summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.
➥ Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, violence, kidnapping, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, housewife kink, cop!Peter
all of my writing explores dark themes such as non-consent, dubious-consent, and a/b/o subjects. if any of this offends you, this has been your warning!
jack abbot who does the hand comparison thing and thinks it's real cute when you get all shy and squirmy when he folds his knuckles over the tips of your fingers. jack abbot who jokingly rests his arm on top of your head and laughs when you swat him away and huff about it. jack abbot who sees the way you get quiet afterwards because he's pressed that special button in your brain that makes your mind go blank, all those smart thoughts of yours replaced with carnal desire instead.
jack abbot who tries really fucking hard to indulge you every time you climb up in his lap and try to ride him, acting all confident as you sink down onto his thick cock and start to roll your hips. he puts his wide hands on your waist to try and guide you, to set the rough rhythm he knows you like best.
jack abbot who encourages you the whole time with a gentle voice, saying, "there you go, angel. doing so good for me. takin' it all, huh? yeah, that's it."
he lets you do your best, his hand quickly becoming more than than simply guidance as he maneuvers you himself, a pretty little doll for him to use.
you'll try to get yourself off for hours if he'd let you, but he never does. he only indulges you up until your moans turn to whimpers and then to straight up whines. cause jack knows you'll never be able to give yourself what you need. he's just too big for you. so deep inside, filling you up so full that you can't move fast enough, never able to make it feel as good as he can.
but it's okay, because that's what he's here for. he smiles up at you all sweet like and ask, "you getting tired, pretty girl?"
and the moment you nod he's turning you over, hand splayed wide on the small of your back to keep his length fully inside you. jack situates himself so he's right between your spread legs, his hips grinding against yours. he lays his whole body weight on top of you, making you feel all warm and small and smothered in the very best ways.
jack abbot who laughs when he wraps those big, strong biceps around your head and smushes you between them, delighting in the excited little squeal you give in response. he fucks you just like that, holding you in his embrace, so close he can feel your heart beating fast against his sternum.
his belly is soft, pressing into yours as he ruts his cock into your syrupy heat. you can feel and smell and see nothing but him, engulfed in all his safety. the graying curls at the base of his cock grow slick with your arousal, providing just enough friction against your clit that it only takes minutes before your walls clench around him.
jack abbot who talks you through it each and every time. who presses tender kisses against your cheeks and nose and forehead and whispers, "yeah, that feel good, baby? there you go. that's better, hm? just needed a little help. s'okay. i've got you. feel how deep i am? squeezin' me so tight."
he pumps you full of cum and stays inside of you until his cock softens in the mess he's made, giving a last few slow, deep strokes before he finally pulls out.
jack abbot who holds you in his arms and smiles to himself when you lay your head on his chest and start snoring a few short minutes later, sleepy and sated and satisfied.
summary: You love being part of the community of Jackson. But when you try to learn how to defend it, one humiliating accident makes you realize just how useless you feel with a gun in your hands.
smut MDNI 18+ shooting instructor!joel, Jackson!joel, baker!reader, gardener!reader, jack of all trades kinda reader, grumpy!joel, insecure!reader, biggggg joel miller, size kink, enemies to lovers, grinding, kissing, dirty talk (as always), f!receiving oral, fingering, pinv, missionary, outdoor smut, mean to sweet joel miller, some pussy pronouns used, irresponsible gun handling, nightmares, age gap mentioned but not specified, joel calls reader lots of pet names, tiniest bit of brat taming ||
a/n: guys I can't even lie this was inspired by the song ill make a man out of you from mulan....enjoy!!!
wc: 11k
The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.
But this morning was far from beautiful.
You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.
Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.
Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.
But still.
There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.
But you sure as shit were terrible at it.
Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.
Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.
It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.
Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.
But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.
He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.
“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”
“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”
“That ain’t a bet.”
“It is if I’m right.”
“You’re not right.”
“Two ration cards says I am.”
“For Maisie?”
“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"
The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.
“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”
But you'd turned without lowering your gun.
Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.
A loud sound cracked through the clearing.
It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.
Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.
For one second, no one moved.
Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”
Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.
The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"
"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.
More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.
"Give me that."
You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.
You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.
Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.
Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"
Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.
“Go.”
You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.
“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”
You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.
You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?
“I—”
“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”
You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.
For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.
That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.
Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.
Sometimes you saw Joel.
He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.
He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.
But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.
You stopped hiding.
The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.
“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.
Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”
Joel said nothing.
You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.
Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"
You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.
"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."
Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”
“No,” Joel said stiffly.
“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”
“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.
“You always have work.”
“Funny how that happens.”
You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”
You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.
Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”
You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.
“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.
Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.
Because fuck him.
Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.
You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”
Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.
"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.
You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.
Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.
Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.
And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.
Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”
And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.
You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.
But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.
It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.
A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.
You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.
But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.
You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.
But you couldn't shoot.
In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.
Even Joel Miller.
He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.
So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.
You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.
On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.
You stared at it for a moment.
Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.
Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.
As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.
It made your boots sound so loud on the road.
When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.
Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.
You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.
"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.
He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"
In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.
You stared at him for a long, long moment.
He just stared back.
The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.
Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.
"Kid, I don't know what yer—"
"Shut up."
Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.
"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.
"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."
His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.
When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.
Go on then.
"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."
"Never said—"
"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."
Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.
"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."
"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"
"No."
Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.
"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."
There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.
"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"
"Nope."
He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:
"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."
You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.
"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."
Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.
He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.
"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.
You nodded.
"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."
You nodded again, and then—
"Joel?"
He turned.
"I um... I promise I won't let you down."
He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.
He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."
The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.
He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.
It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.
You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.
Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.
“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”
You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.
“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”
"I know, Joel."
"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.
"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.
"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."
"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.
"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"
You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.
“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”
You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.
“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”
You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.
He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.
"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."
You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.
“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."
Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.
"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"
"—am not—"
You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.
"Now—"
You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.
“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”
"Joel—" you protested.
"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”
You sucked in a shallow breath.
He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”
You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.
His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."
You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.
"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.
When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.
Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.
The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.
You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.
“Shit—”
“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.
"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.
“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”
You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.
As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.
But…you didn't.
You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.
He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.
"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"
You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.
"You're welcome." he whispered.
Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.
He was so warm.
Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.
He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.
His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.
Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.
His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.
Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.
How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.
You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.
“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.
He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.
Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.
“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”
Your nails bit into the back of his neck.
“Joel—”
“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”
You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.
“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”
“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”
"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.
Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.
"Oh!"
He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.
“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”
"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.
"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"
"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.
His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.
“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”
You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."
He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."
The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.
"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"
“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”
You blinked up at him.
"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.
"I mean—you—"
He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.
"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"
Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.
His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.
"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."
"Yeah, you were." you pouted.
“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”
“Then don’t,” you whispered.
"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"
Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.
“Truth?” you offered.
He nodded quietly.
Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.
"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.
His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.
"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"
He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.
“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.
His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.
“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”
You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.
The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.
You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.
“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”
He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.
He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.
Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.
“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”
You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.
As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.
“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.
His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.
Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.
“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”
Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.
"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."
Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.
He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.
He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.
"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.
"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.
"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.
"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.
“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”
“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”
He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”
Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.
“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”
"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.
"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"
"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."
He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.
"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."
"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"
It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.
Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.
When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.
Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.
He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.
Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.
“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”
He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.
You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.
“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”
You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”
You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.
“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”
Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”
He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.
“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”
Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.
You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.
“Don’t think so.”
He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.
“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.
He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”
You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”
“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”
He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.
“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”
You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.
What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.
“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.
He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.
“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”
Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.
His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.
“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”
Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”
“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”
Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.
“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”
One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."
“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.
“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”
Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.
Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.
“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”
“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”
He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”
He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.
His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.
The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.
“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”
You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.
“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”
“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”
“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”
Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.
“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.
He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.
“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”
“Jooooel,” you whined.
But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.
“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”
“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”
“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”
He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.
“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”
You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.
“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”
“So good,” you murmured between moans.
It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.
“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”
You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.
“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”
You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.
“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”
He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.
Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.
Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.
Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.
“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”
His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.
Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.
For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.
Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.
The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.
You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.
"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.
He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.
The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.
“Chilly?”
“Only a little.”
He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.
You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.
"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.
"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."
He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.
You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.
Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”
You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”
His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.
Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.
“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.
You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.
"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."
He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.
"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."
He smiled crookedly, "I was too."
You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."
He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."
You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.
THIS WAS ABSOLUTE CINEMA!!!! 🤩💛✨ I love love love loooved reading every word of this masterpiece!! the reader was so precious and grumpy bossy joel becoming putty in her hands (kinda) made my heart completely melt!!! 🫠🔥
making out with jack and he has to keep reminding you to slow down…
MDNI 18+
based of this perfect ask from my sexy hot mootie 🫶🏽
Jacks got you perched on his lap on his couch, his big hands resting on your hips, slowly guiding them back and forth on his bulky thighs. Your arms are draped over his shoulders, tangling in the curls that rest at the nape of his neck.
You’ve been making out on his couch for about a half hour now, and it’s agonizing. You’re sure if you were to get up there’d be a wet splotch on his jeans from how wet you are.
But every time you try to speed things up he’s slowing you down again. Both of your chins slick with saliva, you move your lips quicker against his, pushing your head forward to get impossibly closer.
But he’s raising a big rough hand to your chin, pinching it between his fingers and manually slowing down your movements. You can feel the sleazy smirk he’s wearing as you whine and your hips buck up once more, his hand finally sliding off your face back down your body.
“Stop whinin’” he’s growling roughly from the time his voice has been idle it’s gone a little raspy, “got all the time we want, promise I’m gonna make you feel good, just wanna kiss on you a little” he’s whispering against your mouth before sloppily licking his own saliva off your chin and shoving it back into your mouth with his tongue.
Every time you speed up, even if you don’t notice it, he’s grabbing you and easing your jaw, pulling it down as he licks into your mouth, and slowly pushing it back up to connect with his own lips to yours, setting a speed, a rhythm. He’s nodding when you finally catch onto the speed he’s content with “theeree ya’ go” you can feel his teeth against your lips when he smiles and lets out a little “you’re learning now hm?”
And you’re just nodding and whimpering, hips grinding harder against his jeans.
→ warnings: pope cody x f!reader, 1.5k wc, fluff, angst, small sexual themes, nicknames [princess, baby], probably ooc pope - I’ve never written for him and I'm rusty with writing as well, a little manipulative!pope.
→ a/n: i havent written in FOREVER and idk why but i got a small brust of inspo to write for pope because im in a very shawn hatosy era of my life and i just started animal kingdom (so if he's a lil out of character that's why) and have become obsessed with him.
part two! | part three!
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who is still deeply deeply in love with you and regrets every day since that he let Smurf weasel her way between you two and break you up before he got locked up.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who thinks about you every hour, every second he is locked up in folsom and dreams of you every night he falls asleep in his cold cramped cell. He’s written you countless letters about how he misses you, how much he still loves you, and how you’re all he needs. Countless letters he never sent but also never threw out.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who asks his brothers about you the second he's out. He tries his best to not scowl when he’s told that you have got a new guy you’ve been hanging around.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who remembers your whole routine down to the exact minute from before he went away. He’s relieved to find out it hasn’t changed much. He spends a few days simply watching you, He’s never been more grateful for tinted windows. Except maybe for that night he snuck you out when the two of you were teenagers and he took you down to the beach.
Pope’s so lost in the memory of your first time that the breath nearly gets knocked out of his chest when he catches sight of you again. You were walking out of your apartment building to head to work but you looked just as beautiful as the day he went away. If not more beautiful, he has to stop himself from jumping out and just grabbing you and kissing you senseless.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who creates an opportunity to “run” into you at the grocery store.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who acts civil and sweet when you bump into each other, trying his hardest to ignore the sharp pain deep in his chest when he asks how you’ve been and you bring up your new boyfriend.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who tells you about him getting out early on good behavior and about Julia. He doesn’t really know why he says it, you were just always such an easy person for him to talk to he can’t help it.
It's well worth it however when you run your soft hand from his shoulder down his arm, lightly squeezing his bicep in an attempt to comfort him. Your voice drips in a softness that makes a shiver run down his spine at the familiarness of it all as you coo at him. “Oh my god andrew, I’m so sorry”
His hands itch so bad to smooth away the furrow in your brow and wipe away the tears he can see slowly start slipping down your cheeks, that he has to stuff them in his pockets to stop himself.
He even tells you about her kid who’s staying in his old bedroom, he finds a sick sort of satisfaction knowing you still care about him when you immediately ask him where he’s staying then.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who keeps creating opportunities to run into you now that he’s back home. At your gym, At the beach, At the laundry mat, At the mall, Just about anywhere he possibly can.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who snakes his way back into your life under the guise of friendship and comfort, you were the only other person besides his family who knew all about Julia. You were her best friend when the three of you were younger after all. Pope thinks he likes getting to talk to you about her and reminisce, he doesn't get to do that at home.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who continues to stalk you and collects little details about your new boyfriend until he has enough. Pope finds himself fighting the urge to punch the man in the face every time he watches him touch you let alone kiss you, resorting to clenching his fist and looking away until he hears you tell him bye and the strain in his heart subsides.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who breaks into your boyfriend's apartment. Dragging the bastard out of bed and waking him up with pointing a gun to his forehead. Threatening him to stay away from you, Pope tells him that he’s gonna leave you and oceanside tonight unless he wants his brain splattered across his expensive apartment's carpet.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who you go crying to when your boyfriend just up and breaks up with you without reason. Calling him that morning crying your eyes out and asking him to come over through your soft sniffles. Collapsing into his arms the second you open the door — “It’s okay princess, i’m here, I'm here you’ll be okay” he whispers as he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, trying to suppress the smirk blooming on his face.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who continues to be there for you as a “friend” as you try dating again, though he hates it and secretly threatens those men as well to dump you or ghost you. You’re his after all and he’s not letting you go this time, he’ll be damned if he makes that mistake again.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody that tells you — “No, there is nothing wrong with you baby” when you ask him what’s so wrong with you that no guy wants to date you. Who pulls you into his lap, nuzzling his nose in the crook of your neck and lightly kissing up it, causing you to whine softly. The sound shoots straight to Pope's cock.
His hands slip under the sleep shirt you had on when he came over, an old shirt he’s 80% sure is his from high school you stole years ago. His big hands rub over your back before sliding down as he squeezes your waist. Letting you cling to him and bury your face in his chest as your tears stain his shirt. If you happen to feel the bulge in his jeans when your hips wiggle to get comfortable you don't say a thing about it.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who comes to your doorstep after a job gone bad and lets you stand between his spread thighs, your tender hands cleaning and patching him up. He doesn't even care if you lecture him the whole time. Going on about how he really shouldn't be doing jobs, he just got out of jail for gods sake and if he’s gotta help then he should at least care about his safety. He finds himself smiling softly down at you the whole time, his breath hitching however when you finish up and press your lips to each of his bruised and bloody knuckles. “I won’t always be able to kiss it better Andy” you whisper against his curls as you thread your fingers through them when he pulls your body tight against him.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody that spends just about every cent he gets from jobs on you. Buying your groceries for you, paying for your rent when you whine about having to work overtime to cover it, buying you as many pretty dresses and sexy heels he can just to make you model them for him, leading to him buying you another shoe rack when your collection overflows your original one. Taking you out to nice dinners as an excuse to get you dolled up for him.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who spends just about every night at your apartment in your bed with your soft body wrapped around him, not caring how easily the lies slip off his tongue to Smurf about where he goes at night when she asks.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who is absolutely dumbfounded when you attempt to set him up with one of your friends. “What the fuck would you do that for princess?!” he growls out after coming back to yours from the stupid double date you had set up, his voice coming out a tad more raw and rough then he intended it to.
“You deserve a nice girl Andy, I just thought you’d like her, you didn't have to be such a dick about it and to her the whole time.” you groan out, an edge to your voice Pope hadn’t really heard sense the night he broke up with you. His body tenses at the memory of it, he shakes his head and lets out a scoff, throwing his hands up as he starts pacing back and forth in your kitchen. “What’s so wrong with that? Don’t you wanna be with somebody?” you ask, a little clueless as to what his whole aversion to dating is really about.
“I don’t want a nice girl! I don’t want to just date anybody, I want you!” the dam of his emotions breaking free as he stops in front of you and grabs ahold of your face. His voice cracking near the end as a small pout forms on his beautiful face. “I still love you princess…” he whispers softly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who’s heart feels like it’s about to either break all over again or jump out of his chest as the only reaction you let out is a small soft — “oh, andy”
→ a/n: if there’s anything misspelled or wrong thats cause i didnt really proofread. I left the end open ended because i lowkey want to write more for ex bf!pope but also couldn't tell if i should've made/wanted to make it an angst ending or a happy one. let me know if yall want a part 2 hopefully i can stay out of my writing block!!
→ warnings: pope cody x f!reader, 1.5k wc, fluff, angst, small sexual themes, nicknames [princess, baby], probably ooc pope - I’ve never written for him and I'm rusty with writing as well, a little manipulative!pope.
→ a/n: i havent written in FOREVER and idk why but i got a small brust of inspo to write for pope because im in a very shawn hatosy era of my life and i just started animal kingdom (so if he's a lil out of character that's why) and have become obsessed with him.
part two! | part three!
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who is still deeply deeply in love with you and regrets every day since that he let Smurf weasel her way between you two and break you up before he got locked up.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who thinks about you every hour, every second he is locked up in folsom and dreams of you every night he falls asleep in his cold cramped cell. He’s written you countless letters about how he misses you, how much he still loves you, and how you’re all he needs. Countless letters he never sent but also never threw out.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who asks his brothers about you the second he's out. He tries his best to not scowl when he’s told that you have got a new guy you’ve been hanging around.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who remembers your whole routine down to the exact minute from before he went away. He’s relieved to find out it hasn’t changed much. He spends a few days simply watching you, He’s never been more grateful for tinted windows. Except maybe for that night he snuck you out when the two of you were teenagers and he took you down to the beach.
Pope’s so lost in the memory of your first time that the breath nearly gets knocked out of his chest when he catches sight of you again. You were walking out of your apartment building to head to work but you looked just as beautiful as the day he went away. If not more beautiful, he has to stop himself from jumping out and just grabbing you and kissing you senseless.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who creates an opportunity to “run” into you at the grocery store.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who acts civil and sweet when you bump into each other, trying his hardest to ignore the sharp pain deep in his chest when he asks how you’ve been and you bring up your new boyfriend.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who tells you about him getting out early on good behavior and about Julia. He doesn’t really know why he says it, you were just always such an easy person for him to talk to he can’t help it.
It's well worth it however when you run your soft hand from his shoulder down his arm, lightly squeezing his bicep in an attempt to comfort him. Your voice drips in a softness that makes a shiver run down his spine at the familiarness of it all as you coo at him. “Oh my god andrew, I’m so sorry”
His hands itch so bad to smooth away the furrow in your brow and wipe away the tears he can see slowly start slipping down your cheeks, that he has to stuff them in his pockets to stop himself.
He even tells you about her kid who’s staying in his old bedroom, he finds a sick sort of satisfaction knowing you still care about him when you immediately ask him where he’s staying then.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who keeps creating opportunities to run into you now that he’s back home. At your gym, At the beach, At the laundry mat, At the mall, Just about anywhere he possibly can.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who snakes his way back into your life under the guise of friendship and comfort, you were the only other person besides his family who knew all about Julia. You were her best friend when the three of you were younger after all. Pope thinks he likes getting to talk to you about her and reminisce, he doesn't get to do that at home.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who continues to stalk you and collects little details about your new boyfriend until he has enough. Pope finds himself fighting the urge to punch the man in the face every time he watches him touch you let alone kiss you, resorting to clenching his fist and looking away until he hears you tell him bye and the strain in his heart subsides.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who breaks into your boyfriend's apartment. Dragging the bastard out of bed and waking him up with pointing a gun to his forehead. Threatening him to stay away from you, Pope tells him that he’s gonna leave you and oceanside tonight unless he wants his brain splattered across his expensive apartment's carpet.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who you go crying to when your boyfriend just up and breaks up with you without reason. Calling him that morning crying your eyes out and asking him to come over through your soft sniffles. Collapsing into his arms the second you open the door — “It’s okay princess, i’m here, I'm here you’ll be okay” he whispers as he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, trying to suppress the smirk blooming on his face.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who continues to be there for you as a “friend” as you try dating again, though he hates it and secretly threatens those men as well to dump you or ghost you. You’re his after all and he’s not letting you go this time, he’ll be damned if he makes that mistake again.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody that tells you — “No, there is nothing wrong with you baby” when you ask him what’s so wrong with you that no guy wants to date you. Who pulls you into his lap, nuzzling his nose in the crook of your neck and lightly kissing up it, causing you to whine softly. The sound shoots straight to Pope's cock.
His hands slip under the sleep shirt you had on when he came over, an old shirt he’s 80% sure is his from high school you stole years ago. His big hands rub over your back before sliding down as he squeezes your waist. Letting you cling to him and bury your face in his chest as your tears stain his shirt. If you happen to feel the bulge in his jeans when your hips wiggle to get comfortable you don't say a thing about it.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who comes to your doorstep after a job gone bad and lets you stand between his spread thighs, your tender hands cleaning and patching him up. He doesn't even care if you lecture him the whole time. Going on about how he really shouldn't be doing jobs, he just got out of jail for gods sake and if he’s gotta help then he should at least care about his safety. He finds himself smiling softly down at you the whole time, his breath hitching however when you finish up and press your lips to each of his bruised and bloody knuckles. “I won’t always be able to kiss it better Andy” you whisper against his curls as you thread your fingers through them when he pulls your body tight against him.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody that spends just about every cent he gets from jobs on you. Buying your groceries for you, paying for your rent when you whine about having to work overtime to cover it, buying you as many pretty dresses and sexy heels he can just to make you model them for him, leading to him buying you another shoe rack when your collection overflows your original one. Taking you out to nice dinners as an excuse to get you dolled up for him.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who spends just about every night at your apartment in your bed with your soft body wrapped around him, not caring how easily the lies slip off his tongue to Smurf about where he goes at night when she asks.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who is absolutely dumbfounded when you attempt to set him up with one of your friends. “What the fuck would you do that for princess?!” he growls out after coming back to yours from the stupid double date you had set up, his voice coming out a tad more raw and rough then he intended it to.
“You deserve a nice girl Andy, I just thought you’d like her, you didn't have to be such a dick about it and to her the whole time.” you groan out, an edge to your voice Pope hadn’t really heard sense the night he broke up with you. His body tenses at the memory of it, he shakes his head and lets out a scoff, throwing his hands up as he starts pacing back and forth in your kitchen. “What’s so wrong with that? Don’t you wanna be with somebody?” you ask, a little clueless as to what his whole aversion to dating is really about.
“I don’t want a nice girl! I don’t want to just date anybody, I want you!” the dam of his emotions breaking free as he stops in front of you and grabs ahold of your face. His voice cracking near the end as a small pout forms on his beautiful face. “I still love you princess…” he whispers softly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Ex Bf!Pope Cody who’s heart feels like it’s about to either break all over again or jump out of his chest as the only reaction you let out is a small soft — “oh, andy”
→ a/n: if there’s anything misspelled or wrong thats cause i didnt really proofread. I left the end open ended because i lowkey want to write more for ex bf!pope but also couldn't tell if i should've made/wanted to make it an angst ending or a happy one. let me know if yall want a part 2 hopefully i can stay out of my writing block!!
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Another day, another dream. They have stopped since the night Stuart didn't return. Dark wings around a swinging pendulum. Your father's old pocket watch ticking and ticking, thunderous as a summer storm.
The shadows of your restless nights nestle under your eyes. You mostly ignore your reflection, focusing only on specific parts as you put yourself together. Some cream scraped from the bottom of a pot across your cheeks and forehead; a chafe of dried lipstick on your lips.
You put the last pin in your hair as a knock comes at the front door. Mr. Shelby mentioned a car despite your insistence on the tram. He won't hear of it, he said. Stuart never much worried when you went out unless you weren't back to his expectations.
The man announces what you already know. He's come on behalf of Mr. Shelby. You introduce yourself. The man seems surprised by the courtesy but does the same. His name is Joseph and he's younger than you. You can tell. Likely no more than twenty two or three.
He shows you to a car. You like the leather trim and you tell him so. He says it's the boss' car but he might have one like it some day. The boss. Thomas Shelby.
You cradle your purse above your knees. You notice how Mary Lynn and old man Robert watch the car pass. It's much too polished for the council housing. Have they noticed your errant husband as well? And Mr. Shelby's visit?
The Garrison waits, not so desolate as the first day you went. You thank Joseph as he directs you inside and remains without. The bulbs are lit and there are no stragglers at the bar. But the place is still empty.
You slowly walk between the bar and the tables and take it all in. You're not sure this will be a bustling breakfast salon, not that you've ever had the luxury of eating in one. You simply think of those illustrated Parisians on the front of magazines with their pastries and coffee.
There's a clamour. You look for the source but cannot find it. Your turn as it gets closer. You nearly stumble as you avoid stepping on the little boy. A child with dark hair and suspenders. Perhaps three or four.
"Missus, can I have some tea?" He asks politely.
You stare down at him. How on earth did he get into this place? You smile as kindly as you can.
"Certainly, I'd love to make you some, though I've not any idea where to find a kettle, little sir." You reply.
"Sir? My name is Charlie." The 'ar' is more of an 'aw'. "Charlie Shelby!"
The sense clicks in your head. You nod and bend, offering your band. "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Shelby. I know your father."
"Everyone knows Papa. He's a mean man." He pipes up. He shakes your hand with his small one, taking only two of your fingers.
You blink in surprise at the remark. "Well, Mr. Shelby. I should like to find you that tea. Perhaps your mother could point me to the pot?"
"Mama is dead. She can't help no one." He says brightly. You're taken aback by the child's matter-of-fact tone.
"Apologies, and my condolences," you stand straight.
"There's a kitchen behind there!" He points at the bar. "Papa bought some new pans and knives. He took one away from me."
"Ah, thank you, Mr. Shelby." You clasp your hands. "Shall we find the tea then?"
"I'm not Mr. Shelby." He pouts.
"Sorry. Charles. Charlie." You correct yourself. He is head strong like his father. At least by your measure.
He spins and stomps ahead. “This way, missus.”
You follow, concerned about the unattended child. Especially in this bar. At least by his name, you know he’s not very lost.
He takes you into the kitchen and throws up his arms.
“Nice ‘n shiny. Papa had them all scrubbing and cleaning.” He proclaims.
“Ah,” you look around at the shining metal and polished wood. There’s large fridges at the very end of the kitchen and hanging utensils along the shelves. “I think I see a kettle.”
You go along the counter to the stove. You take the silver kettle and fill it with water. You put it on the burner and light the flame. Charlie is close by as he toys with a cupboard door.
“Papa was on the phone. He talks a lot.” He says. “Nanny told me go away.”
“Oh, that’s not very nice.” You say as you search for a pot or a cup. “Breakfast tea, sir?”
“But you’re nice. I’m happy I found you.”
You nod. You find a pot. Now for the leaves. You turn and wearily search the shelves of a doorless cupboard. There’s all sorts of seasoning in tins and jars.
“Well, it’s an honour to meet you too, Charles.” You say as gently nudge aside a box.
“Charlie!” A holler shakes you and you nearly drop the round tin of tea leaves. “Charlie!”
Heavy soles march through the bar. You look at the child. He grins.
“In here!” You call out.
You hear a huff and Mr. Shelby, the elder, appears in the doorway. He exhales and puts his hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket. “Charlie, you’ve gone and given the nanny a fright.”
“She didn’t want nun’ to do with me,” the boy harrumphs.
“We’re having tea, sir. Would you like some?”
Thomas looks at you then his son. “I wouldn’t mind tea.”
He crosses the kitchen and picks up the errant toddler. He holds him in one arm. “Did he demand it?”
“He asked nicely.” You assure Shelby as you measure by eye. “Didn’t you, Charles? When you’re done, I could even show you how to read the leaves.”
Mr. Shelby tilts his head and brow. You hesitate.
“Unless… you’d rather I not. Sorry. I forget…”
“You know how?” he wonders as Charlie bends up the front of his cap. He gently waves him away.
“My Aunt Genevieve showed me. She loved her tea. Had no bed but at least a hundred tea cups. She claimed one belonged to Queen Charlotte herself though I don’t know it’d survive so long.” You explain. “Forgive my rambling, sir.”
“It’s far more interesting than most of my men,” he says. “If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure you’d come. I thought you were rather reticent yesterday at the suggestion.”
“Intimidated, I think. I’ve cooked for one man for fifteen years. His mother on occasion and she never liked it much.” You take the shaking kettle off the stove and pour it into the pot.
“Well, it’s your menu, ma’am. Your dishes. You make the rules.” He says.
“Papa,” Charlie pokes at Thomas’ cheek. “Who’s the pretty lady?”
“She’s the new cook.” He pulls Charlie’s hand away, a pink spot left on his cheek.
“She’s the one you bought all the pretty dishes for.” Charlie says.
Shelby’s dark brows draw close. “Yes. She made that pie you gorged yourself on th’other night.”
“Mince is my favourite!” Charlie beams at you. “Are you going to make some more, missus?”
You smile. “Perhaps we might have some left over.”
“Do you make biscuits? I like biscuits and tea.” Charlie exclaims.
Thomas gives you a look. “Please…”
“Yes. Please can you make some biscuits, missus?” Charlie says.
“I can try… if I’ve the time?” You look at Mr. Shelby.
“I’m sure the customers wouldn’t mind some as well. We’ll set aside a few for you, Charlie.”
🖤
Mr. Shelby takes the boy away with his cup of tea. He leaves you to ‘sort the kitchen’; ‘your’ kitchen as he emphasized. You’re not sure where to begin.
You cautiously take stock of ingredients. Sausage, bacon, eggs, even blood pudding. Enough for a full breakfast. Bread enough, beans too. You can’t recall the last time you had enough for an English breakfast. Stuart often bemoaned the lack of bacon.
Shelby returns alone as you set out stations.
“Barmaids are here. They can help if you need.” He says as he nears and takes his half-emptied teacup. He swigs and looks into the bottom.
“How long until you expect customers?”
“Oh, we’ve a few waiting without. Do you think you can get started?” He prompts.
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”
“Nothing wrong with making them wait. It’ll be worth it.” He nears. “You said you read leaves?”
He puts his cup down. You grin.
“I’m probably not very good. Aunt Genevieve was… a character.” You shrug.
“Humour me.” He drawls.
You put a skillet on the burner and leave it there. You lean over the cup. You focus on it.
“A… pear.” You make the shape with your finger over the brim. Wealth… prosperity. Good business or a good union. Possibly a business partner?” You guess. “Though you might have quite a few already.”
He squints. He glances past you. “And yours?”
You peek behind you. Your cup is right beside the tin of leaves.
“Mr. Shelby, I should start cooking.”
“I’m curious,” he insists.
You relent and drink the last mouthful. You let the leaves settle. You see a kettle; death. You hesitate.
“Well, what do you see?” He asks.
You clear your throat. “It looks like a square? Contentment?” You lie. “Perhaps then I will find Stuart soon.”
He’s quiet. You don’t look at him. You put the cup aside and reach for his.
“I’ll be sure to rinse these.” You say.
“I will get Ruth to come help.” He assures, tapping his fingers. “That’s all you saw?”
“Yes. But… it’s just… leaves.”
“Mm. You have traveller in you?” He asks.
“Hm?” You look at him.
“Your aunt? Reading leaves? A collector? No bed.”
“I… people called her a witch, I think. I never believed them.” You shrug and turn back to the skillet.
“No, not a witch. A prophet,” he says.
You focus on the pan and all the food before you. He lingers, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter.
“Right then. S’pose it’s time,” he says.
-
You get lost in the thick of it. Oiled pans, spitting slabs of bacon, steaming beans. You send out plate after plate as the barmaids call for more and sweep in and out to help clear plates. A few of Shelby’s men have taken off their jackets and joined the effort.
The last order goes out. There’s nothing left. You’re about gone yourself. Worn down to the bone.
You gather the dirty pots and pans. Joseph, the same man who drove you, is at the sink scrubbing. He tells you not to help and calls over his cohort, Zachariah. They argue over who gets to scour the iron.
You’re tired but restless. You need to help. You go out into the bar room and help gather up empty plates with the barmaids, Ruth and Dierdre.
On your way back to the kitchen, your name comes from across the room. The stacks in your hands bobble.
“Eh, you don’t need to be doin’ all that,” Mr. Shelby crosses to you. “You’ve done enough.”
“Sir, I… I made the mess–”
“You made a wonderful meal for all these people,” he insists as he takes the plates. “You sit down and let yourself a break.”
He nods to the kitchen door. You push through and hold it open for him. He brings in the plates and puts them at the sink, warning Joseph not to spray his reluctant companion with the hose. They both straighten up and quiet down.
“Ma’am,” Shelby turns and grabs the stool from the back of the kitchen. “Go on, sit.”
He slaps the seat. You walk along the counter. “Mr. Shelby, I should help–”
“You’ve done what I’ve brought ye for.” He argues. He offers his hand. “Sit.”
You accept his help and climb up onto the stool. He squeezes your hand as you settle on the seat. He doesn’t let go right away, his fingertips grazing over your knuckles.
“I’ve secreted a few biscuits for Charlie,” he pats his jacket and whispers.
You scrunch your nose in amusement. “How nice of you. I could’ve made an extra batch.”
“Eh, a few might find their way to me,” he says.
You smile and nod, folding your hands together. You look around the kitchen as the men clean the dishes and the barmaids come in and out. You really should be helping.
Sitting there isn’t helping anyone. Not you or Mr. Shelby. Or… Stuart. You frown. You’d almost forgotten him.
“Ma’am?” Mr. Shelby intones.
You look at him, almost startled. “Sorry, I only… you’ve not heard anything?”
His lips part and he pauses before he answers. “Stuart? No. Not yet.” He hooks his fingers in his pockets. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as non/dubcon, violence and blood, death and graphic depictions of such, loss and grief, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: After an unexpected tragedy, you find yourself hiding from very dangerous men. (medieval AU)
Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Sergei Kravinoff
Note: thank you to @thezombieprostitute for planting the seed.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3
Love you all like Geralt loves silence. Take care. 💖
"You must let go," Rivia bends his knees as he perches on the other side of your mother's corpse.
You groan and stay as you are, slung over your mother, desperate and fraught. Another figure appears beside you, Kravinoff's hand resting on your sleeve. "We have prepared a burial. Proper for them."
Your eyes snap open. Kravinoff cooes as he reaches to pet your head. You shiver and snivel. You sit up and dab your nose. You stare at him, your hand still firmly on your mother.
"This ruin... we cannot tend to it all but we can send them off well," he assures.
You search his face above the rag still tied across the bridge of his nose. Your eyes dart beyond him. You cough as the taste of death sticks to your tongue.
"My sister... she was at the river."
He nods and glances at the other man. He swallows then offers his hand. His tunic is gone, he wears his undershirt, his forearms dirty, his nails too, and his skin shining with sweat.
"Let us go find her as Rivia gets your parents to ground. See them easy into the afterlife," he coaxes.
You heave but fight back the tears. You bob your head frantically. If you speak, you will shatter.
You look at your mother. You kiss your palms and press it to her cheek. You bid her a last silent farewell. Rest well.
You take his hand. He helps you up. You move as if walking in sludge. Your ankle throbs and the gash beneath the wrapping sears. You stop beside your father and repeat the gesture. He could be a strict man but he meant well.
The man beside you is patient. When at past you set towards the river, he settles a hand on his pommel and another on your arm. He keeps a form hold though you sense his caution is not for you but what, or who, might lurk.
You stumble at the sight of the hollowed out log across the dirt. You brace yourself and his grips tightens.
"Are you good to walk further?"
You swallow and bob your head. You wriggle free of his grasp. If he wanted to restrain you, he would.
Agnes, Lorraine, and Marie float face down in the water. Marguerita is half in and half out. All stripped to their flesh. And other girls in the dirt, rivets of their struggle left scratched into the ground; Lissa, Bernice, Cat.... the names deepen the pit in your soul.
You shake your head and grab onto Kravinoff as he nears. He stills. He looks up and down the shore. You sob.
"She isn't here. Where is she? Genevieve..." you babble.
He takes a breath, "perhaps she was caught in a tide."
"Perhaps," you murmur. "I... I... left her. I left all of them."
He pats your hand gently. "You did as any in the throws of fear might. I've seen countless soldiers do the same."
"My sister," you let go and smother your face. "I've abandoned you."
"Oh, shhh, lamb," Kravinoff puts a thick arm around your shoulders and draws you again him. "Let the grief run its course but do not let it consume you. You could not have save her if you stayed."
You bury your face against him. He rubs your back as you quiver with unfettered tears. He rocks you as the flow of the river fills the desolation.
"Come, Rivia would not be left to fill the grave alone," he bids and turns you back.
You let him take you away from the carnage at the river. You lean into him more and more as your ankle pulses. As you come upon Rivia, he stands above a deep hole. His linen undershirt is damp and dirty.
"They are settled," he nods into the ditch.
Kravinoff squeezes you then lets you go. He nears the other man and takes the second shovel with the singed end. They must've found them in the ruin.
You numbly lower yourself to the ground and cross your legs. You sit and watch them dump on the first few scoops. You clasp your hands over your chest.
"Thank you," you sniffle. "Thank you for taking care of them."
⚔️
The world dims as you ride away from the village. The trees, the sky, the dwindling sunlight haze together as a cacophony blares in your head. You sort through the threads of your mind; every memory, every word, every lost moment.
You rock with the horse's motion. You sit sideways at the front of the saddle, cradled between Kravinoff's arms as he keeps the reins in hand. You lean into him, too weak to do much more than slump and shake.
His voice rolls through his chest. To you it is thunder, breaking the tense lull before the storm. You jerk against him as he speaks.
"A tavern round this way," he says. "Mulled ale, hot bath. I think we're in order."
"For a pretty coin," Rivia argues.
"Mm, my coin to spend. You're welcome to make camp," Kravinoff shrugs.
The other man grumbles. Your eyes meet as he peers over. You cannot read his expression.
They ride on, plodding the worn dirt path, and you see the wood and waddle structure ahead. There is a low fence penning in some ponies and a barrel by the door signaling the nature of the place. Kravinoff whistles as he brings his steed to a halt.
The front door opens. A heavy-set man with rosy cheeks appears, his hair greasy with sweat. He looks between the soldiers on their warhorses. You shy away.
"A room," Kravinoff demands, "and stable."
The man pants, "yes, noble gentlemen."
Rivia scoffs and drops down heavily. The chubby man hesitates at the other man's height. The white-haired soldier whispers to his horse before handing over the reins.
Kravinoff slides off easily and brings you down by your waist. The rotund man eyes you as he accepts the second horse's lead. He drags them away as the darker horse snaps at his sleeve.
Rivia is already at the door. He waits for you. You limp next to Kravinoff and he takes mindful steps in tandem with yours. Through the door, the din greets you in a deafening roar.
Kravinoff digs in his purse and takes out some silver coin. He approaches the man on the stool, chewing licorice root loudly. "You the keep?"
"S'pose it's what they call me," the man with his dingy white hair chuffs, arms crossed. "How many?"
"One room," Kravinoff answers. "One night."
The man scoffs, "we don't host whores."
Your eyes wander to the Rivia, his own set across the tavern, towards the table of blustering voices and sloshing steins. His lids narrow and his forehead creases. The twitch of his fingers bring your gaze down.
"She isn't one," Kravinoff bristles. "Do you want your coin or not?"
The man uncrosses and arm and holds out his palm. The soldier slaps the coin into it.
"Food?" The keep offers.
"And hot water," he adds another coin.
"Shortly," he promises and jabs his thumb over his shoulder. "Up, left, third door."
Neither of your escorts thank him. You don't pay mind to much. You only want to be still.
They take you upstairs to the aforementioned room. Kravinoff sits you on the stiff wooden bench and sighs. The other man paces, checking the window, testing the boards.
Rivia spins and his eyes flash at you. You wince. You clutch your hands tight and watch him cross the room. He stops before you. He reaches beneath his armour. He takes out braided twine with a carved wooden hoop emblem. You gasp.
"I nearly forgot. It was near... your mother. I thought perhaps--"
You seize it and turn it over in your hand. It is the same medallion you made her all those moons ago. You put it to your heart.
"Thank you," you look up at him. His cheek dimples and he tilts his head.
"We've all lost people. It's never easy," he says. He lingers, silent for a moment, then backs off.
"I will go find some food," he proclaims. Kravinoff only grunts in return, thoughtfully chewing his thumb.
You admire the medallion. It isn't much but it's one piece of what once was. You wipe your wet eyes with your knuckle.
"You need shoes. A cloak of your own," he says at last.
"Sir, I..." you begin. You have nothing and no one else but these rough men. How peculiar a fate.
"A better dress too."
You look down. Your skirt is frayed and stained, your bodice slackening from the tear in the back, a barely escaped end rent into the fabric. Your blood or someone else's blotches the hem.
The chamber stills again. No sound, nothing but his footsteps. The door opens. The smell of broth brings a glaze of saliva onto your tongue. Your hunger rises to combat your grief.
The larger man has a loaf under his arm and a small pot in hand, swinging from a handle. He hangs it in the small heart of the room and kneels to light the fire. Kravinoff opens the window to let in the cool night.
"It won't be long," Rivia steps back and pats his stomach. "I thought I'd have more than a soldier's fare so close to home."
"Can you glut that pit you call a stomach?" Kravinoff returns. The other man scowls. "Watch the lamb."
At once, he heads for the door. The white-haired soldier follows him. "Aren't you hungry?"
"I can wait. There are things to be done."
"Leaving me with your mess again?"
"I won't be long," Kravinoff turns back and pats his chest. "Rivia, I don't think she can do much but if you must, keep your knife close."
Rivia growls and retreats. He huffs and his breath rushes out his nostrils like a tempest. He stands by the hearth, hand on his hip, and watches the pot.
You stare at him in turn. Your stomach roils with neglect and something deeper. Despair.
"I am sorry, sir," you eke out. "That you should have to mind me. If it could be helped, I think I might go back and join my family--"
"You shouldn't say such things," he reprimands.
"There is no place for me now."
He hums but doesn't argue. He keeps his hand on the stone, his other thumb hooked into his belt. He is such a big man. Burly, his features chiseled, chin clefted, cheeks stubbled. And his bright eyes stun you each time you see them.
A knock comes at the door. He answers it. Two servants enter with pales of steaming water. They dump them into the dented tub near the mattress on the floor. The air dampens around you.
The door is left open as the servants flit back and forth with their buckets. You stay as you are. Rivia doesn't move either. When the door shuts, you are trapped.
He clears his throat, "you should wash, lest your foot worsen."
You look down and wiggle your filthy toes. You do not want to disobey, or even slight him for the courtesy, and yet, to take him up would mean...
He turns his back to you and lumbers to the mattress. He lowers himself with a grunt. He bends his leg and unlaces his boots, then the other. He removes his leather armour and lays his belt and sword on the floor next to the bed. He stretches out before rolling onto his side.
"Wake me when the pot has heated," he bids. "And do not let that tub go cold."
You stare at his curled shoulders. A man like that can never look small, even in recline.
You get up and near the tub. The steam is soothing. You lift your dress and look at the bed again. He hasn't moved. You leave the dirty wool on the floor and step over the side. It is so hot your eyes water and yet, you welcome the scourge. You ease into the depth and take the cloth hung over the brim. You look at your hands and start to scrub your nail beds. You're filthy. You're tainted. You want to wipe away every piece of yourself.
The task of cleaning off the last two days takes over. You don't think, you just scour your skin. You stand and scrub your skin, scratching, wanting to gnaw at yourself.
As you twist to wipe the back of your legs, your breath catches. The water stirs around you noisily and your eyes cling to Rivia's as he watches you. You don't know what to say as his pupils grow bigger and darker. You shudder and turn your back to him, clenching the rag tight. You lower yourself back into the water to hide.
Warnings: this fic contains suggestions of criminal activity and neglect. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Walter Marshall + “Let me kiss you. Just once.”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
The pounding on the door startles you away. The whole trailer shakes with the force of it. Your head spins as your eyes snap open and reality slowly pieces together, though not all of it fits.
You’re on the fold out bed that converts to a table in daylight. Your brother sleeps on the couch and your dad gets the only private room in the cluttered trailer. You sit up groggily as the hammering knock comes again; at the top right of the door.
“Police, open up. Now!” A voice barks.
Your feet tangle in the blanket as you scramble to obey. You nearly tip over the edge as you leave the ratty comforter hanging down to the floor. You garble dumbly as you try to straighten up yourself and your vision.
You look around. The couch is empty and your dad’s bedroom door is shut.
“Dad? Ricky?” You call out. Your voice is crisp not only from sleep but disuse. You can’t remember the last time you spoke so loudly. “Hey!”
No answer.
You stagger into the door and lean on it as you slide back the latch. It quakes as once more a fist batters at it. “PD. Open up now. Show your hands.”
You twist the latch and the door pushes open from the other side. You stumble as a light shines in your face. “Hands up. Show your hands. Palm out.”
You shakily do as you’re told. You don’t know what’s going on. The police come around but your dad or brother deals with them. You usually just hide. That’s all you ever do.
“Against the wall.” An officer grabs you and spins you into the closest wall. You whimper as he pins you there with his knee against the back of your legs and his elbow in your back.
Other shadows march in, aiming lights and barrels all around. The strip the foldout bed and flip it up roughly. You quiver as you try to see over your shoulder.
“Head forward.” The officer commands. “I’m searching the suspect in custody.”
You whine. Suspect?
The man gruffly grabs at your, hooking his arm around to claw at your shirt, down your chest across the back of your shoulders, down your sides. He kicks your feet apart as he searches for pockets and anything hidden in your stained jogging pants. Just three days of your sweat.
“She’s not one of them,” Another officer says. “Take it easy.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s fucking one or related,” another responds. “She’ll be questioned but no need for all tht.”
You shy away at the former suggestion. You would never. As pathetic as you are, still living with your family, you’re not that. No, no man ever wanted that from you.
“Grinton,” a taller officer approaches, “join in. I’ll take the witness.”
“Fine.”
“You find anything good, you’re welcome,” the second officer says. “I’ll write the commendation myself.”
“Pfft, whatever,” the man pushes off you and you whimper again. “Fucking desk jockeys.”
The first officer stomps away as the other lingers. “Hey, miss, let’s step outside, okay?”
He gestures you to the door aas the police continue to ransack the trailer. You descend the three steps to the ground in your bare feet. The officer follows you out.
“Come on, we’ll go by my vehicle.” He nudges you gently.
You nod and follow his thick finger to a big grey truck. He walks you over and directs you to stand by the side of the hood. He holsters his gun and goes to the back passenger door. He opens it to grab something then returns to you.
“Water,” he offers the bottle. You take it and murmur, “thank you.”
“No problem. Not a very peaceful awakening, huh?” He asks.
You shake your head as you try to uncap the water. Your mouth is gritty and dry. You can’t get a grip as you tremble. Your eyes drift over to the officers streaming in and out of the trailer.
“I’m Detective Marshall. I’m leading this investigation. You’re not under arrest right now but I am going to question you.” He pauses and watches you struggle with the bottle. He opens his hand. “Here.”
You hand it over. He cracks the seal easily and hands it back with the cap loosened. You take it off and drink slowly.
“I’m going to tell you your rights. Make sure you listen, miss.”
You nod and put the cap back on, hands unsteadily twisting it.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions.” He stops and watches you. You nod again. “You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.
“Knowing your rights, are you willing to answer my questions?”
You rock slightly then stop yourself. You don’t understand. Sure, your dad and Ricky get into some shady stuff; pot, drinking, and their scummy friends, but they never hurt no one.
“Uh, yes. I understand. Um, but I don’t know anything.” You utter.
He leans in, a curl falling forward. He’s tall and wide. He wears a black shirt under a black jacket, a holster across his shoulders and on his belt. His badge hangs around his neck. His blue eyes shine in the moonlight.
“Miss, you’re going to have to speak up. There’s a lot going on right now.” He girds.
“Ahm, sorry,” you clear your throat. “Um, um,” you squeeze the bottle and the lid pops off, water splashing out.
“Alright, miss, let’s get you sitting down.” He offers.
He motions you along the truck and opens the back passenger door. You see the case of bottles on the floor. He points you to the seat. You climb up awkwardly and sit sideways to face him, his hand on your elbow as he helps you.
“I… I understand. I can answer… try to.” You say louder but not more confident.
“Alright,” he says. “Everything is being recorded for your safety and mine,” he taps his chest and you notice the box attached to his gun harness.
“Ok…” you sip again. His eyes follow the movement.
“What’s your name?” He asks. You answer barely, choking on the syllables. “How do you know Carlo….” he says your last name.
You blink. “He’s…” your lip trembles. “My dad…. Is he okay?”
He hums. “And Ricky….”
You bite your lip. You frown. “My brother,” you eke out.
“You reside here with them?”
“Yes, sir.” You gulp. “I… I clean up and I cook when I can. I just… I stay inside. I don’t… are they hurt?”
“We’ll get to that. Now, miss, I need you to focus on my questions. Can you do that?” He adds on your name, like he knows you.
“Yes, I’m trying. I’m sorry. I’m scared.”
“You don’t have to be scared, alright?” He assures. “When’s the last time you saw your dad or your brother?”
You shudder and sway. “This morning. Or… yes… I made coffee and Ricky didn’t like it. And dad, he… he was in a real bad mood. He didn’t even want his.” You bring a hand up to shakily rub your cheek. “Are they in trouble?”
“Miss, you answer my questions, okay?”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you cower at the stone in his voice. “I didn’t mean to. I promise.”
He stares at you, his brow twitching. He takes a deep breath. Your eyes twinge with the heat of tears ready to spill over.
“No need for sorry. I’m not mad. These questions are for your safety. No one’s trying to hurt you or get you in trouble.”
You nod and gulp. “I just… I just… dad said not to talk to the police.”
“I’m sure he did,” he scoffs. “Alright. I think that’s enough for now. We’ll get you to the precinct and wrap this up there.”
“Oh? Am I… being arrested?” Your voice cracks.
“Detained. For further questioning.” He explains evenly. “I’m just gonna keep you out here in my truck, okay? You want the heat on? Some music?”
“I… I am a little cold,” you chatter and hug yourself. “Thank you, sir. Uh, Detective.”
🚨
You’re put in a room alone. It’s cold. You’re sat at a table. No shoes, no coat, still in your jogging pants and your dad’s old hole-pocked Budweiser shirt. You shiver and rub your arms.
The door opens and jars you. You hunch as you try to warm yourself. You don’t have a bra on. You hid your nipples behind your crossed arms.
Detective Marshall greets you by name. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He comes in. “No one offered you a blanket?”
You glance over at him and shake your head.
“Christ.” He growls. He’s just a grizzly in the light. Thick hair, thick beard, thick shoulders. He doesn’t have his holsters or his guns now. That’s a little reassuring. “Alright, I’ll go get that. You want coffee or something?”
“No thank you. I don’t like coffee?”
“More water? Tea?” He suggests.
“Sir, I… I’m fine. Just cold. Thank you.”
“Alright. I’ll be back.”
He’s quick. As promised, he returns with a blanket. He drape it over your shoulders and you pull it snug around you. He sits across from you as he puts down a notebook and pen, alongside his phone.
“Alright. So, I think we shouldn’t have much more to go over tonight. You’ve been super helpful already. Really just looking to understand what your brother and dad have been up to the last few days.” He begins.
“Right, um, I don’t know much. I stay… home.” You slant your lips.
“You work?” He prompts. You shake your head and look down.
“But you said you do stuff at home. Sounds like you do put in work.”
“Yeah, that’s… that’s chore. No one else’ll do em.” You shrug.
“I’m not gonna sit here and beat around the bush with you, sweetie. Be very honest with me, do you know of any illegal activity your dad and brother might be involved with?” He asks.
You stare at the table. You push your thumbs together under the blanket. You don’t want to get them in trouble.
“I know you’re a good girl, huh?” He leans in, gripping the pen in his hand. His large hand with thick fingers, coarse hair on his knuckles. “You don’t want them to get hurt. I’m not looking to do that. We need to find them to help them.” He sniffs. “So you be honest because if you’re not, that’s an obstruction charge.”
“What? No, I…”
“Can’t be so quiet, sweetie.” He chides.
You sit up and look at him. Your cheeks pinch as you fight back tears.
“I know they smoke… uh pot. But I don’t know anything else.” You confess. “I hate the smell and… They tell me go out back when they got friends over.”
He scribbles on the paper.
“You know any of these friends names?” He asks.
You purse your lips and nod. You just want to go home. So you’ll answer his questions. Pot isn’t so bad. Certainly it could be worse.
🚨
“I think that’s about it.” Detective Marshall states. “We’ll just have you sign your statement and you’re free to go.” He closes the notebook. “It’ll take a couple to get it printed out but you can go wait in the hall.”
You nod and stand up. You look down and let the blanket fall off your shoulders. You fold it up and offer it to him. He stares at you, eyes scaling up and down.
“No shoes?” He drawls.
“No uh… no.”
“Hm, I can get you some sandals before you go. Jail issue but they’ll do you.” He says. “Keep the blanket. It’s frigid out.”
You dip your chin again. He leads you out and puts you in one of the chairs along the wall. You cling to the blanket and wait. You listen to the chatter of the officers, the printer skimming, and the snorts and coughs of other people waiting for questioning.
Marshall comes back and gives you a pair of socks and rubber grey sandals. “Sorry we don’t go anything else. They’re probably a bit big on ya.”
“That’s okay.” You stare at your knees.
“Alright, come up to the counter to sign your statement when you’re ready.” He leaves them in your lap.
You put on the socks and sandles, then flop up to the counter. You sign the printed statement as Marshall looms on the other side.
“You need a ride somewhere? It’s late.”
“Um… home?” You say. “If it’s not too much, I… I don’t got no money.”
“Home? You can’t go home. It’s an active crime scene.” He says.
Your eyes go wide. “What? I don’t got no where else.” You pout.
“No mom? Family?”
You shake your head.
“Friends?”
You bat your lashes as panic and fear floods your chest.
“Alright, alright, we can help you out. How about I call the shelter, see if they got any beds? If not, we’ll figure something out for the night, alright?”
“I… I… I’m sorry,” you rock as you squeeze the folded blanket. “I… I don’t know what to do.”
“Just go sit down and I’ll get it sorted for you,” he assures.
“Okay.” You sniffle and turn to shuffle back to the hard plastic chair.
“Walter, you’re such a sweet old teddy bear,” one of the officer says to him, getting only a growl in return.
🚨
“No beds,” Marshall stands in front of you as you get up. “But I got a place you can stay the night.”
“Oh, uh… I’m…”
“Sorry? Come on. You’re not the one who made this mess.” He tuts. “Here.” He offers you his jacket, the big black heavy one. “You’re tired. So am I.”
“I… thank you.” You hang your head.
He puts the jacket over your shoulders. He nudges you and ushers you along the fluorescent tinted hallways. A few times he has to scan his badge to get you through.
You come out into the cold night, your breath pluming frostily from your lips. He takes you to the same gray truck. Your sandal slips on the step as you try to get in and he catches you. He gets you in the seat and buckles you in. You press yourself away from him as you watch.
He chuckles. “Sorry, habit. I’m used to buckling people in.”
He backs up and shuts the door. You lay the blanket on your lap, your hands lost in the lengths of his sleeves. He gets in the driver’s side and turns the engine.
“You can close your eyes. It’s not far.”
You don’t. You watch the cones of the street lights and the black street. He makes a few turns and pulls into a town house. You peer around curiously.
“You’ll have to be quiet. Faye’ll be sleeping.” He says.
You look at him.
“My daughter. It’s ok. You’ll crash in my bed and I’ll take the couch so she’s not surprised.”
You nod. “Thank you, Detective. It’s… too nice.”
“Walter. This isn’t an interrogation,” he reaches to squeeze your shoulder. Before he pulls away, he pets your cheek softly. “Come on. Let’s get you in bed.”
He gets out and comes around to open your door. He brings you up the walkway and guides you inside. He uses his flashlight to take you through the dark into a bedroom at the end of the downstairs hallway.
He offers you some clean clothes; his. Made for a man bigger than most. He leaves them for you and suggest the shower in the bathroom attached to the room. You thank him and he leaves.
Alone, you don’t know what to you. You’re embarrassed. You’re lost. What do you do now? What’s going on with Ricky and your dad?
You change into his clothes and slip into bed. Despite your displacement, you drift off easily. You dream of the precinct and the cold walls and metal table.
You wake to humming sound. You can smell pine. A soapy scent. Your lashes flutter as you lift your head. The bathroom door is slightly open.
The thrumming stop as metal cranks. You listen to the soft noises that come after. The door opens with a puff of steam.
Detective Marshall, no, Walter, steps out. He has only a towel around his waist, the curls on his head shiny with dampness, and the hair on his body too. It’s thick and dark and goes from chest to stomach…
“Oh, sorry, did I wake you? I was trying not to.” He grips the towel tighter. It’s too small for him. “I’ll just grab some clothes and scram. I gotta get Faye to school.”
“I’m sorry. I can go.” You sit up. “What time is it?”
He shakes his head. “Early. Stay. We need to talk when I get back.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry.”
You lay back down and roll so your back is too him. You feel like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t and when you close your eyes, you see his body. Yikes.
🚨
When you hear Walter go, you get up. You change back into your own clothes and bring his out with you. The place is empty. It’s nice. A lot nicer than the trailer.
You sit by the front door, on the bench with the cubbies for shoes under it. You hear his truck and his footsteps before he enters. He grunts in surprise as he sees you. His hands are full; a tray of paper cups and a paper bag balanced in one.
“You’re awake.” He says. “I brought breakfast.”
“Oh, you don’t gotta… that’s… a lot.”
“Just BLTs. Little place the detectives love.” He says casually. “Come on, can’t let you go on an empty stomach.”
“I… thank you.”
You wring your hands. You don’t have a plan. You don’t have anywhere to go. So you won’t insist too much.
“I can take that stuff.” You offer.
“Sure, just through there to the right. We’ll eat at the table.” He hands over the food and drinks.
He comes in shortly after, sans his puffer coat and boots. He sits beside you. That’s close.
“Um, Mr… sir. Walter.” You say. “When can I go home?”
He puts a cup in front of you. “Hot chocolate.” He sifts in the paper bag. “You like cheese on your BLT? I got cheddar.”
“Walter?” You urge.
He sighs. “Not anytime soon. I’m sorry. But, I’ve been thinking it over. We can make room here.”
“You said something about a shelter–”
“You ever been to one?” He asks.
You shake your head.
“Even if you get a bed, you won’t get any sleep. Trust me. It’s not safe. Especially for someone like you.”
He unwraps the bagel sandwich and puts it in front of you.
“But…” you begin but have no true argument.
“Look. I know you're not involved in whatever your family got themselves into. Shit happens. Wrong place, wrong time. I talk to all sorts and I know when someone's lying.” He taps his finger on the wrapper. “I know you're not.” He slowly drags his hand away. “And I know you should eat.”
“I… thank you.” You sit back and look at the sandwich. It looks and smells so good.
“I saw the food in that place. Lack of.” He mutters. “You won't go hungry here.”
You say nothing. Ashamed.
“But one thing in return.” He glanced over and you shyly return his gaze. “Don't tell Faye how we know each other. Just tell her… you're an old friend.”
🚨
Faye is nice. Fifteen years old. Sarcastic to her father. Curious with you.
She asks who you are. You recite the lie but tell her your real name. She asks why you're friends with someone as crusty as her dad. You shrug. She laughs. He doesn't react.
She tells you about her friends and all the drama at her school. It's a good distraction. When you were her age, you did your best to stay out of that stuff. When it came your way, you were always the butt of the joke.
It’s a week and you’re still not sure. About where you’ll go next. About yourself. You still feel like an intruder in Walter’s life.
You make up for it by cleaning and cooking. You never asked and he never did either. You just started doing it to feel less lost.
Faye helps you that night with a simple dish. Pasta and chicken. The ingredients here are much nicer than at home. Is it still your home?
“So, I guess, I’m confused because I really like this person and they seem to like me too,” Faye says as she stirs the sauce. “I don’t know. What if I’m misreading?”
You give a gentle smile as you check the noodles. “Um, sorry, Faye, I… I wouldn’t be the best for… to know…” She leans in a little. You raise your voice. It’s a bad habit. Mumbling. “Um, I never really, you now, had a boyfriend or whatever…”
“No? Well, she wouldn’t be a boyfriend.” Faye says. You look at her, surprised. She hesitates. “Sorry, I said too much–”
“No, no. That’s great!” You assure her. “Is she pretty?”
“The prettiest,” she says. “And so bubbly but what if I’m too much of a bitch? What if I’m too sarcastic.”
“You never know unless you try, right?”
She quiet for a moment, tapping the wooden spoon to get the excess sauce off before putting it down. “But you never did. You said so.”
You shrug and look away. “Guess I never really had the… opportunity.”
“I’m… I didn’t mean, I–” she stammers.
“It’s okay. Really. It’s a choice.” You lie. Is it a choice when no one ever wanted you?
Another lull rises. The water spits as it boils around the noodles. You turn it down.
“Ladies,” Walter startles you. “Smells good in here.”
“Dad.” Faye spins. “You’re early.”
“I am?” He checks his watch. “I guess.”
“Hi,” you say quietly as you grab a strainer.
“Faye, why don’t you go chill. I’ll help finish up.” He insists.
“Sure. I gotta text Hera.” She slits out. You wonder if that’s the girl she told you about.
“Here,” Walter approaches and takes the strainer. “I’ll hold, you pour.”
He goes to the sink. You grab the pot of noodles and carefully approach. You pour out the steaming water to drain the pasta. You press against Walter as you do.
He dumps the dry noodles back into the pot and you put it back on the unlit burner. You stir the sauce as he sidles up next to you.
“Almost done. Think I can handle it.” You say.
He leans in. Oh, you’re mumbling again.
“No, it’s okay. You and Faye, seems like you’re getting along.”
You nod.
“That’s good. You know, her mom left when she was real young so…”
“I’m sorry for her.” You say.
“I think I do a good job. Or try to.” He says as he turns to watch you. You focus on the sauce, wondering if you should add more seasoning.
“So um, I overheard a little. Just you know, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Oh?” You blanch.
“I’m happy she could tell you that. I guess I’m too much of an asshole for her to trust me like that.” He snorts.
“No, you’re not. You’re a good dad. A good guy.”
“I… can be,” he says. “But uh… were you just saying all that to make her feel better or…”
“What… do you mean?”
“You never… had a boyfriend?”
You sweat and not because of the stove. You shake your head.
“Never?” He asks again.
You put your face down and shake your head more vehemently.
“How’s that? As pretty as you are.”
“Walter,” you babble and put the spoon down. You turn away from him. “It’s not… you don’t have to…”
You try to walk away and he catches your arm. He pulls you back to face him. You hit his chest and look up at him. You squeak.
He stares down at you, hands firm around your arms. His breath plumes from his nose. He leans down.
“Let me kiss you. Just once.” He says quietly. “Then you can say you have.”
You gape at him. You don’t know what to do? If you say no, it would be so awkward, but what about if you say yes? What does it mean? Just once?
“Please,” his voice quivers. “Let me kiss you, sweetie.”
You squirm and swallow. “I don’t… I don’t know how.”
“Let me show you,” he leans down until you feel the graze of his lips. “It’s just a kiss.”
Just a kiss. That’s it. Don’t think too much.
“Okay…” you whisper.
He presses his lips to yours. You squeak. His tongue flicks across your lips and you twitch. He pokes and you let him in. You stand there dumbly as he smothers you, his hands squeezing tighter and tighter.
He pulls away at last. You’re both breathless. You put your head down and wipe his saliva away with the back of your hand. He rubs up and down your arms.
“Was it good?” He asks.
“Walter…” you croak and look up. You chew the hem of your sleeve, trying to hide behind it. “When can I go home?”
His eyes flash and his jaw tenses. His nostrils flare just a little.
“We haven’t found your family yet so… not today.” He drops his hands. He turns and grabs the wooden spoon to stir the sauce himself. “You don’t like it here?”
You frown. “No, I didn’t say but… I don’t belong.”
His cheek dimples. “Who said that?”
“No one, I just…” You trail off.
“If you asked, I’d tell you you do.” He says quietly. He turns off the burn and adds the sauce to the noodles. “You know where you don’t belong. In that dirty old trailer with criminals.” He snarls as he mixes the pasta. “I think I’ve taken damn good care of you.” He drops the spoon against the side of the pot and faces you. “Wouldn’t you say so?”
You look down.
“No, look at me. Tell me.” He commands.
You lift your head and peer up at him. “Yes, I… I like it here. You’ve been so nice and… I’m sorry.”
He sighs. “I’m not sorry. But I will be when… if you leave.” He reaches for you and traces a line down your throat. “You don’t have to, sweetie. I don’t want you to.”
Got himself a ready to install wifey hahahah. Walter is abusing his power by acting like a saviour when he's really putting reader in a powerless position. Even if she wanted to say no, she really can't.
SHES GOT A SECRET GARDEN. @angelbabysblog - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
