, spend the night together even if you told me to fuck off,” he answers, sounding distinctly flustered. The blue night air crests in gentle waves around his features. Nighttime seems to soften him. 

You smile, “Well I still haven’t really said yes.”

“Yeah,” he nods, patting your thigh, tongue running over his bottom lip. “But I got a good feelin’. You hungry?” 

“Hungry?” The word is foreign to you. You can’t remember the last time someone asked you if you were hungry. And the truth is you really are. You’ve been short on groceries for days and you can’t spare the money for that sort of thing. “I, uh—” 

“Yes or no?” The question is gentle. “And I’m payin’. Clear?” 

This is what he wants, you realize. Someone to take care of. The realization smarts, you aren’t good at being taken care of. 

This is what you’ll have to deal with, if you say yes to him. 

A fist closes around your lungs. The word is hard to produce for a long moment. “Yeah, I am.” 

“Good.” Joel stokes your thigh again. “Good girl.” He pulls back and closes the door, leaving you momentarily disoriented. It feels as though your whole world has spun on its side with one question. 

The drive is an exceptionally short one. It doesn’t even give you time to offer to blow him. 

Five minutes down the highway, a lone shack sits at the side of the road. Yellow and pink neon light blinks down at you, an electric buzz in the air as Joel parks and you stand in line together. It’s the first time you’ve been in public with him somewhere other than the club. 

Does he want everything that usually comes along with a sugarbaby? Paying for you and fucking, sure. But being out in public together? The companionship aspect? 

You watch him, wondering if you want it. Wondering if you aren’t already living some part of it. Crystal’s words flash through your mind again. 

“So, what’re you thinkin’ about?” 

Joel is squinting at the sign, bathed in a pink glow. Your legs still feel shaky from his mouth and fingers and something in your belly clenches at the sight of him just standing there. 

You peer at the menu with more ease than Joel seems to manage. “Need me to read it to you?” You ask, digging an elbow into his ribs softly. 

“Ain’t that old.”

They have ice cream, which seems to be what most people have ordered. But you need real food, something that won’t make you sick after a bite or two on an empty stomach. “Fries. And a cherry coke.” 

“Cherry, huh?” He slides an arm behind your back and squeezes your hip. Aside from a middle aged woman that glances at you sharply, no one pays you any mind. “That where the name comes from?” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, Yeah. So maybe I have a penchant for cherry.” 

“Uh-huh. You sure you don’t want a burger or somethin’?” 

The thought of having to perform for him later, fuck him, with a full belly makes you feel ill. “Very sure.” 

He orders and pays and you try not to feel weird about him buying you a three dollar basket of fries and a coke. Especially when he apparently wants to help you with rent and to fix your car. It chafes. You hadn’t sacrificed, entered this life at all, to have someone else take care of you.

You sit on the lowered tailgate of the truck and listen to the fuzzy sound of the radio playing from the shack, slowly eating one fry at a time, watching Joel’s hands, the curve of his knee  hitched on the bed of the truck, pressed into your hip, the other extended toward the ground. 

The night is exceedingly calm, the air balmy and a little cooler than in the city. 

One by one the other diners toss their trash and drive away in a cloud of red dust, leaving you and Joel looking out over the pocked, jagged landscape alone. 

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says eventually. “You sure you’re all right?” 

He’s still thinking about that other man. 

You grin and rub a comforting hand against his forearm. “Just thinking about what you said. Do you come here a lot?” 

He shakes his head and lets you put your legs into his lap as you sip your drink, crushing his burger wrapper in his hands. “First time. I drive by it every time I come through this way though. Usually busy.” 

“How’d you know I was hungry?” You ask, offering him your drink. 

“I pay attention,” he says, taking a long sip.

You chew on your bottom lip. A ring of truth crowds his words. By Friday, you’re usually on your last couple bucks and hungry. Have you been hungry every time you were with him? You hadn’t even noticed.

You don’t have a sharp, witty come back for him, not this time. Being exposed to the night air, stars winking bright in the sky above you, the soft singing of the shack’s owner makes an intense melancholy wrap around your chest. You feel small suddenly, and like you’re making all the wrong choices, that none of it will matter in the end. Your family will still be right about you.

Joel rubs your calf slowly and seems content to sit in silence. You chew on the end of your straw and watch him. “You know you’ve never kissed me?” 

“Yep.”

If he were any other man, you wouldn’t dare ask. You brace anyway, because you’ve learned the hard way that they can flip on a dime. “You don’t want to?”

He thinks for a moment. “I wasn’t sure it was somethin’ you did. And I didn’t want to—Jesus, I already felt so bad about what I was doin’.”

Expectation lingers in his gaze, a question unasked. “Some men don’t like it, so I always wait for them to do it.” 

“Don’t like it?” 

“Who wants to kiss the mouth of a dirty little whore?” You say lightly, a joke but not really. “Putting your cock there is fine, of course.” 

He clears his throat and seems ashamed for some unfathomable reason. “Don’t get all guilty about it, Joel. I really do like blowing you.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. He hesitates, then says, “I like eating your pussy, since we’re exchangin’ truths.” 

You laugh, the sound exploding out of you. He grins when you clutch your belly. He doesn’t often smile with his whole face, and he’s more handsome for it when he does. “Well,” you laugh, “I didn’t need you to tell me that. It’s painfully obvious.” 

“Uh-huh. C’mere.” 

Tears of mirth are still rolling down your cheeks when he pulls you close and kisses you. It’s surprisingly chaste, or at least begins that way. His tongue sweeps in against yours when you open your mouth. It’s intoxicating and intimate and you don’t ever want to stop. You can feel his beard scrape your cheeks and lips and you like the sharp feeling of it. 

He tastes like cherry coke. 

“Cherry,” he says against your mouth when he eventually pulls back, “Yeah, I get that now.” 

Previous // Next

[coquettepascal]

Teething

dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Joel was crowned as The Trusted Adult to accompany you to your wisdom teeth extraction appointment. Chaos ensued.

Tags: no outbreak, age gap, most likely exaggerated effects of sedation, sexual themes

Word count: 3.1k

The skies were painted with shades of copper and lilac when you arrived home. A familiar pickup truck was parked in the driveway next to your dad’s own F-150, and you slipped your way through the narrow passage between the two to get to the backyard through the narrow side alley of your house, sticking twigs of overgrown shrub brushing against your arm.

Laughter bounced against the pillars supporting rusting canopy adorned with vines and wildflowers, echoing around the tiny dining area. Around the table were three men you could discern blindfolded: your dad and his friends, Joel and Tommy Miller. The three looked pretty scruffy, which made sense since they most likely just got out of work before they decided to have some beer and smoked ham time at your house. As usual.

Tommy made a comment about a boat and your dad and Joel burst out laughing again, almost shaking the earth with the lethal combination of old men’s simplistic jokes and immense vocal cords abilities.

They hardly noticed your presence until you put both hands on your dad’s shoulders, kissing the top of his head. He smelled like barbecue smoke.

“What’s so funny?” you grin. Joel greeted you with a polite nod, while Tommy put down his beer can to wave at you. “Hi Joel, hi Tommy.”

“Sweetheart!” your dad slightly twisted his torso to meet your gaze. “Tommy was telling us about his recent fishing trip. How was today?”

“Okay-ish,” you patted his shoulders once more before letting go and starting to make your way towards the backdoor, leaving the men to their fishing jokes again. “Have fun, guys.”

“Oh, before I forget!” your dad clapped. “I am so sorry, but I won’t be able to take you to the dentist this Thursday. They want me in San Antonio to overlook—”

“Daaad,” you groaned, although your face showed nothing akin to annoyance, just sorry. “I’ll see if my friend can take me.” you tried to comfort him, even though knowing your friends, you’d have a bigger chance of losing your teeth in a car crash than in the operating room.

“What’s happenin’?” Tommy furrowed his brows. “You okay?”

“I’m having my wisdom teeth removed,” you pointed at your cheek, the approximate area where the third molar of your upper right side of jaw was growing sideways. “One popped out and it’s growing weirdly, so I got an x-ray and it turned out all four of them are developing in such shitty positions, so, they’re taking them all out.”

“All at once?!” Tommy gasped, to which you nodded as you purse your lips.

“More cost-effective, or whatever.”

“Ouch.”

“I’ll take her,” all eyes went to the source of the voice: Joel. He was staring directly at your dad. “I’m free Thursday.”

“‘Ppreciate that, man, but—”

“Really?” you beamed, prancing your way towards his seat and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Joel!”

The man raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat while Tommy laughed. Your dad shook his head slowly at your endearing antics, his eyes meeting Joel’s as they silently said ‘Thank you, and sorry’.

The next time Joel’s gray Ranger pulled up in front of your house, you had been waiting on the porch with a smile worthy enough to be on a billboard advertising toothpaste.

.

The fog in your head started to clear just enough to let you notice the figure sitting by your side. Joel’s broad shoulders took up half the room—or at least it felt that way in your dazed state. His arms were crossed, and his brows furrowed as he watched you with what looked like mild concern. You blinked a few times, your vision wobbling like you were looking through a fishbowl. You couldn’t really register where you were or how you ended up here yet.

“Hey,” he straightened his posture up the second he realized you were awake.

“Whoa,” you slurred, pointing a wobbly finger at him. “You look good.”

Because he did. That was the first thing you noticed about him. You couldn’t remember if it was exactly true, but a voice in your head told you that Joel always looked good. You believed it. And he did right now, with clothes all ironed, beard trimmed, hair combed. Joel wouldn’t admit it, but he’d even put some styling powder on his hair today.

His lips twitched, and he scratched at his beard, unsure of the appropriate response to give. “Uh, thanks. How are you feeling?”  

You ignored the question. “Does my dad know you’re here?”  

“Yeah,” he said slowly, leaning closer. “He was there when I said I’d take you here, remember?”  

“No.” You deadpanned, voice thick and blunt. Your tongue scraped against your gum, and it touched some soft, fibery, wet cotton balls. You almost gagged.

Joel sighed. “Alright. Uh, pain anywhere? Are you comfortable?”  

You tilted your head, as if trying to access some hidden inner truth. Then, with startling conviction, you announced, “Sweaty.”

He quickly raised from his seat, reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket to wipe your forehead with when you suddenly choked into tears. You could barely get the words out through the swollen jaw, numb tongue, and spiky tongue. “I miss my daddy…”

You felt like the saddest child in the world. You didn’t know where your dad was, but most importantly, your brain wasn’t able to assess where he might be. But he wasn’t here. And that alone was enough to send you spiraling into agony.

Joel looked around awkwardly, clearly out of his depth. “Sweetie,” he said, reaching out to pat your cheek gently. “I’m here.”

You blinked up at him with wide, glassy eyes, your bottom lip trembling. “Where is he? Did he sell me to you?”  

“What?” if only you were sober enough to see the expression on his face. 

Tears continued to pool in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. “What am I supposed to do, being sold to a person like you?”  

“Person like me—What’s that supposed to mean,” Joel withdrew, seemingly offended momentarily before he realized he was talking to a group of at most six brain cells, half of them blackout drunk.

“Hot,” you sniffled. “Hot like you.”

Joel freezed. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he muttered, “O…kay. Uh, let’s call for a nurse, okay?” He stood up and looked toward the hallway.

“I don’t even know how to be a housewife!” you lamented, gesturing wildly toward a painting of sand dunes on the wall. “You’re going to dump me in the middle of a desert!”  

“Honey,” Joel said, his voice strained but calm. “Nobody is dumping or selling anybody, okay? Just—wait here. I’m gonna go get a nurse. I’ll only be gone for, like, five seconds.”  

You watched him disappear behind the wall, your lips quivering as you began counting on your fingers. “One… two… three… four… five…” You looked up at the hallway, waiting for Joel to come back as you realized how alone you were in the room. You didn’t want to be alone. The fluorescent light was hurting your eyes and the air smelled like a dentist’s office. You were in one, but you didn’t really register that. Panic set in like a tidal wave. “Joel?” 

“Joel! JOEL!” You thrashed in the chair, trying to swing your legs over to touch the ground, ready to bolt after him like some kind of lovesick lunatic. It was hard, like you were learning controls for a video game for the first time, and your limbs didn’t move the way you wanted them to. Joel returned with a nurse moments after. She was holding a clipboard and if not for the mask hiding her expression, Joel would have seen that she was wearing a smile that looked dangerously close to a laugh.

“You’re back! I thought you were leaving me…” your voice cracked as you reached out toward Joel with snot running freely down your upper lip. “I’ll be a good wife from now on, Joel, I promise.”  

“Oh,” the nurse said sweetly. “Sounds like someone’s still a little loopy.”  

Joel ran a hand over his face, mortified. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright,” she smiled at him before checking on you. “Definitely not the worst I’ve witnessed. You’ll be okay, won’t you, sweetheart?”

You nodded.

She asked you to open your mouth, and you attempted to talk to Joel the entirety of it, moving your heavy tongue around, making barely coherent noises. At one point you reached for his hand and he took it.

“Hoew, wa ho hayhee hee hahee?” which would translate to ‘Joel, was our wedding in Bali?’, like Joel would’ve been able to decipher it. He just played along in hopes to shut you up.

“Yes, yes, of course.” he cupped your hand in his.

“Okay, now bite down with pressure, okay?” the nurse said softly after pulling the blood-soaked cotton balls out and replacing them with new ones. You did as she said. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“No, thank you.” you smiled at her. “You’re so nice.”

“And you’re so nice, too.” she said as she gathered her clipboard and metal tray. “We’re all clear here, you are free to go home. If you prefer to wait out until she’s not so disoriented anymore, please use our waiting room since we have to clean this one before the next patient.”

“Thank you.” Joel nodded politely at her.

“Any more questions you’d like to ask the doctor?”

“I think we’re all covered. Thank you for everything. Let’s go, sweetie.” he helped you stand up, and the second he let go your body leaned, craving to touch the floor. Both him and the nurse reached out to you, crashing their heads in the process.

“Ow!” she yelped.

“Sorry, sorry. I got her. I’m really sorry.” he slightly bowed down as he held you steady, one palm planted on your ribs just below your breasts.

“Sorry,” you parroted, utterly oblivious to what just happened.

“It’s alright,” she laughed lightheartedly as she reached down to fix your shoelaces. “There you go.”

“Thank you again. We’ll stay out of your hair now.”

.

After what felt like eighty years, Joel finally got you on the passenger seat. He could feel his lifespan shortened significantly, and his back hurt so much trying to crouch to your level as he guided you across the parking lot. He should’ve just carried you—would’ve been much quicker and better for everyone involved.

You touched the dashboard, feeling the texture underneath your fingers like it was the first time you got in a car. Joel closed the door next to you and scurried his way around the car hood to the driver’s side, sighing when he got in.

“Joel, what’s your favorite pie?” you asked as he leaned over to put your seatbelt on, hand fiddling with the belt when it got stuck and you instinctively ran your fingers through his hair. 

“Pecan,” he muttered, body getting tense under your casual yet intimate touch.

“Oh, I had pecan pie at my house recently.” you withdrew your fingers as Joel straightened up and put his own seatbelt on. “We’re like, soulmates, or something.”

Joel started the car. “Yes, that was me. I brought the pie to your house.”

“Wow, you’re so kind.” you smiled, eyes tearing up, as if bringing you pie was the equivalent of saving all kittens in the world. Joel rolled his eyes and shifted the gear from neutral, and the two of you slowly moved out of the office parking lot to the road.

You cupped your own swelled cheeks, feeling the spherical cotton balls nested between your jaws. “I don’t like these, Joel.”

“Yeah? Wanna take them out? Do you think the bleeding has stopped?” his eyes ran between you and the road in front of him back and forth, getting ready to merge onto the highway.

“My mouth is so full,” you whined, and you fished one cotton ball out, all wet and slightly red, before rolling the window down and throwing it out. It bounced on the dry concrete behind you briefly before it got run over by another car.

“Hey, no littering! And keep your arm inside, my fucking god, d’ya wanna lose it?” Joel yelled, one arm leaving the steering wheel to pull your hand into the car and close the window back up, almost taking up the lane next to you. A semi-truck passed through and the driver honked their horn, deafening. You snarled at it while Joel mouthed a quiet ‘fuck’.

“I still got more inside,” you pointed at your open mouth, like Joel couldn’t tell from your slightly muffled voice still.

“I know, but either keep it in your mouth until we get home, or find some—I don’t know, plastic bag to keep it in, alright? Try the glove box.” he points at the compartment in front of you. You fiddled with the handle, and when it opened it revealed a little toolbox, a pocket knife, a folded map, and two dusty condoms from God knows when.

“Joel, what is this?” you pinched one out for Joel to see, voice thick with betrayal. “You’re cheating on me.”

Good fucking god. Joel snatched the thing out of your hand, shoving it back into the glove box before slamming it closed. He shouldn’t have been panicking like you were actually his bride and he’d been two-timing you after work, because you weren’t, and the only thing that had been in touch with his dick in the past six months was his fist. “I don’t know how it got there. It’s from a while ago.”

But the damage had been done. You covered your face with your hands, eventually took the remaining cotton balls out and let them go onto the floor mats. Joel winced.

“What should I do? Is my blowjob not good enough?”

Joel was the most uncomfortable he had ever been his whole life right now, and he once witnessed his friends’ parents hitting it crazy style with the same banana pudding that was served at dinner smeared everywhere when he was there for a sleepover, so that was saying a lot.

“You have never—what are you fuckin’ doing?!”

You had leaned over as much as your seatbelt allowed you to, fingers reaching to unbuckle his belt. “I’m gonna show you how good I c—”

Joel lost control of the steering wheel as he tried to shoo you away, but you latched your palm around his bulge like leech. He accidentally turned the truck too much to the left, switching lanes without warning, and abruptly hit the brakes for a split second when he thought he was going to crash into a Camaro, almost slamming you forward if not for the seatbelt. Three cars honked at the two of you as they passed, one was generous enough to give you the finger.

He pushed you back to your seat, both of you huffing and puffing. There was silence for about thirty seconds until Joel composed himself.

“What the fuck did they put you under, because I need some,” he muttered under his breath before speaking clearer. “Put your hands on the dashboard. Now,” he commanded, eyes flicking between you and the road.

“Why?” you mumbled, your fingers twitching like they might reach for Joel’s belt again.

“Because I said so,” Joel grunted, shifting in his seat to try to hide his hardening length, jaw tense as he kept one hand firmly on the wheel. “You wanna be a good wife, don’t you?”

You blinked slowly. Joel was right, you wanted to be a good wife.

“Yeah,” Joel continued, eyes narrowing slightly, still focused on the road. “Only good wives put their hands on the dashboard.”

“Really?” you laughed, the sound drifting lazily out of you. But you planted both palms on the dashboard anyway, sunlight pouring on the back of your hands, warming them up. 

“Yeah—yeah,” he muttered. “Look it up.”

“I can’t, my hands are on the dashboard,” you frowned, chin pointing towards your splayed fingers.

Joel rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “You just have to believe me, then.”

You thought of it for a second before nodding. “Okay. I believe you.” 

He glanced at you, eyebrows lifting. “You should. You’re my wife.”

Your head tilted, a lazy grin spreading across your face as you processed the words. You’re my wife. Somehow that was the most beautiful string of words you had ever heard. “Am I a good wife?”

“Sure. You got your hands on the dashboard. Guess that makes you a good wife,” Joel said. Your loopy grin was infectious despite his best efforts to stay stoic.

“I’m a good wife,” you repeated to yourself, beaming.

There was a beat of silence before you leaned slightly toward him, eyes bright, head swaying with the motion of the truck. “Are you a good husband?”

Joel’s grip on the steering wheel tightened for a split second, his gaze flicking to the side, then back to the road. “...I don’t know. Do you think I’m a good husband?”

“Yeah,” you said immediately, so sure of yourself as you gathered the evidence in your hazy brain. “You took me to the dentist. You got me pecan pie.”

Joel scoffed, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Driving and pies, guess that’s the key to a successful marriage.”

.

By dinner time you were already out of your groggy state, although the pain started to creep back in despite the painkillers that you just sat in the living room with a frozen pouch of CapriSun pressed against your cheek. Joel hadn’t said much but he did stay until your dad got home.

He had hoped you blacked out and didn’t remember anything from earlier. He wasn’t sure if he could live knowing you were able to remember that you were so eager to put your mouth on him, on top of you calling yourself his wife, on top of you casually admitting you found him hot.

And because he got hard in the car. He didn’t know if you saw it but for his own peace he would like to believe that you didn’t.

Joel was a little bit grateful that Tommy wasn’t there because he would never let this die.

He would never let this die himself.

When your dad set some burritos for Joel and applesauce for you on the counter, Joel was ready to go home and get drunk while pondering in the shower.

“You’re leaving already?” you licked the applesauce, tasting it innocently, and Joel had to remind himself that licking applesauce was not a sexually enticing act.

“Yeah, working early tomorrow. Get well soon.” he stood awkwardly as he pocketed his keys.

“Thanks a lot, man,” your dad got up to give Joel a hug with his back facing away from you, and you stared Joel dead in the eyes as you mouthed playfully: ‘Husband.’

His lips twitched. Seemed like he would never know peace ever again.

[coquettepascal]

Sexy Stakeout Javier™️

[coquettepascal]

ohhh yeahh i never shared this here

from last year aha the brainrot was STRONG

edit (24/1/2025, 23:30IST): hey. hey everyone who said nice things about this piece. thank you. like, seriously, genuinely, thank you. i didnt think this would get more than 4 notes and now i have (at the time of this edit) 387 notes and im. im in actual tears. everyone is so nice?? especially thank you to everyone who complemented my colouring because omfg i spent four years learning colour theory for this broooo. like the entire reason i didnt have a cool caption is because i didnt think it would leave my circle of four friends who rb everything i do.

thank you for making 16 year old me from last year immeasurably happy. hes the happiest boy alive rn. everytime i get a sudden influx of 50+ notes when i wake up i KNOW its this post and i still stim so hard over it.

and while i cant promise anything. id love to know if anybody would be interested in commissioning me? i barely have any time between exams and graduation and stuff but, if youre okay with slow work, id be glad to start a comms page for some extra cash? perhaps? im also not sure how id go about it butt... if anybody is interested or has tips on how to start, id be grateful!!

again, thank you thank you thank you 🫶🫶🫶 from the bottom of my heart, thank you. i appreciate all the kind words so so so much it made my whole life 🫶🫶🫶🫶

[coquettepascal]

sneak peak at "brave girl"

!!! i have a drabble i'll be sharing soon :) just trying to get back into the groove of things.

-<3-

“What are you doing here?” You had asked, a guilty lilt to your tone.

Joel was standing there, clearly also flustered, with his hand still over his eyes. 

“Your dad kept sayin’ he’d fix the cabinet in the upstairs bathroom but he didn’t,” Joel had begun to explain, his hand dropping from your door knob. “He’s back at work now and I uh— It’s my day off so I figured I’d lend a hand. Then I heard you crying or uh, something.”

You decided to stare into the bottom corner of your room, beside Joel’s feet.

“I was crying.” 

Joel nodded, almost took his hand off his eyes, then decided to keep it on. 

“Why?”

[coquettepascal]

the back, ladies and gentlethem. that’s the post.

[coquettepascal]

on a mission to write something today. i have the urge.

[coquettepascal]

sorry for my dramatic "wah i wanna quit" post yesterday, i think i should elaborate more

i havent been writing anything recently because... idk! i am very lucky to be in a safer(?) spot of this community where i don't have to deal with hateful people or anything, and i'm very lucky to have that, but i have a different issue. this past december i was diagnosed with vaginismus, a condition that affects my ability to be sexual basically. it's been really hard emotionally and i don't know how to deal with it yet.

i'm sure a lot of us here are women, so you know what i mean when it feels like i've been devalued as a woman. i technically could have sex, but it hurts, and so i dont feel like writing smut, or reading smut. i can't open this app without being reminded of my current condition. it isn't like this vaginismus thing is forever, i'm going to get help for it and i'll figure it out, but right now it makes me feel down.

i don't usually post such personal things, but i feel like i owe an explanation to you guys since i appreciate you all so much. my space here has allowed me to be creative and have fun while having so many cheerleaders and so much positive energy, i am very blessed.

on another note: if sex hurts, know that it shouldn't. sex shouldn't bring you to painful tears when you're simply trying to be intimate, don't push yourself. you are more than your sex, you are more than sex. vaginismus is way more common than you think and it can stem from sexual trauma from any point in your life, recent or old. it isn't your fault.