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lilfanficthings · 7 months

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NEW PATS NEW PATS NEW PATS!!!!!!!!!

This is so sweet and lovely, I usually think how I want my own Pats but it might be nice to have my own Preciosa, too.

i was rereading a GTTT chapter and Patricio has just been in my mind rent free, creeping in from daydreams in places i should not be daydreaming. So I’ve got a PATS question for you. How would Patricio and Reader navigate the issue of him being too drained sexually when Reader is needy?

Hello, lovely.

First of all, I want to apologize for the long hiatus I've taken on Pats and Pres. This ask--and many more--have been sitting in my inbox for far too long and I'd like to think that answering late is better than never. Thank you for your patience with me!!!

This is a very interesting question and it sparked some over-arching thoughts. I have half an answer for you here--from his point of view, and therefore the "drained" part of it. Pres may not seem too needy here, but look to the next installment for more on that.

Also, a non-apology here to everyone.

For so long I've made you believe that Patricio is confident, in control...or at least in denial about it when he's not. But he's growing. Changing. There may be more vulnerability here than you want and much less sexy times. Not everyone has a good day every day.

Kiss and Tell: Everyone's Allowed a Bad Day (GTTT PATS)

FANDOM: Calls - Apple TV (PATS is a character from ep. 3. “Pedro Across the Street.” This is not RPF.)

As with all of my PATS installments, warnings abound for explicit content. (This one's much tamer than most.)

(gif by cavill-henry)

It’s nights like these that he sometimes wished he smoked. He’ll pour himself a drink once the client wakes up and leaves, but he doesn’t want her to catch it on his breath.

Bourbon. Bath. Bed. Maybe something short and calm on streaming. There’s a new cowboy film just dropped by that Spanish director looks good.

Leaning on the kitchen counter and staring out across the silent living room, he contemplates the novel you left on the coffee table. Wonders if you’re missing it.

It occurs to him that he could call you. He can do that now. He doesn’t need a reason anymore, but even if the reason is a rough day…actually, maybe that’s even more reason to call you. In fact, he really should ask you–

His phone vibrates on the countertop and he frowns. It’s your pattern and his heart races a little, not only because it’s you, but thinking he’s been lost in thought too long, that he’s missed the three-hour mark. But a flip of the phone shows him he’s got 20 minutes to go.

Odd. It’s not like you to interrupt a session.

“Hey, muñeca, everything okay?” he mumbles, stepping barefoot out onto the front porch in nothing but his sweatpants.

Your voice sounds far away, “Oh shit,” before a riffling sound and then a clearer, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit dial. I didn’t know I did. I was going to call and then I saw the time…I know you’re in the middle of a session, oh loverboy I’m so sorry–”

Just the sound of your voice is an instant balm. “It’s okay, it’s okay, she’s sleeping. I was actually just thinking about calling you.”

“Oh, really?” There’s something there behind your fluster, hiding among the smile in your voice, something that he might not have noticed if you hadn’t said you meant to call.

“Something you wanted to call me about?”

There’s a sound in the background. An announcement. You’re in public. “Um, no, not really. I just had a lonely moment, that’s all.”

“Well that’s an ego boost. You wanna come spend the night?”

There’s a pause. Shocked, judging by your voice. “Really? On an appointment night?”

He scratches his head and focuses on his feet as he aimlessly paces the porch. “Sure. I mean, if like a quarter after ten isn’t too late for you to drive just to go to bed.”

“With the weather shifting and how warm you run? It’s never too late to say yes to a heated bed.”

He smiles. “Glad I can be of service.” There's silence from you and he cringes. “Shit. Not you– not– Was that a bad choice of word?”

“No. It’s just–”

“Hey. I want you here tonight. I wanna talk to you.” Another silence. He supposes that sounds ominous. It shouldn’t. “You know, here. Not…on a phone.” He’s still not good at this.

“That sounds nice…. You, uh, need anything? I’m at the grocery store.”

“No. Just you.” It feels good to say. Right. It’s what’s needed to break what feels like an odd tension into a few comfortable, mutually smiling moments. “So. The grocery store. And you’re feeling lonely. At a grocery store.”

Your laughter--hushed but musical--is kept close to the phone. “Well I am standing in produce and they just got in some preeeeeetty nice looking eggplants.”

“Wow.”

Another laugh, less hushed, throatier. “Okay, I’m sorry! I’ll let you get back to your work. I assume you’ve got a sleeping beauty to wake up.”

Pulling the phone away from his face for a timecheck, he winces. “Yeah. I’ll see you in 20?”

“I’d say I can’t wait, but you know that I will.”

Wow. “I know and I…”Something sweet twists inside. “I know.”

After you hang up he stands a minute more on the porch in the dark. The leaves are almost all off the trees now, the crickets are gone. His feet are freezing and the skin on his torso is goosebumping; doing its best–and failing–to lift his fine hairs to shield him from the autumn chill. But it’s far from unpleasant and he finds that he’s awake for the sensation in a way he hasn’t been in a while.

He’s alive again in a way he hasn’t been in a while.

The last couple of months have been…nothing short of amazing.

He should tell you that. He should say it.

But he’s got to get to that point where…he accepts it.

Not the relationship…the fact that there’s always a possibility it’s too good to be true, that he could lose it. He could lose you.

You’re handling everything so well, but for how long? How long until you make him choose?

Oh fuck, please don’t make me choose, preciosa, please.

The phone buzzes in his hand. Timer; no need to look, just thumbs the button to silence. On another night, he’d allow himself more time, let the client sleep while he mused. But he’s got a job to do.

And someone special arriving soon.

So he packs these thoughts away and goes quietly inside to prepare.

________

He’s just poured the detergent in the washing machine when he hears the door open. “Hey, I’m just cleaning up, gimme a second.”

Out in the entry, your shoes clatter on the floor and then your keys jingle on the kitchen counter and before he knows it you’re on him, topless and crowding him against the washing machine, kissing him like he’s just come back from war. It’s jarring but pleasant and full of hungry sighs…until there’s a ping in his calf muscle.

“Ooh, hey, Pres, hey hey, hang on.” Taking your face in his hands he calms, he whispers, he soothes you in order to soothe himself, but you catch on instantly, concern splashing over you.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

A kiss to the tip of your nose, to your smart little nose. “No, no, I’m a little sore; just had a difficult session–a difficult day, actually. And I haven’t showered yet. So don’t get yourself too worked up here. You don’t want me like this.”

He expects you to recoil from this, to find the sex with someone else still lingering on his skin. You don’t.

You simply run your hands over his sides, lean in to kiss his chin. “Of course I do. I want you like whatever you are.”

You’re backlit from the kitchen and there’s something like a soft halo around you, bringing a glow to the roll of your cheeks, the swipe of your lip. Tracing these with a finger and finding himself reflected in your eyes, he trusts you, accepts this, tries to see himself like you do. How are you so effortless?

There’s nothing but surrender when you rake your fingers through his beard and push yourself up onto tiptoe to press a warm kiss to his forehead. “But if you really feel that way, beautiful, let me run you a bath.”

Everytime he opens his eyes and you’re there, it's like a small miracle.

“Come on,” you smile, taking his hand and guiding him to the stairs, “let me take care of you and you can tell me about your day.”

You’re perfect. He’s so grateful he picked up the phone tonight when he did.

________

“Mmmmm, that’s good.” The sigh comes up from his bottom wells, like a contented creature crawling out of hidden caverns within. The back of his head rests in your palm, warm water spilling over his scalp. Your hands whisper and calm and soothe. He spends so much time using his touch to bring relaxation to others that he’d all but forgotten that it could go the other way. And your touch–

“So there was some heavy lifting tonight, huh?” Your finger lightly wipes away an errant rivulet from the corner of his eye. “Ness, right?”

The ghost of irritation looms. “Mmm. She has a pretty severe tailbone injury. Didn’t tell me about it before she showed up. Lot of full-body lifting on the table just to get her in the right positions for stretch.”

“I see. You’ll feel it tomorrow. And sore tailbone means no actual sex tonight.”

“Oh no, we had some fun. She’s got weeks of recovery ahead of her and she needed some practice re-routing some natural orgasm responses to different muscle groups when she ejaculates.”

“Ejaculates? She…? Ohhh.” A loving hand begins to wander lightly over his chest. “I assumed. My bad.”

“Sorry. Should have been more clear. But yeah.”

“No need to apologize. I don’t know why I hadn’t just assumed that you…took all forms of payment.”

He peeks an eye open to catch your reaction as you reach over the side of the tub toward him and finds your warm, curious smile. “Not to disparage the vaginal anatomy, but sometimes it’s nice to have my dick handled by someone who has a lifetime experience with their own.”

“Noted. Fair.”

Closing his eyes and sinking into the warm bath of your care a lifetime goes by with your hands running over his skin.

“You’re very accommodating.”

A kiss lands on his temple. “Wait until you realize I’m terribly selfish and am in it for the rewards points.” When his smile fades, your hands slow. “That was a joke.”

“I know.” Sensing a shift in tone coming when he turns to you, you instinctively pull back, but he catches your hand in his, pulling it in to place a wet kiss to your knuckles. “Would you mind if I don’t want to have sex tonight?”

“Of course. That’s okay.” A half-smile. Are you covering disappointment?

“I’m more than happy to go down on you if you–”

But a shake of your head stops him. “No, it's fine. I can tell you’re tired. You said you had a hard day. Wanna tell me about it while we get you dried off and into bed?”

He feels like a child as he simply nods, allows you to help him up, succumbs to you as you care for him. It’s easy to do, to melt under your attention, to crack open and spill. He does his best not to control the spread as he generalizes a failed report at work, a difficult project he’s fallen behind on. By the time you’re sliding into the sheets and curling up next to him, he’s breaching the topic he’s been deciding and undeciding and deciding again to tell you about–that his mother called without warning.

“She wants to meet you.”

Your breathing stills in the darkness. “You told your mom about me.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, I..” you stutter, “I guess I didn’t… I’m flattered that you talk about me?”

There’s a pang of guilt that he’s let you believe you’re not important enough for him to tell the world that you’re in his life. But he sighs as you squeeze your arm around his middle. “You might feel differently if you met her.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to meet your…is it just your mom?”

“And my father. I have an older brother but he lives in Australia. Doesn’t go home much.”

“Home issssSantiago?”

“Just outside of it. Rancagua.”

Another squeeze. Perhaps that was a lie; your arm around him and the brush of your lips on his shoulder feels like his true home now.

“So this call was stressful because she wants to meet me. And you’re nervous?”

“The call was stressful because…I don’t…want her to meet you.” Your squeeze lightens a bit and he slides his grip over your arm in case you decide he’s awful and want to pull away. He knows he should let you go if you want to but– “I wanted to ask you, Pres…I’m sorry I don’t know if I can ask this much from you but–”

It almost breaks his heart when your arm slides through his hand, when your warmth leaves his side, when you abandon him…

But it’s only for the time it takes to hear the click of the bedside lamp, register the bright sting and spill of light, and you’re back beside him, leaning over him, turning his face to yours with one patient hand on his cheek. “What’s going on. I’ve never seen you like this.”

Shit. Get it together.

“You’re going to think I’m a fucking jerk–”

“Don’t tell me what you think I’m going to think, sir. Tell me what you need from me. Just say it.”

This leaves him with depleted gambling chips, raises the stakes. But you’re right. He has to be honest.

“The relationship I have with my family is…strained. That’s why I live here and not there. I see them somewhat regularly, but the holidays are when the whole family gets together–all the cousins–and it’s just a lot. There’s a lot that’s expected, a lot of judgements…it’s overwhelming. I can barely make it through myself, but having you there? Watching you be scrutinized on top of it when we’re just figuring this out? I just…no.”

“You know I won’t tell them–”

“It’s not that, fuck, it’s not that.” He surges in for a kiss, taking you in deep, willing you to understand him by osmosis; if only… “Every time I’ve gone down for the holidays it’s stressful enough…it’s…it’s bad enough that I’m away from my clients, but–”

“But under stress the itch gets worse. And you don’t have your outlet. And you’re not in control.”

Oh god, you see him. You see him and he’s so…fucking pathetic.

The last thing he expects is for you to pepper kisses along his mouth and chin, to dot a lingering one on his cheek before pulling him into your chest, to cradle him, breathe into his hair.

But it’s exactly what you do.

“What do you need, beautiful boy? Anything you want.”

He breathes. Sighs. Curses himself for doubting you, for assuming you wouldn’t surprise him. Allows you to hold the weight of his heart on your own without a spotter.

“I need to…not do the ‘meet the family’ thing this year. I just want you to myself for a while.”

A hum of sympathy, of bittersweetness, one that stakes his heart into the ground at your feet. “Oh Patricio. Is that all?” Your breast moves under his cheek as you lean over to turn off the light, your soft curves and soft scent and soft hum whispering to him, calming him, soothing him into you. “I’ll admit that I’m a little sad that I don’t get to show you off to my family, but I definitely see the appeal of a quiet holiday season, just us hiding away from the world together. You want me to yourself? Did you really think I would find that anything but absolutely wonderful?”

All at once, the strains of the day overtake him, the need to say more is gone and took his energy to do so right along with it. A whole lifetime of relief in just an hour. That’s your secret power. Always has been. He cannot think of words more meaningful than, “Thank you.”

Your fingertips begin their pattern of affection along his jaw, tattooing a spell of sleep through him. “This really means a lot to you, huh.” He’s too gone to get his voice to work and it seems you assume he’s fallen asleep. “Well you mean the world to me. You don’t even know, mister.”

It’s not worth the effort to drag himself from the downward pull of dreams to ask you to say more about that. Not when he knows you’ll be right here in the morning and he can ask you then.

Or say the same thing right back to you.

Maybe this time he’ll find a way to do that.

______

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

#good things take time #pedro across the street #calls fanfiction #pedro pascal #Oonajaeadira

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lilfanficthings · 8 months

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Hey tumblr please let @frannyzooey out of horny jail this is just ridiculous

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lilfanficthings · 8 months

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Reblog if reading someone else’s fanfiction has helped you get through a hard day

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lilfanficthings · 8 months

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Midnight Surprise

Title: Midnight Surprise

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader/you

Word Count: 2293

Rating: PG

A/N: For the Halloween contest!

Prompt #1 Theme: Masquerade Ball on Halloween Must include: Vodka martini, a pumpkin, an envelope @pedrocontestsrus

Scare Level:

🍭🍬🍯 this is a bag of candy, all sugar, intended to rot your teeth. No scaries.

Marcus Pike Masterlist --- Author Masterlist

Marcus Pike was looking for you, and he was starting to get worried he was at the wrong place. You had said to go to the Carriage House at 8pm. For the night someone had ordered a gorgeous wooden sign that temporarily made it the Pumpkin Carriage House. It was an invite-only masquerade and you had given two instructions before getting off the phone.

Wear the tux.

Your invite is at the door–don’t keep me waiting, I have a surprise for you.

He loved your sense of adventure. He knew he was, at heart, a romantic, but he felt it was different this time. Life with you had been like breathing, he expected it to keep him alive, and so far while you had taken his breath away you had not managed to smother him. He was suspicious at this point that he was allergic to marriage– a broken engagement and a divorce had him spooked, but you had asked that he give you nothing more pressing than a Ring Pop.

“All I ask is that you show up every day.” You promised.

“That easy?”

“Hey, it’s what counts.” You had already told him that a life in the system had jostled your sense of stability– a new house as much as three or four times a year, new schools. You had survived, you had even flourished when you got into college. The school of your dreams and now? You had access to A list events like this any time you wanted. You loved your work, you loved that you had had the same townhouse for eight years. You loved this man and the fact that every morning he was there.

The two of you had finally discussed him saving his rent and moving in– you were very worried he would say no. Very worried he would say No. Very worried he was keeping that apartment as an exit strategy. Instead he had let loose a breath, “Really? Are you sure?”

Like you had offered him the goose that laid the golden eggs.

He was adorable, really.

And he loved decor– he’d gone to Home Goods and come back with so many fall decorations. Matching black cat mug warmers, candles that looked like they dripped blood when they were lit, he had managed to get a bubbling cauldron with a smoke machine.

He was a keeper–that was for certain.

He cooked for you several times a week, he was the type who enjoyed cleaning, and he happily went to the Farmer’s Market with you. As far as you were concerned a lab had made him and released him like some gorgeous Frankenstein’s monster on the female population. You were never letting him go. He didn’t seem to want to leave.

Marcus enjoyed spoiling the people he loved–dinners out, thoughtful gifts, flowers and cards and random nice things for no reason at all. He was always nervous he wasn’t doing enough for you to know how he felt. To be sure.

And right now he was feeling very much like you didn’t know because in a sea of costumes he realized–you had left out what you were wearing. There were probably two hundred people here. There was a ballroom, two bars, a balcony, and a garden that was probably very expensive. There was mention it was a set for Bridgerton, he believed it. As it was, right now, the lights were low, there was a waltz on and he didn’t know how to do that, and so he retreated to the bar figuring it was a high traffic area.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror– the tux he had bought for work a few years ago and it still fit and looked good. He felt like James Bond. The mask? He wouldn’t be doing the suit justice if he hadn’t gone for something sleek– it was a leather domino, reminded him a bit of Batman, though right now he was not feeling like a great detective.

Where the hell were you? You said you had a surprise for him, but he assumed he was meant to actually, you know, find you, and once he went to the door and they checked his name and ID he was just in here. Where were you?

The bartender cleared their throat and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Pike?”

He turned to the man and nodded, “Yes?”

“An admirer wanted to give you this,” the man passed a glass and laughed, “a vodka martini, she said shaken not stirred. I assume you’re a Bond fan?”

“Connery is my Bond.” Marcus confirmed, “I took a half day at work when he died.”

This made the bartender laugh, and then he passed Marcus a gorgeous light blue envelope, it was thick cardstock and it felt lovely to touch.

Read Me. The script was elaborate, gold and silver ink together, a jungle of flourishes that made him think of how much time someone spent on it.

He opened it carefully so as not to rip any pieces.

Prince Charming, you’re a sight,

But Cinderella disappears by midnight.

Don’t fear,

I’m right here,

Just look you’ll see.

I’m right where you might expect me to be.

I have a surprise waiting for you

Just hiding from your view.

Marcus smirked and looked around the ball with renewed vigor– he had a clue. You were dressed as Cinderella. He knew enough to know that meant blue, and he hoped you weren’t diving for a more obscure reference. Blue and ballgown he could manage. He was sipping on his drink– the ballroom was crowded, the decorations romantic but not specifically princess themed. He turned to the bartender and held out a five for a tip, “Are there other rooms, themes, stuff like that around here tonight?”

“Someone playing a trick on you?” The bartender smiled and laughed, “Let’s see– attic room is finished, sorta meant for quiet talks and making out–”

Marcus could see the charm to such a space, noted. He could look there.

“--You got the atrium, it’s a converted conservatory, so stargazing–”

Seemed less likely, but glass like a glass slipper? He would have to make the rounds.

“--You got the gardens done in English garden style. They made them like a maze of sorts. Did you hear about Bridgerton? They were using us? Pretty cool, I got to meet Simone Ashley. Honestly, super nice.”

You'd go where Simone Ashley had been, so he had quite the list and a glance at the clock told him that he'd have to work fast.

"Thanks." Marcus added another five to the existing one and dropped it in the tip jar. He took the envelope and put it safely in the interior breast pocket of his suit.

He tried to keep the atmosphere of the ball and not look like a frantic man going from spot to spot to spot. His gut said that you'd be in the maze but he couldn't turn off the procedural part of his brain. The atrium and the attic were not close to him but they were also easy to cross of the list as they were fairly open spaces and you couldn't really hide.

After the second space he couldn't decide if this was the best or the worst way to spend your night. It was almost Halloween, one of his favorite holidays. He loved events. He loved walking around looking at people's decorations. He loved movie marathons. He loved spending his time with you and right now he was spending his time looking for you.

Maybe he had messed it all up? Maybe he has misunderstood?

Doubt was the mind killer, or something like that.

The last place was the one he would have chosen all along– you were a garden. There had been a frost over you for a long time and then when the sun came? Flowers. You were such a vibrant person, he loved all the many loud shades of you, and he found he was so anxious to see you now that he was half running and getting himself out of breath and sweaty. He wouldn’t look very much like the Prince Charming of your dreams when he finally found you, but he couldn’t help his enthusiasm.

He passed a pirate, two Barbies, what he hoped was Marie Antoinette but also could've been Freddy Mercury, and still– no sign of blue. No ballgown. No tiara.

I'm missing something.

He looked all around and finally saw his next clue: tiny little glass slipper postcards. First one, then another.

There you are.

He kept looking up and down to check the glass slippers and see if you were somewhere in front of him. If this garden was a maze he imagined you were at the heart of it, but he also couldn’t determine if other guests had messed with your glass slippers. He felt like they hadn’t, but he just didn’t know. Time went on and he felt that he had missed a trick– there was clearly a rub somewhere. He had passed that same lumpy bush and the lady in the fairy costume three times. She was reading a book, at a party, so he felt it would be rude to interrupt her but by the fourth pass she started to giggle.

That’s when he looked over and you stood up, “I thought you were a detective, Marcus?”

His face broke out in a beautifully big smile and he came over and just enveloped you in his arms, kissed you, “Oh thank god, I was beginning to think I lived in this maze now….and hey. The paintings are easier.”

His eyes trailed over your costume and he let his finger trace the edge of the neckline, “This is nice, but not very Cinderella. What’s with the wings?”

“Cinderella like the movie, but not like the character.”

“Who are you then?”

“Fairy Godmother.” You smiled widely at him and felt the nerves start jumping around.

There was no way of knowing if he’d like his surprise.

“Why?” Marcus cocked his head, “Think of you more as a princess.”

No time like the present. You’d really had him earning his surprise and, hopefully, it went well. There was always the fear that it wouldn’t but Marcus…Marcus was like breathing. It seemed to keep happening and you had learned to trust it even if that had never been easy for you before.

“Well…I’m here to grant wishes.”

His eyes brightened, “Oh? Something good?”

You motioned to a plastic pumpkin trick-or-treat bin next to your book. The fact that he hadn’t noticed it yet…goodness, you wondered how the man stayed employed.

But you were thinking this next part would be fun.

He reached over and took it, put his hand in, playfully saying, “I am a big fan of Baby Ruths…”

“Well I got pretty close then.”

His hands hit something, something soft, something that was not candy. He lifted it out of the pail and then promptly dropped the plastic pumpkin creating an unholy crash for something so small.

Then again, small things could be really big in their own right.

Marcus’ jaw went slack and he ripped off his mask, “Baby?”

“Well, handsome, which one you want to talk to?”

In his hands was a tiny orange onesie with a jack o lantern face with the writing My First Halloween over the tummy.

_____________________________________________________________

The night was Halloween. Marcus had asked you if you wanted to take a walk. Go see the lights and decorations.

“After all, next year we have to know where the good candy will be.” He said it very seriously, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him that a newborn wouldn’t be eating the candy.

You agreed and he brought hot cider home before you two got your coats on and took the stroll. It was lovely– crisp leaves, cider you could take a bath in, and Marcus acting like he was the Gordon Ramsey of Halloween decorations.

“They’re mixing genres with those two, pick a theme.”

You laughed at him. What a lovely domestic old man he would grow to be. How much fun you'd have watching him chase kids off of a lawn.

Suddenly he stopped walking and looked around, confused, "Hey sweetheart, do you recognize this place?"

You looked around and wondered if you should. You focused, squinted, "Is that the coffee shop? Where we had our first date?"

You turned to see him when he didn't answer but he wasn't there. He had vanished.

Or, rather, he had fallen to one knee.

Marcus Pike was holding out a glowing red Ring Pop to you and smiling, "This place is Happily Ever After if you let it be, baby."

You didn't know what to say and he gestured with the Ring Pop, "You made me promise nothing more substantial than this…but maybe if you say yes you'll like to pick out something that doesn't melt?"

You were laughing and crying and nodding and just unable to form a coherent answer and he said, "That a yes?"

"Yes!"

He whistled sharply, "You heard it folks! Come on and get in on this!"

From the crowd of people in masks and costumes people removed their disguises and you saw them--your best friend, two girls you'd kept up with from one of the foster homes, his parents and sisters and their husbands and kids, your friends from work. They were clapping and you were crying harder now.

“You had to outdo me!” You teased him and he shook his head.

“I had to hope to earn you…and I promise I’ll never stop trying to be half of what you need.”

“Shut up and kiss me, Pike.”

_______________________________________________________

A/N: Just 2 more. Just 2 more. I will hit all 5 prompts, I will!

Not Beta Read!

Im gonna do tags in the comments as this fighting me on mobile

#blueeyesatnight #pedro pascal #marcus pike #so cute!

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lilfanficthings · 8 months

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

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

masterlist | joel miller masterlist

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

Your first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has manners, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ghost of a smirk slides across his lips.

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

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

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

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

How could it not?

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

This is what’s supposed to happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is off to a real good start.

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

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

You nod. “Yessir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That might be the corset, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you won’t have to pretend too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So,” she asks. “How’d it go?”

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

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

“He was…very sweet,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose not,” you murmur.

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

“For me?” You ask, eyes widening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You aren’t anyone’s favorite yet.

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

You wouldn’t mind being his favorite, though.

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

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

“Is everything—”

“Anyone follow you up here?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope so, Miss Sugar.”

“Where’re you off to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then she happened.

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

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

Less time for her to be with other men.

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

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

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

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

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

And she’d let him because paid her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he can pretend.

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

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

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

“You, too,” he says.

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

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

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

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

So he does.

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

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

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

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

“Another husband?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

He wants to kiss her so badly.

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

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

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

“And you don’t want that?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s never been any good at goodbyes.

He’s gone longer this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ginger!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He comes back just as the ground thaws.

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

He opens the door, covered in blood.

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

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

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

“Joel—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’ll never see Joel Miller again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s still denying himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna—gonna—”

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

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

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

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

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

Joel’s different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your job is to give him what he needs.

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

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

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

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

She is, unfortunately, way ahead of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She never does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L.M. Alcott

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

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

-J

You wish you could be better for him, too.

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

Her tip.

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

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

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

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

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

Everything he touches falls apart.

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

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

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

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

“Haven’t been around,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re only half-joking about your offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost stop breathing when he does.

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

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

“I think I’m doin’ okay,” you laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#pedro pascal #joel miller #this is just so sweet and perfect #ezrasbirdie

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lilfanficthings · 9 months

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Random Pedro Boy headcannons.

Jack makes anyone's hot beavage choice perfectly. It's a natural talent. His hot chocolate is to die for.

Frankie knows you what certain shows 'for reasons'. So he will make sure he's home to catch you when you're all excited. He doesn't get jealous but he will tease you about your other boyfriend when he feels how wet you are.

When Din sleeps with his armour off, he sleeps in a full fetal position. So much so that it's easier for you to be the big spoon.

Joel loves bloopers. If people crack up, he's a goner, too. It's one of the things he misses most about pre-outbreak TV. He has a couple of Jackie Chan movies that made their way to Jackson that he watches the bloopers from if he needs a pick me up.

Javi G loves to go bowling. He even has his own ball. It's gold and signed by Nic Cage.

Javi P loves to be read to. He spends hours hunched over case files. When he comes home, he loves to listen to the sound of your voice.

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lilfanficthings · 9 months

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👀

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lilfanficthings · 9 months

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lilfanficthings · 9 months

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some part of me came alive [catalyst 'verse, joel miller x f!reader x frankie morales]

summary: After the events of Frankie's birthday party, he asks Joel on a date with your blessing. Joel admits he’s never really been with another man, and Frankie is more than willing to help him with that. rating/warnings: E [smut, m/m, mentions of mmf, so many feelings, lots of fluff, minimal angst, oral sex, handjobs, reader girl makes an appearance but she is not involved for the most part] wc: 4.2k a/n: head over to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! I'm gonna be honest, I've been hesitant to post this one. It's a lot of Joel finding himself and figuring shit out, and as a bisexual that is all very precious and sacred to me. so yes this is blisteringly hot but also it's all very soft. reader babe will return in full force in the next installment. thank you to @haylzcyon and @lowlights for being cheerleaders and looking over this.

masterlist | series masterlist

Joel Miller doesn't think of himself as particularly emotional, but the first time Frankie Morales kisses him, he almost cries. Weeks of restless uncertainty vanish with one tentative, beer-soaked kiss. He hasn't imagined that spark of desire shimmering between them.

A dozen scenarios erupt in Joel’s mind as Frankie's tongue slides across his lips, but none so prominent as keeping the younger man in bed for the rest of the weekend in lazy exploration. Everything seems possible in those few seconds.

And then a soft whimper from Frankie pulls Joel back into reality where Frankie's drunk and Joel doesn’t want to take advantage of his friend, no matter how much his lust-addled brain screams for it. Joel pulls back and looks right into Frankie’s dark, glassy eyes. Those ruddy cheeks and kiss-swollen lips tug at him, testing Joel's resolve.

“Frankie,” he murmurs as Frankie gives him a shy smile. “You need some water. And some sleep.”

Frankie swallows, his smile falling as he pulls away and looks down at his feet where his hat had fallen in his haste to claim Joel's lips. “Sorr—”

But Joel interrupts him because he isn’t sorry and he doesn’t want Frankie to be, either.

“It’s okay, darlin’,” he says, rolling the endearment around on his tongue—he’s never used that word to refer to a man, but he finds that with Frankie, at least, it makes sense. And Frankie doesn't look embarrassed anymore.

That night he lays awake for hours as sleep refuses to claim him. It isn’t until he gives up and takes himself in his hand, closing his eyes and imagining Frankie’s plump lips and pink tongue, that he's able to drift off.

Frankie says nothing about it the next day, or the day after that, and Joel swallows the crushing disappointment, telling himself it's for the best.

But then you happen, and Joel doesn't know what to think. As blissful as it all was, as right as it all felt in the moment, he doesn't want to ruin whatever's blooming between the two of you. Frankie could deny all he wanted, but Joel sees perfectly well the way you look at each other.

He slips out quietly the next morning after he wakes up with his arm thrown around the both of you, sighing at the perfect way your body fits into Frankie’s.

There's no room there for a lonely old man.

He takes a scalding shower to wash off the smell of your perfume and any lingering desire—it was a fun time, and nothing more. He's not even dressed when the doorbell rings. His heart stops when he looks through the peephole to find Frankie in a grey t-shirt sticking to damp skin.

Water droplets from wet curls run down his neck into his collar, and the image of him naked and dripping comes unbidden.

Frankie’s eyebrows shoot up when Joel opens the door in just a towel, as though he hadn’t seen all of him last night.

“Hey,” Joel says.

“Bad time?” Frankie asks, clearing his throat.

Joel shakes his head. “Just got out of the shower.”

“Me too,” Frankie says. “Listen…”

“You wanna come in?” Joel asks, very aware of how naked he is in front of the neighborhood.

Frankie steps just inside the doorway with curious eyes bouncing across the living room as though he hasn't been over a hundred times by now.

“Let me, uh, go throw some clothes on,” Joel says.

He returns to find Frankie sitting on his couch and tapping his fingers against his knees.

“Everything okay?” Joel asks.

“Fine,” Frankie says, clearing his throat again. “It’s fine. I wanted to…I wanted to make sure…you left and I thought maybe we should talk.”

Joel settles himself in a leather recliner at least as old as Sarah. He tries to relax because it's just Frankie who wants to talk to him. He wears the same shy, cautious smile on his face as he had the night they kissed.

“About what?” Joel asks, maybe a little too roughly, but only because his skin is too tight and his tongue keeps sticking to the roof of his mouth. Frankie’s smile falters and his ears turn scarlet, and Joel scrambles to clarify himself. “I mean—I mean, is…”

But he can’t find his words.

Sarah always tells him it's like pulling teeth to get him to talk about his feelings. And not just one tooth, she says, but a whole row.

Joel sighs.

“I ain’t good at this,” he says. “And I never…this is all new to me, Frankie. I don’t wanna come between anything. You been talking about that girl a long time, and I shouldn’t even have tried what I tried with her. Reckon I was jealous.”

“Of who?” Frankie asks.

“Both of you, I think,” he sighs again. “Don’t matter—I’m not gonna try anything else with her. Or you.”

Frankie licks his lips and takes a deep breath. “What if I wanted you to…try. With me. And her.”

Joel opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Look, I think…will you let me take you to dinner?” Frankie asks, and that hopeful smile comes back.

“You askin’ me on a date, Morales?” He asks, the corners of his lips twitching.

“I think so,” Frankie says. “If you’re interested.”

“All right. Sure. I’d…like that.”

Frankie stands up quickly, and Joel followed—less quickly, though. He’d put you into some positions the night before he has no business messing with without stretching first.

“What about your girl?” Joel asks.

“This was her idea,” Frankie admits.

Joel can't decide if that clears things up or not.

Frankie spends too long choosing a place to go. He’s been out to eat with Joel before—usually breakfast or lunch, though, and none of those outings ever held the weight of this one. Joel isn't a flashy guy; he’s not the type to overspend on a meal, and something too hip might just make him nervous.

He settles on a place next to the Colorado River with outdoor seating surrounded by trees. Austin in early September is only slightly cooler than in the summer months, but the evening air hints at the promise of fall. He makes a reservation for a table on the patio at eight.

You text him ten minutes after he books it.

Did you decide on something?

Jacoby’s. I’m nervous.

You wanna talk?

He does. You pick up on the first ring and the fluttering in his chest calms.

“Why are you nervous?” You ask, your voice sounding oddly garbled.

“Are you eating?” He asks.

"Yeah."

“We can talk later, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “You can finish eating.”

“You need to talk now, though. Or else you’re gonna be all anxious for the next hour.”

“It takes you an hour to eat?” He asks, incredulous.

“I’m a slow eater. Tell me why you’re nervous. I’ll chew quietly,” you promise.

“This feels weird to talk to you about. Aren’t you…”

“Jealous?”

“I guess that’s the word,” he says, running his hand through his hair. Jealous doesn't quite describe it. You haven't given him any reason to think you're jealous.

“You're my best friend, Frankie. And I think...if you want a boyfriend and a girlfriend and we both want you then, I dunno, I guess it doesn't bother me. I feel like it should, but it doesn't. And if you care about him so much, I just want you to be happy.”

It’s all just very messy.

“I think he wants you, too, you know. He was really trying to downplay it when I was there,” Frankie says.

“Of course he wants me. Who doesn’t?” You tease. You have a point.

“Can I, um. Can I come to your place?” He asks.

"You're just hungry," you giggle. "Trying to get in on my famous boxed mac and cheese."

"You found me out," he says.

“All right," you say in mock exasperation. "But I can’t promise I’ll behave myself.”

Frankie’s lips curl into a smile. “Wouldn’t want you to.”

Frankie pulls into the busy parking lot, the gravel crunching under his truck tires. He worried the entire drive here, which was the risk of choosing a restaurant that was twenty minutes away. There’s too damn much time to doubt himself.

“I’m meeting someone,” he tells the host, eying their short spiky hair and nose ring. It makes him think of you and the time you confided you always wanted a nose ring, but never thought you could pull it off.

He thinks you could.

They lead him to the patio, buzzing with people but not overwhelmingly so. Patrons chatter and clink glasses, forks clattering against plates as laughter erupts from another table. A breeze from the river ruffles his artfully messy hair, hatless for once.

Large-bulbed string lights loom overhead, wrapping all the way down the wooden support beams giving the space a gentle, pleasant glow. Joel's standing next to their table, elbows resting on the railing as he looks out over the river, his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones illuminated by the lights.

He's the most beautiful man Frankie's ever seen.

“Hey,” Frankie says. The host leaves them with menus and glasses of water sweating droplets from the heat.

Joel gives him a tight smile and sits down, arms crossed as he looks around the space. “This is nice. Would’ve dressed better if I knew,” he says, gesturing to his worn blue button-up and dark-wash jeans.

“It’s not that nice,” Frankie says, gesturing to a table behind him. “That guy’s in a Bud Light shirt.”

Joel chuckles. “All right, point taken. Just don’t wanna embarrass you.”

Frankie swallows. “You couldn’t.”

The scarlet in Joel’s cheeks spreads as he glances over the menu. “Beef tartare, huh?” Joel asks. “Fancy.”

“You don’t have to order the fancy thing,” Frankie says, unable to keep the waspishness from his voice. “They have chicken fried steak and meatloaf and burgers—”

But he looks up and Joel’s eyes are sparkling.

Joel's teasing him.

Frankie goes with the meatloaf, and Joel opts for chicken fried steak. When the server disappears, they just look at each other, not quite sure what to do or where to start. Frankie digs his fingers into his jeans, resisting the urge to take Joel’s hand.

There are other men holding hands here, though. That's why he'd picked this place. But he's not really sure what Joel's comfort level is with PDA, so he keeps his hands to himself.

“So,” Joel says, squinting and leaning back in his chair. “How’s our first date goin’?”

Frankie grins at the playfulness of the question. “I’m just glad we’re on it. I know this is new for you.”

“That’s for damn sure,” he laughs. “Didn’t—didn’t really know what to call what I was feelin’. Just knew I wanted to see you every day.”

It’s Frankie’s turn to blush. “Sounds like a crush,” he says.

“Haven’t had one of those in a long time. Guess I didn’t recognize what it was,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stupid, huh?”

Frankie shakes his head. “No. You’re not stupid.”

“But there’s your girl, huh?”

Guess they’re not waiting for the appetizers to get started.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “There is.”

“I don’t want to get in the way—”

“You won’t. Joel, she’s the one who told me to talk to you. I don’t…I think…” But he loses his nerve when he looks into Joel’s eyes.

“What is it?” Joel asks, leaning closer. “You can tell me, honey.”

“Honey” warms him, pulls his courage to the forefront even if Joel gives him a sheepish look after it tumbles from his mouth. “I think I have feelings for both of you. And I understand if you’re not interested in that, and she said she doesn’t expect you to be with her, too, but I think—there was something there, wasn’t there? With all of us?”

Frankie tries to keep his breathing even as Joel mulls over his words. Maybe it wasn't anything; maybe it was just lust and wishful thinking. Maybe he's just being selfish. It could be messy, it could be weird, it could be hard and a terrible mistake but it could be incredible, too.

“Guess I’d need to get to know her a little more,” Joel says, finally. “I like her a lot. Laughed the whole night with her. Attraction's certainly there. And I haven’t gotten to be romantic with a lot of people in my life. Don’t see the harm in tryin’ somethin’ new. I guess I don’t…how would this work?”

Frankie shrugs. “I have no idea. I don’t. Think we’d have to talk with her.”

“This is weird,” Joel laughs.

“It is,” Frankie agrees, but it feels good to know Joel's willing to try. “I’d say the guys are gonna have fun with this, but I think they’re terrified of you.”

“Good,” Joel grunts.

Their food arrives before Frankie can say anything else. Joel lets out a low moan with the first bite of chicken fried steak. “Damn, kid. You picked a good place.”

Frankie preens, warmth flowing all the way to the tips of his toes. He really likes making Joel happy. They move on to other topics after--sports, lawns, woodcarving. He tries to play it cool, but he's in too good a mood. The awkwardness he'd expected after their first conversation never manifests.

His plan to take a walk by the river and talk more after dinner goes sideways the moment his hand brushes Joel’s on the way out. Blood rushes to the back of Frankie’s neck and down his torso, his cock twitching in his jeans.

“You wanna go back to my house?” Joel asks, his eyes impossibly dark.

Frankie can’t answer yes fast enough.

Joel invites him inside, immediately cognizant of how messy his place is compared to Frankie’s. Toys and books scattered from Franny’s visits make up the worst of it, and he’s only seen quick glimpses of it as Frankie gathers everything before he can make it too far inside.

Somehow, during all these months, he’s never met Frankie’s kid. He’s always managed to make himself scarce during those visits; told himself it was better to let Frankie focus on his daughter.

Deep down, though, he was afraid of moving too fast.

A totally normal, non-romantic thing to worry about with his next-door neighbor.

Frankie leans back against the door as Joel darts around and apologizes for the mess. “I've been in your living room before, you know," Frankie teases.

"I know," Joel asserts, reaching for a coffee cup he'd left on the table. "It ain't that."

He turns to find Frankie no more than an inch away from him, his big brown eyes soft around the edges. "We don't have to...I don't want you to think I'm gonna make you--"

"Ain't that either. Just never done this," Joel says quickly.

That's not entirely true.

“Not once?” Frankie asks, tugging Joel's hand and leading him to the couch. Joel’s cheeks burn hot as a memory blooms in his mind, long pushed away.

“Well,” he starts. “When I was much younger. Before I met Sarah’s mother.” Frankie nods, urging him on. “More like experimentin'. Friend jerked me off. It was…I don’t know. I liked it. Then I never, uh, I never saw him again.”

“What happened?” Frankie asks.

Joel shrugs. “It was the late eighties in Arlington. We were already too friendly for most people’s likin'. I was big and mean enough lookin’ that they didn’t bother me, but he got teased a lot. Think we just got scared.”

“Are you scared now?” Frankie asks quietly, playing with Joel’s fingers in his lap.

The words get lost in his throat. He doesn't know how to tell Frankie he's never felt safer than right now, spilling these secrets he’d buried under a mountain of confusion and shame.

He opts for the simple truth of it all. “No.” He hesitates, but his curiosity outweighs his nerves. “You always known?”

Frankie smiles, more to himself than to Joel. “If I didn’t know before I got shipped off, I figured it out pretty fast.”

“So you, uh. You’ve done…everything, then?”

“Been a while, but yeah,” Frankie says with rosy cheeks.

“Blushin’ again,” Joel says, and Frankie gives him a light punch on the shoulder. “Feel like a fuckin’ teenager talkin’ about this shit.”

“We could start with something easy. Something we’ve already done,” Frankie suggests, his eyes dropping to Joel’s lips. He cups his jaw in his palm, searching Joel's face for any reluctance.

Joel's impatience wins out—he fists the front of Frankie’s t-shirt and tugs, crushing their lips together. Frankie’s tongue laves over his bottom lip, licking into his eager mouth the moment Joel yields to him.

It’s just this for a while; long, lazy strokes of tongues; teeth grazing lips; soft, needy moans. Occasionally they break apart to breathe and nuzzle into each other’s cheeks, pleasant tingles shooting to the top of Joel's head at the scratch of their beards. He can’t remember the last time he just made out with someone. Joel’s content to stay like this; more than happy to kiss Frankie until the sun comes up. Somewhere between one kiss or another, though, their shirts come off, and Frankie's hand keeps sneaking down, down, down until it’s groping Joel's thigh and brushing his aching length.

After an involuntary roll of his hips, Frankie climbs into his lap and straddles him with thick, muscular thighs. Frankie lets out a needy whimper as he ruts against him, and Joel grabs him by the hips to guide his movements, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.

“Yeah?” Joel whispers against Frankie’s mouth. Frankie doesn’t answer, just moves to Joel’s neck, pressing wet kisses against bare, flushed skin.

“Can I?” He whispers, reaching for Joel’s zipper.

“Fuck, yeah you can,” Joel growls, surprised at his own urgency. He’s so hard it’s bordering on uncomfortable.

At his age, Joel had been worried that it might not…perform. It wouldn’t be the first time his body chose to work against him, but if anything it's doing its job and then some. His cock is throbbing, twitching in anticipation of Frankie’s hand or mouth or—or anything he wants to give him.

Frankie frees Joel’s cock from the restriction of his jeans, gently thumbing the precome on his slit. Joel grips the couch arm and groans, fighting to keep himself from falling apart just from watching Frankie play with him.

"Fuck--hang on," Frankie breathes. It takes everything in him to keep it together as Frankie sinks to his knees between Joel's legs.

Frankie licks his lips and spits on his big, warm hand before starting long, slow strokes. It feels so fucking good that a full sentence is a lot to ask for right now, but if Joel doesn't stop him this might end far too early.

It’d completely slipped Joel’s mind—Frankie has a cock, too. Of course he knows what the fuck he's doing. Of course this is the best handjob he’s ever had.

“Frankie,” he murmurs. “Frankie, baby, feels too good.”

“Too much?” He asks, slowing to a more luxurious pace. He looks like sin with those brown eyes hidden under long lashes and pouty, kiss-swollen lips. “What do you want, baby? I’ll give you anything.”

“Your—your mouth?” Joel stutters and Frankie fails to hide a grin. He doesn’t say a word, just settles his forearm on Joel’s thigh and takes him into his hot, wet mouth. “Holy—fuck—”

It’s not much different from any other mouth he's had wrapped around him—and he’s had his fair share, thank you very much—but it’s Frankie, and that makes it so much better.

He really does try to sit back and let Frankie lead, but his desire to hear Frankie whine for him wins out.

He curls his fingers into Frankie’s hair and pulls him off.

“Let me--please, let me fuck your mouth," he says.

“Oh fuck, please,” Frankie whines. “Please—”

Joel cradles the back of Frankie's head as he stands, taking a moment to admire him, the dim lamplight washing over Frankie's golden skin and sparkling in his midnight eyes. It strikes Joel, then, just how much he trusts Frankie.

"You'd tell me if you weren't okay, right?" Joel murmurs, setting his need aside for a moment because he needs Frankie to know it's a two-way street.

“Yeah, of course,” Frankie says after a beat, the last word catching in his throat.

Joel lets Frankie pull his jeans and boxers to the floor, and Frankie explores the back of his thighs and ass, squeezing as he takes Joel into his mouth again. His keeps his movements slow and steady, fighting the familiar pulse in his cock.

“Look at me,” Joel commands, and Frankie obeys.

Frankie drools around him, swirling his tongue around the head and sliding his own hand down to palm himself as Joel thrusts his hips back and forth. The noises coming from Frankie’s mouth alone are enough to make Joel come.

“Where?” Joel asks through gritted teeth.

Frankie grips the back of Joel’s thighs and sucks, and it’s over.

“Oh—fuck, baby, good—fucking—boy,” Joel snarls as he empties down Frankie’s throat, and Frankie swallows and swallows, stroking himself frantically through his jeans.

Joel runs his fingers through Frankie’s hair when he pulls of off of him, cupping his cheeks and brushing his thumbs over his jaw. It's like that first kiss all over again--there's such profound relief Joel has to fight back tears. It doesn't matter that he's new to this--it's all so right because it's Frankie.

“Fuck,” Joel sighs, helping Frankie to his feet. “That was—that was so fucking good.”

He licks his way into Frankie’s mouth and savors the hot, salty-sweet taste of himself on Frankie’s tongue. He can't stop himself from kissing him--doesn't want to stop himself.

The sleepy, slow rush of oxytocin clouds his brain, and the only thing he can think about is touching Frankie, too.

“Now you,” he murmurs against Frankie’s mouth, tugging him back toward the bedroom. He follows without protest.

Joel kisses Frankie’s collarbone as he lays him down, the instinct to care for him taking over just like it had for anyone else he'd taken to bed. His hand brushes over Frankie’s impossibly hard cock in his jeans, and the younger man bucks into his touch.

“Shh,” Joel murmurs as he unbuckles Frankie’s belt. “I got you.”

His nerves catch up with him some just as Frankie scrambles to help with the zipper—Joel’s never been quite this close to a cock that isn’t his own. It’s only after Frankie says “Joel?” in a gravelly voice that he realizes he’s staring.

It’s not as if he hadn’t seen Frankie’s dick before—he’d seen it plenty just a week ago. But there’s no barrier now, no way to distract him with your pussy or mouth if Joel’s no good at this.

What if he’s no good at this?

“I’m—guess I’m a little nervous,” he admits reluctantly.

“I don’t wanna pressure you into anything,” Frankie says, pushing himself up on his elbows, but Joel shakes his head.

“I want to,” he says. “Just don’t know what I’m doin’. And I usually...”

"You're usually in charge."

"Somethin' like that," Joel says.

Frankie cocks his head and gives him an encouraging smile. “Let me help,” he says, his voice deepening with desire. “Come lay next to me.”

It’s easier this way, propped on his elbow and looking down at Frankie’s eager face. Joel presses a soft kiss to Frankie's lips, whose busy wrapping his hand around Joel’s, guiding him to his cock.

“Huh,” Joel says as Frankie pulls back his foreskin, precome pouring from him and leaking over Joel’s hand.

“What?” Frankie asks with a moan as Joel gives an experimental pump of his fist. It's not much different than his own, other than his foreskin making things move a bit more smoothly.

It's pretty, veined and thick and curved a little to the right.

“Nothin’,” he sighs. “Just…so fuckin’ hard for me.”

“Yeah,” Frankie whispers. “Oh, god, yeah, just like that. See? You’re already so fucking—good—” Joel preens at the praise, his confidence building by the second.

He learns quickly that Frankie is a responsive lover. He lets out whimpers and mewls that make even Joel blush as he bucks his hips into Joel’s fist. And when Joel lets his hand fall to his balls, toying with them to keep this going for a little while longer, Frankie gasps so loudly Joel chuckles in response.

“Yeah?” He asks, and Frankie shoves his tongue into Joel’s mouth with a long moan. Joel’s courage grows and grows with every inhuman sound he pulls from Frankie’s throat.

“Let me taste you,” Joel whispers.

It seems to take every bit of willpower Frankie has to grab Joel’s wrist and stop him with a shaky hand. “I—I’m about to come,” he says, and Joel smirks, his chest swelling.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, and before he can think too much, he's giving Frankie's thick head long, curious licks. Despite his promise of swiftness, he lingers, dragging his tongue down the back. Frankie shivers underneath him, cursing and tugging at Joel’s hair.

“I’m—I’m—”

Joel abandons his exploration in favor of crashing his lips against Frankie’s as he comes, fucking into Joel’s fist, slippery with spit and precome. “That’s it,” Joel murmurs against his mouth. “Good boy, come all over yourself, come all over my fuckin’ hand, good boy—”

Frankie's cock pulses and contracts, warm and sticky come covering Joel’s hand. For a moment the only sounds in the room are Frankie’s whimpers and Joel’s hushed, soothing words.

Joel remembers the way Frankie drank him down, and he lifts his hand, licking cautiously and finding that Frankie tastes like heaven. The other man groans as Joel licks his hand clean and at the devilish smile when he finishes.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Frankie says after a pause. “And you were worried you weren’t gonna be any good. You're so sexy.”

Joel shrugs in an attempt at humility, but Frankie sees through it and gives him a playful shove. They lay there a while, catching their breath and talking, and eventually, Joel summons the energy to grab the closest dirty t-shirt from the floor to clean the both of them up.

“No warm towel this time?” Frankie asks with mock hurt.

“Birthdays only,” Joel says, and Frankie laughs.

God, he really likes making him laugh.

It shouldn’t be this easy, letting this long-dormant part of himself breathe.

There’s still a lot to think about and talk about, but for now, he just turns on a shitty movie and smiles as Frankie falls asleep with his nose buried in Joel's hair.

He thinks, maybe, he won't be so lonely from now on.

thank you for reading! comments, reblogs, etc are all so, so appreciated!

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller #frankie morales

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