"Grand Ole Opry / we're feeling alright / Mary prays the rosary for my broken mind."
â Lana Del Rey / "Body Electric"
âą pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
âą warnings: provocative themes (18+, mdni), pre-outbreak Joel Miller, strip-club setting, private dance, age gap, sex work, stripper!reader, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst, protective Joel Miller, affection-starved reader, acts of service, emotional repression, no outbreak AU, self-esteem issues, exploitative work environment, reader is humiliated
âą word count: ~5.4k
Masterlist | ACT II: Grace (TBD)
lips divider by me ⥠/ lace divider and photos are from Pinterest âĄ
"Mind you, the guy was still trying to touch me, but I told him it costs extra and he got so pissed. I don't get what goes through their heads," Jane recounts, swiping on the cherry-scented lip balm that follows her into every room.
She fixes herself up in the mirror like she's got somewhere to beâfluffing up her hair, relining her lips, pouting to check that it's crisp enough.
"You listening?" she asks, catching your gaze in the reflection.
You are.
At least you were, but that was before you started counting.
"Yeah, 'course," you say, blinking away the daze. "Sorry. You were saying?"
You tell yourself you can do bothâbe a good friend and listen while also stressing about your finances. So you start from the top, lick your thumb, take it slower this time while she speaks.
One hundred.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
Four.
A five, and some ones.
Your nerves fray at the edges.
Rent's barely covered, not to mention gas, food, utilities, the phone billâ
"Babe," Jane calls, staring at you in concern. "You good?"
"I'm short," you blurt, brows pulled tight, swallowing thickly against the taste of bile rising in your throat. "At least two hundred."
"That much?"
You nod, looking at the money, hands shaking faintly.
"Wellâhey, don't sweat it. Ricky's still here," she says, patting your arm comfortingly. "And I can spot you if you needâ"
"No," you say firmly. "Absolutely not, Jane. I'll owe you a fucking kidney at this rate."
She sighs, pulling out a banged up box of Marlboros from her purse. She taps it against the dressing table to knock one free.
"Gonna go for a smoke. Want me to wait?"
"Please?" you ask, already headed for the stairs. "I'll be down in a few."
"Take your time, babe. Trevor's runnin' late," she says with a shrug. "Got held up."
She slips the cigarette between her lips and pushes through the door, leaving you alone with a lead weight in your gut.
Ricky's office is the third door on the left from the landingâa red bulb above it flickering ominously, yet to be fixed.
Okay, you tell yourself. He's a cheapskate, but he's never shorted you on purpose.
He'll fix this, make it right.
You take a breath before you knock, just long enough to make you hesitate.
Your knuckles meet the wood, rapping lightly.
"Come in," he calls out. "Hurry up."
Stepping inside, you feel the air suffocating you already, pins and needles prickling at your skin.
"Scarlett," he says in greeting, not looking up from his magazine. "You need something?"
"Um," you mumble, tongue darting out to wet your lips as your gaze flits about the room.
It lands on the boardâa thing of nightmares.
Metrics that detail your failures, how far you've slipped in the ranks since you started.
Only twelve private dances this week compared to Cherry's thirty-six.
No requests. No bottle service commissions. No VIPs.
You try not to wince as your eyes cut to him again, his bald head reflecting the fluorescents overhead.
"I'm short... It's usually sixâ"
"âhundred. Yeah, I know." He takes a swig of his water, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing.
"You were out for a week. You don't expect to be paid for not showing up, do you?" he asks drily, making you stammer in response.
"I-I had the flu. You told me not to come in."
"Because you'd infect half our clientele, and that's bad for business. Lookâ"
He props his elbows onto the desk, finally meeting your eyes. "You can't dance for whatever reasonâany reason at allâsomeone else will."
"...I know I've been falling behind these past few weeks, but I swear, I can get back toâ"
"You're not the main attraction anymore, Scarlett. Cherry is. You get the bonus when you're the lead and you're... well, you're losing your touch."
Losing your touch.
The sentiment lands as hard as he expected, any bravado you may have been clinging to, any shred of hope, gone. Just like that.
Your shoulders deflate, eyes dropping to the table.
"You get back to the dancer you were a month ago, and we'll talk," he adds.
You nod once, a barely there dip of your head.
"Okay. Yeah...okay," you say quietly.
The humiliation sinks deep, bone-crushing in its intensity as you make for the door, not bothering to stop when he bids you a good night.
You take the steps two at a time, grabbing your bag from the dressing room to meet Jane out front.
Your cheeks are burning up, head barely lifting as you meander your way through the throngs of regulars and new faces you don't recognize.
Of course the moment you're leaving is when the customers actually show up. It was dead all night, and now the closers get to make all the money.
Meanwhile, you're walking on blistered feet and bruised calves, your makeup caked on thick with a stack of chump change burning a hole in your purse.
And life has a way of kicking you when you're already down, you've noticed.
Halfway to where Jane stands waiting, you collide with someone, sending you stumbling.
Before you can hit the ground, flat on your ass for everyone to see, a pair of broad hands reach out to steady you.
"Woah there. You're alright," the man says, keeping you upright.
You're too stunned, too out of it to realize you've got your face shoved against the broadness of his chest. A hard wall of muscle pressed flush to your cheek.
"I'm fine," you say, pulling yourself away, nearly tripping over your feet again.
You can't catch a fucking break.
Looking up briefly, you catch a glimpse of him in the dim light. He looks just about as tired as you doâhazel eyes sunken in, lined with wrinkles that tell his age, frustration lacing his expression.
"Thanks," you bring yourself to utter, adjusting your bag on your shoulder.
"Don't mention it," he says, voice rough.
You hold his gaze a while, long enough for the air between you to go stale, awkwardness muddying up the exchange.
"Gonnaâ" he gestures behind you, to the dark hallway that houses the bathrooms.
"Yeah, sure," you nod, already walking off. You try not to look back at him, wondering what about him has you wanting to, but you fail miserably.
By the time you turn your head, he's already gone, disappointment curdling in your gut.
No need to get attached to the first person to show you kindness, you remind yourself.
Easier said than done.
"Did he give you the money?" Jane asks, pushing off from the bar.
"Let's just get out of here," you say, not wanting to risk the breakdown that's been marinating since the moment you walked into the office.
"Scarlett!"
Your eyes shut briefly, recognizing the voice without needing to turn and face it. Still, as the footsteps draw closer, you do.
"What is it, Rickyâ"
"Cherry's out."
You blink a couple of times, staring blankly. Then the words register with a frown.
"Out? What do you mean?"
"Sprained her ankle. Doctor says two weeks minimum."
Jane's eyebrows rise. "Jeez. Is she okay?"
He waves a hand. "She's got workers' comp. She'll survive. But..."
He looks aroundâat Poppy working the tables; Diamond on stage, putting on a show; Lola leading a customer back for a private dance, fingers wrapped around his tie.
"I'm short a dancer for closing."
"What about Ruby?" Jane asks, glancing subtly at you from the corner of her eye, arms crossing against her chest.
"In Italy, on her honeymoon," he says curtly. "I need someone now."
He eyes you expectantly. "Scarlett."
"Huh?" your gaze snaps to him. "Me?"
"You've been slipping, and it's like I said: if you can't dance, someone else will. Two weeks is a hell of a lot of time to work your way back up."
"I dunnoâ"
"Two hundred."
You tense, face dropping, the fight leaving you all at once.
"You need the money, don't you?" he asks, a slick smile curling his mouth. "You do me the favor, I'll get you what you need."
"Ricky, don't be a prick," Jane scowls, stepping in front of you protectively.
He raises his hands in surrender. "I'm just offering Scarlett the night, that's all."
Looking back at you as he steps away, he says, "You know where to find me if you're up for it."
Nodding a goodbye, a smug expression on his face like he's already won, he disappears up the stairs.
"Babe," Jane begins, hands finding your arms as she faces you. "Don't do it. I'll loan you the moneyâ"
"I can do it," you say, voice wavering.
"Like hell you can," she retorts firmly. "I saw the blisters. You can't dance on those."
"Jane, I need this," you blurt, searching her gaze, urging her to understand. "I'll be fine. I promise."
You pat her hand where it rests on your arm. "Get home safe, yeah?"
When she realizes you're not backing down, she sighs heavily, dropping it back to her side. "Yeah, you too."
Her eyes rove over you one last time, across the forced smile that's found its way onto your face.
"You'll kill it up there."
"That's the plan."
Before she can talk you out of itâbefore you can talk yourself out of itâyou step around her, heading towards the back of the club. With a tip of your head, the bouncer lets you through, your footsteps echoing loud in the quiet of the hall.
The bass rattles the walls, laughter spilling beneath the door as he shuts it behind you. Life goes on whether you're falling apart or not.
The dressing room greets you with the familiar scent of hairspray, perfume, and powder, the harsh lighting around the mirrors stinging at your eyes.
Curling irons. Lipstick tubes. Sequins scattered like confetti.
You stare at your reflection as you sit, rifling through your makeup bag without a word.
She looks tired, smaller somehowâlike Ricky's words managed to carve something out of her and left you with what little remained.
Losing your touch, he said. Only to beg you to stay and save his ass, dangling money in front of your face like some prize to be won.
You scoff under your breath. "Fuck you," you mutter, dabbing your puff in powder and patting at your skin.
Each step you take in your routineâlipstick, perfume, fresh curls, heelsâfeels like you putting the performer back together. You tuck away the exhaustion, the embarrassment, the pain, and swap them for rhinestones, angel wings, and glitter.
Smoothing gloss across your lips with one hand, you adjust your top with the other, fixing the strap threatening to slip from your shoulder back into place.
By the time you stand, Scarlett is back. Or close enough.
The lights hit before the applause does. Then come the cheers, the whistles, a few drunken hollers from somewhere near the stage.
You paste on a flirty smile before anyone can see the effort it takesâhow badly your feet are stinging in your heels, how sore your muscles are from your first shift.
The opening notes of the song spill through the speakers as you take a steadying breath. One, then another.
Showtime.
Your outfit shimmers beneath the spotlights as you make your way towards the pole, hips swaying with every step. A hand slides up the metal, the crowd responding instantly.
You let them look, let them leer at you the way they do. Let them think you've got this.
The wings wave lightly at your back as you circle the pole once, slow and deliberate, before hooking a hand around it and hauling yourself upwards.
The movement comes easy despite the ache, years of practice keeping you steady, turning your exhaustion into something graceful.
You spin and the room blurs. Faces melt together into a sea of strangers and dollar bills.
For a moment, you forget all about Ricky.
About Cherry.
About the bills waiting on your kitchen counterâunpaid, overdue.
You give them Scarlett, the fantasy. Anything but yourself. That part you'll protect as long as you can, keep her to yourself so nothing can break her.
Applause erupts when you drop back to the stage, and you smile wider at the praise, working the room like a proâblowing kisses, winking playfully, wagging your fingers at the men holding out cash for you to take.
Your gaze sweeps the crowd automaticallyâthe tables, the booths, the bar.
Then it catches on hazel eyes. The same man from before, watching you with rapt attention.
But it's different from the others. Not hungry, not drunk, not eager.
Just watching.
And for some reason, that unsettles you more than any pair of wandering hands ever could.
By the time your feet start to give out, the song comes to an end. Then comes the money, landing in a barrage at your feet, more than you saw during your first shift.
Hellâmore than you've seen in weeks.
You make the rounds, walking across the stage with all the grace you can muster, all while the strap of your heels dig into the backs of your ankles.
Thank God for blister guards.
To the left, you let a couple of men stuff bills into your garter, grazing their fingers with a coy little smile in thanks while taking the rest in hand.
For the right, you hold out a handâletting one man press a kiss to your wrist while he hands you a twenty, and the others hand them to you directly.
But for center stage, you crawl.
On your hands and knees, wings lurching gently behind you. The men go wildâshouting comments no woman should hear, no person should makeâbut still, you carry on.
It's all part of the show, and there's a power in knowing you can leave at any time. They're here for you, not the other way around.
With that in mind, you inch forward, sitting back on your legs when you reach the edge.
"Thank you, honey," you purr, shaking your chest as a gentleman in a suit steps forward, sliding the bill under the strap of your bra.
A fifty. Not bad.
You bite back a smile of relief at the sight, giving him a wink in thanks.
The man with the hazel eyes catches your gaze again, his table directly in front of you, his friends whooping loudly at your arrival.
But he doesn't do a damn thing. Doesn't offer any money, doesn't look at you like you're the hottest thing he's ever seen.
What's his deal?
One of the guys sitting next to him holds out a crisp hundred and you freeze, eyeing it like it's water in the desert and you haven't drank in days.
You grin like the cat that got the cream and reach for it.
Just before your fingers can grasp it, he pulls it back, barking out a laugh at your expense.
Your smile falters when his friends join, only one of them looking uncomfortable at the exchange as he shifts in his seat.
But hazel eyes is having none of it.
He snatches it, ignoring the man's protests to give it back, and extends it out to you.
Something traitorous flips in your stomach then, your heart pounding loud in your ears.
Play the part.
You lean forward, eyes never leaving his as you take it between your lips.
Nothing flickers in his eyes, you notice.
No desire, no lustânot even pity from knowing how exhausted you really are. Just mild surprise and a hint of apology.
You're off the stage before you can think any harder about it. About him.
"God, Scarlett. That was hot," chimes Poppy, stopping you before you head back.
"Thanks," you say, slightly breathless. "I think it went okay."
"No. I mean you and that guy." She fans herself dramatically, sighing wistfully. "Talk about a knight in shining armor."
A knight.
Him?
You scoff, smiling wryly. "No way. He's just decent. The bar can't be that low, Poppy, come on," you tease, already walking away.
"It's very low!" she shouts back.
The silence in the dressing room is no help at all.
Out there, there'd been music, lights, men shouting your name like they've earned that part of you.
But back here, there's nothing to do but replay the moment.
The money. The look in his eyes. The way your stomach decided to betray you over a man whose name you don't even know, a flutter still knocking itself around your ribs.
"Scarlett, you back here?"
You jump, nearly dropping your makeup brush.
"Yeah?" you call out, waiting for Diamond to round the corner.
She pokes her head through the door. "You've got a request, girl."
"...A what?"
She laughs, approaching you from behind, her fingers fixing your hair as she catches your gaze in the reflection.
"Some guy requested you for his brother." She shrugs. "Said he needs to loosen up. Guess he's a hard-ass."
You roll your eyes, reapplying your lip gloss. "Great. Just my luck."
"Can't be that bad," she says, rubbing at your shoulders to try and soothe you. You groan when she works at a knot in your nape, smoothing it away with her thumbs.
"You could totally be a masseuse, y'know. If you ever want outta here," you say, rising from your place at the vanity.
She barks out a laugh, already halfway out the door. "Yeah, I'll think about it."
You take your sweet time getting to the private room, going over the ins and outs of a lap dance in your head like you've never given one in your life.
It's like riding a bike, you remind yourself. If you don't ride one for a few days, you just hop back on and it's like you never even stopped.
Or something like that.
You hover outside the door a moment too longâfluffing your hair, tapping your foot anxiously, going over the worst that can happen.
If Ricky was right about you slipping, you wouldn't have gotten a request in the first place.
Right?
With that logic in mind, you take one final, steadying breath, paste on a smile, and enter the room.
"Hi, sweetheartâ" you say, eyes settling on the man of the hour.
With the door only partly shut behind you, you still.
"Oh."
It's you.
Your first instinct is surprise, relief that it's him and not some creep with ogling stares and greedy hands.
The next is disappointment.
He's not here for you. He's here for Scarlett.
Be Scarlett.
The thought settles over you like a second skin. Easier than being yourself, anyway.
By the time the door clicks shut, your grin is back into place.
You saunter forward slowly, letting your fingers trail across the broad line of his shoulder as you move to stand in front of him.
"Your brother must really care about you," you tease. "Getting you a dance with little ol' me."
Your words hang in the air, but they never land.
Normally they get you a laugh, a hand reaching for you, a stupid joke in return.
He just squirms awkwardly in his seat, his shoulders pulling up tighter, tension oozing from him in droves.
He clears his throat.
You swallow.
Jesus Christ.
"Come on, sugar," you try once more, fingers curling around his shoulder before you step back, swaying to the music. "Makin' me do all the work."
Your eyes fall to his hand at his side, curled into a fist so tight, his knuckles are white as snow. He catches you looking, unfurling it quickly and resting it on his thigh.
"Sorry," he mutters.
You try not to frown, do your best to keep the facade going just long enough to make it through the dance. But his blatant lack of interest triggers the spiral.
Ricky's words echo loud in your ears.
The numbers flicker in front of your eyes.
All the money you've failed to earn taunts you in the form of dollar signs too far out of reach, floating there like a mirage.
"...You don't wanna be here much longer, do you?" you ask, quieter than you intended.
That gets his attention faster than your flirting did. It makes you laugh.
"No," he says, shaking his head lightly. "I meanâ"
You wrap a strand of your hair around your finger, eyes faraway as you stare at the wall behind him. "I can send someone else in. Another girl."
"That ain't it."
"No, I get it," you blurt, scrubbing a hand down your face. "Trust me, ain't the first time."
"I said, that ain't it," he counters, voice firm.
"Yeah, well," you huff, stepping back further and crossing your arms. "Reckon your brother didn't pay all that money for this."
His brow furrows, gaze hardening.
"Didn't ask him to."
The defensiveness in his words makes your hackles rise.
"Maybe you oughta listen to him and lighten up."
He blinks, taken aback. "Excuse me?"
You stare, long and hard, a voice in the back of your mind shouting curses at you.
What the hell are you doing?
Arguing with a customer, picking a fight with a man who hasn't done anything to you.
"Shit," you whisper. "Shit, shit, shit."
Your hands cover your mouth, eyes wide as you assess the confusion in his gaze, the way he's leant forward into the conversation out of pure frustration.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn'tâ"
"Hey," he cuts in, but you shake your head, dropping your hands.
"Didn't even mean to say that. I don't know why I'mâ"
You're stammering now, looking more and more like you want to cry than you did in Ricky's office.
The one time someone doesn't want something from you and this is how you act. No wonder people come and go like summer rain.
What the hell would they bother staying for?
"Hey," he repeats, fingers closing around your wrist. "Look at me."
When you finally do, he sighsâslowly, carefullyâlike any sudden movement will have you running off to lick your wounds.
"I ain't upset."
You hold his gaze, frown deepening not in anguish, but bewilderment.
"...Why?"
"Why?"
"I was rude."
That earns you a chuckle, his thumb grazing your skin. Whether on purpose or unconsciously, you can't tellâand you don't bother asking.
"Little bit," he nods. "Think you're misunderstandin' me."
"You don't want the dance," you murmur. "I get it."
He huffs. "Ain't said any of that."
"Then..." Your lips part, mouth opening and closing over and over again, until the words form on the tip of your tongue.
"Then why do you look so miserable?"
The look he gives you is pure disbelief.
"That how this looks to you?"
Your gaze drops. To the floor, to your handsâanywhere but him. Silence settles in, broken only by the thump of bass, the occasional chatter drifting through the door as people walk past it.
Then his fingers gently brush beneath your chin. Hesitant, almost. Giving you every opportunity under the sun to pull away.
You don't. The thought doesn't even cross your mind.
He tips your face up just enough for your eyes to meet his again, his thumb grazing your cheek as he lets his hand settle there, warm and steady.
Without thinking, without taking a moment to contemplate the implications of what the hell it is you're doing, you lean into it.
His expression changes immediately.
The tension leaves his jaw first, and something shifts in his eyes, softening them enough to send warmth creeping up your nape.
Not surprise. Reliefâlike he'd been expecting you to pull away.
You never let customers get so close, never let them touch you like they have the right to.
But something's different about this one and you know it. Enough to not flinch when he pulls you onto his lap, to not recoil when his fingers curl lightly around your hip.
To not shy away when he murmurs, "You wanna dance, dance," the rough drawl of his words curling themselves around you.
The agreement slips past your lips before you think better of it.
"Okay," you whisper.
Dancing has always come easy. The thinking's the hard part. As soon as you put it away, your hips move on sheer instinct.
It takes a few rolls of them to find the rhythm, your gazes transfixed on one another like you can't bear to look anywhere else.
He doesn't rush youâdoesn't tell you what to do, what he wants.
Just watches you dance the way you're accustomed to, not realizing how much extra effort you're putting in to make it perfect for him.
You grind down, hips moving in a figure-eight that has him groaning, a measured breath leaving his nose.
You bite your lip to tamp down a smile.
There you are.
For the first time since you got here, he gives you bits and pieces of himself. Offers them up wrapped in velvet and ribbon, all while holding you like you matter more than someone who's only his for a song.
And just for a momentâone selfish, reckless momentâyou don't give him Scarlett. You give him you.
When the song comes to a close, your movements slowing to a stop, your chest is rising and falling quicker than it was at the start, arms around his neck like you're not ready to let go just yet.
You're supposed to be selling a fantasy, a glimpse of heaven that comes and goes in an instant.
Instead, you've bought into one yourself.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, getting your attention with a gentle tap of your thigh.
"You mindâ" he trails off.
"Hm?" you hum in confusion, tilting your head.
That's when you feel it, a hardness that wasn't there before pressing against you.
"Oh," you breathe, cheeks burning. "S-Sorry."
"S'alright. Just happens," he mutters, clearing his throat as you rise from his lap, settling onto the couch beside him. The moment you're off of him, he shifts, trying to adjust himself as subtly as possible.
"No, yeah," you say softly. "It's fine."
You don't make for the doorânot yet, anyway. Instead, you stay seated, fingers curling around the couch's edge while your breaths even out.
He rubs awkwardly at his neck, exhaling slowly before he reaches for his wallet, pulling it from his pocket.
You watch as he thumbs through the billsâstopping on a ten, then grabbing a twenty instead.
He holds it out, glancing at you without a word.
You stare at the money, then his face, then back again.
"Go on," he says roughly. "Take it."
You hesitate, reaching out to let your fingers brush the paper before they close around it.
With the song over, the tip in your hand, you know it's time to go. And yet, when your feet carry you to the door, heels clicking all the way, you linger.
"You know..." you begin, looking over at him. "You're a really weird customer."
His lips twitchâagainst his better judgment, no doubt.
"Says the one who just took my money," he teases.
It catches you so off guard, that lilt in his tone. Enough for a laugh to escape you, warm and genuine, a smile curving your lips that feels like the realest one you've shown in days.
You wave the bill at him, watch the way his eyes catch on your mouth.
"...See you around."
The rest of the night passes in a blur.
Songs. Lights. Dollar bills.
More requests than you've had in weeks, and Ricky's smug little grin flashing in the corner of your vision as he watches you perform from upstairs.
By closing, your feet are bleeding, your calves more banged up than they've been in weeks.
You're changing out of the wings, the bedazzled two-piece, and the glittery heels when Lola asks, "So..."
You toss a glance over your shoulder, stilling when you notice all of the girls watching you expectantly.
"Tell us about the dance."
You snicker, throwing on a t-shirt. "Which one?"
"Oh, please. Don't play dumb," Diamond says, rolling her eyes.
"We're talking about the knight, babe," Poppy cuts in.
You grimace. "Ugh, don't call him that."
"He totally had you blushing," she exclaims, shoving lightly at your arm. "I've never seen you leave a private dance so flustered."
Your smile grows against your will.
Unassuming at first, then beaming.
"Oh my god, I knew it!" Lola yells, the girls shrieking in unison.
"God, you guys are annoying," you retort, hanging up the wings. "He's just a customer. It's nothing."
"Nothing my ass. He'll be back before you know it, asking about you," Poppy quips, wiping her makeup away.
Asking about you.
You swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans absentmindedly before you tug them on.
Your phone buzzes on the vanityâyour roommate on her way to pick you up.
The dressing room empties in waves, everyone leaving one by one, the four of you exiting the club in a line.
First Diamond, then Lola, then Poppy, blowing kisses over her shoulder and shouting something about the knight that earns her a chorus of laughter.
You flip her off affectionately.
The club feels different at closing. Quieter, almost. Sticky floors and half-empty glasses abandoned on cocktail tables, men stumbling toward the exit in search of their designated drivers.
The cool night air hits your face like a blessing, refreshing you to the bone, soothing the aches in your muscles.
You dig a cigarette from your purse, slipping it between your lips as you light it.
"Get the fuck off me," you hear, your eyes drawn across the parking lot.
"Get in the truck."
"I'm perfectly capable ofâ"
"Tommy. Now."
And there he isâthe knight. Standing beneath the moonlight, looking better than he has any right to.
You shake your head, try to rid yourself of the thought before it takes root.
But you can't stop staring, and the moment he happens to glance over, neither can he.
He closes the door, shutting the drunk man in his truck, watching you in silent question.
You don't look away. He takes that as answer enough.
He crosses the asphalt in long strides, coming to stand beside you, hands in his pockets.
Neither of you speak for a moment, but it doesn't feel as awkward as it probably should. It's comfortableâeasier than it needs to be.
"You got a ride?" he asks, breaking the silence.
You take a drag of your cigarette, letting the smoke curl around you with every word.
"Yeah... She's almost here."
He nods, but before he can speak again, you beat him to it.
"I know what you're doing."
His brow lifts in curiosity. "What's that?"
Your lip twitches, flicking the cigarette against the ground to ash it. "Playing the savior. But I'm a big girl, I don't need saving."
He watches you sidelong, eyes tracing the slope of your nose, the stubborn set of your shoulders, the confident gleam in your eyes.
"Never thought you did," he says, voice low.
You turn to face him just as your ride pulls up, parking in the spot adjacent to where you're standing.
"You wanna help me out? Request another dance."
You drop the smoke, stamp it out with your foot. "Ask for Scarlett."
"Scarlett," he repeats, turning the word over slowly.
"...That your real name?"
You look at him pointedly, a smile curving your mouth. Without saying a word, you walk to the car, about to slide into the passenger seat.
Just before you do, your gaze finds him once more.
"Hey. What's yours?"
When he doesn't answer, staring at you with confusion on his face, you say, "Your name."
It takes him a moment to answerâlike it'll cost him something, and he's weighing the pros and cons of it before he does.
Thenâ
"Joel."
Your eyes soften, the word settling somewhere in your chest too forbidden to name.
"Goodnight, Joel."
The door shuts behind you, your roommate speaking the moment she pulls away from the curb, but you don't hear a word of it.
Because Joel is still standing where you left him, watching the taillights recede, watching you leave.
And for once, you find yourself wishing you didn't have to.
a/n: it's officially my birthday, yay!!! so happy to be ringing in another year around the sun with one of my favorite fictional men and an OC i'm beginning to love dearly. part II will be coming soon, so i hope you'll all be patient in waiting for it. it's going to be an absolute treat! if you'd like to be added to the tag list for it, please let me know in the comments. love you sm, thank you for celebrating with me!!!
â Lana Del Rey, Father John Misty / "Let The Light In"
âą pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
âą warnings: smut (18+, mdni), yearning, gentle Arthur Morgan, handjob, consensual sex, p in v, bathhouse girl!reader, mutual pining, high honor Arthur Morgan, hair washing, emotional smut, praise, tender intimacy, he fell first and harder, caretaker reader, acts of service, Arthur Morgan being treated right, i'm biting my fist it's so cute
âą word count: ~2.1k
Arthur Morgan's got a bad habit.
He stops in every other day, asking for you and only you.
Nevermind that he comes in fresh as a daisy from the last, barely a speck of dirt on him to warrant a washing.
He still comes.
Takes his clothes off real neat. Folds them and sets them aside. Takes extra care sinking into the tub while he waits, careful not to get any water on your seat.
Nobody takes care of him better than you do. He figures he ought to do the same.
Entering the room, mid-speech with one of the other girls, the sight of him stops you dead. Sends warmth fluttering through your chest, cheeks burning something awful.
You heard tell of a man who resembled him wandering around these parts again. Didn't think it'd be the man himself come to see you.
"M-Mr. Morgan," you stammer softly in greeting, shutting the door quietly behind you.
"Miss," he says after a moment, unable to meet your gaze.
His fingers tighten around the tub's edges, tips of his ears going pink.
You smile to yourself, reaching for the jar of rose petals you keep in case he comes by.
"Good for the skin," you say every time he asks. Really, you'll take just about any excuse to pamper the man.
Sprinkling a couple in, you watch his eyes follow them as they drift about.
"I brought you somethin'," he says, just as you settle in behind him.
"Again?" you ask softly, already pouring water over his hair, careful of his eyes.
Last week was peppermintsâthe kind you loved as a girl.
The week before that were some wildflowers he picked not far from the edge of town. They were a bit wilted, damn near crushed to death, but you were flattered nonetheless.
Bringing the soap bar to his head, you work it into a lather, scrubbing in gentle circles. "You ought'a stop bein' so sweet to me. The girls are gettin' all manner of jealous."
His head tilts back onto your lap, getting suds on the front of your dress. You find you don't mind it one bit.
"Don't care none," he mutters, eyes shutting as your fingers massage his scalp. "Only want you."
You duck your head, a bashful smile turning up your lips.
"Go on, then, tell me," you murmur, staring down at him. "What'd you bring this time."
He looks at you, dries his hand on the towel draped over the edge of the basin, and reaches for his things. Without a word, he pulls out a delicate ribbon in that shade of cream you love so much.
You gasp, eyes going wide. "Like the one Iâ"
"Lost," he finishes, grunting in acknowledgment. "Yeah, I know."
You swallow, drop your head once more, fixing your gaze stubbornly on the porcelain.
"Youâ I mean, that's real thoughtful of you..."
And just before the audacity can leave you, you utter a quietâ
"Thank you, Arthur."
Any thoughts you might've had about addressing him by his first name leave you entirely.
One look at those cheeks of hisâbeaming the prettiest shade of red as he rubs at the scruff of his jawâand you're gone before you can think better of it.
You bring your lips to his temple, fingers stalling where they run along his nape. "Now, just you relax. Lemme take care of you."
He sits still as can be, the tension easing itself from his muscles with every pass of the washcloth.
While you're busy cleaning his legs, scrubbing gently at his skin, your arm grazes somethingâhard, heavy, and hot like fire between them.
He goes stiff as a board, brows drawn tight as he looks away from you.
"Sorry," he says quiet, gruff, shifting in the water like he's committed a grave sin worth apologizing for.
"It ain't a problem," you mumble, staring blankly at the bubbles in the water as his hands go white-knuckled where they grip the edges.
Your gaze finds his face, a sheepish look on it you'd kiss right off if given half the chance. "Oh, Arthur. Won't you look at me?"
"Ain't right of me," he says then. "Takin' advantage of the kindness you've shown me."
"That ain't what you're doin' now, is it?" you chide softly, a quiet exhalation leaving your chest as you cup his cheek, turn that handsome face toward you.
You're fussing over himâyou know it. Can tell by the way you brush the wet hair clean from his face, thumbing away a stray droplet of water before it can careen down his forehead.
"Been an awful long while, ain't it? That why?" you ask curiously, voice soft with understanding. Gentle as you run your hand comfortingly along the length of his arm.
He glances at you then, searches that serene expression of yours, those eyes filled with an adoration he's too cowardly to give name to.
"...Yeah," he says finally, swallowing with an effort, jaw working. "Been some time."
It takes you a moment to gather the wordsâto get them right on the tip of your tongue before they spill out in a blur.
"I don't mind," you murmur, reassurance lacing every syllable. "If that's what you're wantin'. Ain't no trouble at all."
He looks at you with something akin to disbelief and an affection so severe, it sinks right down to the heart of you.
"I ain't earned that kinda treatment," he says then, shaking his head like it sits heavy on his shoulders.
"I wanna," you say in reassurance, resting your hand over his heart. It thuds a quick rhythm against your palm, his own coming up to lace your fingers with a hesitation that makes your face warm.
"Alright," he relents, eyes fixing onto you.
You smile, bring your joined hands to your lips and press a tender kiss to his knuckles, still scarred from whatever fight he must've been in last.
Your opposite one slips into the water, taking him between your fingers, not making a fuss of it.
It's just comfort.
Something to cure him of his stresses and that air of melancholy he carries about himself.
You tell yourself that's all it is, and he tells himself he ain't attached to the way you touch himâthe way you move your wrist just so and give him pleasure like he's never known, the way you card through the soapy tresses of his hair and let him doze off with his head on your lap most days.
You know better. So does he.
He groans real quiet, head tipping back just enough to show the effect your grip has on him, the length of him throbbing steadily between your fingers, growing impossibly harder still.
"Show me what to do," you murmur, voice a sweet lilt in his ear. "Show me how to take care of you."
He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, letting it out slowly as he allows his eyes to shut and yield to the feeling, to your words looping themselves around him, driving him damn near out of his mind.
"Jesus, woman," he mumbles to himself.
But his hand moves to cover yours, tightening your hold around him with a careful squeeze of his fingers, helping you stroke him in long, slow drags that have his hips bucking.
Water splashes, creeping ever closer to the edge of the tub, threatening to spill over.
But you don't stop him. You wouldn't dare.
Instead, you stare, all kinds of mesmerized that a man like Arthur Morgan could be reduced to thisâoverflowing with desire, eager for the slightest touch that doesn't result in pain or hurt.
"That alright?" you ask quietly, peppering gentle kisses down his neck, lifting your head to meet his gaze.
He stares at you then, breathing rough, chest rising and falling with the effort it takes him.
"C'mere."
His fingers curl loose around your nape, drawing you in close to press a kiss to your lips.
You smile against his mouth, at him eagerly taking all he can when he kisses you harder, tongue dragging against yours like he's starved for it.
He tries to coax you over, onto his lap. With a quiet laugh, you pull the hem of your dress away just before it can touch the water.
"Gonna get my dress all soaked," you say, drying your hands to undo the buttons down the front.
He looks away, averts his gaze as the fabric goes slack against your form. You sigh, head tilting, eyes soft as can be.
"Don't gotta look away," you assure him, reaching out to turn his head toward you. "Don't mind you watchin' none."
His jaw tightens, reaching for you the moment your undergarments fall away. Before he can pull you onto him and into the tub, you reach for the ribbon.
He watches as you loop it around your neckâonce, twiceâtying it off with a delicate bow that reaches down your collarbone.
You nearly slip, a startled squeal bubbling out of you as you settle in the warm water, thighs either side of him.
"Easy now. Atta girl," he says, reaching out to steady you. You hardly fit, him all but filling out the basin beneath you.
Still, you manageâhands on his shoulders as he lines himself up with your entrance, his at your waist rubbing in slow, lingering sweeps up your sides.
"How's it look?" you ask softly.
He stares at you like he's got heaven in his arms.
"Real nice, darlin'. Prettiest thing I ever did see."
He arches up just enough for you to feel him, the head of him pushing inside making a shiver run up your spine.
"You're alright," he murmurs, fingers splaying wide along your back as he guides you down. "That's it."
It doesn't take long before he's got his face tucked in your neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your skin, his beard scraping as he goes.
His breathing grows ragged, hold on your hips tightening despite himself.
All the while, you whisper encouragements in his ear, letting his name tumble from your lips like a prayer.
A timid little moan escapes you when he sinks into you proper, striking something sweet enough to pull a shudder clean through you, toes curling tight against the porcelain.
His rhythm starts slipping, growing more and more unsteady with every thrust. Your fingers slip into his damp hair, nails scratching lightly.
"Arthur?" you whisper.
"Mm," he hums, a low, gravelly sound that has your thighs trying their best to clench around him.
He notices the change in your breathing, the way they've gone shallow and uneven, his hand slipping between you to give you the attention you need.
"C'mon. Lemme have you," he says, his eyes gone storm-dark.
The moment his fingers find what you need, circling just there with a firm pressure, you're coming apart around him.
It feels like lightning singeing you from the inside out, burning you up entirely, sending your pulse crazy where it thrums beneath your skin.
His own breath catches hard as his release finds him, his forehead dropping against your breast, a deep groan knocked loose from him.
You feel the moment his body goes taut, a shiver wracking through him at the sheer intensity of it.
He goes heavy beneath you, all at once, sinking further into the tub like the effort stole every little bit of strength right out of him.
"You okay?" he asks, his touch gentler now, more careful than it's ever been.
"Yeah," you whisper, dropping kisses to the top of his head before resting your weight on him, your cheek to his chest. "You?"
He huffs a laugh, hand running along your spine.
"Sweetheart," he says, voice wrecked. "Ain't been this good in a long time."
You beam, lifting your head to meet his gaze.
"Say you'll come back tomorrow," you murmur, hopeful eyes searching his face for an answer.
He brushes your hair back, idly winds a strand around his finger.
"I'll come back," he promises. "Maybe not tomorrow, but..."
His hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb running tenderly along it. "I will. Don't you worry."
You believe him. Not one bit of you doubts it.
He doesn't do things half-way, doesn't say things he doesn't mean. That knowledge alone brings you a comfort second only to being in his arms, just like this.
After all, if there was only ever one man you'd happily spend all of the hot water in Valentine on, you know without a doubt it'd be Arthur Morgan.
Him and his gifts, his sweet words, and the way he holds you like you're worth more than anything in the whole goddamn world.
Seems you've both got a bad habit.
a/n: gentle Arthur strikes again, but with SMUT THIS TIME! i had so much fun writing this, so i hope you love it. and thank you so so so so so much for helping me reach my second follower milestone đ€đ€đ€ i can't believe i get to write like this as a hobby and people actually enjoy it, so thank you for continuing to support me and my little musings. love you!!!!!
"In the land of Gods and Monsters / I was an angel / living in the garden of evil."
â Lana Del Rey / "Gods and Monsters"
summary: They call it EDEN, like the gardenâneon lights that burn if you stare too long, watered-down liquor, and angels dressed in gaudy wings and itchy lace. But there's no heaven here.
Only poor decisions, bad men with wandering hands, and women too burdened with worry and regret to grant anyone their earthly desires. You've fallen from graceâtaken a bite of the poisoned apple, only to lose your way.
Then you meet him.
Joel Miller doesn't make you any promises. Doesn't hold your hand and whisper comforts you don't think you deserve. He doesn't offer you salvationâbut somewhere along the way, it finds you both.
lips divider by me ⥠/ lace divider and photos are from Pinterest âĄ
âą pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
âą warnings: smut (18+, mdni), pre-outbreak Joel Miller, strip-club setting, private dances, age gap, sex work, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, stripper!reader, lonely people finding each other, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, slow burn, angst, soft Joel Miller, affection-starved reader, Joel Miler falls first agenda, acts of service, emotional repression, no outbreak AU, self-esteem issues, exploitative work environment, yearning, gnawing at the bars of my enclosure
â ACT I â East of Eden
â ACT II â Grace (TBD)
â ACT III â The Fall (TBD)
â ACT IV â Salvation (TBD)
a/n: unsure if dropping the masterlist post a week before the first act has been released is wise, but Main Attraction will be dropping on my bday because i am nothing if not a giver â„ïžđ i wanted to mention that this fic is not indicative of how this occupation is for everyone, so please be mindful that this is an act of fiction, and sex work IS work and can be both safe and fulfilling. okay mwah, ilysm!!!
tag list: @untamedheart81 @joelsarchive @maxverslover3 @strawberrystarfruit8
i'll be making a separate post regarding my tag list, but if you'd like to be added before the release, feel free to let me know â„ïž
â Lana Del Rey, Father John Misty / "Let The Light In"
âą pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
âą warnings: smut (18+, mdni), yearning, gentle Arthur Morgan, handjob, consensual sex, p in v, bathhouse girl!reader, mutual pining, high honor Arthur Morgan, hair washing, emotional smut, praise, tender intimacy, he fell first and harder, caretaker reader, acts of service, Arthur Morgan being treated right, i'm biting my fist it's so cute
âą word count: ~2.1k
Arthur Morgan's got a bad habit.
He stops in every other day, asking for you and only you.
Nevermind that he comes in fresh as a daisy from the last, barely a speck of dirt on him to warrant a washing.
He still comes.
Takes his clothes off real neat. Folds them and sets them aside. Takes extra care sinking into the tub while he waits, careful not to get any water on your seat.
Nobody takes care of him better than you do. He figures he ought to do the same.
Entering the room, mid-speech with one of the other girls, the sight of him stops you dead. Sends warmth fluttering through your chest, cheeks burning something awful.
You heard tell of a man who resembled him wandering around these parts again. Didn't think it'd be the man himself come to see you.
"M-Mr. Morgan," you stammer softly in greeting, shutting the door quietly behind you.
"Miss," he says after a moment, unable to meet your gaze.
His fingers tighten around the tub's edges, tips of his ears going pink.
You smile to yourself, reaching for the jar of rose petals you keep in case he comes by.
"Good for the skin," you say every time he asks. Really, you'll take just about any excuse to pamper the man.
Sprinkling a couple in, you watch his eyes follow them as they drift about.
"I brought you somethin'," he says, just as you settle in behind him.
"Again?" you ask softly, already pouring water over his hair, careful of his eyes.
Last week was peppermintsâthe kind you loved as a girl.
The week before that were some wildflowers he picked not far from the edge of town. They were a bit wilted, damn near crushed to death, but you were flattered nonetheless.
Bringing the soap bar to his head, you work it into a lather, scrubbing in gentle circles. "You ought'a stop bein' so sweet to me. The girls are gettin' all manner of jealous."
His head tilts back onto your lap, getting suds on the front of your dress. You find you don't mind it one bit.
"Don't care none," he mutters, eyes shutting as your fingers massage his scalp. "Only want you."
You duck your head, a bashful smile turning up your lips.
"Go on, then, tell me," you murmur, staring down at him. "What'd you bring this time."
He looks at you, dries his hand on the towel draped over the edge of the basin, and reaches for his things. Without a word, he pulls out a delicate ribbon in that shade of cream you love so much.
You gasp, eyes going wide. "Like the one Iâ"
"Lost," he finishes, grunting in acknowledgment. "Yeah, I know."
You swallow, drop your head once more, fixing your gaze stubbornly on the porcelain.
"Youâ I mean, that's real thoughtful of you..."
And just before the audacity can leave you, you utter a quietâ
"Thank you, Arthur."
Any thoughts you might've had about addressing him by his first name leave you entirely.
One look at those cheeks of hisâbeaming the prettiest shade of red as he rubs at the scruff of his jawâand you're gone before you can think better of it.
You bring your lips to his temple, fingers stalling where they run along his nape. "Now, just you relax. Lemme take care of you."
He sits still as can be, the tension easing itself from his muscles with every pass of the washcloth.
While you're busy cleaning his legs, scrubbing gently at his skin, your arm grazes somethingâhard, heavy, and hot like fire between them.
He goes stiff as a board, brows drawn tight as he looks away from you.
"Sorry," he says quiet, gruff, shifting in the water like he's committed a grave sin worth apologizing for.
"It ain't a problem," you mumble, staring blankly at the bubbles in the water as his hands go white-knuckled where they grip the edges.
Your gaze finds his face, a sheepish look on it you'd kiss right off if given half the chance. "Oh, Arthur. Won't you look at me?"
"Ain't right of me," he says then. "Takin' advantage of the kindness you've shown me."
"That ain't what you're doin' now, is it?" you chide softly, a quiet exhalation leaving your chest as you cup his cheek, turn that handsome face toward you.
You're fussing over himâyou know it. Can tell by the way you brush the wet hair clean from his face, thumbing away a stray droplet of water before it can careen down his forehead.
"Been an awful long while, ain't it? That why?" you ask curiously, voice soft with understanding. Gentle as you run your hand comfortingly along the length of his arm.
He glances at you then, searches that serene expression of yours, those eyes filled with an adoration he's too cowardly to give name to.
"...Yeah," he says finally, swallowing with an effort, jaw working. "Been some time."
It takes you a moment to gather the wordsâto get them right on the tip of your tongue before they spill out in a blur.
"I don't mind," you murmur, reassurance lacing every syllable. "If that's what you're wantin'. Ain't no trouble at all."
He looks at you with something akin to disbelief and an affection so severe, it sinks right down to the heart of you.
"I ain't earned that kinda treatment," he says then, shaking his head like it sits heavy on his shoulders.
"I wanna," you say in reassurance, resting your hand over his heart. It thuds a quick rhythm against your palm, his own coming up to lace your fingers with a hesitation that makes your face warm.
"Alright," he relents, eyes fixing onto you.
You smile, bring your joined hands to your lips and press a tender kiss to his knuckles, still scarred from whatever fight he must've been in last.
Your opposite one slips into the water, taking him between your fingers, not making a fuss of it.
It's just comfort.
Something to cure him of his stresses and that air of melancholy he carries about himself.
You tell yourself that's all it is, and he tells himself he ain't attached to the way you touch himâthe way you move your wrist just so and give him pleasure like he's never known, the way you card through the soapy tresses of his hair and let him doze off with his head on your lap most days.
You know better. So does he.
He groans real quiet, head tipping back just enough to show the effect your grip has on him, the length of him throbbing steadily between your fingers, growing impossibly harder still.
"Show me what to do," you murmur, voice a sweet lilt in his ear. "Show me how to take care of you."
He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, letting it out slowly as he allows his eyes to shut and yield to the feeling, to your words looping themselves around him, driving him damn near out of his mind.
"Jesus, woman," he mumbles to himself.
But his hand moves to cover yours, tightening your hold around him with a careful squeeze of his fingers, helping you stroke him in long, slow drags that have his hips bucking.
Water splashes, creeping ever closer to the edge of the tub, threatening to spill over.
But you don't stop him. You wouldn't dare.
Instead, you stare, all kinds of mesmerized that a man like Arthur Morgan could be reduced to thisâoverflowing with desire, eager for the slightest touch that doesn't result in pain or hurt.
"That alright?" you ask quietly, peppering gentle kisses down his neck, lifting your head to meet his gaze.
He stares at you then, breathing rough, chest rising and falling with the effort it takes him.
"C'mere."
His fingers curl loose around your nape, drawing you in close to press a kiss to your lips.
You smile against his mouth, at him eagerly taking all he can when he kisses you harder, tongue dragging against yours like he's starved for it.
He tries to coax you over, onto his lap. With a quiet laugh, you pull the hem of your dress away just before it can touch the water.
"Gonna get my dress all soaked," you say, drying your hands to undo the buttons down the front.
He looks away, averts his gaze as the fabric goes slack against your form. You sigh, head tilting, eyes soft as can be.
"Don't gotta look away," you assure him, reaching out to turn his head toward you. "Don't mind you watchin' none."
His jaw tightens, reaching for you the moment your undergarments fall away. Before he can pull you onto him and into the tub, you reach for the ribbon.
He watches as you loop it around your neckâonce, twiceâtying it off with a delicate bow that reaches down your collarbone.
You nearly slip, a startled squeal bubbling out of you as you settle in the warm water, thighs either side of him.
"Easy now. Atta girl," he says, reaching out to steady you. You hardly fit, him all but filling out the basin beneath you.
Still, you manageâhands on his shoulders as he lines himself up with your entrance, his at your waist rubbing in slow, lingering sweeps up your sides.
"How's it look?" you ask softly.
He stares at you like he's got heaven in his arms.
"Real nice, darlin'. Prettiest thing I ever did see."
He arches up just enough for you to feel him, the head of him pushing inside making a shiver run up your spine.
"You're alright," he murmurs, fingers splaying wide along your back as he guides you down. "That's it."
It doesn't take long before he's got his face tucked in your neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your skin, his beard scraping as he goes.
His breathing grows ragged, hold on your hips tightening despite himself.
All the while, you whisper encouragements in his ear, letting his name tumble from your lips like a prayer.
A timid little moan escapes you when he sinks into you proper, striking something sweet enough to pull a shudder clean through you, toes curling tight against the porcelain.
His rhythm starts slipping, growing more and more unsteady with every thrust. Your fingers slip into his damp hair, nails scratching lightly.
"Arthur?" you whisper.
"Mm," he hums, a low, gravelly sound that has your thighs trying their best to clench around him.
He notices the change in your breathing, the way they've gone shallow and uneven, his hand slipping between you to give you the attention you need.
"C'mon. Lemme have you," he says, his eyes gone storm-dark.
The moment his fingers find what you need, circling just there with a firm pressure, you're coming apart around him.
It feels like lightning singeing you from the inside out, burning you up entirely, sending your pulse crazy where it thrums beneath your skin.
His own breath catches hard as his release finds him, his forehead dropping against your breast, a deep groan knocked loose from him.
You feel the moment his body goes taut, a shiver wracking through him at the sheer intensity of it.
He goes heavy beneath you, all at once, sinking further into the tub like the effort stole every little bit of strength right out of him.
"You okay?" he asks, his touch gentler now, more careful than it's ever been.
"Yeah," you whisper, dropping kisses to the top of his head before resting your weight on him, your cheek to his chest. "You?"
He huffs a laugh, hand running along your spine.
"Sweetheart," he says, voice wrecked. "Ain't been this good in a long time."
You beam, lifting your head to meet his gaze.
"Say you'll come back tomorrow," you murmur, hopeful eyes searching his face for an answer.
He brushes your hair back, idly winds a strand around his finger.
"I'll come back," he promises. "Maybe not tomorrow, but..."
His hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb running tenderly along it. "I will. Don't you worry."
You believe him. Not one bit of you doubts it.
He doesn't do things half-way, doesn't say things he doesn't mean. That knowledge alone brings you a comfort second only to being in his arms, just like this.
After all, if there was only ever one man you'd happily spend all of the hot water in Valentine on, you know without a doubt it'd be Arthur Morgan.
Him and his gifts, his sweet words, and the way he holds you like you're worth more than anything in the whole goddamn world.
Seems you've both got a bad habit.
a/n: gentle Arthur strikes again, but with SMUT THIS TIME! i had so much fun writing this, so i hope you love it. and thank you so so so so so much for helping me reach my second follower milestone đ€đ€đ€ i can't believe i get to write like this as a hobby and people actually enjoy it, so thank you for continuing to support me and my little musings. love you!!!!!
whenever people ask me my niche i have to smile and act like it isnât writing about an emotionally constipated dilf and a touch-starved emotionally repressed outlaw
"No thing defines a man like love that makes him soft / For a few moments, I see you"
â Noah Kahan / "Strawberry Wine"
*author rec: listen to the song as you read*
âč àŁȘ Ë pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
âč àŁȘ Ë warnings: soft and gentle Arthur Morgan, praise and compliments, mutual pining, devoted reader, Arthur has TB (i'm sorry), peak emotional intimacy, love in the face of mortality, Arthur Morgan blushing agenda, i am unwell after writing this, Arthur Morgan has self-esteem issues, reader loves him anyway
âč àŁȘ Ë word count: ~800
"You sure I'm doin' this right?" you ask, angling your head in hopes the deer on the page, missing half its head, will perk right up.
"It don't look like a stag," you add.
Arthur leans in, hair brushing yours, looking over your shoulder like he has any right to be so close to you.
He does.
"Ain't half bad, darlin'."
"You're just sayin' that," you grumble, pouting lightly.
He huffs, a soft little sound that twists your insides, and cups your chin. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, carefully pulling it free.
"Now, don't be like that," he murmurs.
He looks down at the drawing in your lap, the one that resembles his none, and taps the paper.
"Draw a line, just there..."
You follow his instructions, dragging the pencil slowly, carefully.
"That's it," he praises, voice gentle as spring rain.
You lift your head, gaze finding him.
His eyesâthose ocean blues you've come to love so muchâare fixed on the graphite embedded in the page, brows drawn in focus. The last rays of the sun are beaming down on him like something out of this world entirely, and Lord aboveâ
He looks peaceful like this.
Deep in his art, gun belt discarded on the table a few paces back, shirt half-buttoned as the sun begins to set over the tree-line.
You speak before you think better of it, an inflection in your tone that betrays every feeling you carry in your heart.
"Reckon I like you best this way."
You feel your cheeks burn bright, but you don't turn away.
Noâyou keep your head firmly in place, watching the way his expression cycles between disbelief, denial, before landing on a begrudged form of acceptance.
He doesn't believe you, but that don't matter.
You mean every word.
"Damn woman," he mumbles, scratching at the scruff of his jaw. "You always say that."
"'Cause it's true," you say, shrugging lightly. "You're a handsome man."
"I ain't," he says quietly, shaking his head, looking everywhere except at you.
He's always like thisâcrueler to himself than he ought to be. It's why you find yourself murmuring sweet nothings in his ear between the sheets instead of sleeping. Your voice a soft drone, whispering prayers and hymns that in every life to come, you'll find him.
Again and againâuntil he grows tired of the way your eyes soften when they land on him, of how your voice warms in his presence, how your hands don't leave him for a moment.
And if this is all you've got, you reckon you'll take it over anything. All the money in the world. All the jewels the mines can drudge up. The finest horses this side of the river.
Not a damn thing compares to the man at your side.
"Nuh-uh," you counter, "Ain't hearin' a word of that."
He turns his head, coughing sharply into his handkerchief. You see the red staining the fabric before he can hide it.
Breathing slow and deepâa rasp in his throatâhe says, "Look like hell."
You can't help but smile, fingers finding the hair at his nape.
"If you look like hell, I don't ever wanna see heaven."
A flicker of amusement crosses his face, gone before it's had time to take root, then he quiets.
It's the kind of silence you know like the back of your hand, like the lines of your palm. The kind that says he heard you, but he doesn't know what to add that would feel like enough.
Arthur Morgan's never done well accepting praise, like a gift he's deserved his whole life and never got enough of.
And still, you give it willingly. In hopes that someday, he'll know it all rings true.
"Get back to your drawin'," he says gruffly, still not meeting your eyes.
The tips of his ears have gone pink.
You pretend not to notice.
Laughing softly, you cast a quick glance over your shoulder.
Bill and Pearson ain't around, neither are Tilly and Mary-Beth. That's just about enough to know you'll be safe from their teasing.
Without a word, you lean in, press a kiss to his cheek that says everything your lips don't:
I love you.
Gonna love you until your last breath.
And don't you forget it.
Before he can utter anything else, you return your gaze to the journal in front of you, adding marks where you know they don't belong. Poor deer looks more like a horse now, getting worse with every pass you make.
Only when he thinks you can't see him do his eyes finally rise, lingering on you.
You smile to yourself, a subtle thing, and let him look.
If for no reason at all than to give him the time he needs to take you in. To burn the sight of you into memoryâhow your nose crinkles when you're deep in thought, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the soft curves of your face.
His stare is a heavy thing that warms you to the marrow.
Oh, Arthur.
You wouldn't trade the world for moments like this.
Reckon neither would he.
a/n: a little soft, gentle Arthur drabble (?) to start your week ⥠this is TB-era Arthur, already feeling like his body's failing him, and reader still thinks he's the handsomest man alive. i don't like writing him with TB, but the entire piece hits so much harder that way. i cried way too much writing this btw.
this was largely inspired by this idea i had mentioned previously here, and i wrote it so quickly, i am genuinely surprised with myself. please please lmk what you think, i love and value your feedback sm!! okie, love you, byeeee!! :)
"He holds me in his big arms / drunk and I am seeing stars / this is all I think of."
â Lana Del Rey / "Video Games"
Part 1: Talk Me Through It | Masterlist
â€ïž pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader / reader POV
â€ïž warnings: 18+ smut (mdni), age gap (implied), college student!reader, first meeting, dirty talk, no outbreak au, slow burn, consensual p in v, morning sex, long-distance relationship, emotional intimacy, sexual tension, light spanking, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, Joel Miller falls hard, oral (f!receiving), reader is down bad, bathroom makeout, first time together, horny Joel Miller, delayed gratification, #needthat so bad i might die
â€ïž word count: ~7.9k
You and Joel have gotten somewhere in the past few months.
He can deny it all he wants, but the man is head over heels, and you're no better.
After a couple of weeks, the phone calls became a routine neither of you were keen on breaking. Then, before you knew it, you were double texting and sending 'good morning' messages like two people already too far gone, but far too unwilling to admit it.
You haven't had the talk yetâthe dreaded 'what are we?' oneâbut you know what this is now.
He asked if you're seeing anyone.
When you said no, the sigh of relief on the other end was palpable enough to taste.
You asked the same question, got the same answer, but followed withâ
"I'm your girl though, right?"
He paused, long enough you thought you lost him.
"Yeah..." he said finally, exhaling like you'd handed him something he didn't know how to hold. "You're my girl."
"Again?" you ask in exasperation, pacing the length of your roomâhand in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands. "That's the second flight in three weeks."
"I know, sweetheart. Ain't much I can do."
Joel's never been a liarâhates the whole damn idea of it.
That's why he's still trying to convince himself what he's doing isn't lyingâjust omitting a detail to keep you from hurting.
And technically, the flights did get canceled. He just failed to mention he's the one who did the canceling.
He sighs, voice softening in that way it does when he knows you're upset. Just enough to make the tightness in your chest unfurl, the frustration slowly bleeding out of you.
"I'll try for anotherâ"
"No, no..." you murmur, shutting your eyes briefly as your hand returns to your side. "You have bad luck, and my roommate'll be back in a couple days anyway."
He doesn't argue, doesn't try to find another wayâjust covers the receiver with his hand and drops his head back against the couch in relief.
"I'll come to you," you pitch, staring at the floor as you wait for an answer.
He tenses, hand scrubbing over his face, grip around his phone tightening slightly.
"...You don't gotta do thatâ"
"I want to, Joel," you say, a little quieter nowâlike it's obvious. "Nothing's worked out for us so far, but... I wanna keep trying."
You swallow, listen closely for a reaction. Something, anything to tell you you're not crazy for seemingly wanting this more than him.
"Where would you stay?" he asks after a minute, the silence stretching thin.
Before you can answer, he adds, "Hotel?"
You rear your head back, blinking like the mere notion of sleeping anywhere but at his side is batshit crazy. It's not what he said and you know it, but you can't help feeling likeâ
"What's wrong with your place?" you counter, growing more defensive by the minute.
He senses it immediately, of course he does.
The man's memorized every god damn thing about your voice like the back of his handâincluding when the tone of it shifts into something that signals he's in trouble.
"I didn't say anything was wrong with itâ"
"Do you not want me to come?" you blurt, the question hurting on the way out.
You laugh quietly, hurt sinking in. "Seriously, you've been running me around for weeksâ"
"Sarah doesn't know about you."
That shuts you up instantly, mouth tamping shut hard enough to make your teeth hurt.
"Oh."
He shakes his head, the sound rustling through the line as he sits forward, elbows to his knees.
"It ain't what you're thinking, darlin'," he says, but the words do little to comfort you.
When you don't speak, worrying at your lip and staring blankly ahead, he fills the quiet.
"It ain't you. Just worried she won't take it well... don't do this very often."
You soften instantly. The notion of a man like Joelâwho doesn't like talking about his feelingsâadmitting he's worried about something like that sends warmth through your chest.
"We can tell her together," you offer gently. "You don't have to do it alone."
Joel doesn't want to do it at all.
Not because he doesn't want you, not even close. But mixing the two worlds togetherâyou, his daughter, Tommy, himâcould be bad news.
You could change your mind.
Find him repulsive, not good enough, too damn boring.
He doesn't think he can let you go and survive it. Not when you make him feel things he didn't think he would get the chance to again.
Clearing his throat, he mutters, "You sound real sure."
"Of course I am," you say, brows furrowing in concern. "I wanna be there for you."
You pause, the words leaving you quieter still.
"...for us."
He goes silent for a while after that. Not saying a word, not feeling the need to.
Once he's decided, come to terms with it, he exhales slow and roughâlike your reassurance gave back just as much as it took out of him.
"Alright," he mutters. "I'll pay the flight."
The flight goes as well as one can.
No child behind you kicking the crap out of your seat the whole time, no weirdo beside you falling asleep and leaning into you.
Just the calm hum of the cabin, and the rustle of people moving about in their seats.
Your leg won't stop bouncing from the nerves, and if not for the fresh manicure, you're sure you would've chewed your nails down to the nub by now.
Instead, you've got a squeeze ball in your fist, gripping it to death like you'll lose your mind if you don't.
All the while, Joel spent the morning spiraling.
What if you see him and regret coming; what if he's too old; what if he looks tired, or too worn out to be worth wanting?
What if this whole thing has only worked out because phones let people imagine prettier versions of each other?
That's all he can think as he makes Sarah breakfast, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"You're wearing the flannel," she remarks, watching him try not to burn her pancakes.
"What flannel?" he asks drily, feigning ignorance.
"The one I told you makes your eyes pop," she chimes, taking a sip of her orange juice.
Nothing gets past her.
"Dad... do you have a date?"
He nearly drops the spatula right then, fumbling to get a grip on it, eyes cutting to her.
"No."
A pause.
"...Wouldn't call it that."
Her eyes brighten, "Is she pretty? Can I meet her?"
He sighs heavily. He just had to open his mouth in front of the nosiest girl in Texas. "Baby girl, eat your breakfast."
She grumbles in acknowledgement, takes another bite. "Is she the one you talk to every night?"
"Sarah," he chides, giving her a look that tells her it's the end of the conversation.
She just shrugs, stabs into a strawberry, and goes about her morning like she hasn't said a word.
Joel arrives at the airport a half hour earlyâin the nicest jeans he owns, carrying a bouquet of flowers from the store.
He contemplates throwing them out or giving them away more than once, worried you'll find them too cheap and thoughtless.
He settles on keeping them, if for nothing else than to give him something to do with his hands while he stands there idly.
You take your time walking through the terminal, make a pitstop in the bathroom to freshen up.
You brush your teeth, put on enough perfume to mask the stale airplane smell clinging to your skin, and try not to wince at your bare face in the mirror.
Concealer, mascara, blush, lip gloss.
Just a little.
When you get to the terminal, there's the searchingâstaring out at a sea of friends, families, and lovers, all waiting for someone specialâwhile trying to find a man you haven't yet seen.
Wellâyou've seen... parts of him.
Just not the face.
Not the eyes, or the nose, or the lips you never stop thinking aboutâthe ones that are tirelessly good at uttering filthy words in your ear and calling you his girl.
But it doesn't take you long to find him in the crowdâholding flowers that probably took him far too long to pick out, shoulders tense, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him right up.
Awkward. A little stiff as he scans every woman passing like he's trying not to panic.
Joel.
At least, he feels like him. Older than you imagined, flecks of gray painting his beard. Broader, too.
But real, and somehow, impossibly, exactly as he should be.
You approach with all the confidence you can muster, biting back a goofy smile in the hopes you don't scare him off before you've even smelled the Texan air.
"Joel?" you ask, coming to a stop in front of him, not setting your bags down until you're sure.
He looks at your face, eyes flitting back and forth, up and down.
"Yeah... that's me," he says, voice gruff. He scratches at his jaw once, then holds the flowers out. "Got these for you."
"Thank you," you say softly, smiling up at him sweetly as you take them, setting your bags down.
Before you can remind yourself to take it slowâto give you both time to adjust to the lack of distance between youâyou're rising on your toes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He stiffens, breath catching in his chest, but he doesn't recoil.
Doesn't pull back or put you at arms length.
That's all the encouragement you need to shift over just enough to touch your lips to his, a chaste kiss that has his hand finding your waist, chasing your mouth to give it right back.
You finally break it, let your feet flatten on the groundâwatch as he hinges down to pick up your things without an ounce of hesitation.
"Truck's this way," he mutters, clearing his throat as he leads the way.
The way the words waver has you biting back a grin. He's just as affected as you are.
His truck is old in age onlyâclean and well-maintained. The sign of a man who takes care of his things.
"Ain't much," he says with a grunt, lifting your bags into the bed. "But it still drives."
"No, it's perfect," you say, glancing around the cabin. "I like it."
As he's climbing into the driver's seat, he looks at youâreally looks. Like he can't believe you're sitting passenger side, pretty as a picture, complimenting his ride like it isn't a hunk of junk.
The drive to his place is nothing short of awkward, that kind of quiet that settles in when there's too much to talk about, but not enough room to get it all out.
His hand rests on the gearstick, your gaze catching on it more than once.
You try to talk yourself out of it, let him initiate, but the temptation proves too damn much to resist.
Your hand brushes hisâtentative, testingâand he turns his in invitation, lacing your fingers together.
His thumb grazes your skin, and you huff in sheer relief.
"Thought I was gonna say no?" he asks, still staring ahead.
"No, just... wasn't sure," you murmur, turning your head to watch the city go by.
The roads grow narrower the further out you drive, tall buildings traded for tree-lined suburbiaâchildren playing, dads mowing lawns, garage doors open for the world to see.
When he pulls into the driveway, putting the truck in park, he shifts slightly in his seat to face you, eyes on the house.
"Sarah... got a little excited."
"Okay," you draw out, nodding slowly.
"Made you cookies. Chocolate chip," he adds, gaze moving back to your face, gauging your reaction.
Only to find a smile growing, a laugh shaking your shoulders. "She made me cookies? You serious?"
That makes his own lips twitch, his arm dropping from the steering wheel. "C'mon."
The moment you're through the door, you hear the pitter patter of feet approaching, Sarah rounding the corner and stopping in her tracks when she sees you.
She looks you up, down, then up again.
"You're prettier than I expected," she remarks, holding out her hand with a small smile.
You glance at Joel, see his subtle nod, and reach out to shake it.
"My dad is totally obsessed with you, by the way. Be nice to him," she says, with all the casualness of discussing the weather, drawing a snort from you.
"Yeah," you assure her, "I'll try my best."
Within a couple of hours, you and Sarah manage to get along like two peas in a pod, bonding over all the girly things Joel has no idea about.
Boys, school drama, makeup. The works.
As soon as the sun starts dipping low, a friend stops by to pick her up and whisk her away, but not before he slips into concerned-dad mode with a fervor you weren't expecting.
"Text me as soon as you get there."
"I will, dad."
"I mean it," he says, not sounding nearly as stern as he hopes he does, finger wagging at her.
"Alright, alright," she sighs, rolling her eyes. "I promise."
He kisses the top of her head, watches her go from where he leans against the doorframe.
You approach him from behind, hook your chin onto his shoulder as her friend pulls out of the driveway.
"She's very sweet," you murmur, hands finding his stomach, your chest flush to his back as you run your fingers along his front. "Think you did a good job."
He turns in your arms then, kisses your temple with an ease that has warmth spreading through you. "Hope so."
The shower helps. Mostly.
By the time you step out, hair damp and skin still warm, the nerves have settled into something softer.
You can hear his muffled voice as you pad down the stairs in your pajamasâhear him arguing.
"I can't, Tommy," he says, sounding frustrated.
You shouldn't eavesdropâyou know you shouldn'tâbut curiosity gets the better of you.
Inching towards the last step, you crane your head and listen in, Tommy's voice just barely audible over the receiver.
"Come on, Joel. You gotta get out sometime," he chides.
Joel sighs, the tension in his back visible from where you stand. "I said no. End of discussion."
"Don't you wanna show off that girl of yours?"
The stair would choose that moment to creak, his head turning to look at you, standing sheepishly before the landing.
"Sorry, justâI finished my shower," you say quietly, stepping down the rest of the way and moving over to the couch.
Sinking down onto it, you watch the tension seep out of him just barely, his eyes not meeting yours.
"I gotta go," he mutters, Tommy mid-speech as he hangs up.
The silence feels worse somehowâlike you both know you walked into a conversation you weren't supposed to hear.
"Who called?" you ask, giving him a knowing look.
"Just Tommy."
Nodding, you swallow the growing lump in your throat. "What'd he want?"
He doesn't look at you when he speaks, just shakes his head lightly, raises a shoulder like it's no big deal.
Why won't he look at you?
"He invited us out to some bar downtown. Told him no."
You frown slightly, enough for him to noticeâgaze finding you, watching you with confusion, concern.
You wring your hands in your lap, eyes downcast, expression unreadable.
"...Say somethin'."
"Got nothin' to say," you say, shaking your head.
He huffs, "Don't lie to me. You got somethin' to say, you say it."
"Don't talk to me like that," you say easily.
He goes rigid, turning to look at you, brows drawing. A hand scrubs down his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.
"You're right."
The quiet worsensâas if it could get any worse than thisâand for a moment, you wonder if you thought more of your relationship than he did.
You're all sharp edges, not meeting his gaze.
He sighs, a heavy exhalation that wraps itself around you both, squeezing tight.
To your surprise, he crouches in front of you, hands finding your bare thighs. His thumb rubs once along your skin, then back again.
"You wanna go?"
You meet his gaze, eyes moving between his hands and that handsome face of his. You let your hand rest over his, squeezing gently, toying lightly with his fingers as you nod.
Just once.
His face softens, your chest easing at the sight of it.
"Go get dressed, baby," he says then, kissing your forehead in silent apology.
The smile is back on your lips before you can help it, lingering as you ascend the stairs once more.
Tommy's a character, that's for sure.
Joel's hand is steady at your back as you greet his brother with a shy smile.
"It's nice to meet you," you say, shaking his hand.
"Yeah, likewise," Tommy returns, taking a long swig of his beer.
"She's pretty, Joel. No wonder you've got it bad," he teases, Joel glaring daggers at him.
"Oh, this is Lindsey," he gestures, hugging the girl into his side, a blonde with pretty blue eyes that linger just a bit too long on Joel.
Tommy explains that they've been seeing each other as you make your way to an empty booth beside the bar. You make a show of sliding onto Joel's lap when you settle in, your arm draping around his shoulders.
"What are you up to?" he murmurs in your ear, the roughness of it sending a shiver through you.
"Just wanna be close to you," you say innocently, glancing at Lindsey to find her pouting lightly to herself.
Poor Tommy.
His own arm winds itself around your waist, fingers spread wide to hold you firm against him, possession radiating from him in wavesâmuch to your delight.
"So, how long's this been goin' on?" his brother asks, gesturing between the two of you.
You look at Joel to find his eyes already on you as he answers. "Little while."
"A couple months," you add.
Tommy snorts into his beer. "Ah, so that's why he's holdin' on for dear life."
"Jesus, Tommyâ" Joel warns.
"What?" Tommy shrugs, gesturing between the two of you. "It's true. You're both clingin'."
Playing into it, you lean in and press a lingering kiss to Joel's cheek.
"Can't help it," you murmur sweetly.
Joel goes warm beneath you so fast it's almost comical, the tips of his ears going pink. Tommy grimaces dramatically, pointing at him.
"Great. Just watched my brother blush." He tosses back the rest of his drink, setting down the bottle with a quiet clink. "Jesus Christ. First round's on me."
Lindsey laughs as you snicker against Joel's hair, and he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously close to pain in my ass.
But his hand never leaves your waistâand when the alcohol starts flowing, it slips beneath the hem of your shirt, hot and heavy against your skin.
And you don't utter a damn thing about it.
Joel's gaze is intense, heady.
Like a caress that warms you to the marrowâa touch that aches as much as it soothes.
He's been watching you for a while now where you sit, perched atop his lap, and you've been pretending not to notice.
Finally, you give up.
You glance at himâTommy momentarily distracted by Lindsey giving him a drunken kissâand lightly bump your forehead to his.
"Hey," you murmur, smiling softly, the warmth of it softening your mouth.
He shifts you closer, noses at your neck, the scruff of his jaw making you shiver where it scrapes your skin. "Hey back."
You push lightly at his chest, giggling in amusement. "You were staring, you know."
"Was I?"
"Mhm," you hum, peering at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Staring real hard."
"Am I not allowed to look? Pretty thing like you in my lap..."
He tickles your sides, making you choke on your breath, trying not to laugh too loud. "Joel, stopâstop it."
Something in the way his eyes darken makes you pause, the way they take you in with an intensity that makes your stomach clench.
"Joel?" you ask quietly.
But he's too fixated on you to answerâon the way your throat bobs as you swallow, the red flush in your cheeks that trails down to your chest, that tipsy daze on your face that makes him want to devour you in one bite.
"Bathroom. Now," he says, voice low.
You blink, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh," you say, already starting to move off of his lap. "Do you have to goâ"
"We do."
Before you can ask what he means, protest that you're fine, he's got his fingers tangled around yours, leading you through a secluded hallway to an empty bathroom.
"Joel, what are youâ"
The bathroom door barely clicks shut before he's turning, backing you into it in two quick steps that steal the breath from your lungs, your lips parting in surprise.
His hands find your face firstâbig, rough palms framing your jaw, shaking like he's been holding back and finally snapped.
His thumb drags once along your cheek before switching to your bottom lip, rubbing it gently.
"Been thinkin' about this all damn night," he mutters.
The first kiss is almost punishing in its urgency, but the secondâ
The second is slower, deeper. All pent up restraint and want so tangible, it leaves your fingers clutching at his shirt just to keep you upright.
Before you can remember how to breatheâfocus on keeping your knees from giving outâhe's lifting you, your startled laugh swallowed up greedily by his mouth as your legs lock around his waist.
Whatever thought you might've had vanishes the second you melt into him.
Your body goes pliant beneath his touch, heat skittering south and settling between your thighs before you can contain it.
You let out a helpless little moan that only encourages him further, his hands gripping your hips that much tighter in responseâone keeping you steady, the other snaking down to squeeze your ass, kneading at it with a pleased hum that rumbles through his chest.
A sharp knock at the door has you both freezing.
"Hey, some of us need to piss!" someone exclaims from outside, followed by muttered curses that fade down the hall.
You huff, try your best not to laughâbut it breaks free anyway. Quiet at first, then louder still, wracking your shoulders and leaving you breathless.
He smiles as he lowers you to the ground, and your dazed, flustered gaze catches on it without fail.
"Hey," he murmurs, resting his forehead to yours. "We'll finish this at home, alright?"
You watch silently as he unlocks the door, righting your clothes and hair with a slowness that betrays you.
Home, you think to yourself.
You like the sound of that.
Back at the table, Tommy quirks a brow, face going wolfish the moment you round the corner.
"Now, where'd you two run off to?" he asks as you slide back into the booth, a knowing look on his face.
You blush, avoiding looking at either of themâyour attention instead fixed on your abandoned drink, the condensation beading down the glass and onto the table.
"Nowhere," says Joel, clearing his throat.
You, however, couldn't be more obvious if you tried.
Lindsey giggles, pulling a small compact mirror from her purse and handing it over.
"Babe, your lipstickâ" she gestures to the corner of her mouth. "It's all smudged."
You blink, snatching it from her hand to look yourself over. Joel looks innocent as a lamb, looking entirely unbothered when you glance at him in horror, shoving lightly at his arm.
"You weren't gonna tell me I look a mess?" you hiss, a sharp whisper that should make him look at least a tad bit sheepish.
Instead, he reaches out, brushing your hair back from your face in gentle strokes.
"I think you look beautiful," he says easily, like the words took no effort at all to leave him.
Oh.
That has you softening despite yourself, head ducking behind the small compact as you fight another flush.
Even Tommy stares at his brother in surprise.
"Well, shit."
The drive back to Joel's is quiet in a way you haven't felt before.
A tension crackles in the air, threaded through the low hum of the engine and the soft drone of the radio.
His hand hasn't left your thighârunning slowly along the expanse of it, gripping just a bit when he underestimates a turn, or picks up speed on the highway.
Always there, steady and warm, inching far too close to the place that's been on edge since he first kissed you in that bathroom.
Fingers tangled in your hair.
His knee slotted between your thighs just before he lifted you like you didn't weigh a thing.
"What are you thinkin' about?" he asksâvoice low, words stirring something in your drink-addled mind.
You cover his hand with your own, lacing your fingers, head resting against the seat. "Mm... you. Us."
He glances at you, at your intertwined fingers, then back to the road ahead.
"Us, huh? You like that word."
You chuckle, eyes drifting shut as you sigh wistfully. "I do. I like us."
The words settle between you, soft and heavy all at once.
Joel goes quiet.
Not uncomfortable quiet, just... thoughtful. Turning the word over in his mind because he can't believe you're here, reciting it like it's your favorite thing in the world.
Us.
By the time he pulls into the driveway, shifts the car into park, you're feeling every drink Lindsey insisted on sharing with you.
"Easy," Joel murmurs as you nearly misjudge the step down from the truck.
His arm loops around your waist before gravity and the ground can make a fool of you, hauling you snug against his side.
"I'm okay," you insist, pulling away slightly to prove it.
Your foot catches on an uneven step, nearly making you stumble. He huffs a laugh.
"Sure you are."
The walk up the drive is slower than it should be, mostly because you keep leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping the earth level.
Which, if you're being honest, he might be.
And he'd be lying if he said he isn't enjoying every minute of it, having you close like this.
At the front door, he's busy fumbling with his keys, in search of the right one, when you turn in his arms, wrapping yourself around him tight.
Your cheek squishes into the warmth of his chest, and he stills.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, one hand automatically sliding up your back. "You gotta let go so we can get inside."
Crickets chirp somewhere nearby. A dog barks in the distance.
You hug him harder still, brows furrowing softly.
"Okay..." you mumble into his shirt, but you don't let go.
After a beat, you whisper, "...in a minute."
Eventually, you relent just enough for him to get the key in, his chest shaking beneath your cheek with a quiet laugh.
The second the door shuts behind you, he's pulling you right back in. One arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he rests his cheek on your hair.
Safe. Comfortable. Entirely too nice to be real.
"You're so warm," you murmur.
"Yeah?"
You nod against him. "Like a furnace."
You pull back just enough to bring your shirt to your nose, sniffing it with a grimace.
"I stink."
Joel's brows knit together.
"No, you don't, baby."
"Bar smell," you insist, wrinkling your nose. "Like cigarettes and beer."
An idea forms in your mind before you can will it away, blinking up at him innocently.
"Shower?" you ask softly.
He searches your face for somethingâyou don't know what.
"...You wanna shower?"
You nod enthusiastically, the action making your head spin slightly. But you don't care, just wait for him to speak with wide, hopeful eyes.
"With me?" he asks, deeper still.
His jaw flexes.
God help him, you're a menace.
"C'mere," he murmurs instead, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead.
"You're drunkâ"
The pout is on your lips before he can finish the word, your foot stomping lightly.
"Joel," you whine quietly.
His thumb brushes your bottom lip free, soothes the frown as best he can.
"Wanna do this right," he says with finality, holding your gaze, affection clear in his eyes.
It makes your heart thud violently in your ears, butterflies taking root in your stomach and showing no signs of letting up.
"Still wanna shower," you mumble.
He exhales through his nose, a defeated little sound that has you perking up instantly.
"Alright. I'll wait in the bathroom."
You sigh in relief the moment the hot water touches your skin, washing away the night and all the tension you'd been carrying.
Joel's perched against the sink, arms crossed tight against his chest like he's awaiting sentencing.
He didn't watch you undress, much to your chagrin. Instead, he opted to stand outside until he heard the shower running, only when he was certain he wouldn't be taking advantage.
Didn't help him none that you were stripping bits and pieces on the way to the bathroom, humming a song you heard on the car radio under your breath, offbeat the entire time until you made it through the door.
He's fully convinced the sight of you sauntering away in those little black panties will be ingrained in his mind for the rest of his life.
The silhouette of him standing thereâso close, yet so far out of reachâirks you more than you care to admit.
You want him to watch you.
Want his eyes roving your figure while you lather up, his knuckles white with the restraint it takes not to touch you.
He's all too determined to make you beg for it, and you're too drunk out of your mind not to.
So, you splash him. Just once, a quick flick of your fingers over the curtain.
He flinches, wipes his face slowly, glances at the dark outline of you.
"What was that?"
You bark out a laughâbright and unguardedâand peek your head around the curtain.
"You looked too serious," you tease, wiping away the bubbles dripping down your forehead.
You look ridiculousâhair all mussed up and slathered in shampoo, makeup half off, mascara clinging to your under-eyes.
The next splash comes quick, but he doesn't anticipate it. Water drips down his cheek, droplets coating his shirt.
He exhales slow, a little dangerous, enough to have you biting your lip in anticipation.
"Baby," he says with a hint of warning. "I mean it."
The silence that follows feels louder than the water. Your stomach flips in recollection.
He always did say he'd take you over his knee if you acted up, all those nights you'd talk too late and the mood would take a turn.
He wouldn't possiblyâ
Heat curls low in your belly anyway, traitorous and immediate, your thighs pressing together before you can stop them.
Before sense can intervene, you give one final flick over the curtainâjust enough water to get his attention.
There's no movement on the other side, just a silence that settles loud in your ears.
Then you hear it.
The soft shift of denim, the muted clink of his belt buckle against the tile floor, the rustle of his flannel as he tosses it aside.
Your breath catches the moment the curtain shifts, Joel stepping in.
He's all warm skin and broad shoulders, wisps of damp air curling around him. All at once, your bravado evaporates.
"...Hi," you mutter softly, feeling just as meek as you sound.
He raises a brow, taking in your sudden shyness.
"Thought you wanted me in here."
"I didâI do," you say quietly, wetting your lips.
Your arm instinctively rises, shielding your chest from view.
His eyes flick to it briefly, voice a low rumble that wakes something in the pit of your stomach.
"You hidin' from me?" he asks, inching closer, arms bracketing you against the tile.
"What? N-No. 'Course not."
Heat climbs your throat in an instant.
Slowly, feeling ridiculous under the weight of his stare, you let it fall.
His jaw works, his throat bobsâlike he hadn't prepared himself for the reality of you.
"You're staring again," you murmur, swallowing thickly.
"Makin' a habit of it, it seems," he drawls, not looking away.
You can't help it. Your own glance dropsâquick, subtle, save for the sharp inhale at the length of himâand the look on his face has your eyes widening before you snap them away again.
"Turn around," he says, and you obey without argument.
He grabs the loofah, coats it in a sweet-smelling body wash he bought with you in mind, his breath near your shoulder.
Then it settles against your skin with a hesitance that makes your chest ache, the soap lathering as he smooths it over your shoulders, down your arms. Deliberate, gentle.
Not rushed or greedy, or doing more for the sake of touching. Just care that makes your pulse race, your head going dizzy with it. Like this means more than what it is.
His lips brush your bare shoulder once. Then again, and again, fingers moving your hair aside to bare your nape for the trail he's set to make.
When he shifts behind you, the press of him against your back has your breath hitching, eyes fluttering shut.
"...Sorry," he murmurs against your skin, stilling immediately.
But you shake your head. "It's okay... Feels nice."
"My turn," you say softly, guiding him beneath the spray.
He huffs quietly in amusement, but goes easily regardless. You notice instantly that your hands are nowhere near as steady as his were.
As you run the loofah along his chest, the muscles of his abdomen, down his sides and the front of his legs, his eyes never leave your face.
Not once.
By the time you make it to bed, you're scrubbed clean and half delirious with exhaustion and an intoxicating arousal that has you pulling gently at his waistband.
Joel pulls you in without a word, one arm heavy across your waist.
"Joel," you whisper. "I wanna..."
His fingers close around your wrist, bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your fingers.
"Not tonight, sweetheart."
You frown, pouting lightly. "Why not?"
He brushes your cheek, your lip, and you nip the pad of his thumb gently before he can pull it away.
"Want you sober. You alright with that?"
That stops you in your tracks, eyes widening.
"Oh," you mumble, letting his hand fall away. "Yeah, that'sâ"
Sweet. Unexpected. Perfect.
The most precious goddamn thing anyone's ever said to you.
A whole world of adjectives you can't even think to name off the top of your head.
Instead, you curl further into his side, rest your head on his chest, and tangle your legs with his.
He holds you tighter, kisses the top of your head, lingering there long enough to make your heart skip.
You mean to say something.
Goodnight.
Thank you.
Anything that'll let him know you're happy to be in his arms.
But sleep gets hold of you first, and you're out before you can think to speak.
Morning light drift through the bedroom curtainsâwarm and unbiddenârousing you gently.
Your eyes open to find Joel already staring. Head against his palm, fingers tracing an absentminded path along your arm.
"Morning," he rasps.
You smile, humming contentedly.
"Good morning," you murmur, a yawn catching before you can stifle it.
You smell your breath with a grimace, already making for the bathroom when his hand at your hip stops you.
"Where you goin'?" he asks, watching you in confusion.
You stopâsheets half off, one foot on the ground.
"I have morning breath."
He snorts, drawing you in and pressing a kiss to your mouth without an ounce of hesitation.
"Don't care about that."
You look at him in disbelief. "It's yucky."
"'Yucky?'" He repeats, face contorting in amusement. "Are you a child?"
You huff, covering your mouth with the comforter. "Stop it."
He sighs, reaching out to move it. "I don't mind a little morning breath, baby."
You hesitate, letting him pull it away. "Are you sure?"
"'Course I'm sure. What kinda man gets bothered by somethin' like that?"
He sounds so painfully certain, you lean in without a word, letting your lips brush his with a soft, barely there kiss.
Before you can process it, he's deepening itâguiding you onto your back and settling over you with enough care to make your chest ache.
There's cotton in your mouth and you're dreaming, light-headed at the sheer size of him as he crowds your space.
When you pull away, his eyes rove across your faceâslow, unhurried, like you're not bursting at the seams because of it.
It makes you frown.
"You keep looking at me like that..." you whisper.
He brushes your hair back, elbows on either side of your head keeping him upright.
"Don't think I've ever seen anything so pretty, that's all," he murmurs back.
You catch his hand, bring his fingertips to your lips.
You press a kiss to his pinky, his ring finger, the middle, the index.
But his thumb you take between your lips without a word, laving it over with your tongue in gentle, methodical strokes.
His nostrils flare, a breath leaving him so quickly, you wonderâabsurdlyâif he's not into it.
Then he shifts between your thighs and you feel him clearly enough to gaspâhot and heavy against your core, straining against his boxers, tenting the fabric.
You hum around his thumb, your free hand finding his hip to pull him into you, bucking your own to grind against him.
The friction is so good, you release him and bury your face in the crook of his neckâbreaths coming out in sharp, shuddering pants.
"Joelâ" you utter, voice cracking embarrassinglyâbut he doesn't so much as slow, rocking against you with deliberate thrusts.
Like heâs taking his time learning what drives you crazy and how to angle his hips so you feel him just right.
"Please," you beg, and it's more than enough for him.
He sits up, shucking his shirt off in one quick motion, before kicking his boxers down his legs.
He leaves your panties on, gaze fixed hard on them as he pushes your nightgown up.
Pink silk, white lace.
His favorite.
"Wait," you breathe, "Aren't you gonnaâ"
"Leave 'em on," he says quick, rough.
You watch him with thinly-veiled curiosity and a lust so intense it frays at your nerves. But you nod in agreement, in quiet obedience.
He kisses you hard, dragging his tongue against yours in one slow sweep before moving lowerâyour jaw, your neck.
He sucks a mark into the skin at your collarbone, hums low at the sight of it blooming purple and red.
Pretty.
His.
His beard scratches and scrapes as he makes his way down your chest, lingering on your breasts just long enough to take a sensitive bud between his lips, tongue lapping at it firmly enough to make you whine.
But the moment he settles between your legs, kissing your inner thighs, running a strong hand up your center, whatever fragile composure you were holding onto crumbles to pieces.
His thumbs move to spread you open, your pussy all but swallowing the lace, a groan sounding from somewhere deep within him.
"So pretty," he mumbles under his breath.
Your thighs are trembling against his arms, a strangled noise slipping from your lips as he leans in, licking a wet stripe along the damp fabric, tasting you through it.
You feel the heat of his mouth enough to have you begging.
"Joel, pleaseâ"
"'Please,' what?"
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, fingers finding his hair, pulling at the strands. "I need it," you breathe helplessly. "Need your mouth."
"Atta girl," he says, fingers hooking around the lace to move it aside.
His mouth descends without hesitation, tongue dragging through your slick. "Let me hear you."
Your hips grind against his face, his name slipping out of you, soft and wrecked.
His eyes darken at the sound of it and he redoubles his efforts, sucking and licking, making you squirm.
Need gnaws its way into your gut when his lips close around your clit, the pressure making your chest go tight.
"Fuckâ" you cry, back arching, trying to clamp your thighs shut.
His hands dig into the meat of them, keeping you spread wide for him. "Like that..." he praises, "Keep makin' those noises."
The sound of his breath growing ragged against your heat has your jaw going slack, his gaze snapping up to your face, watching your head tip back against the headboard in pleasureâ
Exposing the smooth expanse of your throat, the flutter of your pulse thrumming beneath your skin, the way your lips part on each soft moan.
The sun casts a warm glow across the bed, bathing you in golden light, making you look like an angel in his eyes.
Enough to have his hips pressing hard into the mattress, chasing friction as he devours you like a goddamn feast.
He doesn't let you catch your breath, not for a second.
He nudges at your entrance with his tongue, gets it slick with spit before circling your clit once more.
"Doing so good, baby," he mutters, voice all gravel as it leaves him.
A low groan follows, the vibration of it against you hard enough to make you whimper.
His mouth leaves you so suddenly, you could almost cry over it.
The loss has your body jolting, thighs trying to close around nothing, a needy sound catching in your throat.
Your eyes fly open, glazed and desperate, finding him already hovering above you.
"No, please," you breathe, the words tumbling out embarrassingly broken. "Please, Iâm so closeâ"
Whatever else you mean to say dies when his hand finds your cheek.
"Hey," he murmurs softly. The word alone steadies something in you.
He kisses you onceâgrounding you. Presses another to the corner of your mouth.
"Shh."
His thumb strokes your skin, gaze fixed on yours like he needs you looking right at him.
"Gonna get you there," he promises, low and certain. "JustâChrist."
His forehead rests briefly against yours, his next breath rougherâlike he's losing whatever fight he'd been trying to maintain.
"Need to be inside you," he admits quietly, the confession dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.
Your stomach flips.
"Yeah?" you whisper, fingers finding his wrist.
His mouth brushes yours again, a barely there touch that has a slow sigh seeping out of you.
"Yeah."
You hold his gaze, searching for reassurance. When you find it, that silent confirmation that he wants you just as much as you want him, you nod.
His hands tremble with restraint as he lines himself up, easing into you carefully, swallowing the sound it tears from your lips.
The stretch of him steals your breath all at once, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails scraping lines down his back, leaving crescent-shaped indents in his skin.
"Joel," you whimper.
He answers with a kiss, a murmured reassurance against your mouth.
Something low and steady you don't quite catch because your body's gone molten beneath him, ears ringing with the need for release.
The rhythm he lands on has your thoughts dissolving almost instantly, your head tipping back before you can help it.
Every drag of his cock has your mouth falling open, your breath catching in your lungs, your thighs tightening desperately around his hips.
You can't do anything but cling, letting out the little sounds he lovesâthe ones that make his jaw go tight, his nostrils flare.
Your climax builds too fast.
One moment, you're trying to warn him, and the next your words dissolve into a broken gasp, eyes going wide as you tighten and flutter around him.
"That's it," he groans, forehead falling to yours. "There you go."
The feel of you coming apart around him has his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully.
He snaps forward one last time, burying himself fully and stilling as he spills inside you with a strangled groan.
Your breaths mingle as you come down together, noses brushing as neither of you tries to fill the space.
You just lie there, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air like moving might ruin the moment.
So, you stay stillâfeeling the thud of his heart against yours, the gentle caress of his fingers through your hair.
He takes his time cleaning you up, far gentler than a man who just ruined you so thoroughly has any right to be.
The cloth is warm, his touch carefulâalmost reverent where he smooths it over your skin.
You're still half boneless against the pillows, watching him with sleepy satisfaction.
"You enjoyed that," you murmur.
His brow lifts. "What makes you think that?"
Your chest puffs slightly, smug despite the lingering heat in your limbs.
"Because," you say, trying and failing to suppress a grin, "you lasted, what? Two minutes?"
His mouth twitches.
"Oh yeah? You teasing me?"
You beam. "Uh-huh."
He folds the cloth and slowly sets it aside, looking at you in that way that immediately makes your stomach drop.
"C'mere."
You know that tone. The same one from the showerâthe one that says you've taken things a bit too far again.
But you can't stop giggling, the sound bubbling up from your chest unrestrained.
He sits on the edge of the bed, catches you by the ankle when you try to scoot away, and gives it a careful tug.
"Joelâ" you begin to protest, but his expression is neutral. Peaceful.
The only tell you can see is the way his throat works, jaw clenched tight as he settles you over his knee.
Your face is beet red as you stare at the sheets, heat climbing up your spine, lingering at your nape.
He lifts your nightie, lets it rest high against your lower back, his hand smoothing along your ass. He takes care to give each cheek equal attention, kneading lightly.
You flinch when his lips press against your skin, expecting worse.
Thenâ
He spanks you.
Once, twice, three timesâthen a fourth that draws a sharp laugh from your throat.
It's not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to bite, leaving your skin hot to the touch.
Breathless, you twist to look at him.
"What was that for?" you ask.
Joel looks entirely unbothered as he moves you free from his lap, settling you back onto the bed.
"The shower."
He gives your foot a fond little pat before standing.
"Breakfast?"
You stare after him in stunned silence as he disappears down the hall.
Sinking back into the pillows, you grin helplessly at the ceiling.
Thank God for wrong numbers.
a/n: and with that, my Joel 2-part fic is complete!! i'm so glad y'all asked for a second part, because this feels like a satisfying place to end it. i have a 4-part Joel fic coming very soon titled Main Attraction, and i'm so excited to share it once it's complete. it may be a little while, but i think it'll be worth the wait. thank you for sticking around for this release, if you did. i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it đđđ
p.s. thank you for getting me to my next follower milestone! ilysmmmm
"He holds me in his big arms / drunk and I am seeing stars / this is all I think of."
â Lana Del Rey / "Video Games"
Part 1: Talk Me Through It | Masterlist
â€ïž pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader / reader POV
â€ïž warnings: 18+ smut (mdni), age gap (implied), college student!reader, first meeting, dirty talk, no outbreak au, slow burn, consensual p in v, morning sex, long-distance relationship, emotional intimacy, sexual tension, light spanking, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, Joel Miller falls hard, oral (f!receiving), reader is down bad, bathroom makeout, first time together, horny Joel Miller, delayed gratification, #needthat so bad i might die
â€ïž word count: ~7.9k
You and Joel have gotten somewhere in the past few months.
He can deny it all he wants, but the man is head over heels, and you're no better.
After a couple of weeks, the phone calls became a routine neither of you were keen on breaking. Then, before you knew it, you were double texting and sending 'good morning' messages like two people already too far gone, but far too unwilling to admit it.
You haven't had the talk yetâthe dreaded 'what are we?' oneâbut you know what this is now.
He asked if you're seeing anyone.
When you said no, the sigh of relief on the other end was palpable enough to taste.
You asked the same question, got the same answer, but followed withâ
"I'm your girl though, right?"
He paused, long enough you thought you lost him.
"Yeah..." he said finally, exhaling like you'd handed him something he didn't know how to hold. "You're my girl."
"Again?" you ask in exasperation, pacing the length of your roomâhand in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands. "That's the second flight in three weeks."
"I know, sweetheart. Ain't much I can do."
Joel's never been a liarâhates the whole damn idea of it.
That's why he's still trying to convince himself what he's doing isn't lyingâjust omitting a detail to keep you from hurting.
And technically, the flights did get canceled. He just failed to mention he's the one who did the canceling.
He sighs, voice softening in that way it does when he knows you're upset. Just enough to make the tightness in your chest unfurl, the frustration slowly bleeding out of you.
"I'll try for anotherâ"
"No, no..." you murmur, shutting your eyes briefly as your hand returns to your side. "You have bad luck, and my roommate'll be back in a couple days anyway."
He doesn't argue, doesn't try to find another wayâjust covers the receiver with his hand and drops his head back against the couch in relief.
"I'll come to you," you pitch, staring at the floor as you wait for an answer.
He tenses, hand scrubbing over his face, grip around his phone tightening slightly.
"...You don't gotta do thatâ"
"I want to, Joel," you say, a little quieter nowâlike it's obvious. "Nothing's worked out for us so far, but... I wanna keep trying."
You swallow, listen closely for a reaction. Something, anything to tell you you're not crazy for seemingly wanting this more than him.
"Where would you stay?" he asks after a minute, the silence stretching thin.
Before you can answer, he adds, "Hotel?"
You rear your head back, blinking like the mere notion of sleeping anywhere but at his side is batshit crazy. It's not what he said and you know it, but you can't help feeling likeâ
"What's wrong with your place?" you counter, growing more defensive by the minute.
He senses it immediately, of course he does.
The man's memorized every god damn thing about your voice like the back of his handâincluding when the tone of it shifts into something that signals he's in trouble.
"I didn't say anything was wrong with itâ"
"Do you not want me to come?" you blurt, the question hurting on the way out.
You laugh quietly, hurt sinking in. "Seriously, you've been running me around for weeksâ"
"Sarah doesn't know about you."
That shuts you up instantly, mouth tamping shut hard enough to make your teeth hurt.
"Oh."
He shakes his head, the sound rustling through the line as he sits forward, elbows to his knees.
"It ain't what you're thinking, darlin'," he says, but the words do little to comfort you.
When you don't speak, worrying at your lip and staring blankly ahead, he fills the quiet.
"It ain't you. Just worried she won't take it well... don't do this very often."
You soften instantly. The notion of a man like Joelâwho doesn't like talking about his feelingsâadmitting he's worried about something like that sends warmth through your chest.
"We can tell her together," you offer gently. "You don't have to do it alone."
Joel doesn't want to do it at all.
Not because he doesn't want you, not even close. But mixing the two worlds togetherâyou, his daughter, Tommy, himâcould be bad news.
You could change your mind.
Find him repulsive, not good enough, too damn boring.
He doesn't think he can let you go and survive it. Not when you make him feel things he didn't think he would get the chance to again.
Clearing his throat, he mutters, "You sound real sure."
"Of course I am," you say, brows furrowing in concern. "I wanna be there for you."
You pause, the words leaving you quieter still.
"...for us."
He goes silent for a while after that. Not saying a word, not feeling the need to.
Once he's decided, come to terms with it, he exhales slow and roughâlike your reassurance gave back just as much as it took out of him.
"Alright," he mutters. "I'll pay the flight."
The flight goes as well as one can.
No child behind you kicking the crap out of your seat the whole time, no weirdo beside you falling asleep and leaning into you.
Just the calm hum of the cabin, and the rustle of people moving about in their seats.
Your leg won't stop bouncing from the nerves, and if not for the fresh manicure, you're sure you would've chewed your nails down to the nub by now.
Instead, you've got a squeeze ball in your fist, gripping it to death like you'll lose your mind if you don't.
All the while, Joel spent the morning spiraling.
What if you see him and regret coming; what if he's too old; what if he looks tired, or too worn out to be worth wanting?
What if this whole thing has only worked out because phones let people imagine prettier versions of each other?
That's all he can think as he makes Sarah breakfast, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"You're wearing the flannel," she remarks, watching him try not to burn her pancakes.
"What flannel?" he asks drily, feigning ignorance.
"The one I told you makes your eyes pop," she chimes, taking a sip of her orange juice.
Nothing gets past her.
"Dad... do you have a date?"
He nearly drops the spatula right then, fumbling to get a grip on it, eyes cutting to her.
"No."
A pause.
"...Wouldn't call it that."
Her eyes brighten, "Is she pretty? Can I meet her?"
He sighs heavily. He just had to open his mouth in front of the nosiest girl in Texas. "Baby girl, eat your breakfast."
She grumbles in acknowledgement, takes another bite. "Is she the one you talk to every night?"
"Sarah," he chides, giving her a look that tells her it's the end of the conversation.
She just shrugs, stabs into a strawberry, and goes about her morning like she hasn't said a word.
Joel arrives at the airport a half hour earlyâin the nicest jeans he owns, carrying a bouquet of flowers from the store.
He contemplates throwing them out or giving them away more than once, worried you'll find them too cheap and thoughtless.
He settles on keeping them, if for nothing else than to give him something to do with his hands while he stands there idly.
You take your time walking through the terminal, make a pitstop in the bathroom to freshen up.
You brush your teeth, put on enough perfume to mask the stale airplane smell clinging to your skin, and try not to wince at your bare face in the mirror.
Concealer, mascara, blush, lip gloss.
Just a little.
When you get to the terminal, there's the searchingâstaring out at a sea of friends, families, and lovers, all waiting for someone specialâwhile trying to find a man you haven't yet seen.
Wellâyou've seen... parts of him.
Just not the face.
Not the eyes, or the nose, or the lips you never stop thinking aboutâthe ones that are tirelessly good at uttering filthy words in your ear and calling you his girl.
But it doesn't take you long to find him in the crowdâholding flowers that probably took him far too long to pick out, shoulders tense, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him right up.
Awkward. A little stiff as he scans every woman passing like he's trying not to panic.
Joel.
At least, he feels like him. Older than you imagined, flecks of gray painting his beard. Broader, too.
But real, and somehow, impossibly, exactly as he should be.
You approach with all the confidence you can muster, biting back a goofy smile in the hopes you don't scare him off before you've even smelled the Texan air.
"Joel?" you ask, coming to a stop in front of him, not setting your bags down until you're sure.
He looks at your face, eyes flitting back and forth, up and down.
"Yeah... that's me," he says, voice gruff. He scratches at his jaw once, then holds the flowers out. "Got these for you."
"Thank you," you say softly, smiling up at him sweetly as you take them, setting your bags down.
Before you can remind yourself to take it slowâto give you both time to adjust to the lack of distance between youâyou're rising on your toes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He stiffens, breath catching in his chest, but he doesn't recoil.
Doesn't pull back or put you at arms length.
That's all the encouragement you need to shift over just enough to touch your lips to his, a chaste kiss that has his hand finding your waist, chasing your mouth to give it right back.
You finally break it, let your feet flatten on the groundâwatch as he hinges down to pick up your things without an ounce of hesitation.
"Truck's this way," he mutters, clearing his throat as he leads the way.
The way the words waver has you biting back a grin. He's just as affected as you are.
His truck is old in age onlyâclean and well-maintained. The sign of a man who takes care of his things.
"Ain't much," he says with a grunt, lifting your bags into the bed. "But it still drives."
"No, it's perfect," you say, glancing around the cabin. "I like it."
As he's climbing into the driver's seat, he looks at youâreally looks. Like he can't believe you're sitting passenger side, pretty as a picture, complimenting his ride like it isn't a hunk of junk.
The drive to his place is nothing short of awkward, that kind of quiet that settles in when there's too much to talk about, but not enough room to get it all out.
His hand rests on the gearstick, your gaze catching on it more than once.
You try to talk yourself out of it, let him initiate, but the temptation proves too damn much to resist.
Your hand brushes hisâtentative, testingâand he turns his in invitation, lacing your fingers together.
His thumb grazes your skin, and you huff in sheer relief.
"Thought I was gonna say no?" he asks, still staring ahead.
"No, just... wasn't sure," you murmur, turning your head to watch the city go by.
The roads grow narrower the further out you drive, tall buildings traded for tree-lined suburbiaâchildren playing, dads mowing lawns, garage doors open for the world to see.
When he pulls into the driveway, putting the truck in park, he shifts slightly in his seat to face you, eyes on the house.
"Sarah... got a little excited."
"Okay," you draw out, nodding slowly.
"Made you cookies. Chocolate chip," he adds, gaze moving back to your face, gauging your reaction.
Only to find a smile growing, a laugh shaking your shoulders. "She made me cookies? You serious?"
That makes his own lips twitch, his arm dropping from the steering wheel. "C'mon."
The moment you're through the door, you hear the pitter patter of feet approaching, Sarah rounding the corner and stopping in her tracks when she sees you.
She looks you up, down, then up again.
"You're prettier than I expected," she remarks, holding out her hand with a small smile.
You glance at Joel, see his subtle nod, and reach out to shake it.
"My dad is totally obsessed with you, by the way. Be nice to him," she says, with all the casualness of discussing the weather, drawing a snort from you.
"Yeah," you assure her, "I'll try my best."
Within a couple of hours, you and Sarah manage to get along like two peas in a pod, bonding over all the girly things Joel has no idea about.
Boys, school drama, makeup. The works.
As soon as the sun starts dipping low, a friend stops by to pick her up and whisk her away, but not before he slips into concerned-dad mode with a fervor you weren't expecting.
"Text me as soon as you get there."
"I will, dad."
"I mean it," he says, not sounding nearly as stern as he hopes he does, finger wagging at her.
"Alright, alright," she sighs, rolling her eyes. "I promise."
He kisses the top of her head, watches her go from where he leans against the doorframe.
You approach him from behind, hook your chin onto his shoulder as her friend pulls out of the driveway.
"She's very sweet," you murmur, hands finding his stomach, your chest flush to his back as you run your fingers along his front. "Think you did a good job."
He turns in your arms then, kisses your temple with an ease that has warmth spreading through you. "Hope so."
The shower helps. Mostly.
By the time you step out, hair damp and skin still warm, the nerves have settled into something softer.
You can hear his muffled voice as you pad down the stairs in your pajamasâhear him arguing.
"I can't, Tommy," he says, sounding frustrated.
You shouldn't eavesdropâyou know you shouldn'tâbut curiosity gets the better of you.
Inching towards the last step, you crane your head and listen in, Tommy's voice just barely audible over the receiver.
"Come on, Joel. You gotta get out sometime," he chides.
Joel sighs, the tension in his back visible from where you stand. "I said no. End of discussion."
"Don't you wanna show off that girl of yours?"
The stair would choose that moment to creak, his head turning to look at you, standing sheepishly before the landing.
"Sorry, justâI finished my shower," you say quietly, stepping down the rest of the way and moving over to the couch.
Sinking down onto it, you watch the tension seep out of him just barely, his eyes not meeting yours.
"I gotta go," he mutters, Tommy mid-speech as he hangs up.
The silence feels worse somehowâlike you both know you walked into a conversation you weren't supposed to hear.
"Who called?" you ask, giving him a knowing look.
"Just Tommy."
Nodding, you swallow the growing lump in your throat. "What'd he want?"
He doesn't look at you when he speaks, just shakes his head lightly, raises a shoulder like it's no big deal.
Why won't he look at you?
"He invited us out to some bar downtown. Told him no."
You frown slightly, enough for him to noticeâgaze finding you, watching you with confusion, concern.
You wring your hands in your lap, eyes downcast, expression unreadable.
"...Say somethin'."
"Got nothin' to say," you say, shaking your head.
He huffs, "Don't lie to me. You got somethin' to say, you say it."
"Don't talk to me like that," you say easily.
He goes rigid, turning to look at you, brows drawing. A hand scrubs down his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.
"You're right."
The quiet worsensâas if it could get any worse than thisâand for a moment, you wonder if you thought more of your relationship than he did.
You're all sharp edges, not meeting his gaze.
He sighs, a heavy exhalation that wraps itself around you both, squeezing tight.
To your surprise, he crouches in front of you, hands finding your bare thighs. His thumb rubs once along your skin, then back again.
"You wanna go?"
You meet his gaze, eyes moving between his hands and that handsome face of his. You let your hand rest over his, squeezing gently, toying lightly with his fingers as you nod.
Just once.
His face softens, your chest easing at the sight of it.
"Go get dressed, baby," he says then, kissing your forehead in silent apology.
The smile is back on your lips before you can help it, lingering as you ascend the stairs once more.
Tommy's a character, that's for sure.
Joel's hand is steady at your back as you greet his brother with a shy smile.
"It's nice to meet you," you say, shaking his hand.
"Yeah, likewise," Tommy returns, taking a long swig of his beer.
"She's pretty, Joel. No wonder you've got it bad," he teases, Joel glaring daggers at him.
"Oh, this is Lindsey," he gestures, hugging the girl into his side, a blonde with pretty blue eyes that linger just a bit too long on Joel.
Tommy explains that they've been seeing each other as you make your way to an empty booth beside the bar. You make a show of sliding onto Joel's lap when you settle in, your arm draping around his shoulders.
"What are you up to?" he murmurs in your ear, the roughness of it sending a shiver through you.
"Just wanna be close to you," you say innocently, glancing at Lindsey to find her pouting lightly to herself.
Poor Tommy.
His own arm winds itself around your waist, fingers spread wide to hold you firm against him, possession radiating from him in wavesâmuch to your delight.
"So, how long's this been goin' on?" his brother asks, gesturing between the two of you.
You look at Joel to find his eyes already on you as he answers. "Little while."
"A couple months," you add.
Tommy snorts into his beer. "Ah, so that's why he's holdin' on for dear life."
"Jesus, Tommyâ" Joel warns.
"What?" Tommy shrugs, gesturing between the two of you. "It's true. You're both clingin'."
Playing into it, you lean in and press a lingering kiss to Joel's cheek.
"Can't help it," you murmur sweetly.
Joel goes warm beneath you so fast it's almost comical, the tips of his ears going pink. Tommy grimaces dramatically, pointing at him.
"Great. Just watched my brother blush." He tosses back the rest of his drink, setting down the bottle with a quiet clink. "Jesus Christ. First round's on me."
Lindsey laughs as you snicker against Joel's hair, and he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously close to pain in my ass.
But his hand never leaves your waistâand when the alcohol starts flowing, it slips beneath the hem of your shirt, hot and heavy against your skin.
And you don't utter a damn thing about it.
Joel's gaze is intense, heady.
Like a caress that warms you to the marrowâa touch that aches as much as it soothes.
He's been watching you for a while now where you sit, perched atop his lap, and you've been pretending not to notice.
Finally, you give up.
You glance at himâTommy momentarily distracted by Lindsey giving him a drunken kissâand lightly bump your forehead to his.
"Hey," you murmur, smiling softly, the warmth of it softening your mouth.
He shifts you closer, noses at your neck, the scruff of his jaw making you shiver where it scrapes your skin. "Hey back."
You push lightly at his chest, giggling in amusement. "You were staring, you know."
"Was I?"
"Mhm," you hum, peering at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Staring real hard."
"Am I not allowed to look? Pretty thing like you in my lap..."
He tickles your sides, making you choke on your breath, trying not to laugh too loud. "Joel, stopâstop it."
Something in the way his eyes darken makes you pause, the way they take you in with an intensity that makes your stomach clench.
"Joel?" you ask quietly.
But he's too fixated on you to answerâon the way your throat bobs as you swallow, the red flush in your cheeks that trails down to your chest, that tipsy daze on your face that makes him want to devour you in one bite.
"Bathroom. Now," he says, voice low.
You blink, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh," you say, already starting to move off of his lap. "Do you have to goâ"
"We do."
Before you can ask what he means, protest that you're fine, he's got his fingers tangled around yours, leading you through a secluded hallway to an empty bathroom.
"Joel, what are youâ"
The bathroom door barely clicks shut before he's turning, backing you into it in two quick steps that steal the breath from your lungs, your lips parting in surprise.
His hands find your face firstâbig, rough palms framing your jaw, shaking like he's been holding back and finally snapped.
His thumb drags once along your cheek before switching to your bottom lip, rubbing it gently.
"Been thinkin' about this all damn night," he mutters.
The first kiss is almost punishing in its urgency, but the secondâ
The second is slower, deeper. All pent up restraint and want so tangible, it leaves your fingers clutching at his shirt just to keep you upright.
Before you can remember how to breatheâfocus on keeping your knees from giving outâhe's lifting you, your startled laugh swallowed up greedily by his mouth as your legs lock around his waist.
Whatever thought you might've had vanishes the second you melt into him.
Your body goes pliant beneath his touch, heat skittering south and settling between your thighs before you can contain it.
You let out a helpless little moan that only encourages him further, his hands gripping your hips that much tighter in responseâone keeping you steady, the other snaking down to squeeze your ass, kneading at it with a pleased hum that rumbles through his chest.
A sharp knock at the door has you both freezing.
"Hey, some of us need to piss!" someone exclaims from outside, followed by muttered curses that fade down the hall.
You huff, try your best not to laughâbut it breaks free anyway. Quiet at first, then louder still, wracking your shoulders and leaving you breathless.
He smiles as he lowers you to the ground, and your dazed, flustered gaze catches on it without fail.
"Hey," he murmurs, resting his forehead to yours. "We'll finish this at home, alright?"
You watch silently as he unlocks the door, righting your clothes and hair with a slowness that betrays you.
Home, you think to yourself.
You like the sound of that.
Back at the table, Tommy quirks a brow, face going wolfish the moment you round the corner.
"Now, where'd you two run off to?" he asks as you slide back into the booth, a knowing look on his face.
You blush, avoiding looking at either of themâyour attention instead fixed on your abandoned drink, the condensation beading down the glass and onto the table.
"Nowhere," says Joel, clearing his throat.
You, however, couldn't be more obvious if you tried.
Lindsey giggles, pulling a small compact mirror from her purse and handing it over.
"Babe, your lipstickâ" she gestures to the corner of her mouth. "It's all smudged."
You blink, snatching it from her hand to look yourself over. Joel looks innocent as a lamb, looking entirely unbothered when you glance at him in horror, shoving lightly at his arm.
"You weren't gonna tell me I look a mess?" you hiss, a sharp whisper that should make him look at least a tad bit sheepish.
Instead, he reaches out, brushing your hair back from your face in gentle strokes.
"I think you look beautiful," he says easily, like the words took no effort at all to leave him.
Oh.
That has you softening despite yourself, head ducking behind the small compact as you fight another flush.
Even Tommy stares at his brother in surprise.
"Well, shit."
The drive back to Joel's is quiet in a way you haven't felt before.
A tension crackles in the air, threaded through the low hum of the engine and the soft drone of the radio.
His hand hasn't left your thighârunning slowly along the expanse of it, gripping just a bit when he underestimates a turn, or picks up speed on the highway.
Always there, steady and warm, inching far too close to the place that's been on edge since he first kissed you in that bathroom.
Fingers tangled in your hair.
His knee slotted between your thighs just before he lifted you like you didn't weigh a thing.
"What are you thinkin' about?" he asksâvoice low, words stirring something in your drink-addled mind.
You cover his hand with your own, lacing your fingers, head resting against the seat. "Mm... you. Us."
He glances at you, at your intertwined fingers, then back to the road ahead.
"Us, huh? You like that word."
You chuckle, eyes drifting shut as you sigh wistfully. "I do. I like us."
The words settle between you, soft and heavy all at once.
Joel goes quiet.
Not uncomfortable quiet, just... thoughtful. Turning the word over in his mind because he can't believe you're here, reciting it like it's your favorite thing in the world.
Us.
By the time he pulls into the driveway, shifts the car into park, you're feeling every drink Lindsey insisted on sharing with you.
"Easy," Joel murmurs as you nearly misjudge the step down from the truck.
His arm loops around your waist before gravity and the ground can make a fool of you, hauling you snug against his side.
"I'm okay," you insist, pulling away slightly to prove it.
Your foot catches on an uneven step, nearly making you stumble. He huffs a laugh.
"Sure you are."
The walk up the drive is slower than it should be, mostly because you keep leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping the earth level.
Which, if you're being honest, he might be.
And he'd be lying if he said he isn't enjoying every minute of it, having you close like this.
At the front door, he's busy fumbling with his keys, in search of the right one, when you turn in his arms, wrapping yourself around him tight.
Your cheek squishes into the warmth of his chest, and he stills.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, one hand automatically sliding up your back. "You gotta let go so we can get inside."
Crickets chirp somewhere nearby. A dog barks in the distance.
You hug him harder still, brows furrowing softly.
"Okay..." you mumble into his shirt, but you don't let go.
After a beat, you whisper, "...in a minute."
Eventually, you relent just enough for him to get the key in, his chest shaking beneath your cheek with a quiet laugh.
The second the door shuts behind you, he's pulling you right back in. One arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he rests his cheek on your hair.
Safe. Comfortable. Entirely too nice to be real.
"You're so warm," you murmur.
"Yeah?"
You nod against him. "Like a furnace."
You pull back just enough to bring your shirt to your nose, sniffing it with a grimace.
"I stink."
Joel's brows knit together.
"No, you don't, baby."
"Bar smell," you insist, wrinkling your nose. "Like cigarettes and beer."
An idea forms in your mind before you can will it away, blinking up at him innocently.
"Shower?" you ask softly.
He searches your face for somethingâyou don't know what.
"...You wanna shower?"
You nod enthusiastically, the action making your head spin slightly. But you don't care, just wait for him to speak with wide, hopeful eyes.
"With me?" he asks, deeper still.
His jaw flexes.
God help him, you're a menace.
"C'mere," he murmurs instead, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead.
"You're drunkâ"
The pout is on your lips before he can finish the word, your foot stomping lightly.
"Joel," you whine quietly.
His thumb brushes your bottom lip free, soothes the frown as best he can.
"Wanna do this right," he says with finality, holding your gaze, affection clear in his eyes.
It makes your heart thud violently in your ears, butterflies taking root in your stomach and showing no signs of letting up.
"Still wanna shower," you mumble.
He exhales through his nose, a defeated little sound that has you perking up instantly.
"Alright. I'll wait in the bathroom."
You sigh in relief the moment the hot water touches your skin, washing away the night and all the tension you'd been carrying.
Joel's perched against the sink, arms crossed tight against his chest like he's awaiting sentencing.
He didn't watch you undress, much to your chagrin. Instead, he opted to stand outside until he heard the shower running, only when he was certain he wouldn't be taking advantage.
Didn't help him none that you were stripping bits and pieces on the way to the bathroom, humming a song you heard on the car radio under your breath, offbeat the entire time until you made it through the door.
He's fully convinced the sight of you sauntering away in those little black panties will be ingrained in his mind for the rest of his life.
The silhouette of him standing thereâso close, yet so far out of reachâirks you more than you care to admit.
You want him to watch you.
Want his eyes roving your figure while you lather up, his knuckles white with the restraint it takes not to touch you.
He's all too determined to make you beg for it, and you're too drunk out of your mind not to.
So, you splash him. Just once, a quick flick of your fingers over the curtain.
He flinches, wipes his face slowly, glances at the dark outline of you.
"What was that?"
You bark out a laughâbright and unguardedâand peek your head around the curtain.
"You looked too serious," you tease, wiping away the bubbles dripping down your forehead.
You look ridiculousâhair all mussed up and slathered in shampoo, makeup half off, mascara clinging to your under-eyes.
The next splash comes quick, but he doesn't anticipate it. Water drips down his cheek, droplets coating his shirt.
He exhales slow, a little dangerous, enough to have you biting your lip in anticipation.
"Baby," he says with a hint of warning. "I mean it."
The silence that follows feels louder than the water. Your stomach flips in recollection.
He always did say he'd take you over his knee if you acted up, all those nights you'd talk too late and the mood would take a turn.
He wouldn't possiblyâ
Heat curls low in your belly anyway, traitorous and immediate, your thighs pressing together before you can stop them.
Before sense can intervene, you give one final flick over the curtainâjust enough water to get his attention.
There's no movement on the other side, just a silence that settles loud in your ears.
Then you hear it.
The soft shift of denim, the muted clink of his belt buckle against the tile floor, the rustle of his flannel as he tosses it aside.
Your breath catches the moment the curtain shifts, Joel stepping in.
He's all warm skin and broad shoulders, wisps of damp air curling around him. All at once, your bravado evaporates.
"...Hi," you mutter softly, feeling just as meek as you sound.
He raises a brow, taking in your sudden shyness.
"Thought you wanted me in here."
"I didâI do," you say quietly, wetting your lips.
Your arm instinctively rises, shielding your chest from view.
His eyes flick to it briefly, voice a low rumble that wakes something in the pit of your stomach.
"You hidin' from me?" he asks, inching closer, arms bracketing you against the tile.
"What? N-No. 'Course not."
Heat climbs your throat in an instant.
Slowly, feeling ridiculous under the weight of his stare, you let it fall.
His jaw works, his throat bobsâlike he hadn't prepared himself for the reality of you.
"You're staring again," you murmur, swallowing thickly.
"Makin' a habit of it, it seems," he drawls, not looking away.
You can't help it. Your own glance dropsâquick, subtle, save for the sharp inhale at the length of himâand the look on his face has your eyes widening before you snap them away again.
"Turn around," he says, and you obey without argument.
He grabs the loofah, coats it in a sweet-smelling body wash he bought with you in mind, his breath near your shoulder.
Then it settles against your skin with a hesitance that makes your chest ache, the soap lathering as he smooths it over your shoulders, down your arms. Deliberate, gentle.
Not rushed or greedy, or doing more for the sake of touching. Just care that makes your pulse race, your head going dizzy with it. Like this means more than what it is.
His lips brush your bare shoulder once. Then again, and again, fingers moving your hair aside to bare your nape for the trail he's set to make.
When he shifts behind you, the press of him against your back has your breath hitching, eyes fluttering shut.
"...Sorry," he murmurs against your skin, stilling immediately.
But you shake your head. "It's okay... Feels nice."
"My turn," you say softly, guiding him beneath the spray.
He huffs quietly in amusement, but goes easily regardless. You notice instantly that your hands are nowhere near as steady as his were.
As you run the loofah along his chest, the muscles of his abdomen, down his sides and the front of his legs, his eyes never leave your face.
Not once.
By the time you make it to bed, you're scrubbed clean and half delirious with exhaustion and an intoxicating arousal that has you pulling gently at his waistband.
Joel pulls you in without a word, one arm heavy across your waist.
"Joel," you whisper. "I wanna..."
His fingers close around your wrist, bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your fingers.
"Not tonight, sweetheart."
You frown, pouting lightly. "Why not?"
He brushes your cheek, your lip, and you nip the pad of his thumb gently before he can pull it away.
"Want you sober. You alright with that?"
That stops you in your tracks, eyes widening.
"Oh," you mumble, letting his hand fall away. "Yeah, that'sâ"
Sweet. Unexpected. Perfect.
The most precious goddamn thing anyone's ever said to you.
A whole world of adjectives you can't even think to name off the top of your head.
Instead, you curl further into his side, rest your head on his chest, and tangle your legs with his.
He holds you tighter, kisses the top of your head, lingering there long enough to make your heart skip.
You mean to say something.
Goodnight.
Thank you.
Anything that'll let him know you're happy to be in his arms.
But sleep gets hold of you first, and you're out before you can think to speak.
Morning light drift through the bedroom curtainsâwarm and unbiddenârousing you gently.
Your eyes open to find Joel already staring. Head against his palm, fingers tracing an absentminded path along your arm.
"Morning," he rasps.
You smile, humming contentedly.
"Good morning," you murmur, a yawn catching before you can stifle it.
You smell your breath with a grimace, already making for the bathroom when his hand at your hip stops you.
"Where you goin'?" he asks, watching you in confusion.
You stopâsheets half off, one foot on the ground.
"I have morning breath."
He snorts, drawing you in and pressing a kiss to your mouth without an ounce of hesitation.
"Don't care about that."
You look at him in disbelief. "It's yucky."
"'Yucky?'" He repeats, face contorting in amusement. "Are you a child?"
You huff, covering your mouth with the comforter. "Stop it."
He sighs, reaching out to move it. "I don't mind a little morning breath, baby."
You hesitate, letting him pull it away. "Are you sure?"
"'Course I'm sure. What kinda man gets bothered by somethin' like that?"
He sounds so painfully certain, you lean in without a word, letting your lips brush his with a soft, barely there kiss.
Before you can process it, he's deepening itâguiding you onto your back and settling over you with enough care to make your chest ache.
There's cotton in your mouth and you're dreaming, light-headed at the sheer size of him as he crowds your space.
When you pull away, his eyes rove across your faceâslow, unhurried, like you're not bursting at the seams because of it.
It makes you frown.
"You keep looking at me like that..." you whisper.
He brushes your hair back, elbows on either side of your head keeping him upright.
"Don't think I've ever seen anything so pretty, that's all," he murmurs back.
You catch his hand, bring his fingertips to your lips.
You press a kiss to his pinky, his ring finger, the middle, the index.
But his thumb you take between your lips without a word, laving it over with your tongue in gentle, methodical strokes.
His nostrils flare, a breath leaving him so quickly, you wonderâabsurdlyâif he's not into it.
Then he shifts between your thighs and you feel him clearly enough to gaspâhot and heavy against your core, straining against his boxers, tenting the fabric.
You hum around his thumb, your free hand finding his hip to pull him into you, bucking your own to grind against him.
The friction is so good, you release him and bury your face in the crook of his neckâbreaths coming out in sharp, shuddering pants.
"Joelâ" you utter, voice cracking embarrassinglyâbut he doesn't so much as slow, rocking against you with deliberate thrusts.
Like heâs taking his time learning what drives you crazy and how to angle his hips so you feel him just right.
"Please," you beg, and it's more than enough for him.
He sits up, shucking his shirt off in one quick motion, before kicking his boxers down his legs.
He leaves your panties on, gaze fixed hard on them as he pushes your nightgown up.
Pink silk, white lace.
His favorite.
"Wait," you breathe, "Aren't you gonnaâ"
"Leave 'em on," he says quick, rough.
You watch him with thinly-veiled curiosity and a lust so intense it frays at your nerves. But you nod in agreement, in quiet obedience.
He kisses you hard, dragging his tongue against yours in one slow sweep before moving lowerâyour jaw, your neck.
He sucks a mark into the skin at your collarbone, hums low at the sight of it blooming purple and red.
Pretty.
His.
His beard scratches and scrapes as he makes his way down your chest, lingering on your breasts just long enough to take a sensitive bud between his lips, tongue lapping at it firmly enough to make you whine.
But the moment he settles between your legs, kissing your inner thighs, running a strong hand up your center, whatever fragile composure you were holding onto crumbles to pieces.
His thumbs move to spread you open, your pussy all but swallowing the lace, a groan sounding from somewhere deep within him.
"So pretty," he mumbles under his breath.
Your thighs are trembling against his arms, a strangled noise slipping from your lips as he leans in, licking a wet stripe along the damp fabric, tasting you through it.
You feel the heat of his mouth enough to have you begging.
"Joel, pleaseâ"
"'Please,' what?"
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, fingers finding his hair, pulling at the strands. "I need it," you breathe helplessly. "Need your mouth."
"Atta girl," he says, fingers hooking around the lace to move it aside.
His mouth descends without hesitation, tongue dragging through your slick. "Let me hear you."
Your hips grind against his face, his name slipping out of you, soft and wrecked.
His eyes darken at the sound of it and he redoubles his efforts, sucking and licking, making you squirm.
Need gnaws its way into your gut when his lips close around your clit, the pressure making your chest go tight.
"Fuckâ" you cry, back arching, trying to clamp your thighs shut.
His hands dig into the meat of them, keeping you spread wide for him. "Like that..." he praises, "Keep makin' those noises."
The sound of his breath growing ragged against your heat has your jaw going slack, his gaze snapping up to your face, watching your head tip back against the headboard in pleasureâ
Exposing the smooth expanse of your throat, the flutter of your pulse thrumming beneath your skin, the way your lips part on each soft moan.
The sun casts a warm glow across the bed, bathing you in golden light, making you look like an angel in his eyes.
Enough to have his hips pressing hard into the mattress, chasing friction as he devours you like a goddamn feast.
He doesn't let you catch your breath, not for a second.
He nudges at your entrance with his tongue, gets it slick with spit before circling your clit once more.
"Doing so good, baby," he mutters, voice all gravel as it leaves him.
A low groan follows, the vibration of it against you hard enough to make you whimper.
His mouth leaves you so suddenly, you could almost cry over it.
The loss has your body jolting, thighs trying to close around nothing, a needy sound catching in your throat.
Your eyes fly open, glazed and desperate, finding him already hovering above you.
"No, please," you breathe, the words tumbling out embarrassingly broken. "Please, Iâm so closeâ"
Whatever else you mean to say dies when his hand finds your cheek.
"Hey," he murmurs softly. The word alone steadies something in you.
He kisses you onceâgrounding you. Presses another to the corner of your mouth.
"Shh."
His thumb strokes your skin, gaze fixed on yours like he needs you looking right at him.
"Gonna get you there," he promises, low and certain. "JustâChrist."
His forehead rests briefly against yours, his next breath rougherâlike he's losing whatever fight he'd been trying to maintain.
"Need to be inside you," he admits quietly, the confession dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.
Your stomach flips.
"Yeah?" you whisper, fingers finding his wrist.
His mouth brushes yours again, a barely there touch that has a slow sigh seeping out of you.
"Yeah."
You hold his gaze, searching for reassurance. When you find it, that silent confirmation that he wants you just as much as you want him, you nod.
His hands tremble with restraint as he lines himself up, easing into you carefully, swallowing the sound it tears from your lips.
The stretch of him steals your breath all at once, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails scraping lines down his back, leaving crescent-shaped indents in his skin.
"Joel," you whimper.
He answers with a kiss, a murmured reassurance against your mouth.
Something low and steady you don't quite catch because your body's gone molten beneath him, ears ringing with the need for release.
The rhythm he lands on has your thoughts dissolving almost instantly, your head tipping back before you can help it.
Every drag of his cock has your mouth falling open, your breath catching in your lungs, your thighs tightening desperately around his hips.
You can't do anything but cling, letting out the little sounds he lovesâthe ones that make his jaw go tight, his nostrils flare.
Your climax builds too fast.
One moment, you're trying to warn him, and the next your words dissolve into a broken gasp, eyes going wide as you tighten and flutter around him.
"That's it," he groans, forehead falling to yours. "There you go."
The feel of you coming apart around him has his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully.
He snaps forward one last time, burying himself fully and stilling as he spills inside you with a strangled groan.
Your breaths mingle as you come down together, noses brushing as neither of you tries to fill the space.
You just lie there, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air like moving might ruin the moment.
So, you stay stillâfeeling the thud of his heart against yours, the gentle caress of his fingers through your hair.
He takes his time cleaning you up, far gentler than a man who just ruined you so thoroughly has any right to be.
The cloth is warm, his touch carefulâalmost reverent where he smooths it over your skin.
You're still half boneless against the pillows, watching him with sleepy satisfaction.
"You enjoyed that," you murmur.
His brow lifts. "What makes you think that?"
Your chest puffs slightly, smug despite the lingering heat in your limbs.
"Because," you say, trying and failing to suppress a grin, "you lasted, what? Two minutes?"
His mouth twitches.
"Oh yeah? You teasing me?"
You beam. "Uh-huh."
He folds the cloth and slowly sets it aside, looking at you in that way that immediately makes your stomach drop.
"C'mere."
You know that tone. The same one from the showerâthe one that says you've taken things a bit too far again.
But you can't stop giggling, the sound bubbling up from your chest unrestrained.
He sits on the edge of the bed, catches you by the ankle when you try to scoot away, and gives it a careful tug.
"Joelâ" you begin to protest, but his expression is neutral. Peaceful.
The only tell you can see is the way his throat works, jaw clenched tight as he settles you over his knee.
Your face is beet red as you stare at the sheets, heat climbing up your spine, lingering at your nape.
He lifts your nightie, lets it rest high against your lower back, his hand smoothing along your ass. He takes care to give each cheek equal attention, kneading lightly.
You flinch when his lips press against your skin, expecting worse.
Thenâ
He spanks you.
Once, twice, three timesâthen a fourth that draws a sharp laugh from your throat.
It's not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to bite, leaving your skin hot to the touch.
Breathless, you twist to look at him.
"What was that for?" you ask.
Joel looks entirely unbothered as he moves you free from his lap, settling you back onto the bed.
"The shower."
He gives your foot a fond little pat before standing.
"Breakfast?"
You stare after him in stunned silence as he disappears down the hall.
Sinking back into the pillows, you grin helplessly at the ceiling.
Thank God for wrong numbers.
a/n: and with that, my Joel 2-part fic is complete!! i'm so glad y'all asked for a second part, because this feels like a satisfying place to end it. i have a 4-part Joel fic coming very soon titled Main Attraction, and i'm so excited to share it once it's complete. it may be a little while, but i think it'll be worth the wait. thank you for sticking around for this release, if you did. i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it đđđ
p.s. thank you for getting me to my next follower milestone! ilysmmmm
"We could slow dance to rock music, kiss while we do it / talk till we both turn blue."
â Lana Del Rey /Â "Freak"
Part 2: Delayed Arrival (coming soon!) | Masterlist
â€ïž pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader / reader POV
â€ïž warnings: 18+ smut (mdni), age gap (implied), college student!reader, phone sex, dirty talk, guided masturbation, no outbreak au, Joel Miller is a good listener, strangers with benefits, oops! wrong number, mutual pining, the sexual tension is sinister, i need to be jailed, Joel Miller being so fine for no reason, #needthat, spanking mentioned
â€ïž word count: ~5k
You drank too much.
You know you did.
One drink with the girls over happy hour turned into two, and somewhere after the third, they started blurring together.
Then the crying startedâthe slightly too loud "how could he do this to me?" at the table making onlookers turn their heads. The pitiful stares of your friends, their hands running along your back in what was supposed to be quiet comfort, all settled in your stomach like a lead weight.
Against all odds, you somehow made it home without stumbling or throwing up in the Uber. Made it up the three flights to your front door. Dropped your keys more than once like the clumsy fool you are, all while the poor old lady across the hall was forced to listen to every expletive you could think of, muttered beneath your vodka-scented breath.
Now you're lying in bed, pajamas half on, phone in hand as you fixate on things you have no business dragging up.
An ex.
The ex.
Should you call him?
Definitely not.
Are you typing in the number you know by heart and pressing call anyway?
Absolutely.
If for nothing else than to tell him to go to hell, that you hope he's miserable without you.
That, or you'll start blubbering like a baby again and regret it like a shot to the head come morning.
You already fucked up royally by looking. Saw the tagged photos, the smiling selfies, the public softness he never gave you. The girl who matters more than you ever did under his arm.
What's another mistake to add to the growing list of ones you've made so far?
The line rings a few times before it clicks to life.
You blink, stare at the ceiling for a couple seconds too long, insides curdling before his name even makes it past your throat.
"...Evan?"
He sighs, low and deep, more tired than anything else.
You're crying before he can get a word out. Shudders that stay lodged in your chest quickly growing to the humiliating, telltale sobs that betray any composure you might have had left.
"I didn't mean to call," you lie, wiping at your eyes, sniffing quietly. "God, I'm just confused. Why did you even say you loved me if you were just gonnaâ"
You trail off, the words dying on your tongue, swallowed down with another shaky breath.
Joel toes off his boots, groaning quietly as he drops onto the couch, the springs creaking in protest.
The first time he's sat all day, and apparently this is what he's doing with itâlistening in on something he's got no business hearing.
"He cheat?" he asks simply.
That voice, unfamiliar to your ears, shuts you up real quick.
You frown, pulling the phone from your ear to glance at it, your reflection glaring back at you in confusion. The number is exactly how you remember it.
Five-eight-fourâ
Fuck.
"Oh, my god," you groan loudly, face screwing up in embarrassment, palm connecting with your forehead sharp enough to leave a mark.
Maybe you deserve it, drunk-dialing some poor stranger just going about his business and spilling your guts out without hesitation.
"I'm so sorry. Wrong number."
"Just about," he says gruffly.
You're too far gone to say much elseâcheeks flushed with humiliation, fingers twisted in the sheets.
"He do that often?" he asks suddenly, the question lingering.
"Do what often?"
"Make you cry."
Damn him for asking.
The question lands harder than it should, enough to make your breath catch, what was meant to be a quiet sob coming out mortifyingly loud.
Your free hand drags through your hair, fingertips snagging in the tangles it accrued throughout the night, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke still clinging to the strands.
"...Yeah," you admit reluctantly, voice small. "That'sâ"
You breathe deep, sinking further into the mattress.
"Yeah."
You scrub hard at your face, like maybe if you do it enough, the shame will come off along with the mascara streaked down your cheeks.
Joel doesn't say a thing. Not yet, anyway.
The silence stretchesânot awkward, but not exactly comforting, either. Your laugh comes out brittle.
"This is so humiliating."
You sniff, dragging your sleeve under your nose with a grimace.
"You can hang up if you want."
He can.
He probably should.
This isn't his business and he knows it.
But Sarah's at a friend's for the night. The only alternative is the lonely hum of the radiator, a cold beer, and whatever game show rerun is on this late.
He exhales through his noseâslow, steady.
What the hell.
"Go on."
That simple permission from him does something to your chest, loosens it just enough for you to make it through the story without crying your eyes out.
He doesn't tell you you're a painâdoesn't make you feel small or stupid for trusting the wrong man. Just sits there, listening without a word.
"âthen my friend said he was always a little ugly anyway, which honestly wasn't helpful, it only made me feel worse, 'cause, like, what does that even say about meâ"
You trail off with a yawn, eyes heavy, the phone slipping slightly from your grip.
"And yeah..." you murmur. "That's what happened."
"Mhm."
The beer's gone warm in Joel's grip, phone resting on his chest as he listens to your breathing evening out on the other line.
His eyes are on the television, arm tucked behind his head, watching some poor bastard blow his Jeopardy winnings in the same damn categoryâlike he didn't learn the first three times.
He waits for you to say something else, the silence growing longer.
"...you still there?"
When you don't respond, breathing deep and steady into the receiver, he scrubs a hand over his face.
"...Get some sleep."
Click.
Joel thinks about you all damn day.
Not in a dramatic, poetic way he'd ever admit out loud, but in little flashes that distract him more than he'd like.
The sound of your crying through the receiver while he rips out old drywall.
That small, embarrassed little thank you when he didn't leave you high and dry at your worst, coming to mind as he tries to drive a screw into place.
Your sleepy sighs when the night grew late as he lays down a tarp.
He tells himself it was a one-offâa drunk stranger, wrong number, end of storyâbut even Tommy notices something's off.
"You plannin' on starin' that damn drill to death or you gonna use it?"
Joel grunts, ignores him, throwing himself back into his work without a word.
But his head just isn't in it.
"Who's got you all distracted, brother?" Tommy asks, a sly grin growing on his lips, like he knows something Joel won't admit.
"I ain't distracted."
"Sure... Alright." He walks past, claps him on the back. "And I'm the Pope."
When Joel manages to get a minute to himself, he stares at his phone like the damn thing's liable to blow up any second.
One text. That's all he needs.
He types You okay? Decides it's simple enough. Hits send before he can tell himself what a damn fool he's being.
Meanwhile, you wake in a cold sweat.
Hair a mess, strands stuck to your damp forehead, feeling like you've just been hit by a freight train.
Popping a couple painkillers, you groan as you sit up, back slumping against the headboard.
Squinting one eye open, you pat around for your phone, digging it out from somewhere beneath your hip.
You don't remember much about last night.
The taste of liquor in your throat. Your friends trying to console you over Cosmopolitans and bad karaoke.
Crying.
Lots and lots of crying.
That much, you remember. But there's an odd feeling nagging at you, like you're forgetting something important.
Your phone vibrates in your palm, a new message jolting you from your thoughts.
â You okay?
You stare at it until your eyes dry out, and something happens in your chest you can't explain.
It's not panicânot yet. It's something quieter, an odd sense of relief that washes you clean.
The tension eases from your shoulders in waves, a calming breath leaving your chest.
He checked.
And only then do things start to clickâthe memory crashing in all at once.
The man on the phone. The shameless sobbing in his ear as you told him your whole life story like he asked for it. Him listening without a word.
Your jaw goes slack, mortification taking its rightful place in your expression as you drop your face into your hands with a silent scream.
You glance at the message againâfingers hovering over the keyboardâ cycling through what on earth you could even say to make up for it, but nothing seems good enough.
Maybe he'll forget all about it.
What if he doesn't?
With a deep, steadying breath, you mull it over.
You'll call him tonight, you decide. Just the once.
Apologize and put this all behind you. Put him behind you.
Might be easier said than done.
You pace once, then back againâarms crossed tight over your chest, thumbnail caught between your teeth as your phone sits on the bed like a live grenade.
His number still open and waiting, the clock on your bedside reading nine on the dot.
This is ridiculous.
You're a grown woman. You can call a man and apologize for drunkenly unloading your entire tragic backstory onto him without needing to explain yourself.
It's a normal response. Reasonable, even. Entirely sane.
Just call, apologize, clear the air. After all, the worst he can do is not answer.
Or block you.
Or answer just to tell you to never call him again.
Your face twists, stomach turning.
Okay. Maybe not the worst.
You tell yourself he wouldn't have texted if that was the case, if he didn't care at least a little bit. So, before you can think better of it, you lunge for the phone and press call.
Your eyes widen in immediate regret, but your fingers are too slow to hang up.
"Shit."
You drag a hand through your hair, resume your pacing while the call connects.
It rings only once before he answers, like he was expecting you.
He was.
"Hiâ"
His sigh is slow as it comes through. Not annoyed, but something warmerâlight enough to stop you dead in your tracks.
"You makin' a habit outta this?"
"Of what?" you ask, swallowing around the sudden dryness in your throat.
"Callin' men you don't know," he saysâlike it's obvious.
Despite yourself, your mouth tips upward.
No irritation, no clipped impatience. Just warmth in his voice that loosens something in your chest.
"Technically, the first time was an accident," you counter in defense.
"Yeah? And what's it this time?" he asks, giving you all the space you need to answer.
Your mouth opens, closes, the words not coming out as easy as you thought they would.
You settle on the edge of your bed, your free hand running idly along your thigh as you muster a reply that feels right.
"Just wanted to apologize. For last night."
Joel sets his beer down, rests his elbows on his thighs, repositioning the phone at his ear.
You listen, wait patiently for somethingâanythingâtoying with a loose thread on your bedspread, gaze fixed stubbornly on it.
"Got nothin' to apologize for."
You huff softly. "I beg to differ."
A moment passes, your steady breathing filling the space.
"I don't even know your name," you add quietly.
His head dips, jaw working, staring at nothing while he listens to the way your voice shrinks around the admission.
"Joel."
You lift your head, eyes rising, the name warming your chest.
"Joel," you repeat.
You tell him your name in returnâit's only fair. But it feels like you're handing over something more precious than it is.
Then he says it back, turning it over in that rough voice like he's testing the shape of it in his mouth, making sure it fits.
It does.
It sounds better coming from him than it has from anyone else.
You don't quite know what to do with it.
"Suits you," he adds.
You sigh, head hanging between your shoulders.
He pretends it doesn't do a damn thing to him to hear you like this.
Not upset. Not shattered over some asshole who didn't deserve you.
Just you.
But hearing you say his nameâsoft, relieved, almost fondâsettles something in him he'd rather not think too hard about.
You talk for a while after thatâabout anything and everything. This and that. Nothing important.
Just things.
Somewhere between talking about work and him complaining about his daughter making him upgrade his phone, you find out he isn't married.
No wife, no girlfriend. Just him and Sarah. And when he talks about her, something in his voice shiftsâsoftening around the edges with unmistakable pride.
Your heart likes the sound of it.
The hours pass quicker than you'd like, and it isn't long before you chance a glance at the time and wince.
"It's getting late," you say softly. "I should probably let you go."
"Yeah. Got work... and Sarah just got home."
"Sarahâright..."
The silence stretches once more, and you feel it then, hanging in the air between you.
Reluctance.
"Joel?"
"Yeah?"
"...Glad I called," you admit.
For a moment, all you have is the sound of him there. Just a quiet exhale through the line, softer than before.
"Yeah," he says then. "Me too."
Click.
You lay there a little while after, phone still flush to your earâlike if you stay there and wait, he might reappear on the other end, giving you more time to memorize the sound of his voice.
He doesn't.
And you realize too late you've begun to memorize it anyway.
Two weeks later, you're still calling, and Joel's still answering like it doesn't cost him a thing. But deep down, he knows it does.
He won't admit he waits by the phone now, soon as nine o'clock rolls around. That he lets it ring before picking up so he doesn't seem too eager.
Sarah's started to notice it, too.
Him smiling to himself about some unspoken thing, eyes drifting to his phone just before he puts her to bed.
He was right that it's become a habit, and if there's one thing either of you know about habits, it's that they can be dangerous little things.
This one feels like it might just be headed that way.
Before, you wondered if you were grasping at strawsâfighting to keep something alive that didn't want to beâbut he meets you halfway now.
And God, if that doesn't make you want to hold on that much tighter.
"How was work?" you ask, rummaging through your dresser, phone on speaker.
"Fine. Same as always," he replies, exhaling slow. You hear the sound of his throat as he takes a swig, the quiet drone of the TV through the receiver.
"How was school?"
"Ugh, it was boring," you scoff. "Two exams and the longest lecture of my life."
He snorts. "Brat."
You freeze.
It's the first time he's ever called you that, and it sends an unexpected warmth skittering up your back, lingering at your nape.
Gaping at the phone, a surprised laugh escapes you.
"Excuse you. I am not a brat."
"You are. Always talkin' back," he says, like that explains it.
Before you can get a word out, he adds, "See? There you go again."
A smile finds you anywayâslow and unbidden as it settles on your lips.
"You're so annoying," you mutter, hands stilling momentarily as you glance at his name on the screen.
Joel đ€
The heart emoji next to it? Purely decorative.
That's what you've been telling yourself since it found its way there, anyway.
"What're you diggin' for?" he asks, pulling you from your sudden daze. "Makin' all that noise."
"I'm just looking for something," you say casually, trailing off as your fingers card through the drawer in search of the right thing.
You don't mention you're looking for a nightie you bought months backâpink silk with white lace. The same one you can't stop imagining him bunching up around your hips before heâ
Woah.
No.
You're just going to change, lie down, listen to him talk about his day the way you always do.
And maybe you'll slip your fingers into your panties while you do, rub one out before he notices anything is amiss.
That's all. No big deal.
It's an innocent crush, is what it is.
"...Somethin' on your mind, sweetheart?"
"What?" you sayâtoo quick, too breathy.
You shake it off, rest your hand on your chest to steady your heart. As if he didn't just catch you in the middle of a thought that grew legs and ran out ahead of you.
"No, nothing. Justâ" your fingertips find home on the soft fabric, latching on instantly. "A-ha!" you exclaim, pulling it from the drawer with a satisfied grin.
He's silent for a moment, then speaks again, voice lower nowâcuriosity dripping from every word.
"What'd you find?"
Biting the inside of your cheek, you turn toward the mirror, smoothing the fabric over your frame.
"Mm... nothin' really."
You tilt your head, watching yourself. The words slip before you can stop them.
"You'd like it."
Joel pauses mid-sip, beer tilted against his lips as he registers what you said. The silence is a heady thing, stretching for miles between you, so palpable you can nearly taste it.
You can't help but wonder if he's imagining you the way you do him.
When it's late at night and he's on your mind, and your composure slips enough that it's his name you sigh into the darkâonly to pretend in the morning you didn't step over that line in the sand that's been fading more and more by the day.
His voice darkens, dropping low enough to send all the warmth in your body pooling south the moment he speaks.
"Yeah?" he asks. "That so?"
The silk shifts against your bare legsâsoft and delicate, too gentle for the filth that's suddenly clogging up your mind.
"Yeah," you murmur, confidence coming in like waves on a shore, tide growing high. "I think you would."
You hear the quiet clink of his beer as he sets it down, the rustle as he adjusts himself on the couch to get more comfortable. You close your eyesâlet yourself picture him.
Big hands running up your thighs, rough and calloused from working hard, parting them just enough to get a good look at you. Beard scraping your skin as he kisses his way down your chest, lips finding your ear to rumble words that make you ache.
"You still with me, sweetheart?"
"Mhm," you hum, quieter than you need to be, not wanting to give yourself away.
Your fingers find the hem of your shirt, tugging it off, discarding it on the floor without a care.
Slipping the nightgown overhead, you pull it down as far as it goesâjust above mid-thigh, hugging your body like a glove.
He hears it all.
The difference in your breathing, the sounds of you changing, clothes being tossed aside.
He's imagining you, too. With all the shamelessness a lonely man like him can muster.
Picturing what you might look like under him.
If your eyes would be blue or brown as they stare into his.
If your nails would leave light indents along his back, or deep, red scratches that would still be there come morning.
Then the obviousâif your face is as pretty as that voice of yours. If the little noises you'd let out when he makes you feel good would sound as sweet as he's envisioned.
"You changin' for me?"
Your heart thunders in your earsâloud and unrulyâthroat running dry, like cotton in your mouth when you try to speak.
You swallow. "Maybe."
It's been a while since your mind started chiding you for this, telling you to quit while you're ahead, but you don't listen. Enough to ignore it when it tells you this is something you can't come back from.
You know that.
And still, you couldn't care less.
"You wanna see?" you offer, eyes fluttering shut as you try to slow your pulse, breaths coming in quicker now.
His grip tightens around the phone, pressing it closer to his ear like it'll let him hear those words again.
You're offering something he should refuse, something he has no right to accept. But Joel Miller's quickly learning he doesn't have the honest strength to deny you a damn thing.
"Sweetheart..." he says, letting the silence speak for itself for a minute. "Don't do that unless you mean it."
You interject smoothlyâso wound up, you're practically trembling where you stand.
You laugh to yourself, a huff of nervousness that makes your chest feel tight. "I mean it. Justâtell me you wanna see me."
It takes Joel a while to get the words out.
Not because he doesn't want to.
Maybe it's knowing what all it could do. A sweet thing on the other end of the lineâsomething too good for the likes of himâoffering herself up to his eyes without hesitation.
It's bound to change things, for better or for worse.
And he's never been a fan of change.
Even still, he can't say no to you. Won't.
Not when you're asking like you're half-convinced he'll reject you already, like a man who doesn't know what he's got.
"Yeah," he mutters finally. "Wanna see you."
Something in you draws up tight at that, a flutter in your stomach that knocks the wind clean out of you.
"Okay... Yeah, okay. Give me a second," you murmur, ambling over to your bed.
You settle onto your knees, sitting back on your calves, legs parted to reveal delicate lace panties you put on with him in mind. The silk slides under your fingers as you draw up the slip, until it sits resting high around your hips.
You've done this before, taken photos of yourself for a manâmore than once.
But... it's never felt like this.
Not even close.
There's a steady flush in your cheeks, and a heat like fire burning down low, an ache building you wish he could soothe.
He'd know what to do, you think.
How to get you riled up, filthy words low and rough in your ear as he works you over with his fingers. Then, mouth trailing down your chest, he'd settle against your wet heat, lapping at you until you finish on his tongue, drinking you down without hesitation.
You purse your lips, press them together tight to tamp down how the thought of him taking care of you is ruining you more and more by the second.
Once the picture is gone in the air, hitting send with shaky hands, you drop back onto the bed and wait for it to deliver.
When he doesn't say a thing, you're close to asking if he got itâthen, you hear it.
Quiet enough to miss if you're not paying attention.
But you are, without a goddamn doubt.
A slow release through his nose, proceeded by a hum that has your thighs clamping shut, breath hitching in your chest.
Satisfied.
Appreciative.
"You wear that for me?" he asks, a husky shift in tone that has your lips parting.
"Yeah, Iâ"
You stop yourself, take a second.
"Do you like it?"
"You gotta ask?" he murmurs, drawl draping itself around every word, a shiver running through you at the sound.
You giggle softly.
"Maybe I do. You're a man of few words," you return, finger twirling around a strand of your hair.
"Oh, I got words, darlin'. They just ain't sweet enough."
"I'm sweet enough for the both of us," you blurt, the double-meaning landing heavy between you.
He goes quiet again, long enough to make you wonder if you broke him. When he speaks again, his voice lands low in your belly, twisting you up deliciously.
"That right?"
"Mhm," you hum, smiling to yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear.
"Keep talkin' like that. That mouth's gonna get you in trouble."
Your mind takes that idea and runs with it before you can reel it back in. Joel bending you over his knee, his hand coming down firm on your ass, leaving a handprint that lingers for days, hot to the touch.
That same harsh voice in your ear telling you exactly what your mouth got you.
Christ.
"You still with me?" he asks.
"Yeah," you blurt, tongue darting out to wet your lips, tone laced with anticipation. "I'm here. Just... thinking."
The small grin in his voice registers without needing to see it. It drives you crazy.
"About me?"
You laugh, a touch unsteady. "Yeah, about you... wanna see you."
"Mm," he hums, as if considering it. Like he's not already straining against his jeans from that one picture of you.
"What you wanna see?" he asks finally.
"Your face," you mumble, a near whisper. "Your hands... your fingers."
Another low breath filters through the speaker, sounding like a heady mix of amusement and sheer arousal. But he doesn't laugh, not outrightâdoesn't tease you for being specific.
He takes it exactly how you meant it.
"My hands," he repeats slowly, rolling the words around his mouth like he's tasting them. "Fingers."
You hear a rustleâdenim shifting against denimâthen a heavy creak like he's leaning back, spreading his legs wider, latching onto every goddamn word that leaves your mouth.
"What exactly do you wanna do with 'em?"
You swallow, worrying your bottom lip, staring at the ceiling to try and ground yourself.
"I was hoping you'd be the one using them, actually."
The admission hangs in the air, raw and unrestrained. You're giving him control and he knows it.
When he speaks again, his voice has darkenedâbreaths slower, more controlled. Then that rough, approving sound rumbles low in his throat, a faint curse muttered under his breath.
"Ain't even touched you and you got me actin' stupid."
Your fingers tighten in the sheets before relaxing completely, running slowly along your thigh, phone angling closer to your ear.
"...You wanna touch me?"
He pauses.
"Been thinkin' about it."
You flush instantly, thighs clenching again, tighter this time.
"...Tell me about it," you say.
His response takes a moment to come out, like he's choosing every word carefully.
"You wanna know what I'd do with my hands on you?" he asks, voice rougher at the edges, dragging over every syllable like gravel under a boot heel.
Your fingers inch closer to your core, rubbing slow over the lace, applying just enough pressure to make your back arch as a shiver curls its way up your spine.
"Yeah," you whisper, a ragged little sound in your throat. "Please."
"I'd start slow," he says, voice dropping an octave. "Real slow."
You let your eyes flutter shut as you press down firmer, rubbing in slow circles that have your hips bucking into your hand, focused entirely on the sound of his voice in your ear.
"Slide my hands up your thighs real gentle, feel how soft your skin is. Wouldn't leave marksâtoo pretty for that."
"And if I ask nicely?" you ask breathlessly.
Joel palms himself through his jeans, sighing with relief as he works himself free.
The sound of his zipper perks you right up.
"Got a feelin' I'd have a hard time tellin' you no."
"That's a dangerous thing to tell a girl like me," you goad, moving the lace aside to swipe a finger along your slit. You circle your clit firmly, just onceâall you need to have you whimpering in his ear.
He hums low, the sound rumbling through the phone like a physical touch.
"Reckon it is."
His hand moves over himself faster now, imagining your fingers taking the place of his own, working up a steady rhythm that has him grunting under his breath.
"You started this."
The slick sound of your arousal reaches him through the speaker, followed by that pretty voice of yours that has his movements faltering.
"I did," you admit. "...But you wanted it to happen."
"Not denyinâ that," he says, low and unhurried. "Wanted it."
He pauses.
"Still do."
"Me too," you whisper, lashes fluttering when you finally sink a finger inâcurling just enough to hit that spot that makes you shiver, drawing a moan from your lips.
His head tips back against the couch, jaw tight, hanging onto every little noise you make.
"Add another," he says suddenly, your eyes opening in a daze.
"Whatâ"
"You heard me. Another."
Your mouth parts on instinct, heat flooding your face, pulse kicking hard at your throat.
"Joel..."
"C'mon, sweetheart. Don't go shy on me now."
Eyes squeezing shut, your hand obeys before your mind can catch up.
It's a tight fit, walls clenching around your fingers to try and accommodate the sudden fullness. You bite your lip nearly hard enough to bleed, whining at the feel of it, his name tumbling from your lips like it's the only word you have left.
"That's it," he murmurs. "There you go."
You're not sure what does you in.
His hard breaths across the line, the wet sounds his hand makes as he strokes himselfâa slow and languid rhythm at first, soon picking up pace to match your ownâbut before you can help it, you're tensing, coming with a sharp cry of his name.
Joel's hand tightens around his length, his own breath catching in his throat. He can imagine you all too easilyâback arched, face flushed, those legs spread wide as you come apart.
That's all it takes.
With a guttural groan, he comes hard, release coating his hand, spilling onto his stomach.
Coming down from the high, you right your panties into place and settle onto your side. You curl up under the sheets, listening to his staggered breaths as he puts himself back together again.
"So..." you murmur, toying with the hem of your nightgown, core still throbbing from your release. "Same time tomorrow?"
He breathes deep, trying to steady himself as best he can, letting the silence speak for itself.
Thenâ
"Yeah."
You smile, slow and satisfiedâwait for him to say it.
"Same time tomorrow."
a/n: i interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you... a very self-indulgent, horny joel miller fic! and the crowd goes wild!!! idk why my first ever breakup came to mind to use as a plot device, but life imitates art or something like that.
i wanted to contribute something for the joel girls on this side of the internet since i am one of them, so i hope you like it!! i'll be back to posting about arthur like my life depends on it tomorrow. also, it's my one month anniversary and i've hit my first follower milestone! MWAH i love you sm, thank you for reading and supporting me!! it means the world đđ àŁȘË ÖŽđ
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â please be kind/patient! i write in between real life obligations (full-time work and school)
currently writing:
â Arthur Morgan
â Joel Miller
i love writing:
ââ ⊠fluff
slow burn â mutual pining â yearning/longing â emotional intimacy â hurt/comfort â found family â forced proximity â caretaking â domesticity/slice of life â tenderness â age gap â strangers to lovers â kissing!!! â praise/reassurance â devotion â etc.
ââ ⊠smut
praise kink â soft dominance â consenual sex â desperation after restraint â oral (giving/receiving) â p in v â dirty talk â protectiveness â thigh riding/grinding â mutual masturbation â overstimulation (light) â reader initiating â emotionally charged smut
i will not write:
noncon/dubcon â incest â anything pertaining to feet â underage reader inserts/OCs â hardcore degradation/humiliation â gore â anything that makes me uncomfortable â.á
thank you all for the love and support! i am genuinely losing my mind over how sweet this little corner of the internet has become and i can't wait to share more writings with you. lots of love!!! đđ€
â Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstadt, Emmylou Harris / "To Know Him Is to Love Him"
âËâĄâĄ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
âËâĄâĄ tags/warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, age gap, devoted reader, Arthur being loved to death, emotional intimacy, protective Arthur Morgan, heavy yearning, unrequited love, childhood crush, Arthur Morgan moves on, reader is Mary Linton's younger sister, more gentle Arthur, fluff and angst, reader is LOVESICK for outlaw Arthur, soft ending, gnawing at the iron bars of my enclosure
âËâĄâĄ word count: ~5.7k
Shopping for ribbons has never been your favorite pastime, and it shows in the way you've been slouching since Mary started pestering you about it.
"Bonding," she said.
"It's what ladies do," she said again.
Now, you're having this one and that explained to you by a woman more patronizing than the word itself.
"Is there really much difference?" you ask the shopkeeper, staring between two that look just about identical, not a single standout thing about them.
"This one is made of fine silk, imported fromâ"
"And that one?" you point.
She looks scandalized by the sudden interruption, likely used to talking the heads off of her customers in hopes they'll simply take both and be done with it.
But not you. Never you.
She looks between you and Mary, your sister clearing her throat delicately, glancing at you with pleading eyes.
Go easy on her, they beg.
"That would be velvet, Miss Gillis."
You sigh, reaching out to run your fingers along the soft face of it.
"I suppose it'll do. Does it come in green?"
The woman brightens instantly, Mary exhaling a breath of relief as she saunters off. "An excellent choice, indeed," she exclaims, the words clinging to the air where she once stood like dewdrops on a cool morning.
"I'll finish up here," says Mary, coin-purse in hand. "Will you see to the tailor in the meantime?"
You're halfway to denying her when a figure passes just outside, your gaze tracking him until he disappears from view.
Was that...?
You're gone from her side before your absence registers in her mind, no doubt looking every bit as crazy as you feel, chasing ghosts through winding thoroughfares like it'll do you any good.
Only when the road opens wide, the main street a few short steps from your feet, do you falter.
He's a ghost alrightâone that was never yours, but you wanted to haunt you all the same.
Arthur Morgan, looking every bit as handsome as the very first day you laid eyes on him.
Older now, broader than you've ever seen him. But the eyes are the sameâso is the way he carries himself, the way he stands like the world's heavy on his shoulders and he's managing it just fine.
Your hands move before the rest of you doesâfingers patting at your hair, tucking away what doesn't belong and pulling at what does.
You smooth your dress, pat your cheeks just shy of painful to get them red as a summer rose, taking stock of your appearance in a nearby window.
A man passes you by, looking more dumbfounded by the moment as you mutter the possibilities of the exchange to yourself like a common drunkard.
Maybe he won't remember you.
Or he will, but it won't matter.
He only ever saw Mary, after all.
"No," you say vehemently, shake the thought free from your mind, startling the onlooker enough to send him skittering on his way.
You take a deep, steadying breath, wring your fingers, wipe the dampness from your palms on your skirts, and wish yourself all the luck in the world.
Because that's what it'll take to win the affections of a man like him, isn't it?
Luck.
More than you've ever had at least.
Your feet step out ahead of you, closing the distance in a few easy strides.
"Arthur?" you ask, voice wavering slightly.
He turns, catches sight of you, and to your dismay, there's not a flicker of recognition in his gaze.
At least, not until you step that much closer, his eyes flickering across your face with a looming familiarity that warms you to the bone.
Then he makes for his hat, lifting it from his head and pressing it to his chest.
"Miss Gillis."
You smile, exhaling sharply from your nose, pulse stumbling over itself.
"My... it really is you," you say in thinly-veiled awe, looking him over like you've been awarded sunshine for the first time in days.
He nods, making for your elbow as if he can't well help himself, dropping his hand at the last second like he thought better of it.
"Been some time," he utters.
That drawl of his always did have a way of messing with your mind, wrapping itself around your better judgment and casting it aside.
You nod. "That it has."
You rock on your heels gently as the silence settles, interrupted only by the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis at the height of day.
Everyone moving about, carriages filling the roads, chatter in the air that doesn't find you both so readily.
He glances over your shoulder, toward the mercantile, then back to you.
"Mary with you?"
You look at him, hesitation taking the place of the sliver of hope you'd been clinging to.
"She is," you say, face screwing up as you try for amusement. "Seeing about some ribbons."
"Sounds about right."
"Asked if I could see to the tailor," you blurt then.
You glance down the street, in the direction of the discreet shopfront, then back to him. "You mind...?"
"No, ain't a problem," he says gruffly.
You walk ahead, slow down just enough to fall into step beside him, glancing sidelong at that handsome face like there's nowhere else to look.
"So... you talk with Mary much these days?" you ask, trying for casual and missing by a country mile.
It isn't worth it. You don't need to know.
Still, you tilt your head, watching his expression shift just enough for you to notice.
"No, ma'am."
Your back straightensâimperceptibly, you hope, but you know well you haven't an ounce of subtlety in your whole being.
"No? Thought you were sweet on one another."
He sighs, a heavy thing that tells you it's a sore spot you're poking and prodding at.
"Was a long time ago. Ain't much worth talking about now."
"I don't speak with my father anymore, you know," you say calmly, watching a carriage go by, loud laughter spilling out as it passes. "Me and Jamie both, but... Mary's still holding on."
His boots slow, gaze finding you before returning to the road ahead.
"Can't say I blame you. Your father ain't a nice man."
You smile. "Never were fond of him much, were you?"
He huffs, shakes his head. "Fond ain't the word I'd use, no."
In a moment of boldness that surprises even you, you allow yourself to inch closer, your shoulder brushing his.
It's more comfortable than you could've imagined, being by his side. Best of all, he doesn't ask after Mary againâonly you. Doesn't pull away much either.
"You still draw?" he asks suddenly.
A quiver of excitement ripples through your stomach, stirring something in you long thought dormant.
He remembered.
And not just any old thing, eitherâsomething he taught you as a girl. When he'd guide your hand and pat your head for a job well done, and you'd look at him like he hung the moon.
Much like you are now.
Some things never change.
"Well now," you say, clasping your hands behind your back, a sudden spring in your step. "You taught me everything I know. Wouldn't be right if I didn't."
His laughâa small exhalation that shakes his chest, crinkles his faceâstokes a fire right at the heart of you, the beat of it a thunderous thing in your ears.
"That so?"
"Uh-huh. And I appreciated every lesson," you say in earnest, voice softening impossibly so. "Never did thank you back then, so..."
You look to him, smiling gently. "Thank you."
He doesn't look quite so tough nowânot nearly as scary as your father always made him out to be.
His eyes lighten in a way you've never seen, the stiffness in his shoulders lessening until he's just a man, standing beside a woman he's known just about her whole life.
"Wasn't nothin'," he says, his hands fumbling at his sides. "You were a quick study, is all."
"I kept everything you drew for me."
"All of it?" he asks in surprise.
"All of it," you say with certainty, glancing at him. "Especially the deer. Hung it up in my room, I loved it so much."
"You got bad taste, little lady," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips that tells you he isn't at all stricken by the thought.
A brief silence lingers in the air between you, and when curiosity grabs hold of you, you find yourself asking, "You still keep the same company?"
He looks everywhere but you, suddenly more interested in the stones paving the road, then the blue of the sky overhead.
"Yeah... Still with 'em," he says slowly, no doubt waiting to be scolded.
But you're no Mary.
You don't need him to change a thing.
You give him a pat on the armâa sweet, gentle thing that has him staring openly now.
"Always have been the most loyal man I've ever known."
He doesn't say much else the rest of the way, a thoughtful look on his face all the while. You think you might've said too much, spoken too soonâbut then, he's there.
A hand hovering at your lower back to steady you when you lose your footing on a craggy old stone.
A gentle hold around your wrist to pull you in when a drunkard draws too close to where you stand.
His fingers staying put when you brush your own against them, worrying your lip between your teeth in hopes he doesn't notice.
If he does, he doesn't speak a word of it.
Arriving at the tailor, he offers his hand, helps you up the steps. When your eyes find his, you fiddle with the clasp of your reticule, holding it tightly in front of you.
You both speak at the same time, voices overlapping. Heat licks at your cheeks, turning them crimson as you duck your head, gesturing for him to continue.
"Well, it wasâ" he says slowly, fumbling over his words until he lands on the right ones, shifting his weight.
"It was real nice seein' you. After all this time."
"Yes," you say quietly, a little breathless. "Far too long."
You don't move to leaveâneither does he. Instead, you hold his gaze with all the tenderness you can muster as you say, "It was good to see you, Arthur. Really."
His jaw works, tightening just so before he turns to leave.
But you can't bring yourself to leave it like that.
"Arthurâ" you call out.
He turns to face you, and the question leaves you like something long overdue. Like it's been waiting there on the tip of your tongue for the day you could utter it aloud, slipping free in a hurried breath.
"If a girl wanted to pay you a visit," you say, "where might she find you?"
He watches you, hands finding his belt as he leans his weight onto one leg.
"'Spose I'd advise her against such a thing," he says after a moment.
You scoff, lips turning up at the corners. "You sound like my father."
His do the same, a barely there grin forming despite himself.
"Well then," you say, before he can get a word in. "Where can I find you?"
He pauses, tips his hat back to see you better. Takes his sweet time answering, like he knows he's starting something with all the momentum of a runaway train.
Finallyâ
"Just south o' Rhodes for now."
You nod slowly, let his words settle as he explains further.
"You expect to be there this evening?" you ask, tilting your head.
Too soon, you think to yourself, but he says, "Sure... If you're thinkin' of comin' by."
He looks you up and downâat your dress, your shoes. The parts of you that say you aren't made for the life he lives.
"Ain't no place for a lady like yourself."
"I'm a woman grown, Arthur," you say, holding your chin high in defiance. "This evening, then."
"Alright," he relents, watching you disappear inside without another word.
The carriage leaves you at Shady Belle at half past six o'clock, an old plantation house in Lemoyne that looks worse for wear.
Musty old paneling, hollowed out windows, vines crawling their way to the roof like they've got something to prove. It's not a sight for sore eyes, that's for certain.
But you're here for Arthur.
You'd sooner walk headfirst into the swamp itself for an evening in his company. What's a little overgrown grass?
He must not have expected you to make good on your word, because the moment you move to descend, half of his gang has drawn their guns. A proper carriage in the middle of outlaw business must look awful funny.
"Would y'all put those damn things away?" Arthur chides, waving his hand about as he approaches where you sit, waiting to descend.
He offers his hand, warm and steady around yours, helping you to the ground with the care of a man who's got no business being such a gentleman.
"We hostin' tea parties now?" asks one of the men, sitting on an overturned crate, bottle in hand.
"Shut it, Billâ" Arthur begins to say, but you interrupt him before the sentiment can take shape.
"I would hope not, Mister," you say, hands working to smooth your skirts once your feet touch solid ground.
You look him over with a discontent hum. "If we were, you'd most certainly be underdressed."
Another man with two halves of a mustache and a hat that sits just right slaps his knee, barking out a laugh.
"Oh," he says, accent smooth around every syllable. "I like this one, Arthur."
Arthur grunts in what sounds like approval, mutters a quiet, "Jesus..." that makes you bite back a grin.
You give his hand a squeeze before releasing it, subtle enough he may think he imagined itâhis eyes wandering along the rouge dusting your cheeks, painted lightly across your lips.
"Well now," says the lead man, smooth as silk, descending the front steps with a theatrical little smile. "And who's come to grace our humble accommodations?"
The man is nothing short of a jackalâyou know that much. The name comes to you before you can connect his face to memory, from sheer feeling alone.
"Mr. van der Linde," you say in greeting. "It's been some time."
"This is Miss Gillis," Arthur says, a silence taking hold of the group, like he's just announced the second coming of Christ himself.
You feel his hand brush the small of your back then, his quiet repositioning of himself half between you and the others making something crackle in your chest.
The sounds of the bayou filter in like sunshine through lace curtainsâa chorus of frogs croaking, bugs chirping, and swamp dwellers humming low.
"Ah," says Dutch, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. "Mary's sister."
You nod politely.
"Your daddy know you're out here?" asks Bill, glancing at Arthur in mild disbelief.
"Don't know. Didn't much care to ask," you say calmly.
Arthur's voice comes low then, a warning laced in every word.
"If you'll excuse us, thought I'd show the Miss around."
"Oh, don't let us bother you, Arthur. We were only saying hello," Dutch counters, hands going up in surrender.
Arthur leads you up the steps, showing you inside until the door shuts heavily behind you, punctuating the quiet.
Your gaze sweeps the room at once as you step in further, seeing the deep cracks in the plaster, the tired lines etched into the wooden bannisters.
Your fingers trace them neatly, expression unreadable when he speaks.
His hand finds his nape, rubbing there like the gang took all the life right out of him.
"They ain't exactly known for their manners," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder like they might be listening in.
"They were just curious, that's all," you say, turning to him. "I ain't bothered."
He visibly relaxes, calm easing its way back into his eyes as he gestures at the state of the entryway.
"Place ain't in the best o' shape," he adds gruffly, looking more and more like he wishes the floor would give way and take it with him.
"It's plenty fine," you defend.
"Oh, you don't mean that," he disagrees. "Paint's peelin' up, ceiling's got holes in it. We get a little rain, whole placeâ"
You hesitate only briefly before your hand finds his chest, pressing it to his heart, relishing it thumping something awful beneath your palm.
You pat once, twice, then drop it back to your side.
"It's where you stay," you reassure. "I like it plenty."
You see something ease in him thenâwatch it give way for a softness you don't think he's shown in ages. It makes you smile, watching him fondly.
"Show me," you say, catching his gaze. "I wanna see the house."
He exhales slow, scratches his jaw in that unsettled way of his.
"...Ain't much to see."
You simply shrug, like it doesn't take much out of you to hear. Not much at all.
"Then it won't take long."
He shows you the first floorâthe kitchen, the empty saloon save for a dusty old grand piano, the living room you can almost picture filled with opulent furniture, now scattered with the gang's belongings.
He mutters in disapproval all the while, eyes cutting to you more than once to read your expression, expecting disgust at the rickety state of itâ
Only to see you bright-eyed, finding beauty where it might have once existed.
In the fireplace that kept the room warm in the coldest of winters, the evening light spilling into what must have been a sprawling kitchen, and in the grooves worn smooth along the bannister by hands long gone.
The bones are sturdy despite the wear, reminding you more and more of the man at your sideâstill standing, somehow, in spite of everything.
Halfway to the stairs, you glance back at him. He's wavering now, coming to a stop beside them, something conflicted in the slight furrow of his brow.
"Where do you sleep?" you ask, cheeks warming at the subtle implication in your words.
He watches you, your feet already ascending the steps in earnest.
His fingers carefully catch your wrist, his thumb brushing along it just firmly enough to send your heartbeat lurching against your stays.
"You don't wanna see that," he says, releasing you quickly like the touch singed his skin. He averts his gaze, busies himself with adjusting his gun belt, already sitting perfectly at his hips.
"I do."
The silence is a heady thing, swallowing up the air and leaving you both short of breath in its stead.
"I'm here, ain't I," you say, tilting your head as you regard him, eyes warm.
He breathes, slow and deep, stares at you like there's nowhere else to look.
"Well..."
He relents.
"Alright. Just for a minute."
He opens his door with a quiet sigh, stepping aside to let you enter before he does.
You don't move quickly, hands clasped as you take in the sightâthe smell of him mingling with damp earth from the swamp beyond, spare boots arranged neatly beside his bed, boxes of bullets resting untouched atop an old barrel.
Sparse, but practical.
So very him it sends an ache from the pit of your stomach, up past your lungs until it settles heavily in your throat.
Your attention catches on a small cluster of photographs, nestled in a worn hutch just beside the windowâedges softened with age, corners curled from years of being moved and handled, again and again.
Drifting toward them without thinking, you look them over.
The first you reach for is older than the others, image slightly blurred with the passage of time.
A woman stares back at youâdark hair pinned neatly, gentleness etched into her features, and eyes so familiar, they stop you cold.
You pick it up carefully, fingers just barely tracing the shape of her face.
"Your mother?"
Arthur clears his throat, shuffles on his feet. "Yeah."
Your gaze lifts to him, really looks, then drops back to the photograph in your hands. A soft smile touches your mouth as your thumb brushes its worn edge.
"You've got her eyes."
He doesn't answer straight away, but you don't need him to say a thing.
You set it back down where you found it, already moving to the next, stopping still when you see her.
Mary.
Pretty as always, staring off like she hadn't a clue the man she left behind would preserve this image of her for years to come.
Something in you gives way for the pesky green-eyed monster to take root, a cold hurt flooding your chest until your mouth goes dry.
He shifts on his feet, looks at the ground like he can't bring himself to see what it did to you.
Then, choosing kindnessâor cowardice, you can't quite tell whichâyou leave it untouched, crossing the space to sit on his bed.
It's a rickety thing, one that boasts the same level of comfort as a bed of nailsâbut it's his. And with that thought alone, you find you don't mind it.
It creaks beneath your weight, shifts and settles to accommodate you.
He doesn't move, doesn't make to join you. Just remains where he stands, like he can't tell where you want him to go after that.
"Arthur," you say softly, patting the bed beside you. "Sit with me."
Lifting his head, he looks at you, brows drawn up tight.
"...Don't think I should," he says hoarsely.
"Please?" you ask then.
Not a hint of anger in your eyesâonly the gentle pleading of a woman asking something impossible of an honest man.
He stands there another moment, shoulders tense, every line in him a lesson in restraint as he plucks the hat from his head and sets it aside.
Then something in him finally gives, and he crosses the room slowly, unhurried, the bed dipping under him when he finally settles in beside you.
You don't rush to touch him. Don't dare to break the delicate thing that hangs between you, fragile as a thread.
Instead, you allow the quiet to stretch, thick with the sounds of evening beyond the wallsâthe low hum of voices around the fire, a sudden burst of laughter from below, crickets beginning their ballad in the bayou.
But you never were very good at self-control, and your hand moves before you can help yourself.
The backs of your fingers brush his where they rest against his thighâa barely there touch that sends jolts up your arm and right to the stubborn heart of you.
He goes still, gaze tracking the movement. But he doesn't dare pull away, doesn't tell you this isn't what you think it is.
So you gather what little courage you can muster and turn his hand, sliding your fingers into hisâlacing them slow enough he can stop you if he truly wishes to.
He doesn't.
Your thumb traces along the rough ridge of a scar near his knuckle, memorizing the shape of it, and the words are out before you can tell yourself they're too foolish to give voice to.
"I know I ain't Mary."
Arthur exhales heavy through his nose, stare fixed somewhere along the floor at your feet.
"No."
You swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat.
"Just..." you murmur, voice catching. "Hope I'm enough as I am."
He turns to look at youâroving across your hair, your face, the stubborn set of your lips as you fight a poutâand something in his expression changes then.
Raw and aching, nearly wounded in its intensity.
"Ain't askin' for Mary," he says roughly, free hand rising to tuck a strand behind your ear, thumb brushing the shell of it before falling away.
Your heart is a traitorous thing, pounding incessantly against your chest, breaths catching in your throat.
You stare at him, lips parted, searching his eyes desperately for any hint of insincerityâonly to find a sweet truth looking back at you.
"Then ask for me," you whisper, your thumb stroking over his knuckles once more. "And I'll answer."
"Can't ask that of you, darlin'," he murmurs, his forehead dropping to yours, voice harsh on the way out. "Ain't right."
Your free hand rises to cup his jaw, brushing along the rough stubble there, eyes assessing every detail of him like a picture you want to memorize.
"If I got a chance at you, I want it," you argue, soft but certain.
Your fingers tighten around his as you lean in and press a lingering kiss to his cheekânot teasing, not chaste, either. Something quieter, more profound than either of you know to do with.
Intimate in a way you've never known how to beâand if the way Arthur stills beneath your touch is any indication, perhaps in a way he hasn't known much, either.
His eyes slip shut like a man who's been starved for being wanted all his life, a surrender that makes warmth unfurl in the pit of your stomach.
You linger there for a heartbeat longer than you ought to, the feel of his skin beneath your lips, the sight of him this close near dizzying.
When you pull back just barely, your noses brush, and you notice then the change in his breathingâthe change in yours.
"Arthur," you whisper, hovering there only a second longer before you press your lips to his.
His free hand finds your waist with hesitation, fingers curling around you like he still means to stop this if he can.
But the dam's been broken since the moment he caught sight of you in Saint Denis, and he knows as well as you do that there will never be a world in which you don't want him.
Before doubt can take hold, his hand is at your jaw, thumb at the hinge beneath your ear, tilting your face up to meet his.
When you don't make to pull awayâyour arms slipping around his neck, head angling just right to deepen the kissâhe pulls you closer with a sound in his throat that steals the breath from you.
Moments later, you're half in his lap as his mouth moves against yours, taking every little thing you offer, quiet sighs of pleasure filling the empty room.
It isn't until laughter sounds from outside that you finally partâlips swollen and red, cheeks burning bright.
He brushes along your jaw, still pressing kisses to your face as you begin to pull away.
You giggle, chiding him with a gentle swat to his chest. "Anymore of that and we'll be at it all night."
He huffs, "Wouldn't hear any complainin' outta you."
"Well," you rise, gathering yourself before offering him your hand. "I think we ought to be polite and join 'em."
"That what ya want?" he asks, staring up at you with affection, plain as day.
"Mhm," you nod, wagging your fingers at him. "Come on."
Stepping out of the front door, you're greeted by the smell of woodsmoke and Arthur's people sitting around, drinking and chattering amongst themselves.
A few of them stop to stare as you and Arthur approach, their watchful eyes taking note of how his hand holds yours.
Like you're his woman, and they all can see that now.
The gentleman you learn is named Javier holds out a bottle for you to take, a foul smelling swill sloshing inside that makes your nose turn up.
"Hey," he laughs, "Don't knock it till you try it, amiga."
"You don't gotta drink that," Arthur says, voice low as he moves to take it from you. You pull it away at the last second, looking up at him with a sly smile as you take a sip.
You regret it as soon as the liquor hits your tongueâlike fire, harsh and mean all the way down.
Your face twists before you can stop it, Javier snickering in amusement as you cough, dignity abandoning you halfway through the endeavor.
And then Arthur laughs.
Not just a huff, that little breath through his nose that tells you when something landed with enough humor to coax it from him.
A real laughâhearty and warm and gone too quickly, but there all the same. You stare at him like you've just witnessed a miracle, the sound hitting you square in the chest.
A thing you think you might fight wars to hear again.
He shakes his head, reaching to pry the bottle from your fingers before you poison yourself proper.
"Now what'd I tell ya?"
When the gang returns to their conversations and the novelty has faded, paying the two of you no mind, you pop a kiss to his lipsâthere for a moment, then gone again.
"What was that for?" he asks, stunned still.
You laugh, leading him to an empty seat, his eyes not leaving you for a second.
"Best get used to it," you say simply, kissing his cheek without a care in the world who sees it.
Arthur offered to take you home.
No fancy carriage, he warnedâjust his horse and a rough leather saddle the whole way back.
As if you'd mind this.
He's at your back, strong arms around you to keep hold of the reins, and you're giddy with drunkenness, leaning into it like there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
You sigh, a content little sound as you rest against his chestâsmelling him all the while as the night air cools your skin.
His scent is pine and tobacco, worn leather and musk, and something so indiscriminately Arthur it warms you clean through.
"You smell nice," you mumble, eyes shut as you tuck your face into the crook of his neck.
You nose at him, peppering kisses that make a shudder wrack through him, the rumble of it felt against your back.
"Stop distractin' me," he mutters gruffly, all while arching into every kiss like his body disagrees with him.
"Mm," you hum, eyes blinking open to gaze at him, his own fixed on the dark road ahead. "Can't help it."
He looks down at you for a moment, searching your face, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
"Look tired," he comments, voice the gentlest you've heard it.
He tucks his chin over your head, holds you closer.
"I'll wake you when we arrive."
You pout, groaning softly. "But I wanna keep you companyâ"
Your yawn overtakes you then, exhaustion settling in before you can force it away.
"Reckon I'll survive, darlin'," he says quietly. "Sleep."
You nod, lying back into him, his arms keeping you steady the whole way home.
You wake just as he's rearing the horse to a stop, not but a few feet from the front steps.
"Made it in one piece," he remarks, a hint of amusement lacing his words. Enough to make you smile back, anyway.
He helps you dismount, hands lingering at your waist longer than propriety allows.
And youâadoring every second of his attentionâpress adamant kisses to whatever skin you can reach, giggling at the way the tips of his ears turn rosy in the moonlight.
"Alright, up you go," he mutters, helping you to the door, one firm hand around your hip to keep you from stumbling.
"Oh, I had a real great time, Arthur," you say softly, the drink finally leaving your system long enough to not have you slurring over every other word.
The swill was horrible, but the wine Dutch offered you was just right.
Arthur is silent for a moment, running a hand across his hair as he looks you over.
He lingers on your flushed cheeks, the dazed look in your eyes, your kiss-swollen lips that have yet to return to their original state.
But beyond that, he sees nothing but fondness and warmthâthe kind that says you've found the one thing you've been missing all this time.
He grunts, nods his head, unable to hold your gaze much longer. "Glad to hear it."
You beam, reaching up to caress his cheek before dropping your hand away.
"Don't be a stranger now..." you murmur, tugging lightly at his shirt. "You gotta promise."
He softens, shoulders dropping slightly.
"Yeah... I promise."
You pause, biting at your cheek.
"Supper?"
He frowns in confusion.
"Come to supper tomorrow," you blurt, the words leaving you in a rush. "I'll cookâmake you somethin' nice."
Then, because you've always been too honest for your own good, and the drink isn't helping none, you add, "Just wanna see you again."
He hesitates, looks around for a minute before he speaks, hands tightening where they grasp your waist.
"Don't wanna impose."
"It isn't imposing if I'm offering, now is it?" you say, chin lifting, lips pursed like there'll be no arguing the matter.
A sharp exhale leaves him as he glances back at his horse, its tail swishing where it stands, then back to you.
"What time?"
You, not expecting such open acceptance, stand a bit straighter, eyes going round as a doe's.
"'Round noon?"
He nods, mulls it over in his mind.
"Tomorrow, 'round noon... but don't trouble yourself with cookin'â"
"Gonna make you a whole damn potluck," you say, your smile the biggest he's seen from you all day, your breathless giggle catching in the wind, echoing softly in the breeze.
"Jesus, woman," he chides, lips curling at the edges, head tipping toward the house. "Go on up to bed."
You just stare, look at him like you'll never get the chance to memorize his face like this againâhead tilted, lingering on every line etched into his skin, every fleck of blue you can see in his eyes, the sheer sturdiness of him.
"Goodnight, Arthur," you whisper affectionately.
To your surprise, he leans inâlips to your hairâand presses a kiss to the top of your head.
"And to you, Miss Gillis."
a/n: this was written for this request, and i had SO much fun writing it, i was giggling and blushing the entire time. Arthur is soooo âĄâË đŠąă»ââ§ââËïœĄâ but i hope you loved this as much as i did, and thank you for all of the love on my last few works. it means the world to me :') okay, love you, byeeeeee
