Looking Back

— looking back

joel miller x f!reader

rated e - 2.2k

tags: jackson-era Joel pov, angst, canon-typical violence/references to death, established relationship, Joel is an ass man, consensual somno elements, posessive!joel, body worship, dirty talk, male masturbation, spitting, touching, come marking

a/n: easing back into writing and started 2 little wips that are sort of "introspective-joel-pov-smut-fics" - here is the first one! 💕

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Or - Joel gets off just from the sight of you

He’s strung as tight as a bow. The lingering adrenaline a notched arrow, leaving him about to snap. Blood seeps into his jeans - splattered across his knees, where he had jerked the knife from the man’s neck.

It had been a mercy killing. A stranger, but they had all seen the bite. He had been the only one to do something about it.

He’s told others that you get used to it. The killing - that after a while, survival wins out.

You get over it.

But you don’t. Instead, it clings to him like a shadow, following him home - down the worn, familiar path. Inside the gates, back to Jackson.

Heavier than it’s been before. An itching beneath his skin. If he was over it, he wouldn’t have to turn himself off. Shutting away a part of himself, only to fight to come back - clawing his way out later.

An aching reminder at how short life could be. That yes, things were different - but he was never really safe.

Not really.

His path brings him to you. A beacon, guiding his way back.

His - your - home coming into view, just as the dawn creeps over the fall, wooden fences. The misty grey brightening into gold and pink with the sun, as he’s unlocking the wooden door, shouldering it open.

A look thrown out the window as he scrubs his hand clean in the kitchen - seeing that the garage light is on. That she’s home, that she’s okay. An automatic check, before his weary feet take him upstairs.

Joel sheds the layers, the jacket thrown over the railing at the top of the stairs. Fingers fumbling with his belt, pulling the worn leather through the loops before his stained jeans crumple on the floor, as he pushes the cracked door open.

The light from the hallway stretches across the wooden floor, creeping into the dark room. Where you still lay sleeping, curled on your side within the blankets and sheets. Missing him in your dreams, that space next to you long empty.

Cold - where your fingers reach out, searching for him.

His path diverts, moving to you instead of the attached bathroom. The edge of the bed sinking under his weight, a soft sound as you stir.

“‘Welcome ‘ome.” You murmur, still half-asleep. A little wiggle as your bent knee hitches higher, the oversized shirt you’re wearing bunching up around your hips.

He reaches out, just the ghosting of his fingers against the soft skin near your knee. The fluttering of heavy lashes as you fight sleep, only to be pulled under again.

Joel’s hand shifts. A warm palm pressing against your thigh. Against soft skin, so different than his own calloused touch.

Home.

It is, isn’t it? As close to he’s had in years. Decades. The old apartment in the QZ had never felt that way, not with the faded floral walls. Those small rooms that still held ghosts.

But here, his own touch lingers. Yours, melding with it. It would never be like before - the picking out of furniture, of paint. But it’s his clothes in the closet. His worn guitar that rests against the couch. His wooden carvings lining the top of the mantle, above the fireplace.

And you - you're scattered throughout. Woven blankets and thick sweaters. Books, covering damn near every surface.

A little bottle of found lotion tucked away in the bathroom. He can smell it now, as he leans over you. A bristly kiss pressed against your cheek, the curve of your shoulder.

Amber, vanilla, caramel.

He’s pulled back to the memory, the light shining in your eyes when he handed the beaten bottle over. The minuscule amount you had worked into your knuckles - the soft sigh of contentment.

A bright laugh when he had pulled you close, the murmured “smells good” against your throat, as you had squirmed in his grasp - smiling as you read the fragrance notes out loud.

Something stirs in him, then. The press of his thigh against yours, as he leans over. Eyes dragging down to the bare curve of your ass, his hand tracing cup your thigh to palm your flesh.

His already uneven breath hitching, as you sigh. That little smile - his name - murmured out as you rock instinctively into his touch. Still on the edge of sleep, lulled off into a deep sleep with the cooling of summer.

Waking you up wouldn’t be unusual. Half the time you’re already up after these early-morning patrols. Waiting for him.

How he waits for you, on those few days where it’s you out there, instead of him. His jaw working with irritation until you’re home and back and safe, and he’s stripping your clothes from you himself.

It’s selfish to wake you, on a morning where you sleep so deeply. Even with the stress that’s eating at him, simmering in his veins.

But maybe… maybe he can just-

Joel is leaning, his mouth against your neck. A shift as you stretch, baring your skin to him as your lips curl in a smile. A soft, sleepy hum as you reach for him, fingers curving over the thick muscle of his forearm.

The hand on your ass drifting up - across to the small of your back. Meeting noting but warm, bared skin beneath your shirt.

“Fuck. I need you.” He rasps - an edge to his voice, “Would you let me look at you, honey? Just let me look.”

Heavy-lidded eyes open then at the sound of his voice - his words - as you tilt your head. A slow sweep over the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his stomach. The spread of his thighs as he kneels behind you. The already half-hard tent of faded boxers.

You had been waiting for him. Anticipating his return, eager for his touch. The cloud of sleep begins to clear as he palms himself, the bed shifting as your hips shift, thighs spreading open for him.

“I can take care of you,” Your voice is scratchy - husky, in the early morning. A hand pressing again on your back as you begin to roll over, holding you in place.

“You already are,” Joel groans, as your hips tilt up, off the bed. Knees pressing into the mattress as he nudges your thighs wider, fitting between them, “Stay just like that, alright?”

The combination feels erotic. His smell on the shirt you wear. The tingling throb between your thighs, the desire in his voice. How much he wants - enough that just the sight of you has him hard, thumbs catching on the waistband of his boxers to free himself.

You relax into the bed, as you watch. The weight of his hand as it moves to squeeze your ass. A pressure as he tugs, opening you up.

“Fuck.”

Joel spits in his palm, before it’s wrapping around his cock. A rough groan as some of that need is eased, with the sharp stroke of his fist.

Just letting himself look. Admire.

A sight that is only his, fingers sinking into soft flesh. The way you trust, how effected you are already - the shallow rock of your hips as the sound of skin-on-skin fills the room.

“You got a pretty little pussy, honey.” He hears himself saying. Watching how you clench at his praise, the little gasp that follows. “Pretty little holes. All for me, right?”

He can feel the weight of your gaze. Darkening, as your hunger grows low in your belly. Darting between his face and the sharp flick of his wrist.

Rarely getting to see him take, like this. Usually he would have been buried in you, by now. There’s the urge to ask, but there’s a power in this - wanting to watch him get off to you. Not having to lift a finger to do so.

“All for you.” You sigh, “Always.”

His jaw grits, teeth clicking together. A bead of precum joins the slick of his spit, that angry fire in his belly transforming.

So different that the little mouse he had taken to bed, all those months ago. Your hands covering your mouth, muffling the moans, until he had pried them away. Pinning them against the pillows, whispering filth in your ear.

Now, he can see the greed in your eyes. The way you glisten, when his own gaze drops. The shift of your thighs as he takes a second to rub himself against the curve of your ass. Dipping down to press against your core.

The tip coming back slick, in a new kind of way - fueling the pressure, building in his belly.

Your moan breaks the early-morning quiet. His name on your lips again - more urgent than before.

The little beg only sends him closer, a rough groan in his throat. His own hand too familiar - used to the quick and precise touch he needs to get off, when he had to.

In the before. In the during - when it was only words that the you of you had exchanged. Heated looks that lingered late into those lonely nights.

Hasn’t felt the urge to, since he’s had you.

He expects you to ask him to fill you, eyes caught on the enticing lift of your hips.

Caught off-guard for the briefest second, a heat flushing over his cheeks, when you shift beneath him instead. Flipping over, onto your back.

Eyes bright, teeth sinking into your lip as you smile.

“Wanna watch.” You admit, and that tension in his shoulders settles in his chest, turning sweet.

His fist tightening around his cock, as your thighs splay over his. Opening yourself up under his gaze, stretching out in front of him.

And fuck, what a sight. There’s a rolling wave deep in his core that he chases with the rock of his hips.

His hand fits perfectly against the curve of your waist, eyes caught on the way your fingers catch on the hem of your shirt.

Pulling it up over your breasts, a path that his eyes follow greedily.

“Christ, darlin’.” The words rumble in his chest.

A rough exhale as your own gaze drops to his fist. The pace that he’s picked up - the peek of the flushed tip when he strokes down to the base.

Already about to burst, like he’s a man half his age. Could say it’s just his own touch, the urge to relieve the weight of his stress.

But he knows it’s more. That warmth in his chest, a tenderness that has only softened the rough stone of his heart since he’s left Boston.

It’s there in the way that he could linger on the slick place between your thighs. But instead he’s watching you watch him. Focusing on the part of your lips, the shine in your eyes.

“‘m close.” Joel breathes, his words low. Rough. “Where do you want it?”

He’ll catch it in his palm if he needs to. If it helps you go back to sleep, after. He hasn’t given up on that wish - to let you drift off for a little longer.

The look you give him, the little smile that turns mischievous, has his stomach twisting into knots. Like butterflies, he thinks.

Your hand drifts down, knuckles brushing over the jerk of his. Soft fingers tracing over hot, swollen flesh. Only to curve over your mound, to spread yourself open for him.

“Fuck.” He breathes, again, “There?”

The answering hum is low, desperate.

“Wanna hear you ask me.” Joel pushes - needing to hear you say it, knowing it will push him over the edge.

You squirm beneath him, affected by the edge to his voice, the soft command.

“Want you to come on me.”

“Where, baby?” The word slides from his lips without thought.

The eye contact breaks, your gaze darting away with embarrassment. But after a moment it’s back - the soft heave of your breasts as you suck in a breath, steeling your nerves.

“Want you to come on my pussy, Joel.”

He can’t help the rough groan, ripped from his chest. The shift of his thighs as he pulls back, as that pressure builds. The pleasure surging instead of ebbing, as he tips his cock downward.

The next stroke of his fist pushes him past the threshold. Relief sings in his veins as he spills across your mound. Painting your abdomen with his release, eyes fluttering closed as his hearing goes fuzzy.

Drowning out his long moan, as you push yourself up. He meets you instinctually, arcing over you as his mouth is drawn to yours.

As his spend drips down the crease of your thigh, so warm against soft skin.

It feels like a weight is lifted, like he’s back in his own skin again. Relaxing into the fingers that scratch into his hair, the tongue that sweeps against his.

But it’s only a few moments before he remembers. Coming back to himself, as he fits his hand between your thighs.

Fingers dragging through his release, bringing his slick fingers to circle against your clit.

Because there’s no way you’re going back to sleep after this. Not if he knows you - which he’s now certain that he does.

"Thank you honey." He murmurs, with lips that press against your cheek.

The smallest smile after, as your own part with a moan - as he croons against your skin.

"Now let me take care of you."

thank you for reading! was excited to explore a little idea I had 💕

(tags: @celestianstars)

goodmorning i want to chew on broken glass 💘

Cramps

Summary: After going off of birth control, your periods have been a little more intense than you're used to. What starts out as a stressful morning between you and your husband, very quickly turns into a night that bodes very well for the both of you.

Paring: Husband Frankie Morales x Wife f!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 5.4K on the dot (idk how we got here)

Warnings: SMUT (18+) PERIOD SEX, unprotected p in v sex (do better, but also they want a baby so), vaginal fingering, oral (f receiving, again, you're on your period but our pussy eating king Fransisco Morales is an unstoppable force of nature), creampie, praise kink, big fat nasty breeding kink (it's who I am now, I won't apologize for it), Frankie's got a NASTY mouth, Frankie is the best husband, reader is on her period/has period symptoms, talks about family planning/not being on birth control, use of nicknames (hermosa, quierda, cariño), reader has no physical descriptions besides that she can wear Frankie's clothes

A/N: Well... This was gonna be a drabble... and then it was just gonna be fluff.... and then it was gonna be just some implied smut... and now, we're here??? Idk, don't ask me 🥴 self indulgent bc I just finished my period (and my periods have been whack since stopping bc) and what better way to heal myself than imagining what Frankie would be like taking care of you 🥺 also pls be nice to me this is my first time writing Frankie and I'm v nervous EEK I hope you enjoy!!! sorry Javi bby, I still love u

Bitchy. 

You wished you had a better word to describe your mood for today, but truth be told, bitchy was by far the most accurate. 

You and Frankie were hoping to start trying for your first baby soon, and had recently gone off your birth control after your doctor had told you it may take a few months for your body to regulate itself before you had a better chance at getting pregnant. Your doctor had also  warned you about many of the symptoms and side effects that stopping the pill could have, one of those being becoming more aware of your emotions and mood swings throughout your cycle. That, you were prepared for. 

What you were not prepared for, was to feel like an absolute psychopath in the days leading up to your period. 

 Your cycle had  been wonky the past few months as your body began to sort itself out- you had a feeling your period was probably about to start soon, but hadn’t thought much about it, considering your terrible and grouchy mood had overshadowed it. You had tried your best to pull yourself together the past few days, chalking up your grumpiness to long hours at work, or just being in a weird funk, but today, you woke up with a fire in your gut, ready to fight, and poor Frankie was about to be your punching bag. 

Sweet Frankie had been nothing short of a saint when it came to just about anything, but dealing with your newly heightened emotions right before your period really should have earned him some sort of Presidential Medal of Bravery, considering that your newly discovered highs and lows while PMS-ing were just as frightening as any time he had spent during his time in the military. 

Unfortunately for your husband, despite his best efforts, he had been on your nerves all morning. Not because he was really doing anything wrong, but because the little things that you were normally so good about letting go, or the patience you frequently had seemed to have flown out the window, and you were convinced that if Frankie even breathed the wrong way, you were going to absolutely lose it. 

So when unsuspecting Frankie decided to ask you a simple request about after work plans, there was very little he could have done to prepare for your response. 

“Morning, Hermosa.” Frankie cooed, emerging into the kitchen, his hand rustling through his untamed, sleepy brown curls as he let out a yawn and a stretch, the slight softness of his stomach peeking out between his t-shirt and pajama pants as he raised his arms above his head before settling behind you. He wrapped himself around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss into your shoulder as you finished putting the last of your lunch in your bag for work, trying to force yourself to focus on his sweet good morning, rather than the empty bowl of cereal in the sink that had greeted you first thing when you woke up, already starting you off on the wrong foot in your already irritable mood. 

“Morning, babe.” You grinned, forcing yourself to forgo the annoyance hidden behind your smile as you pecked a quick kiss on Frankie’s lips before gathering the rest of your things for the day scattered across the kitchen table. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to make you breakfast this morning because I was running late, but there’s extra scrambled eggs on the stove if you want them. I’m really sorry, Frankie, I gotta head out, have a good day, I’ll see you later okay?” You sighed, slinging your work bag over your shoulder, your hands full of your coffee mug, water bottle and keys, your cluttered grip and running behind schedule only adding to your frustration. 

“All good, Querida, no worries. Hey, actually baby, before you leave,” He paused, setting down the coffee mug he was just about ready to take a sip of, as if a little lightbulb had just gone off in his brain, “do you mind picking up stuff to make that really good buffalo chicken dip for Benny’s tonight? I told ‘em we’d bring like, an appetizer or something, if that’s okay.” 

For Frankie’s sake, you couldn’t have been more thankful that you had your back turned to him, because if looks could kill, Frankie Morales would have been a dead man. 

Every rational part of your brain knew that even though his request perhaps wasn’t the best timing, stopping by the store and making dip to bring to Benny’s for game night really wasn’t that much time or effort out of your day. But today, it seemed like every part of your brain but the rational one seemed to be functioning properly, and the raging, irrational part might as well have heard that Frankie wanted you to prepare and cook a Thanksgiving meal for 74 after you got home from work. 

You took a deep breath, your grip tightening around the items in your hand, praying with every bone in your body that someway or another, you had misheard your husband. 

“Tonight? As in, like, today, after I get home from work?” You questioned, trying to do your best to keep your tone from sounding too condescending. 

“Yeah, we don’t have to be there until 7, I just don’t think I’m gonna have time to since I probably won’t be outta work until 6:30.” He shrugged nonchalantly, taking another swig of his coffee 

Oh yeah, you’d heard him right.  

You let out a deep sigh, even more over dramatic than you had intended it to be, arms crossed over your chest and stark frown spread across your face as you turned towards Frankie. 

“Oh, perfect! That’s a great thing for me to find out about at 7:45 A.M. the day of, Frank!” Your voice oozed with ferocious sarcasm, now slamming your things back down onto the table to run your hands over your face. “No, that’s great, because there’s nothing I wanted to do more than to come home and make buffalo chicken dip instead of all the other shit I needed to do today before we left! Amazing! Thank you!” 

At this point, you were almost positive that if your eyes rolled any further, they’d be in the back of your skull, letting out another angry huff as you shook your head at Frankie, who was looking absolutely petrified as he leaned back against the counter, eyes darting to the floor to avoid yours, running his hand over the wispy curls at the nape of his neck. Frankie began to stammer, trying to defend himself from your wrath. 

“Hermosa, I’m- I’m sorry? I know it’s last minute, but you normally make it every time we go over there, I just- I figured it’d be easy for you to do? You can get something else, or I can try to stop by the store really quick on the way home, I just might-” 

“Nope, you want buffalo chicken dip, apparently I’m making buffalo chicken dip!” You groaned, collecting everything back into your hands, swearing under your breath as you tried to balance everything in your grip. “Jesus, okay, I need to go to work, just- I don’t even know. I gotta go, Frankie.” 

“Querida, I-” Frankie pleaded, beginning to trail behind you as you made your way to the front door. 

“Frankie, whatever, it’s fine! I’ll make the stupid dip! I have to go to work, I’ll see you later.” You could feel the muscles in your jaw beginning to clench as you gritted your teeth, trying with everything in you to keep from exploding as you headed out of the house. Without even a kiss goodbye, you left Frankie in the doorway, watching you throw your things in the car and slam the door behind you as you drove down the driveway. 

But as soon as you were on the road and your house was out of view, you could instantly feel the tears beginning to well in your eyes, slowly streaming down your cheeks as you began to sob, wondering why you had ruined the morning over as stupid as an appetizer, and even worse, that you had been a complete asshole to your husband about it. 

You couldn’t have been more thankful that work had been quiet today- no meetings on the schedule, and no one coming to bother you, leaving you plenty of peace and quiet to continue sulking and brooding in your unpleasant mood. 

Right around lunch time, you found yourself eating alone in your office, wishing your lunch was about ten times saltier and chocolatier than it was, crying to yourself as you watched a video of a dog meeting its new human sibling for the first time.

Just as you were beginning to pack up the rest of your lunch and start back up with your work, you felt a terrible twinge in your lower stomach that had you just about keeled over in pain, followed by that all too familiar feeling in your underwear. 

Frantically scrambling, you reached into your bag to pull out a tampon, hurriedly shuffling to the nearest bathroom, only to reveal the murder scene equivalent as you pulled down your pants. 

Your period had come.  

In that moment, as much as you were dreading the pain and misery that was the next few days to come, you couldn’t also help but feel a slight sense of relief, realizing that you were in fact, not actually a crazy person for the way you were feeling, you were just PMS-ing out of your mind. You couldn’t also help but feel absolutely awful for your unjustified freak out at your husband this morning, your heart sinking with guilt as you made your way back to your desk, immediately grabbing your phone to text Frankie. 

“Hey… I’m so sorry about this morning. What you were asking me to do wasn’t a big deal at all and I totally freaked out on you. My period just started, I think that’s why I’ve been such a bitch this morning. I’m sorry, Frankie, I love you.💕 ” 

It was almost instantly after you hit send that the reply bubble popped up in your message, your heart pounding anxiously waiting for your husband’s reply. 

“It’s okay, I kind of had a feeling 😉 babe, you weren’t being a bitch- I should have talked to you about it sooner. Shitty timing on my part. I’m sorry. I love you too, Querida.” 

Before you could even respond, another message popped up below his first. 

“Don’t worry about going to the store or making anything tonight. I already texted Benny and told him we couldn’t come. We can spend the night in, just the two of us. I can pick up takeout on the way home if you want and we can pick a movie to watch.” 

You could feel your frustrated facade beginning to melt away as your lips shifted from a pursed frown to a small smirk reading Frankie’s text, your thumbs quickly tapping across the screen of your phone to reply. 

“Thank you. You’re the best.” 

“Of course. Hopefully none of your co-workers ask you to make buffalo chicken dip before you leave 😘” 

“Oh shut up, meanie.” 

“Just kidding. Have a good rest of your day, love you. 💙

“Love you too. 🤍” 

Although the rest of your day was nowhere near enjoyable, given the fact you felt like you were getting punched repeatedly in the uterus and your personality resembled that of Oscar the Grouch, you knew that your night in with Frankie was your light at the end of the tunnel, and only needed to make it a few more hours before there was at least some sweet relief finally headed your way. 

Despite the constant stabbing pain in your lower stomach and back, your drive home from work had you in much better spirits than your drive there, now not only having an explanation as to why you had felt like such a mess, but also knowing the rest of your night was going to be dedicated to nothing but cuddling up in your comfiest clothes and snuggling up next to Frankie on the couch. 

As you pulled down your street, you were surprised to see Frankie’s truck already parked in the driveway, wondering what he was doing at home almost an hour earlier than he had mentioned he would be this morning. Gathering all of your things out of the back of your car, you quietly entered your home, confusion scrunching in your brow as you called out for your husband. 

“Frankie? Babe, are you home?” 

Before you could even kick off your shoes or hang up your coat, Frankie had already appeared at the front door to greet you, boyish grin spread across his face as he grabbed your things out of your hand, carefully placing them on your entryway table before engulfing you in a bear hug, his broad arms wrapping around your body and pulling you closer into his chest. 

You could feel all the muscles in your body instantly relax as your face rested against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, soaking in the familiar woody and savory scent of him, letting yourself be consumed by every ounce of his embrace. 

“Hi Hermosa.” Frankie cooed, pressing a soft kiss against your temple, running his hands up and down your back as you looked up at his sweet brown eyes shining down at you. 

“What are you doing home so early? I mean, not that I’m mad about it at all, I just thought you said that you had to work until 6:30 and-” 

“Told my boss I had to head out early for a family emergency.” Frankie smirked, laughing at you playfully rolling your eyes from his so-called excuse. 

“Last time I checked, your wife being a grump because she’s bleeding out of her cooch doesn’t classify as a family emergency, Fransisco.” You teased, giving him a little shove, making the two of you giggle in tandem. 

“Eh, close enough. I’m really sorry about this morning, querida. I was a dick for not talking to you about plans beforehand and just assuming you could go do it. It wasn’t fair of me.” 

“It’s okay, Frankie. What you were asking for wasn’t a big deal and I made it one because I’ve been a psycho all day. I’m sorry, too.” 

“Well,” Frankie paused, pressing another kiss onto your cheek, the width of his palm gently cradling your jaw as you stared up at him and his sympathetic smile, “number one, you are not a psycho. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable you must feel right now, so even if you were, I wouldn’t blame you one bit. Number two,” he paused again, shifting his kiss from your cheek to your lips, his thumb delicately swiping across your skin, “you’re my wife and I love you more than anything, and if I can take a little time off to help make you feel better, it’s the least I can do. So, why don’t you go change into something comfortable, and when you get back down here, I will have pizza and ice cream, whatever movie you wanna watch, and a back rub ready for you, okay?”   

“Okay. Thank you, Frankie. God, you’re the best.” You grinned, pressing up on your tiptoes to let your mouth meet Frankie’s, the plush pout of his bottom lip swiping across yours, lingering just long enough to let the butterflies in your stomach begin to swirl, heat creeping through your cheeks in the tenderness of the moment.

“Of course, cariño. Te amo. Now go get changed.” With one last peck on his lips, you wiggled out of Frankie’s grasp to make your way up the stairs, grinning to see that your husband had already set out your favorite of his oversized sweatshirts and sweatpants, neatly folded on the bed for you to grab, quickly shuffling out of your uncomfortable work attire and exchanging it for Frankie’s clothes, your smile growing even wider at the feeling of perpetually being wrapped up in the essence of him. 

As you made your way back downstairs to meet Frankie, you found your heart skipping a beat again to see that the better part of the living room had been turned into a cozy sanctuary- lights dim and candles lit, both parts of your couch squished together, filled with every pillow and blanket you owned, and Frankie sitting in the middle, giant box of pizza, tub of ice cream and your handsome husband waiting for you. 

As if your emotions hadn’t already taken you on a wild roller coaster of a ride today, the adorable sight in front of you had you on the verge of tears again, wiping the wetness pooling in your eyes with the back of Frankie’s sweatshirt sleeve drooping off your arm before crawling into the blanket fort he had constructed for the two of you. 

“Frankie… You didn’t have to do this.” You sniffled, curling up next to Frankie as he draped a blanket over your lap and his arm over your shoulder, passing you a plate with 2 large pieces of pizza. 

“It’s the least I could do. I put on Hercules for us to watch, but if you wanna-” 

Before you could let him finish the rest of his sentence, you were running your hand across the scratchy stubble of his cheek, pulling his face closer to yours as you planted a kiss on his lips, feeling your smiles melt into one another's as your mouths met. “That sounds perfect. God, how’d I get so lucky?” 

“I could say the same thing, mi amor. You ready to start the movie?” 

“Only if you also pass me that tub of Ben and Jerry’s to go with my pizza.” 

“I think I can make that happen.” 

About half way through the movie, pizza and tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, your and Frankie’s bodies were tangled together in a sea of limbs and blankets, contently snuggled up with one another as Frankie’s fingers traced lazy circles on your back and shoulder as you laid against his chest. 

“You doin’ okay, querida? Need anything?” He cooed, his soft voice dancing in your ear. As if it weren’t enough that you had already been through the extreme highs and lows of almost every feeling under the sun today, the one you hadn’t been until this very moment was insatiably horny. While the mood swings you had mentally prepared yourself for with your new period symptoms, the constant other kind of ache between your legs you had not, and feeling the low rasp of Frankie’s words tickling your neck had been just enough to flip the switch to make you desperately needy. 

Letting your leg slide over Frankie’s lap, you pushed yourself up to straddle his hips, running your hands through the dark curls of his thick, brown hair, and down his broad chest, your fists bunching the worn fabric of his shirt in your hands as your mouths became a mess of tangled tongues and teeth. 

“I need- fuck- I need you, Frankie, please.” You pleaded between muffled moans, his tongue swiping in the parted space where your lips melted together as one, instinctively beginning to grind your hips into his, feeling the bulge in his sweatpants starting to grow beneath you. 

“Fuck- You sure, baby?” Frankie rasped, reactively bucking up into you, making you whine as his hands dug into your hips, guiding you as you swirled over the tented fabric of his bottom half rubbing against your covered core. 

“Please. Please, Frankie.” You were all but whimpering at this point, nodding frantically in approval as Frankie used the grasp on your hips to guide you onto your back, making you cock your head in confusion as Frankie scampered to the other side of the couch, back turned to you as he reached over the ledge, pulling out a thick, black towel with a smug grin on his face. “Did you seriously have a towel ready incase I wanted to have sex?” You snorted, shaking your head at Frankie, now crawling back to you, caging your body under his with an electric kiss as he shimmied the towel underneath you. 

“Maybe.” Frankie smirked, breaking from your kiss to let his lips trail down your body, his hands toying with the edge of his sweatshirt covering your body as he pushed it up your stomach and chest, helping you to shimmy it over your head, leaving your top half exposed. He gently palmed at your breasts, taking each pebbled nipple in his mouth, sucking and flicking at the buds with his tongue before letting his kisses travel down the soft skin of your stomach and waistband of your sweatpants. The clothes on your bottom half soon joined your sweatshirt in a crumpled pile as Frankie nestled himself between your legs, gently nudging your hips to let your thighs part, revealing your pussy, slick and shiny for him with your juices. 

Even though Frankie would eat you out for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a late night snack, you couldn’t help but feel guilty that he still found himself between your legs during your time of the month, considering any other man probably would have scoffed at just the thought of going down on you on your period. 

But, then again, Frankie Morales wasn’t just any other man. 

“Frankie, baby, you know you don’t- Oh fuck!” You gasped, cut off in surprise as Frankie’s tongue licked a long, broad strip across your cunt, making you shudder in pleasure as his head perked up, revealing the devilish grin spread between his cheeks watching your chest already heave in heavy, shaky breaths. 

“Oh I know I don’t have to, sweet girl. But I want to. Relax, baby, lemme take care of you.” 

Before you could agree, protest, or anything in between, Frankie was back between your legs, arms wrapped around your thighs as they draped over his broad shoulders, digging his fingertips into the plush softness of your skin, dragging his tongue through your folds with the exact grace and precision that he knew made you fall apart in seconds. 

With flat, firm presses of his mouth latched against your clit, you could already feel your bottom half writhing under him, the perfect pressure of his tongue dancing around your sensitive bundle of nerves making you moan in pleasure. As your head dipped back, falling into the couch pillow behind you, your hand shot down, fingers burying themselves in the wild curls of Frankie’s hair, tugging at the thick ends for any sort of release as he worked relentlessly at your aching cunt. 

“Fuck, Frankie, oh fuck- Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” You whined, your praise only intensifying the way your husband drank every ounce of you up, two thick fingers now gently pressing inside your heat, curled deliciously as they rocked in and out of your entrance, nudging against your g-spot. 

Frankie had spent enough time worshiping the altar that was your pussy to know exactly how to make you crumble beneath him, leaving you chanting his name like a prayer as his lips latched around your clit, ferociously sucking as his fingers prodded at the soft, spongy spot that made your cunt begin to clench and heat in your belly pool. 

“That’s it, Hermosa. I know you’re close, baby girl. Let me feel you, mi amor. I’ve got you.” Frankie groaned, his words humming deep in his chest, placing chaste kisses on the inside of your thighs before drinking you up like a man starved, adding a third finger into your heat, the added fullness and stretch, combined with Frankie’s relentless pace, enough to have the tingle that had been building at the base of your spine now washing through every inch of your body. Your orgasm began to crash through you, your pussy fluttering as pleasure radiated in your veins, making you cry out Frankie’s name over and over. 

Frankie worked persistently through your high, only pulling back after making sure that you had cum again, sitting back on his haunches as he admired the blissed out and ragged mess you had become, your pussy slick and swollen as your chest rose and fell in wrecked inhales and exhales, trying to compose yourself from the Frankie and fucked you senseless with just his tongue. 

Wiping the slick and juices glistening in his mustache with the back of his hand, Frankie tugged the sweatshirt covering his own body over his head, followed by his pants and boxers, freeing his painfully hard cock as it slapped against his stomach, his tip red and leaking with precum as his broad body loomed over yours, sucking and nipping at your pulse point as you whimpered his name. 

“Frankie, holy fuck.” 

“Such a good girl for me, querida. You still want me to fuck you, baby?” He mewled, the metallic and tangy taste of you still lingering on his tongue as he kissed you, laughing to himself at the way you found yourself frantically nodding your head to tell him yes before your words could. 

“Jesus Christ, yes. Fuck, please Frankie, I need to feel you.” 

Reaching down to stroke himself, he lined his cock up with your entrance, easily sliding into your heat and brushing his tip against your cervix, taking a moment to let you adjust to his fullness. The whine you let out as Frankie filled every inch of you was nothing short of ragged, digging your nails into the skin of his broad back as he ever so slowly began to thrust in and out of you, dragging his length against the slick of your cunt. 

“Oh fuck me- Fuck, you hear how wet you are for me, sweet girl? This what you needed, baby? To fill up that pretty little pussy of yours?” Frankie groaned, letting his forehead rest against yours, his sweaty curls now starting to stick to his skin as he pounded into you, rutting his hips at a faster and faster pace. 

“It’s all for you, Frankie- Oh shit- only for you.” You moaned, your fingers wrapping around the width of his biceps, flexing deliciously as he hovered over you, sucking you in to a long, deep kiss, fucking into you over and over. 

Even with the years between you and the ring on your finger, the possessive part of Frankie’s brain would never get over how the primal and all consuming feeling of knowing you were his, forever, your words shooting straight to his dick as a low groan rumbled in his chest, silently cursing to himself through gritted teeth, watching you fall apart below him. 

Readjusting himself, Frankie sat back on his heels, hooking his arm under one of your legs to drape it over his shoulder, the new angle stretching you out in a way that had you seeing stars as Frankie rammed into your g-spot and began thumbing at your clit, still swollen and sensitive from your first orgasm. You could already feel the heat beginning to bloom in your belly once again, your leg beginning to tremble hoisted over Frankie’s shoulder as he dug into the meat of your thigh with a bruising intensity. 

Just like he would never get over the fact of knowing you were his, Frankie would never get over watching you begin to crumble under his touch, taking the time to memorize every twitch and twinge your body made as you came closer and closer to your end, always savoring in the moaning mess you’d become as you fell apart around him. 

“Fuck, Frankie, Fuck, oh my god- I’m close, baby.” You were all but rambling at this point, your brain barley stringing together coherent sentences as you felt your cunt beginning to clench around his cock, the lewd noises of your moans, wetness and skin slapping together as your hips met filling the room at a borderline pornagraphic rate. 

“Meirda, I’m not gonna last much longer, hermosa. Fuck, where do you want me, baby?” Frankie growled through gritted teeth, his eyes locking on yours and telling him everything he needed to know without you saying a word. 

“Inside. Fuck, please Frankie, I want you to cum inside me.” 

Your confirmation was all it took to flip the switch in Frankie that sent him absolutely feral, the thought of being able to actually knock you up now that you weren’t on birth control anymore, giving you a baby, proving another way to the world to mark you as his? The thought alone was enough to have him bracing every bone in his body to keep him from cuming right then and there. 

“Fuck me. You want me to fill you up, querida? Fuck me full of you? Fuck a baby into you? That's what you want, huh?” Frankie moaned, grunting with each thrust of his hips, his rhythm becoming more frantic and shaky as he felt your pussy begin to flutter around him, pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit, swirling them in frantic circles to make sure you came before he did. 

“Fuck, yes. I need you too, holy fuck- wanna make you a daddy, Fransisco.” 

You could feel the tightly wound knot in your core starting to snap, your legs trembling and breath shaking as Frankie fucked into you, finding yourself on the verge of collapse- but not before Frankie’s filthy mouth got the last word in. 

“Jesus, fuck- Fuck, hermosa. That’s what you want, pretty girl? I swear, I’m gonna fuck myself so deep into you it’ll fucking take. Get you fucking pregnant tonight.” 

That was all it took to have you orgasm come crashing through you, every inch of your body radiating with pleasure as you came, crying out Frankie’s name as you gushed around him, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head, your mind going blank and numb, the only thing grounding you were the incoherent ramblings of your husband as he followed suit behind you. 

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too, fuck, fuck-ahhhhhh.” With one final thrust, Frankie could feel himself spilling against your walls, coating you with his spend as his cock pulsed, making sure he milked himself of every last drop deep inside your cunt before even thinking about pulling out. Moving your leg, Frankie slumped into you, splaying himself across your body as your chests rose and fell in sync, laying in silence as you let your breathing steady, coming back down to Earth from your high. 

With a shallow grunt, Frankie carefully pulled his softening cock out of your heat, leaning back to admire the mess he had made between your legs, his cum dripping down the inside of your thighs and pussy glistening with the mixture of your arousal. You let out a soft hiss at the loss of Frankie’s fullness inside you, only to quickly be replaced by a gasp as he buried his two fingers back into your cunt.  

“Gotta make sure every last drop stays in there, hermosa. Gonna keep you full of me all night, baby.” He mewled, carefully gathering his spend and pushing it deep inside you, making you whimper as he slowly pulsed his fingers back and forth, pulling away his hand to lean back into your body, engulfing you with an electric kiss. 

“Holy fuck, fuck me. Jesus, Frankie.” You laughed to yourself, your head dipping back on the pillow as you buried your face in your hands, at a loss for words at how euphoric you now felt in your post colital bliss. 

“Wow, again, already? Gotta give me a few after that querida.” He smirked, making you roll your eyes at his joke as you playfully swatted at him, making him lean in to pepper your body with kisses, leaving you squealing and squirming in delight. 

“You are absolutely ridiculous, Fransisco Morales. If you keep fucking me like that, then yeah, absolutley.” 

“If I keep fucking you like this, I have a very hopeful feeling that next month, we’ll have something else to care about besides period cramps.”

“I swear to god, if one of my cravings ends up being buffalo chicken dip once I’m pregnant, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Taglist:

@bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog @jaciejay13 @poodlebae @gobaaby-blog-blog @lola8888673 @persephone-girl @copperhalfcent @innerpersonunknown @messinadresss @devineconjuring @endlessthxxghts @cool-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @theorganasolo @endlessthxxghts @messinadress @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled @amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @ilovepedro @pascalscoffin @missladym1981 @munson-hargrove-barnes86 @angel98624 @anoverwhelmingdin @pimosworld @nandan11 @iloveenya @survivingandenduring

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something wild and unruly [western!joel miller x f!reader]

summary: At Madame Aurelie's Secret Garden, men pay for beautiful courtesans trained in pleasure to give them whatever they want. And all Joel Miller, infamous outlaw and gunslinger, ever seems to want from you is a warm bath and quiet conversation. ratings/warnings: E [reader is a sex worker in a parlor house in the late 1800s and we are playing fast and loose with the realities of ALL of this mmk, use of the word "whore", angst, descriptions of sex work, references to losing a spouse and infertility, grief, arguably weird power dynamics, joel in the old west is just as grouchy and stubborn as the one in the apocalypse and is a little scary for a sec, lots of sexual tension, a single handjob, joel gets several baths like a baby lamb, mentions of blood and violence] wc: ~10k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! i'm not apologizing for word count anymore this story slaps and you should read it. i played rdr2 and then i had to write this. i think his voice moves a little between game joel and show joel, but i pictured him as both as various times. he's like a little blend. kissing @starlightmornings on the mouth for the beta and all her sweet encouragement<3 and to all of YOU who hyped this up for me, i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it. Also, sex work is work and we support sex workers in this house.

masterlist | joel miller masterlist

“He will be good for your first.” Madame Aurelie speaks in a soft French accent as she gives the strings of your corset an extra tug. Your lungs scream as your ribs compress against them, organs shifting to accommodate the unfamiliar shape around your waist. Whoever stares back at you from the mirror, the woman with her painted red lips and breasts pushed to her chin, is no one you’ve ever met.

Your first.

“Why’s that?” You ask, ignoring the screams of mercy from your lungs. 

“He is a pussycat,” she says with a wink. That could mean anything coming from Madame Aurelie. “You will see.”

Your feet drag with every step up the stairs, lingering on the landing as you stare down the hall to the room you’ve been assigned for the evening. 

The only thing that keeps you moving is the knowledge that Madame Aurelie will put you back to work as a bar girl, no questions asked, if you turn around and tell her you’ve changed your mind. 

It doesn’t make you any less nervous about selling your body for the first time. 

Though you could argue, maybe, this isn’t the first time. That most of the women you know and love sold their bodies in one way or another. Sometimes to men they wouldn’t meet until their wedding day and sometimes to men with whom they went to the same schoolhouse.  

Or they were like you and married the first man your father could convince of it, simply because he and your mother were tired of caring for you. 

That brief union to the nephew of your father’s best friend taught you a single lesson—marriage is, at best, an overly cordial transaction. Maybe not for everyone, maybe not every single marriage in existence, but for girls like you? Girls like you settled down with inoffensive men who read their Bibles and went to church and unburdened your family of your troublesome existence. To thank the nice boy for agreeing to such a sacrifice, you’re to lay still and moan at the right time, and he might give you some money and pretty clothes. 

If you’re lucky, he’ll give you a baby, and you’ll have something to pour all that unwanted love onto.

Your husband had been one of those men; polite, if distant, and he gave you flowers on your birthday for all three years of wedded bliss. Your mother promised you’d grow to love him, and you tried to. You did all the things you’d been told to do to make him fall in love with you, but you may as well have been invisible most of the time. 

Most of it, you think, had to do with your failure to give him a son. Or a daughter, for that matter. It didn’t seem to matter how much you prayed or how often you let him into your bed, every month you bled, and every month he looked more and more disappointed. 

Every month you breathed a long sigh of guilt-tinged relief. Pregnancy and all its wonders scared you, no matter how much your mother insisted on it being a miraculous experience. 

And then, three years into your marriage, he had the very bad manners to go off and die from consumption, leaving you with nothing. He’d hidden his debts well, and the bank had no qualms about leaving you a penniless widow. 

You had two choices: hope another man would want to marry a twenty-seven-year-old widow or find your way alone. 

The thought of starting over with someone new made your skin crawl.

So you headed west after you heard it was lawless and wild and even women could make it on their own out there. Neither of your parents would think to look for you in a house of ill repute. You started as a saloon girl at Madame Aurelie’s Secret Garden, serving drinks and cleaning in exchange for a place to sleep, until Madame Aurelie herself took a liking to you. 

“The men love a girl who looks like she’s never been properly fucked,” she’d said. You’d choked on the drink she’d handed you. After all these months serving drinks to cowboys and traveling salesmen, her language still scandalizes you. 

And yet, you cling tight to her every word. Everything she says makes more sense than anything in the Book of Revelations.

The more experienced girls get a room to themselves on the third floor, but that would come with a level of seniority you do not intend to reach. For now, you'll rotate with other newer girls in the smaller rooms.

Madame Aurelie had you practice all week long—looking seductive, sounding seductive, pouting your lips out just the right way, spreading your legs just enough to entice but not enough to be lurid. 

“There are plenty of places they can go for something quick and dirty,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “That is not what we do here. We give an experience.” 

The Garden may well be a house of ill repute, but its flowers are well-tended. 

Word has it that she owns the building. It lights up something inside of you, the idea of a woman owning anything. Maybe you’ll ask her about it one day, once you’ve impressed her enough. 

For now, you have a gentleman to take care of.

Situating yourself on the bed in what you hope is an aloof, seductive pose, you wait for him to knock. It’s quiet today, but it’s only six in the evening. The cowboys and farmers’ll be coming in soon, and the merchants, too, once the shops close. 

So who is this, you wonder, here with the sun still out?

As if on cue, the clattering of boots on stairs reaches your ears. His gait is slow but noisy, growing louder on the wood floor as he approaches. Three sharp wraps on the door echo through the room. 

“Come in,” you say in your throatiest voice that doesn’t sound anything like you. The door clicks open and the man standing there is not what you’re expecting, so broad his shoulders take up most of the doorframe. “Pussycat” isn’t the word you’d have used. 

“Ma’am,” he grunts, taking off a black gambler’s hat and holding it over his chest. 

He has manners, at least.  

And Good God Almighty, is he handsome. His graying facial hair gives him a more distinguished air than he probably deserves, but his dark, round eyes are almost boyish.  

He sighs and runs his hand through matted waves. Those broad shoulders and chest taper off to a narrow waist, and it might not be such a chore, seeing this one naked.

You’re supposed to be doing something here, too. You shoot up from the bed, concentrating on not tripping over your feet.

“I’m Sugar,” you offer, but that’s not your name at all. 

You suspect you don’t know anyone’s real name here. Madame Aurelie prefers it that way.

He nods but doesn’t introduce himself, so you push on.

“I was told you wanted a bath, too? Before or…?” You trail off. It occurs to you that it might offend him, implying that he’s dirty. He is, of course, but you’ve been bought and paid for, and he can fuck you in whatever state of hygiene he’d like.

The ghost of a smirk slides across his lips.

“Now’s good, Miss Sugar.” He says “Miss Sugar” like he’s put a spoonful of it in his mouth, rolling the little grain around his tongue like a forbidden treat. You ring a bell for one of the boys to bring up a few buckets of hot water, then set to work filling the bath with oils and soaps that bubble and foam. Your hands shake, but he doesn’t mention it.

He doesn’t speak at all, actually, and still doesn’t offer a name.

You ponder what it could be while you work—Buck? Levi? Arthur? He doesn’t look like an Arthur.

When you’re satisfied with what you’ve done, you turn around to find him already naked. Your eyes, of course, go straight to his cock. 

How could it not? 

You’ve only seen one other, and your late husband’s was not quite so impressive. Blood rushes to your face and you look away again as you try to reassure yourself.

This is what’s supposed to happen. 

He walks past you and climbs in, sighing as he sinks into the water. 

“Would you…would you like me to wash you?” You ask. 

“I’d’ve gone somewhere much cheaper if I didn’t, darlin’,” he says. A nervous titter slips out of you, and you shake your head as you grab a washcloth and a bar of soap. 

Hair first, unless he tells you otherwise. You pour the water over his head, carefully avoiding his face, and rake your nails across his scalp. He doesn’t make a sound, but his eyes close as you reach the soft nape of his neck. 

“Good weather we’ve had lately,” you say. Madame Aurelie instructed you to try to make small talk any time you weren’t…busy. 

“It makes them feel important,” she’d explained. “Men love to feel important. But don’t chatter too much—just give them an opening and they will do the rest of the talking. Believe me.” 

That philosophy, apparently, did not apply to this gentleman. 

“No need for all that,” he grunts. You freeze, opening your mouth and closing it again.

This is off to a real good start. 

“Sorry, mister,” you say. He turns his head and you pull your soapy hands back, waiting for another reprimand, but his soft, disarming eyes calm your racing heart. 

“Didn’t mean nothin’ personal by it, Miss Sugar,” he says. “Just ain’t in the mood for conversation.”

You nod. “Yessir.”

So you focus on your task instead. It’s relaxing; the plink! of the water trickling down his broad shoulders into the tub, the bath oils slick between your palms rubbing over a constellation of scars on his otherwise soft skin. You almost forget what you’re here for until your hand disappears under the water as you reach his midsection.

“Is there anywhere I should give…extra attention to?” Your breath hitches at the end of the sentence. Your toes curl in your boots as he gazes down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Just the regular amount of attention everywhere’ll be fine.”

He’s an older man—maybe he’s just not ready yet. As your hand slides down to his thighs, though, it’s clear that’s just not the case. He’s hard as iron, but you don’t linger, despite the almost inaudible grunt he gives. A few simple passes with the washcloth and it’s on to his legs. 

When you brush over his knees, he tosses his head back as you apply the slightest pressure. 

“Felt good,” he says when you glance back. You do the same thing a few more times, and to his other knee, and the tension between his brows melts away completely. 

“You got trouble with those?” You ask, then hastily add, “I’m not bein’ nosy—it’s just, I can add in a little massage for a nickel.”

“You new around here?” He asks, disregarding your questions completely, and your smile falls. 

“That obvious?” You ask with a self-deprecating chuckle. He lifts his arm from the water and hooks his finger under your chin, pulling you around to meet his eyes. Anticipation crawls up your spine, your breath coming in short puffs. 

That might be the corset, though. 

“Just got a sparkle to you I don’t usually see ‘round here is all.” He searches your face, but you don’t know what he’s looking for. 

“How often are you here?” You ask, grabbing a towel from the stool next to you as he stands up.

“Oh, every few months, I reckon,” he says. He steps out and since the day isn’t too cold, you take your time drying him off. He watches you with a relaxed mouth and soft eyes, and something in his posture makes you a little braver. 

“That the only time you bathe, mister?” You ask with a sly grin, looking up through your lashes. He doesn’t smile, but you hear something like a chuckle unstick from his throat. 

“Only time I get a proper one, anyway. S’why I come here.”

He’s dry and warm now, and you expect he’ll lead you to the bed to have his way with you now. He’s sweet, if gruff, and you hope that’ll translate to how he treats you. 

Maybe you won’t have to pretend too much. 

“It’s a performance, Sugar. Make them believe,” Madame Aurelie’d said.

“I ain’t never been much of an actress,” you’d told her, but she’d just waved you off.

“Ah, but it does not have to be a very good one. A little goes a long way.”

He looks you over in your corset and your petticoat, and sets his hands on your shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over your skin. “Thank you very much, Miss Sugar,” he says quietly, reaching for his clothes. “You have a good evening now.”

Your throat goes dry. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. He’s supposed to take you now, and you’re supposed to pretend he feels so good you can’t help but scream his name. 

Not that he’s given you a name to scream.

Maybe he has a type, and maybe you’re not it. The other girls told you some of them were picky. 

“Was I—do you want me to send someone else? If I’m not pleasin’ to you?” You ask meekly, swallowing your humiliation. “I know I said I’m new—but it’s not my first time, I know how to—”

“No, that’s all right,” he says, pulling on his boots. “You’re more than pleasin’, Miss Sugar.”

He puts on his hat and walks out with a final nod in your direction before he shuts the door. 

Of all the things you’d expected to feel tonight, rejection is not one of them.

Madame Aurelie wastes no time bursting in a few minutes later, her brown eyes eager for information.

“So,” she asks. “How’d it go?”

“He just wanted a bath,” you say. She gives you a smirk and nods. 

“He only ever wants a bath,” she laughs, offering you a cigarette. You take it, shaken enough from your first venture into this business to indulge.

“He was…very sweet,” you say. 

“He’s a decent sort, that Joel Miller,” she says, and something clicks in your brain. You’ve heard of him. You’ve heard a lot about him. 

“The outlaw Joel Miller? The gunslinger? The murderer? Wanted in six states? That’s him?” You sputter. Madame Aurelie laughs again and fans the smoke away from her face. 

“Rumors! Most of it, anyway,” she says but doesn’t specify which part. “He is not wanted in this state, and we’re gonna keep it that way, darling. He lived a rough life. Lost his daughter before she was sixteen, and her mother before, during childbirth.” 

“You sweet on him, Madame?” You tease.

“Who wouldn’t be? My Martin wouldn’t like that very much at all, though, would he?”

“I suppose not,” you murmur.

“Do not get too used to it. We don’t get a lot of his type here. He left you a tip,” she says, handing you a stack of bills. 

“For me?” You ask, eyes widening. 

“Mmhmm,” she says. “And here’s the rest of your cut.” She slips another stack in your hand and tells you to go up and get some rest. You got off easy tonight, and she’s glad for it. 

That night you stare up at the ceiling, adrenaline coursing through you—you’d made more money tonight than you’d ever even seen before. 

And that Joel Miller—you hoped he’d come back. Mysterious and brooding, just like all the heroes in the cowboy novels, but much kinder. 

The thought of his fingers on your shoulder is enough to make you shiver, enough for arousal to replace that adrenaline, and as your hand slips under your thin cotton nightdress, you thank the Lord that the girl who shares the bed next to you is otherwise occupied for the evening. 

“Mr. Miller requested you,” Madame Aurelie says. 

That was nothing new—the regulars all have their favorite girls.  

You aren’t anyone’s favorite yet. 

It isn’t a big deal to you, the job gets done, you get paid, and no one has complained. Being someone’s favorite is last on your list of concerns. 

You wouldn’t mind being his favorite, though.

After triple-checking your appearance, you make it up the stairs in half your usual time. 

He makes it to the room before you this time, towering over you when he throws the door open. His eyes are sharp and so much darker than the last time. One hand curls around your bicep and he pulls you into the room behind him before he sticks his head out of the door and looks around with swift, purposeful movements. 

“Is everything—”

“Anyone follow you up here?” He asks. 

“No…not that I know of.” You cross your arms, all that excitement turning to cold dread. “Somethin’ I should know?”

He gives the hallway one last look and slams the door behind him. Something dark and angry pours off of him, and you don’t know him well enough to judge where he’s directing that rage. You never could stand when a man raised his voice or slammed a door, especially not here. Madame Aurelie protects her girls as best she can, but could anyone stop the man in front of you if he really got it in his head to hurt you?

Your heart slams itself against your ribcage as you take a step back from him.

The sudden movement breaks whatever hostility had taken hold of him. He takes his hat off, holding it to his chest as he shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Sugar,” he says in a soft voice. “Don’t mean to frighten you. Had a run-in with some jackasses full as a tick and didn’t want them comin’ in here and causin’ trouble in your establishment.”

The heart settles itself as you take a deep breath and smile. “That’s all right, mister.”

“It’s Miller,” he says. “Joel Miller.”

“Nice to meet you proper, Mr. Miller,” you say, smoothing the front of your petticoat. “You just want the bath again?”

He nods, his cheeks flushing red. “I know it’s unusual.”

“Hey now,” you murmur, approaching him slowly. “I don’t think it’s unusual at all.” His lips twitch and you resist the urge to cradle his face in your hands. “Let me get that bath ready, all right?”

Joel undresses just like last time, no shame at all as he lowers himself into the bathtub. You start slowly this time—if this is all he wants, you’ll make it the best goddang bath he’s ever had. A massage is extra, technically, but you’re happy to keep it between the two of you. 

His muscles melt as your fingers dig into his slick skin, and anything left of that dangerous energy from before melts off of him, too. He sighs and groans, and every little noise is a victory. You work him until he’s boneless, like melted candlewax in your hands. He even lets you kiss his damp forehead and smiles fondly as you stand to fetch a towel.

He dries himself this time, but before you leave he catches you by the wrist. “I really didn’t mean to scare you earlier, Miss Sugar. Take this, would you? For your trouble.” His eyes are soft and round again as he folds an ornate gold pocket watch into your hand. It’s the prettiest thing anyone’s ever given you, including your wedding ring. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. “I’ll see you next time?” 

“I hope so, Miss Sugar.”

“Where’re you off to?” 

Tommy’s nosier than usual these days. Used to be he’d just wave and nod, tell Joel to be careful and come back with something good. But Tommy Miller’s better at reading his brother than anyone in the world, and he must see the eager look in his eye as Joel sets off. 

“Need to go into town,” Joel says vaguely, swinging one leg over a chestnut Morgan and patting her neck as he settles. “I’ll be back in a few days. Keep an eye on things here?”

“I think Tess has that handled,” Tommy says, a wry smile at the upturn of his lips. “You’re goin’ to see that girl, huh?” 

Joel shakes his head, but Tommy keeps on. He means well, his brother, but Joel doesn’t want to hear it. “I’m sure she’s a nice girl, Joel, but since when has fallin' for a whore ever worked out?”

Joel’s jaw ticks as he glares down at Tommy. “Ain’t about that,” he says, dismissing his concerns. “Got some business to look into.”

Tommy raises his hands and shakes his head. “All right. Don’t go bein’ reckless is all I’m sayin’. You got that kid now—”

“Ellie’s damn near an adult,” Joel says, not bothering to hide his irritation. “She can handle herself just fine.”

But as he looks across the camp to where Tess sat with Ellie demonstrating the proper way to clean a rifle, he can't say that with any certainty. Ellie's barely older than his Sarah was when he lost her, and she was just a little girl then. Smuggling, stealing, sometimes killing--this is no life for a kid, no matter how much of it they try to shield her from. It's just easier to pretend she isn't. 

Still, he can trust Tess and Tommy, and he’ll only be gone a few days. And he isn’t lying about that business—a bounty’ll bring in good enough money that Tommy won’t be able to say anything about it. 

“Be careful, brother,” he says, and Joel just nods, digging his heel into Starfire and setting off. He doesn’t know how much longer they can stick around these parts, anyway, not as a group. Folks go around kicking up dust and putting a target on their backs, and sooner or later they’ll need to find a new place to settle. 

He stews over Tommy’s wording the entire ride. Even if it’s true. Even if that’s what she’s chosen to do, even if she didn’t mind. Tommy said it to make a point, and he’d made it well. 

He never gave himself a chance to get attached before, rotating venues and girls while he indulged in the closest thing to intimacy he could bring himself to receive. 

It’s not real if they’re getting paid.

But then she happened.  

At first, it was curiosity—he requested her that second time because he wanted to know if she would stick around. She’d been so new, hands shaking as she ran the cloth down his legs like she’d never touched a man before. 

Now he just likes her company. Now he finds reasons to go into town and for an hour or two with her. He books her the whole night, even if he shouldn’t, even if he never stays that long. 

Less time for her to be with other men. 

Joel has no right to jealousy, but his heart doesn't seem to care too much about that. He tries not to think about what the rest of her time there is like because it just makes him want to break the closest thing to him. 

He calls her Sugar like she asks, Miss Sugar because he was raised with manners, but he’d like to know her real name one day. He wants to know what she smells like in the morning, what her skin feels like under his lips, what she tastes like.

And he can’t goddamn let himself have any of it. 

He tries to imagine her sleeping outside, but it makes no sense even in his fantasies. She’s meant for plush cushions and red silks, not dirt and snow and low-life criminals. 

“Hi there, outlaw,” she purrs as he opens the door. His eyes drop to her lips, then the curve of her breasts, wondering what they’d look like out of that corset. He could see them if he wanted. He could rip it off of her—he could push her to the bed, spread her out underneath him; show her exactly how much he wants her. 

And she’d let him because paid her.

“Everything okay?” She asks, the question tinged with uncertainty as he realizes he’s been standing there for too long. 

“Just fine, Miss Sugar. Come on in,” he says, shaking his head. “Had a long ride here, I guess.”

She looks at him with soft eyes, and he wants to believe that concern is real. Couldn’t he pretend, just for now?

“Come on, big boy,” she says, unbuttoning his shirt for him. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

He lets her take care of him, trying to swallow his urge to undress her, too. His life is full of blood and pain and gunshots, and she is warm and much too soft for it. He opens and closes his fists with indecision, and she tuts at him. 

“Those hurtin’ again, too?” She asks because she’ll rub his knuckles if they do. It’s easier than telling her the truth. 

“Yes ma’am,” he says as she kneels and urges him to sit on the bed so she can take his boots off. He catches her cheek and rubs his thumb across her jaw. 

“You look real nice today, Miss Sugar,” he says, and for a moment she smiles as though she needed to hear that. 

“Bet you say that to all the girls you visit.” She still teases him delicately, still wary to push a button that might make him angry. 

She’s afraid of him, and he’s all too aware of it. 

“Ain’t got any other girls,” he says, and it’s true. “'Less you count Ellie, and she’d kill me quick if I ever said as much.”

She furrows her brow, and it occurs to him—he’s never mentioned Ellie. 

“Who’s Ellie? If you don’t mind me askin’?” She asks, shrugging off her coat to reveal smooth shoulders and soft arms. He wants to tell her, but it feels too personal now. 

“Just a girl I know,” he says, clearing his throat. She doesn’t pry, but he can see she wants to. 

“All right, mister,” she says. “Time to get you clean.”

Her strong hands and nimble fingers dig at sore spots, exquisite torture as she loosens muscles he’s never been able to reach. He sinks further down until the water laps at his beard and sighs as she scrubs his scalp with her fingernails. 

Joel wants to talk more, but he’s the kind of tired you feel in your bones, the tired that won’t be ignored no matter how much he sleeps. And he doesn’t sleep much these days, anyhow. That’s what twenty years of living like this’ll do to a man, he supposes.

He doesn’t know how Tess does it. How she manages to have a plan for everything, how she’s kept them all from being hanged or worse all this time. He reckons if he had to have all the answers all the time, he’d have turned tail and run by now. It was bad enough being the one to carry the orders out—he can’t imagine coming up with them.

Tess has never even mentioned his visits here, but he suspects when he returns this time, she’ll have something to say. Now that he’d brought back a foul-mouthed teenager, Tess wouldn’t be happy he’d gone off and left her there, no matter how much she liked Ellie. 

“All right, outlaw, you’re all cleaned up. Anything else I can do for you?” She asks, and he knows what she means. She asks every time, and he always tells her no. 

He gazes down at her fooling with the buttons of his overshirt, and he pretends for a moment that she's his wife and it's the morning and she's getting him ready for an honest day's work. 

The delusion vanishes as quickly as it came. Nothing’s ever been that simple for him.

But he can pretend. 

“Come sit a minute,” he says. Her head snaps up, and the look on her face is so alarmed it makes him chuckle. “That a problem?”

“‘Course not,” she says, shaking off the surprise. “Not a problem at all. Should I…?”

He answers by unbuttoning his shirt again, stripping down to his union suit and slipping into the ornate bed he’d never used. It’s odd, considering that she’d seen and touched every part of him, how very naked he feels.

“You, too,” he says.

She strips out of her petticoat and corset, which always looks so uncomfortable, and she really is the barest he’s ever seen her. His eyes trail over her body, admiring her. She moves more fluidly, less restricted without those extra layers. For a moment, she looks like that girl he met the first time he came to her. 

“C’mere,” he says quietly, and she crawls into bed with him, fitting herself against his side and cuddling against his chest. 

“Is this okay?” She asks, and he pulls her closer to him. 

He wants to feel all of her, but he can’t make himself do it. If it’s the last time he sees her, he wants it to mean something. He wants to talk to her, tell her things about himself she’s always gently poked at but receded if he gave any signs of discomfort.

So he does. 

They talk late into the night, shifting positions now and then when his back starts to protest. They talk for so long his throat gets scratchy and dry, so he asks her more questions about herself. 

“You like it here, Miss Sugar?” He asks after she's finished telling him about her favorite books, and how she wishes she had more time to read these days. She gives a dry laugh and rolls onto her back to look at the ceiling. 

“It’s all right. Not my first choice, but there ain’t mucha anything else around here. It was either try to find another husband or die an old maid, so I chose neither. At least here I can make my own money.”

He rubs his thumb and forefinger down either side of his mustache, frowning. 

“Another husband?” He asks. 

“I was married before,” she says, still looking up at the ceiling. “He died. Bank took all the money.”

She says it so plainly it takes him by surprise. He doesn't know what to say at the best of times, and especially not now, so he says nothing. Instead, he tugs on her hand, a silent plea to come back to him.

“But one day,” she says, crawling back up to him and settling herself on his lap, straddling his hips and laying her head on his shoulder. “One day I’m gonna save up enough to buy some land. They let anyone own land out here, gunslinger, did you know that?”

“Mmhmm,” he says. She’s so close and warm, wrapped around him like this. He breathes her in and closes his eyes. “What you got planned for that land, Miss Sugar?”

He wants to kiss her so badly. 

“Gonna have a little cabin built up the mountain. I already know how to fish, and my daddy used to take me huntin’. He didn’t have any boys. And I can grow a good garden. Before my husband died I had onions and carrots goin’ real strong,” she says. 

“Why didn’t you stay with your folks?” He asks. She leans back on her thighs and considers him for a moment. 

“I wanted to live for myself, I reckon,” she says. “If I’d stayed they’d have just found some old widower to put a baby in me. Or try to, anyway. I never…” She trails off and looks away from him.

“And you don’t want that?” He asks. 

“No,” she says. “I don’t. What about you, Joel? How come you don’t settle down?”

“Only one way of livin’ for a man like me,” he shrugs. She bites her lip like she means to ask him something. “Why? You want me to come help build that cabin?”

“I’d pay you real good,” she says. “I think it’d be nice, me and you. I don’t even snore.”

She sounds serious; she means to offer him a place in her little dream. He closes his eyes and pictures it—maybe Ellie’s there, too, and she teaches Ellie to read. 

I’m sure she’s a nice girl, Joel, but since when has fallin' for a whore ever worked out?

His brother’s words come unbidden, and Joel’s eyes fly open. “Ain’t much of a carpenter,” he says gruffly, dismissing her offer of domesticity and peace. 

She isn’t serious. She’s just good at what she does.

But he swears the light in her eyes dulls a little more. 

“Well, all right then,” she says, shrugging and changing the subject. 

They fall asleep, eventually, and he leaves before she wakes up.

He’s never been any good at goodbyes.

He’s gone longer this time. 

You ask after him around town, but no one’s heard from him, not even the mail clerk. 

“You that hard up for customers?” Your bartender, Teddy, asks.

“Of course I’m not,” you snap, scowling at him. “I…was just curious. He just ain’t been around.”

“Worried about him?” Teddy asks, not unkindly. 

“S’pose,” you shrug, wrapping your shawl around you as the doors open, bringing a strong gust of wind with them. “Gets cold quick around here, y’know.”

You keep the pocket watch he gave you in a drawer next to your bed in the room you shared with a girl who called herself Ginger. She’d had her own encounters with Joel.

“He ain’t never gave me nothin’ so nice as that for my trouble, Sugar. He must like you,” she’d said when you came back with it that evening. You brushed her off.

“He just felt bad for scaring me. And he was awful scary,” you admit. Ginger shook her head at your protests. “Did he ever…did he ever let you touch him?” 

“Lord no,” Ginger says. “He’s wound about as tight as a nun’s twat—”

“Ginger!”

There are fewer travelers in the cold months, and for the first time in almost a year, you have time on your hands. Since you can read, Madame Aurelie has you help with the books, but otherwise you’re free to do whatever you want. 

You’ve never been able to do whatever you want. 

It hits you, one day, that you don’t even know what you like to do. When you were married, you’d sew and cook and garden and keep the house like a proper woman. But you never much liked any of those things. 

When you were a girl, though, you’d read and dream about going on the adventures in your story books. It’s hard to remember the last time you read something for fun. 

A man comes through town with a cart full of books every few weeks. It’s full of trashy romance and cowboy dramas and even penny dreadfuls that’d made their way across the ocean, and you buy up as many of them as your arms can hold. 

It’s not an ideal life, but at least you can escape now and then. 

Sometimes you read to Ginger. She’s an excellent audience, gasping and clapping at just the right places, her “oohs” and “ahhs” filling your heart with warmth.

“You do the voices so damn good, sugar cube!” She says. 

If you close your eyes, it’s almost like being back home, reading adventure stories to your little sister by candlelight hours after you were both supposed to be asleep. 

Sometimes these moments are the only thing that get you through the day. 

He comes back just as the ground thaws. 

You try to keep your cool; to pretend it’s not him you imagine when there’s another man inside of you. 

He opens the door, covered in blood.

“Ain’t mine,” he says as your mouth drops open. “Not all of it, anyway.”

“Lord above, Joel Miller, are you okay? What happened?” You ask as he tosses his empty holsters on the bed. No weapons allowed in Madame Aurelie’s establishment. 

“Nothin’ out of the ordinary,” he says, but his split, bloody knuckles tell you otherwise. 

“Joel—”

“Please,” he says quietly. “Please, Miss Sugar. I’m all right.”

His tone disarms you as he pulls your chin up to look into his eyes.

“If you say so.” The bath’s already full of warm, fresh water—he always pays a little extra for it. 

It’s been just over a year since you became his favorite girl. Neither of you mention how long it’s been since the last time he was here, or how he’d batted away the idea of a simpler, kinder life with you. 

You suspect the offer of it is what kept him away for so long.

He’s silent today, brooding as the water turns pink with blood. The baths have become your specialty—the men like your sure grip and the way you listen. Sometimes they want sex after, sometimes they just want to talk. Regardless, he’s not the only one who calls you his favorite these days. 

But he’s still yours, and it’s as infuriating as it is painful.

All the others are married and miserable, complaining about their wives and lamenting how they wish they’d found a woman like you when they were younger. 

Did your husband do that, too? Visit parlor houses and complain that you didn’t keep the houses tidy enough while he was buried inside another woman? Do they all do that? 

Joel doesn’t have a wife or a business to complain about. Would he, if he did? 

You like to think he wouldn’t. You like to think that if he had a wife he wouldn’t even be here, and you’d have never met him. 

Your thoughts drift to the last time he was here, when he pulled you in bed and held you there and talked and talked and talked until you’d opened your mouth and stuck your foot in it.

It’s foolish to fall in love with clients. Even you, with all your romantic notions, know that. And you won’t be here forever. Once you get enough money saved you’ll leave and buy yourself a place high up in the mountains. You’ll live off the land; learn how to hunt and fish. 

And you’ll never see Joel Miller again. 

It shouldn’t sting so bad to think about. He doesn’t even know your real name. He could be lying about everything and you wouldn’t know the difference. 

Some foolish hope tells you he isn’t, though.

You grab a bottle of cheap whiskey to clean the congealed blood from his knuckles, biting back your questions about what happened. He hisses at your delicate dabs to his wounds but doesn’t protest. 

“Thank you, Miss Sugar,” he says. You wish you could tell him your real name, but at least you like the way he says it. He still cradles it on his tongue like something precious, like he relishes saying it out loud. 

“You can just call me Sugar, you know,” you say. “No need to be so formal.”

That pulls one of those vague smiles from his lips as he nods. “All right, then, Sugar.” 

Furtive glances to check for bruises yield nothing. Someone got the mess knocked out of him but didn’t seem to land any blows on Joel at all. 

His mood hasn’t lifted any at all, even with one of the shoulder rubs you’d started throwing in for free. Free in theory, at least; he always gave you some trinket worth more than a whole night with you afterward. 

He’ll never tell you what happened, even if you beg him, and you think it’s because he wants you to see him as anything but the man he is. But you like him just the way he is, and you wish you could just say that. 

He trembles when you reach his inner thigh, letting out a noise between a gasp and a grunt. You’ve never heard that noise from him before, and goes straight to your core, warmth and need blooming between your legs. His tired eyes meet yours, and they’re begging for something. You can help, can’t you? You know what would relax him, what would take all the stress off of his tense shoulders.

“You can let me help, if you want. It’s okay,” you murmur, waiting for his permission. 

“Please, Sugar,” he says in a low rumble. You move slowly, giving him a chance to change his mind.  

You can feel yourself throbbing the second you wrap your hand around the base of him, saliva pooling in your mouth as he twitches. He makes no noise as you stroke him; he doesn’t even move, but his hands grip the side of the tub so tightly that his once-blood-red knuckles have turned white with strain.

He’s still denying himself. 

“It’s all right,” you murmur, scooting close enough to lay your head on his shoulder, right in the crook of his neck, your lips just centimeters away from his warm, wet skin. You don’t kiss him, but you’d like to. “Relax.”

He lets out a shaky sigh and turns his head toward you, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closing as his breath ghosts over your skin. His lips are centimeters from yours.

Rarely do you watch any of the other men like this. Now and again some lovely thing you can’t keep your eyes off of shows up, but it is, for the most part, very much a job. 

You couldn’t look away from him or his fluttering eyelashes if you wanted to. He lets out a soft grunt, his nose scrunching as his teeth dig into his bottom lip to keep from crying out. 

This big, strong, violent man reduced to a quivering mess with just your hand. 

He throws his head back, exposing the corded muscles of his thick neck and shoulders, finally letting a harsh grunt slip from his throat. You swallow as he grabs at the strap of your bodice, pulling you closer and gazing at you with hooded eyes. His hand trails down to your low, flimsy neckline and he cups your breast through the fabric with his rough, wide hand. A soft, needy whimper tears from you, and he squeezes. 

“Gonna—gonna—”

But you already know, his cock throbbing and pulsing in your hand. “Come on,” you whisper, urging him on. “For me, just for me.”

He makes the most beautiful noises as he bucks into your hand, eyes closed and still clutching at you. Your eyes sweep down to his waist underwater where his release is still coming as he shudders beneath you. 

You brush his hair from his forehead as he catches his breath. For once, he’s fully at ease, mouth slack and eyes heavy, the lines between his brows almost invisible. 

When he opens his eyes all the way to look at you, you’re suddenly aware that you’re still holding him. You let him go and pull away, putting on a nervous smile. His face is inscrutable, and you don’t know where to go from here. Not with him.

Most of the time, you leave after this, wishing the man a good day and a cheery “Hope to see you again soon!” But this is Joel, and Joel’s different. 

Joel’s different. 

He doesn’t say anything, either, as he rises from the water and grabs the towel from the stool, stepping out and drying himself. He says nothing as he gets dressed, pulling out a wad of bills and separating a stack. 

“Thank you, Miss Sugar,” he says, holding it out to you. He frowns when you don’t reach for the money. “Somethin’ the matter?”

He doesn’t invite you into his bed like last time; doesn’t even ask how you’ve been. You don’t know what you thought would happen, or what you expect of him. He's paying you for the service you provided, just like he always does. 

And you must have done a good job. He even gave you a tip.

It’s silly. You knew better. Know better. You know why he’s here, what he came for. It just took a while for him to warm up. There’s no reason you should be upset, no reason you should have assumed he thought of you as anything other than a whore he visits from time to time. 

You plaster on the smile you keep ready for everyone else and take the money, still not quite sure what's happening in your head. “Nope! No, sir. Nothin’ at all. I’m…happy to help. Hope to see you again soon!” You say with that false cheer reserved for everyone but him, turning on your heel and heading toward the door. 

It isn’t fair to be upset with him. This was a business transaction. Always had been. Just because you jerked him off this time didn’t mean anything had changed. It just meant he needed something different. 

Your job is to give him what he needs. 

You’re his favorite girl in the parlor house, and that’s all. 

Ginger finds you on your bed holding that gold pocketwatch he’d given you so many months ago. The one you’d mistaken for a gift. 

“S’wrong with you?” She asks, unlacing her bodice and sighing. 

“Nothin’,” you say. You’re not the youngest girl here, but you’re certainly the most naive. The last thing you need is Ginger finding out about your thing for Joel.

She is, unfortunately, way ahead of you. 

Ginger’s red hair tumbles down her shoulders as she unpins it, coming to rest on her ample breasts. She has child-bearing hips and a soft tummy, and as she curls herself around you in your bed, you inhale the scent of jasmine she dabs between her breasts and on each pulse point. You’d never smelled jasmine before you met her, and you think if you should leave this place, you’d never smell it again without thinking of her. 

“Is it that Mr. Miller?” She asks softly. You don’t want to answer—you don’t want to admit how stupid you’ve been. But Ginger’s kind and patient and her green eyes are easy to lose yourself in.

“Oh, Ginger,” you sigh. “It ain’t nothin’ for me to be upset over. I did my job, and that’s it.”

“He took you to bed?” She asks, surprise evident at the uptick in her tone. 

“No,” you laugh. “No, I just…gave him a little extra in the bath today, and he left. Paid me good for it, too.”

“Then what are you so upset for?” She asks, pressing her cheek to the top of your head. “If you just did your job and he paid you good and it was fine.”

You breathe deep, already regretting what you’re about to admit. 

“I reckon I thought he liked me, after all this time,” you admit, your voice catching in your throat. Ginger doesn’t say anything at first, and you wait for her to scold you. 

She never does. 

“I’m sorry, Sugar,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Her sympathy opens a floodgate, and the tears you’d been holding back seep out as she whispers soothing words to you. 

“It’s happened to everyone,” she says, and she calls you by your real name. “We can talk to Madame Aurelie, ask her to put him with someone else. She protects her girls.”

You think about it for a split second—you know Madame Aurelie is a good woman with a ferocious heart—but ultimately, you decide not to. If he’s gone for as long as he was before, you’ll have time to get past it. You’ll mourn whatever you thought you had with him the way you mourned your poor husband, and you’ll move on. And maybe by the time he comes back, you’ll be long gone to that place in the mountains he didn't want anything to do with.

The next morning Madame Aurelie gives you a package in brown wrapping, secured in string and tied off with a bow. A scrap of paper sticks out from underneath the twine.

“Your cowboy left it for you as he was leaving. He looked quite sad,” she says.

You pull at the end of the string and it comes apart, a leatherbound book staring back at you. 

It’s a first-edition printing of Little Women with a signature in loopy handwriting on the front page.

L.M. Alcott

You shudder to think where or how he got this. It doesn’t make any sense—why wouldn’t he just give it to you himself? The scrap of paper that falls on the floor as you turn the book over catches your eye. It has another message, this time in hasty cursive. 

Meant to give you this last night. Wish I could be better for you. 

-J

You wish you could be better for him, too.

Joel never gets that look on her face out of his head. That crushed disappointment when her eyes drifted to the second stack of bills in his hand. 

Her tip. 

He meant it as a compliment. He meant it as a way to thank her. He meant it as a way to show he still understood the relationship, that he wasn’t foolish enough to fall in love with her, that he hadn’t spent months and months thinking about her. That it didn’t make his heart float right out of his chest watching her clean his wounds and wrap his hand. 

By the time he’d gotten dressed enough to go find her, she’d disappeared, and he’d almost gotten in a fight with one of the big guys the madame had stationed around the place. That makes him feel better when he thinks of it—at least she has people to protect her. 

And then he had to leave. He wasn’t even supposed to be there, and if Tess ever found out she might wring his neck for stopping in when he had business the next town over. 

He left the book with one of the other girls and hoped it made its way to her, and he moved on with a pit in his chest. She’d taken care of him, and he’d acted like it was nothing. 

It haunts him when he thinks about her, so he doesn’t. He distracts himself in every way possible. He doesn’t even know if he should go back to her—if some line had been crossed just like he feared from the beginning. 

Everything he touches falls apart. 

Eventually, though, he needs to go back. He needs to see her and explain himself before it eats him alive.

“She’s not here anymore,” Madame Aurelie says. 

“What do you mean, ‘she’s not here’?” He demands, maybe a little too aggressively. 

Madame Aurelie shrugs, unperturbed by his outburst. “She made her money and she moved on. That was always part of the deal. She didn’t tell you?” 

“Haven’t been around,” he mutters. 

The older woman looks him up and down with a pitying smile. “I noticed. She liked you, you know.”

“I know,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Shit. Pardon my language, ma’am.”

She shrugs again. “Last I heard she was to buy a parcel of land further up the mountain. Maybe she’s still around there. If you are that distraught.”

He realizes he doesn’t even know her real name. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says before he departs. He pauses. “You don’t happen to know her real name?”

Madame Aurelie gives him a sly smile and beckons him closer. 

It’s not much, but it’ll get him started.

It’s harder to leave than you expect. You’ve grown so close with these other women, especially Ginger, and they’d become a strange patchwork family. But no matter how many times you tell Ginger it would be fun to be two women on the frontier surviving on their own with no men to answer to, she doesn’t want to come live in a cabin in the woods.

You’re only half-joking about your offer. 

Madame Aurelie was so gracious about it all, even writing recommendations to the bank to start a line of credit. It was her suggestion, rather than buy the land and a house outright, to pay it back over time. And then, should you ever need any more credit, you’ll already be in good standing with them. 

You leave her with a hug and your real name, just in case. 

Joel never came back, but you didn’t expect him to. It must have clicked in his head, finally, that you’d gotten attached to him. And it wasn’t like it was hard to find some pretty girl to bathe him. 

It hardly matters now. It’s just you and this little cabin surrounded by pine trees and evergreens and the quiet rush of the stream out front. The little kids call you a witch when you go into town for supplies, but the shopkeep is perfectly happy to take your money. He doesn’t care if you’re a witch or a whore or a widow. 

Winter’s already creeping in, and as you’re chopping firewood to last those long months, you can’t help but think of Joel. He’d disappeared all last winter; he must have some place he goes. Him and that gang of his. 

You’re jolted out of a sound sleep, slumped over in a rocking chair next to the fire. Your ears prick up, listening for any slight sound. Something creaks just outside your front door, and you tiptoe to the cabinet you store your rifle in. The curtains are drawn, closed off enough that no one would be able to see in, but it keeps you from seeing out, too. 

You're more than used to all manner of creatures wandering onto your porch, whether hungry or just curious, but their little footsteps don’t sound like boots on wood. Before you can think too much, you pull the door open and pray it’s some lost hunter. 

Light from your fire and kerosene lamps pour out and wash over his face, half-shrouded by the hat pulled low on his head. But it doesn’t matter. You’d recognize those lips anywhere. 

“Joel?” You ask, still pointing the rifle at him.

“Whoa now, Miss Sugar,” he says, hands raised. “S’just me.”

You lower the rifle but narrow your eyes. It doesn’t feel real. You’ve never seen him out of the confines of that room at the Garden, and it’s like some figure from a dream just walked out of your head and onto your front porch. He’s not supposed to be here. 

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” You demand. It’s not that you’re not pleased to see him—you’re not sure what you’re feeling right now. “How did you find me?”

Joel brings his hands to his sides and tucks his thumbs through his belt loops. “You mind if I come in?”

The cold hits you for the first time since you opened the door. You stand aside and let him. He takes off his hat as he walks in, eyes darting around your messy little cabin. 

“Wasn’t expectin’ company,” you explain, but he shakes his head.

“It’s a nice place,” he says quietly, and it warms you to your core. 

“Thank you. Can I get you some tea? Whiskey?” You ask, very conscious of how ill-fit your home is for guests. 

“Wouldn’t say no to whiskey,” he says. 

Neither of you speaks as you settle down at your table. You’re still not entirely sure he’s real. 

“What are you doing here, Joel?” You ask again. 

He takes a sip and grimaces, the cup clattering against the lacquered wood. “Needed to see you,” he says.

“Might be a while before I can get that bathwater warmed up,” you quip, and his lip curls in a smile. 

He lets out a long breath before he answers. “I needed to…I had to tell you. I didn't mean to hurt you,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows. “And I think I might’ve that night.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks and you wave your hand. “Oh, don’t worry about—”

“Please, Sugar,” he says, then shakes his head. And then he says your real name, and it knocks the wind out of you. “I got…I got these feelings for you. And they got me all messed up, sweetheart, they got me actin’ foolish. And when you…when you did that…”

You don’t like to think about it much. When you woke up that next morning, eyes puffy from crying yourself to sleep, it was guilt that consumed you. You’d pushed him too far, too quickly, overwhelmed him with the sexuality your mother shamed you for when all he’d wanted was your companionship. 

It was silly, considering your choice of profession, but it still ate you up. He’d trusted you.

“I’m sorry for that,” you murmur, taking a drink of your whiskey. “I am.”

He moves so quickly it makes you jump, suddenly right next to you, taking your hand in both of his. “Sorry? Why are you sorry, darlin’?” 

“For pushin’ you,” you say, eyebrows furrowed. “You never wanted that before, I should have just let it go. I thought you were just…punishing’ yourself or somethin’.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he says firmly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I wanted that. I wanted that bad, sugar. I swear it.”

You nuzzle him, gathering the courage to ask what you need to ask. “Then why didn’t you come back?”

“Because I’m a fool,” he murmurs. “And because I don’t deserve you. And I thought you were…I didn’t know if you were bein’ genuine. You gotta understand. I didn’t wanna be the man who fell for—”

“I know,” you say. Because you do know. You know he didn’t want to be the man who fell for the girl he paid to lie to him. “But I ain’t that good an actress, Joel. And I meant every single word. I meant what I said that night. I meant that you could be here with me. I like you how you are, Joel, just like this.”

You know what he’ll say before he says it.

“I don’t belong here, in this life. I am not a good man, and you deserve better. I don’t know no other way but this one, you understand?” 

You reach up and thumb his jaw, and he leans into the palm of your hand. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Joel Miller. You come when you want, stay when you want. I never wanted to take care of a man anyway.”

He pulls back and searches your face, a smile playing delicately on his lips. You want him to kiss you so badly. 

You almost stop breathing when he does. 

For such a violent, bad man, he kisses you like you’re made of spun sugar, gentle and cautious against your lips. He tastes like whiskey and smells like cold mountain air, and you’d like to sink into him, to live in this moment forever. When he pulls away he’s smiling, eyes twinkling. He’s so handsome it makes you ache.

“Don’t like you livin’ up here alone,” he tells you, out of nowhere. 

“I think I’m doin’ okay,” you laugh. 

“You are. You are somethin’ else, sugar.” He frowns. “Can I still call you that?”

“I think, Mr. Miller, you might be the only one who makes it sound that nice. So I’ll allow it for now,” you tease. You stand up and glance at the bedroom door. “Stay with me tonight. It’s cold out. I got a spare bed if you need it, but it’s warmer in mine.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that, ma'am,” he says. 

You fall asleep curled around each other, so close your lips touch. 

In the morning you’re not surprised to find the spot beside you empty, but you find a piece of paper with a post office box address and a hastily scribbled note.

Not any good at goodbyes, so I ain’t saying goodbye. I got someone I want you to meet. You can contact me at this address. Be there before winter starts proper. 

Your head hits the pillow with a thunk and you pull the note to your heart, basking in the golden morning sunlight streaming through your window. For the first time in your life, everything is exactly as it should be. 

---

Joel Miller x trainer!reader - Professional

The return of Sweaty!Joel 🥵

Summary:  Joel Miller, your personal training client, overhears you calling him a DILF and makes explaining yourself very difficult. 

Warnings: smut, gym porn with no plot, age gap (Joel in his 40s, reader in her 20s), pet names, sexual tension, mutual gym crush, horny!Joel, public fingering, dirty talk Word count:  2.3k   Rating: 18+    

thank you x 100 to @pascalisbaby for helping me with this fic - i'd be nowhere without u and ur slick!Joel ideas !! 🤍💘 Read her fics now ‼️

You’ve had a long day of training clients, showing up at nine and having back to back appointments, only getting a break to have lunch and decompress mid day. The receptionist has left already and the gym is technically closed, so you have an hour to spare before your last client comes in.

Joel M. the calendar says, and every Tuesday and Thursday at six, you fight tooth and nail to stay professional while you watch his muscles bulging out of his tan, glistening skin, see the sweat drip down from his thick hair and hear the occasional grunt as he works out in front of you.

You don’t think you’ve cracked.. So far at least.

Joel was your gym crush for quite some time before he became your client, always smiling and saying hi when you’d started recognizing each other. He immediately caught your attention when he signed up at the gym, and a quick look through his file a couple weeks down the line informed you that he was in his early forties. Damn.

You would’ve never guessed he was a day over 35 at most, those salt and pepper curls the only indicator of age you’d really noticed from afar. Too old for you regardless, but breathtakingly handsome.

So the moment you heard you had a request for a new training client and saw his name on the form, you immediately wanted to hand him off to your coworker, knowing you’d be way too nervous to be with him one on one that often.

But when you asked them to take over, blaming his requested time not fully matching your schedule, they told you he’d requested you specifically, saying he’d noticed how you trained other clients and liked your approach. So you took him on after mulling it over, and ended up getting along well, which definitely didn't help cool off the attraction. Quite the opposite, actually.

You usually spend your hour-long break getting your own workout over with, so you have a reason to be out of breath and clammy when Joel shows up, not wanting him to know you’re actually just as nervous every time you see him, even though he’s been your client for six months.

You don’t even know why he hired you as his trainer when he’s in such good shape, so strong and muscular, and never requires much instruction either. “Takes the guesswork out,” he says, “I just show up and do it, leave all the thinkin’ to you”.

Today, however, your workout ends early and you have ten minutes to kill before Joel shows up exactly on time, as always. You call your best friend and ask her about her day, hear about “short” meetings that end up running all afternoon, passive aggressive emails from coworkers, the usual.

She asks about yours, knowing you’re gonna train Joel. “That man is such a fucking DILF, I can’t” you groan, drawing out the last syllable, rolling your eyes, before complaining about not having a proper staff room, the usual.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly as he appears in the doorway, wearing black shorts and a t-shirt that just says Texas in large letters.

“Ready?” you ask with a smile as you hang up the call without saying bye.

“As ready as I can be, darlin’, got a feelin’ you’re gonna try to kill me as always”.

You giggle and look up at him, holding each other’s gaze for a second before snapping back to reality and motioning for him to go into the weight room.

“How was work today?” you ask him as you help him put the weights on the bar.

“It was fine, better now, though, with some peace and quiet”. You laugh softly and take a few steps back, finding somewhere to lean while he does his warm up set and you watch his form.

“And you?” he breathes, halfway through the set.

“Pretty normal, I guess” you say, “Had back to back clients from nine to five, worked out, and now I’m here”. You wish you had something more interesting to say, but the only other interesting thing that did happen was your coworker’s curry completely exploding in the staff microwave.

“You been here since nine?” he asks, genuinely sounding surprised.

“You don’t have to stay late for me, sweetheart” he says with a smile.

“Oh, I don’t mind” you say and wave dismissively, “Wouldn’t do it if you were a shitty client so, compliment of the day for you”.

He chuckles a little, “Fair enough”.

He puts some more weight on either side of the bar, and you watch him do his deadlifts, carefully watching his back, reminding him to roll his shoulders back even though he always does it automatically before you even say anything.

He lowers the weight to the floor and puts his hands on his knees, looking up at you while he catches his breath. “So, uh, what’s a DILF?”. You choke on your spit the second his question registers in your brain.

“I’m sorry, what?” you ask, feeling the hot flush covering your face and your eyes widening as you cough a little.

“When I came in, and you were on the phone,” he says, still out of breath, “You said your next client’s a DILF”. Fuck, how did he hear that? “And I assumed you were referrin’ to me, so I got curious”.

“This is awkward.. Uhm,” you say with a laugh, rubbing your forehead, “You ever see the American Pie movie? The first one?”.

He nods, and you stall a little, continue trying to buy time.

“Well, uh, Jennifer Coolidge plays Stifler’s mom, and basically these two guys at that party call her a MILF, if you remember, like a..”, you clear your throat before muttering the final part of the sentence, “A mom I’d like to fuck, so a DILF is obviously a, um..”. Your eyes close in embarrassment, “Dad.. version.. of that”.

“So you think I’m a DILF now, huh?” he asks with a smirk.

You can’t help but laugh, hoping that’ll be his last question, “I'd say you qualify”.

“And why am I a DILF, exactly?” he asks, taking a step towards you as you lean against the backrest of a leg extension machine.

“You’ve mentioned your daughter several times, Joel” you reply, trying to sound snarky in an attempt to deflect the question.

"That explains the dad part, honey”, he tucks your hair behind your ear, his eyes not leaving yours for a second, “It’s the ‘I’d like to fuck’ part I wanna hear more about”.

You’re completely frozen with your mouth half open, looking blankly at his eyes and swallowing despite your mouth being bone dry. “Sweetheart, have you been wearin’ all these pretty little outfits just for me?”.

You don’t exactly plan to wear those borderline skimpy workout fits the days he comes in, it just kinda happens.. Every single time. Tight shorts or leggings and a matching, tight top. Hair tied up in a ponytail, sometimes half up half down, sometimes just down. Maybe the top is a little low cut, but it gets hot in there, and having to demonstrate exercises is bound to make you sweat. Right?

“What do you want me to see, huh?”. You’re too stunned to answer his questions, your breaths are too rapid to stay still and, honest to god, you’re too flustered to even think straight, from having him so close to you, from smelling his sweat and cologne and deodorant and laundry detergent and just everything.

“That my outfits match?” you suggest innocently, “I think they’re kinda cute, I just got this one”. You look down and smooth out a few wrinkles in your shorts.

“Very cute,” he says and gives your ensemble a once-over, “You look so distractingly sexy in them I can’t get my eyes off you any time I’m in here, baby”. The thought of Joel wanting you sends a shock through your core, a sudden lightning bolt of arousal striking you right down the middle and deep down.

“If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just said so” he says with a chuckle, slipping both of his hands around your waist, looking down at you with his head tilted, “I’d love to give you more attention, sweetheart, how could I not?”. You giggle nervously, wanting to say thanks for some reason but not getting the words out.

“Gorgeous little thing like you havin’ a crush on me”, his eyes flick down to your chest, clearly taking in your hard nipples poking through your top, “Nothin’ better than that”. Oh, he’s cocky. He loves this.

“Darlin’, you’re about to tear that top with those pretty little nipples” he coos and traces his thumbs across the sensitive buds, making you whimper. “Be honest with me, am I makin’ you horny right now?”.

You press your thighs together as you stand there, feeling your heartbeat inside your panties and looking down to see a bulge in his shorts. “It’s okay, baby," he murmurs, and a moan escapes your throat, "I can tell". He nudges your legs open with his knee and slots his thigh between yours.

“Let me take care of that so you can focus, sweet thing, I know it’s important for you to be a good trainer for your clients” he whispers in your ear, “I don’t mind goin’ a little over time tonight if it means you can nitpick my deadlift form with a clear head”.

He slips his hand down and ghosts his fingers up along the fabric covering your slit. It can’t be physically possible to be any hornier than this, you think, there’s no way. Your legs are almost trembling and you can feel your panties dampening.

“How’s that sound?” he asks, snaking his hands up to trace his index fingers under the straps of your top. “Sounds good, Joel” you say softly and nod. He slides the straps down and off your shoulders, pulling your top down so far that your tits spill out in front of him, feeling goosebumps forming across your skin from the cool air. “Beautiful” he says as he looks at your chest.

“You like that?” he whispers as he rolls your nipples between his fingers, gently massaging them, making you painfully aware of your clit just aching to be touched. You nod dumbly with your eyes half shut, unable to do anything more.

“Just gonna go wash my hands, okay?”. You nod again and watch him disappear into the bathroom while you stand there and try not to touch yourself, needing relief as soon as possible or else you think you might explode. Thank god, you whisper to yourself when you remember that the security cameras have been down the last few days.

You’re still standing up against the machine with your tits out when he comes back, and he immediately nudges your legs a little further apart before sliding your shorts and panties halfway down your thighs. “Made such a mess in your new shorts, huh?” he asks when he sees the dark spot in your panties.

“Shoulda asked me to do this earlier, baby, you’re so wet” he murmurs while he traces his lips along your neck while his one hand finds your nipple again and the other slips between your thighs, “Don’t want you sufferin’ at work like this”.

You let out a mix between a sigh and a moan when his thick middle finger enters you and you feel his tongue on your neck. “Does this help?” he asks, his breath hot on your skin.

“Yes, Joel” you say breathlessly, and feel a second finger enter you while his thumb finds your clit.

He plunges in and out of you a few times, groaning lightly every time his finger finds your sensitive spot deep inside and makes you moan. “Don't stop” you breathe, feeling his thumb rub your clit and his two fingers curl into your spongy spot.

“Why would I stop when you’re doin’ so good, honey?”, you can feel him smiling, “Least I can do when you’ve made my back feel so much better”.

He gently sucks on the skin of your neck while his hand does most of the work, speeding up occasionally to press against your favorite spot and make you shudder. “That’s it, baby, that’s it” he coos when he feels you tense up and start grinding on his hand, your breath hitching and moans getting more frequent as you get closer, trying to hold back. “Just come, it's okay”.

His thumb is rubbing your clit in circles and his fingers are filling you up, building the pressure more and more until he leans down to catch a nipple in his mouth and starts licking at it, immediately sending you over the edge.

“Joel, I-I’m gonna come” you stutter when it's already too late and your walls are throbbing around him and the tingling sensation spreads down your legs and up your tummy. You throw your head back and catch your breath as he pulls out his fingers and wipes them on his shirt.

He pulls your outfit back on as you stand there with your hands suddenly on his chest, looking up at him with your lips parted, staying still until your arms wrap around his neck and his hands find your hips. “Needy girl” he whispers, chuckling softly, “What more do you need right now?”.

Your one hand lets go of his neck and lowers along his body, trailing down his thick chest and belly, eventually cupping his hard bulge and giving it a light squeeze, feeling the outline of his hard cock through the thin fabric. He chuckles even more now, shaking his head. “Gotta use the testosterone surge to fuel my lifts, don't I? Could probably hit a new PR like this”.

And with that, you're forced to merely sit on a bench a meter away and watch as Joel adds more weight to the bar, lifts it effortlessly, and grunts as he stands up straight, with sweat running down his temple and a raging erection in his shorts.

It's torturous to say the least, knowing how his fingers feel, how he smells and sounds, knowing at least to some extent how big he is, and just having to sit there, horny as fuck again from the sight, trying to make sure he's aligning his posterior chain properly instead of having him fuck you senseless while you lick the sweat from his chest.

“So why am I a DILF, again?” he asks, with narrowed eyes and a sly smile when he catches you zoning out, “You never answered my question”.

---

i know it when i see it // masterlist

ao3 | playlist | ethics

pairing: pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: it's the golden age of porn. sex and sin are the national pastime. your career in adult films starts opposite a man who goes by the name texas.

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven

part eight

epilogue

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