Jaa1682-87

Welcome friends!! Age 28. New to Tumblr. Lover , Reader, and Writer of Fanfic. Proud Black Woman. Mom of 2 Cats. Pedro Pascal/Chris Evans/ Henry Cavill fan. Masterlist

[jaa1682-27]

Masterlist

Started: 8/11/20

Last Updated: 11/23/20

Teen Wolf-The Auchimalgen Series

Stlies Stilinski x Black Female OFC

Summary- Melanie “Mel” Forrester is just trying to get through her sophomore year, alongside her best friend, Lydia Martin. However, she didn’t expect for strange occurences to begin taking place around her, nor developing a crush on her classmate, Stiles Stilinski. As time goes on, things come to a head, and a few pairs of claws leave Mel forever changed. As in, a  moon goddess decides to take up residency in her body, granting her strange new powers and the responsibilities that come with them. Fortunately for her, a werewolf, his adorable best friend, and a redhaired Banshee are along for the ride as well. And Mel thought Algebra would be the least of her problems…

Book 1- (Follows Season 1) Coming soon!!!

Book 2-(Follows Season 2) Coming soon!!!

The Mandalorian-Violent Delights

Din Djarin x Black Female OFC

Summary- Kiara “Kia” Karga just wants to be the best bounty hunter she can be. Being Greef Karga’s daughter, the bounty hunter life is all she knows. She often partners up with the Mandalorian, as he favors her talents for piloting and mechanics.  Things change when the duo take a job to collect an asset on Arvala-7 and Kia crosses paths with a mysterious woman with a message for Kia’s father. When things take a turn, the Mandalorian and Kia find themselves as the protectors of a mysterious creature and discover more clues that uncover Kia’s past.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Triple Frontier-The Incident

Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Summary-Reader/You are a lonely coffee barista who is dreading the upcoming Christmas season. That is until your crush/regular customer gets hit by a truck and falls into a coma. Due to a miscommunication, now he and his ‘adopted’ family believe that you are now his fiance. (Sort of ) Fake Fiance trope, family bonding, Christmas magic, and pining, fluff, AND smut.

Chapter 1

[jaa1682-27]

Masterlist updated!!!

[owenhcrper]

Ryan Gosling as Ryland Grace Project Hail Mary (2026)

[blignick]

[abbysbenchpr]

no good, worn through and on fire (god’s country) • jud duplenticy

pairing: father jud duplenticy x f!housekeeper!reader

synopsis: after monsignor wicks’ mess, the church gets popular real fast. you assumed this housekeeping job would be easy enough, but nobody thought to tell you about the hot priest on site.

content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, wake up dead man spoilers, pre-one year later, tension, lust in the house of god, f!masturbation, religion kink (probably), hand kink (god bless), teeniest mention of blood, college grad reader

notes: RAAAA part 2 is here! thank you guys for the love on part 1 i am shy LOL i’m so scared the motivation will disappear before i get them to fuck LMFAOOOO apologies if the smut is short i am rusty and insecure! this was also written at 3am sorry for any and all typos xx

word count: 1.6k

read part one of 《 god’s country 》 here!

masterlist

as always, this is an 18+ blog, minors dni!

our lady of perpetual fortitude becomes like a second home to you. that’s a sentence you never imagined you’d say, but with the hours you’ve been pulling, it may as well be. 

father jud had possibly, maybe, slightly underestimated how much really needed to be done around the church (and rectory) when he’d first posted the listing. he’d been so caught up with monsignor wicks from the moment he arrived, and martha and samson had kept the place together like a well-oiled machine – he honestly hadn’t given it much thought. 

jud kind of regrets that lack of foresight now, though, considering everywhere he looks, there you are. 

he’ll enter the nave first thing in the morning to find you already putting away the vacuum cleaner, a soft smile on your lips when you catch him through bleary eyes and call a quiet “good morning, father jud” across the aisle. 

by the time he gets to the kitchen for his midday indulgence of a third coffee, you’re drying your hands off on the towel at the sink. the stack of dishes he’d left haphazardly in the sink last night sits in the rack, squeaky clean. he doesn’t know why his face burns at the idea of you cleaning up after him (as if that’s not what you’re basically paid to do), but something compels him to tell you, to let you know that the place isn’t usually this messy, he’s just been so damned busy–

you turn as he stutters by the door, “you didn’t have to do that–”

but you’re already waving him off, chest just barely brushing past his as you squeeze through the narrow doorway. is it his pesky imagination or do you normally bite your lip like that?

“it’s no problem at all, father,” you say, pausing when he turns to face you, like he’s being pulled to follow. “it is kind of my job.”

jud huffs a soft laugh, a shoulder leaning against the doorframe. “right,” he nods, eyes trained on the floor instead of the little wisps of hair that fall in front of your face. “it’s just… i’d hate to give you more work to do, ‘s all.”

it should be illegal – he should be illegal. to be a priest, looking like that, and to be so kind on top of it all. it makes you gnaw your bottom lip even harder, eyes squinting as you smile up at him. “that’s real sweet, father. but honestly, i don’t mind.”

“you can call me jud. just jud,” he says before he loses the nerve, and honestly looking down at you like this he’s surprised he hasn’t already. “if you want,” he adds.

he watches you pretend to think about it, as if you haven’t rolled the word around your head a hundred times over already. your chin dips in a slow nod, and when you finally step away to flit off to your next task, you tell him over your shoulder, “there’s fresh coffee in the pot, jud.”

by your third week at the church, jud ropes you into deciphering martha’s filing system. that’s how he’d describe it, but truthfully you come into the office before leaving for the night and find him hunched over the desk, face buried in his hands, sighing deep and heavy.

the only light comes from the desk lamp and the barest slivers of moonlight coming through the window, but you can see the papers scattered over the top of the desk. his plastic collar sits discarded to the side and you can see his brown hair sticking up at odd angles in protest of relentlessly running his hands through it.

“is… everything okay?” you ask, low and quiet so as not to spook him, but the man is skittish as a horse, and jolts in his seat hard enough to ram his knee against the wood.

you wince. he swears, quick and sharp, cupping his knee with a hiss as he leans back in the rolling chair. then he freezes, remembering himself and his widened blue eyes flicker to yours, as though waiting to be scolded. 

instead, you’re rooted in place, lips parted as you replay the way those sounds had left his lips. are priests allowed to swear? you think he should do it more. 

“sorry, i’m sorry–” he winces, “y’got me good.”

clearing your throat, you shake your head in hopes to dislodge the image of him, leaned back in his chair, throat bared and groaning. 

“my bad,” you chuckle softly, coming closer to peer curiously at the contents on his desk, “are you okay?”

jud exhales as a hand runs over the scruff on his jaw. “yeah, yeah, it’s just– a lot going on in here,” he pats the metal drawers behind him. one rolls out on its own, hinges squeaking amidst the quiet. your lips twitch, fighting to keep the amused grin from showing. 

“would you like some help?” 

jud’s brows raise, and he hates the fact that his stomach lurches at the offer. yes, stay. here, with me. please. mentally slapping himself when his mouth opens to enthusiastically agree, until he catches the time on the wall just behind your head. 

“i… it’s late, and you’re off the clock. you’re probably exhausted too–”

he knows to drop his feeble attempts of keeping you at a distance (honestly, was he even trying?) when you drop your bag on the floor and round the corner of the desk so you’re next to him now. 

he can smell your perfume, light and sweet as you lean over his shoulder to scan over the papers. his eyes flutter shut while you busy yourself reading, and then studying the filing cabinets. 

“so, what’s the system here, father?” you ask, and he smiles at the hint of challenge surfacing in your voice as you bend at the waist to read the labels. 

rising to his feet, he nudges the rolling chair aside to make room for you. like this, he towers over you and when you straighten to full height, again, you find yourself pressed awfully close to jud with nowhere near enough room for the holy spirit. 

he’s warm in his black sweater, and turns away before he can start staring, because god knows once he starts he won’t ever stop. 

“uh– so i figured martha would’ve alphabetised, or colour-coded or something, which should’ve been simple enough, but–” he pulls out the first drawer, flicking through the various files to show you and– oh. 

oh, no. 

jud’s pushed his sleeves up, and you really should be listening, but he’s got another tattoo on the inside of his forearm, and his fingers slip between the openings of the folders, dancing along the edges. 

you can see the corded muscles in his forearms flexing as his hands move and god, you might actually be salivating. 

jud is rambling, mindlessly thumbing the files now, and it’s almost upsetting how attractive he is while going on about ideal filing methods. 

a heat starts to simmer in your core as he talks through which drawer he suspects he needs, so engrossed he misses how you shift your weight and squeeze your thighs together.

when he finally turns back to you, you’ve bitten your lip hard enough to draw blood. his eyes on you are expectant and only a little bashful. even in the dim light you can see the dusting of a perpetual blush over his cheeks. 

your lips part, willing your brain to come up with something, anything – but he’s just so pretty and he looks at you so intently like he genuinely wants to hear what you have to say – and when his head tilts at your silence, you resort to huffing a pitiful laugh. 

“i’m sorry, jud. i must be more out of it than i thought,” you say hastily, eyes dropping to your shoes. but then he’s placing a hand on your shoulder, big and warm, and it’s all you can do to not audibly gasp. 

“‘s okay,” jud murmurs down at you, squeezing just once, but it’s enough, and he’ll never know it. the hand is gone too soon, and you’re mourning the loss already. “i shouldn’t have kept you so late, anyway. c’mon, i’ll walk you out.”

later that night, in the dark of your own bedroom, as your hand travels under your waistband, you see flashes of strong hands and scarred knuckles that guide you lower, and lower to where you’re hot and aching. 

you part your folds with the same pressure you’d seen from the man just hours earlier. if you concentrate hard enough, you can smell the lingering scent of laundry detergent and coffee. your hands are smaller, but your head goes light just thinking about how his bare skin would feel on yours. 

circling your clit, your eyes flutter shut on the tail end of a quiet whimper. how would he touch you? you’ve only ever seen jud at his most gentle, and whenever you picture him, you see that toothy smile always directed at you. 

but you’ve also seen the video floating around online with the late monsignor, and the sharp, resolute determination with which jud had spoken. so unlike your sweet father jud. there were whispers, too, among the congregation of jud’s history as a boxer. 

you picture him and an anger you’ve yet to witness, sweating and bloodied in the ring, so different to the man you know — does this version of him still exist? 

your walls clench at the image, and when you think back to his grunts of pain, head thrown back, you can only whimper into your palm as the desire to sink your teeth into the tattoo on the side of his throat becomes unbearable. 

when you cum, there’s only one name rolling off your tongue in a choked out gasp. you wonder if he can hear it, all the way on the other side of town. 

you hope he does.

[lavendertales]

more than words—the Creature x gn!reader

summary: weeks after first meeting the Creature, you're both quite taken with each other; once you and him bond over your mutual appreciation for books, it becomes your favorite past time—and it comes with a surprising reveal.

word count: 1.8k

A/N: established (slow burn) relationship, just something achingly sweet & domestic with our beloved creature (love that we all collectively agree his name is Adam) <3

gif: @rosie-tyler

Fear had never been something you felt coursing through your veins when it came to him.

Curiosity, on the other hand, had felt something definitive for the both of you. Human and… someone more, stronger in a lot of ways, yet that much more fragile in others, both curious about each other.

When you first gazed upon him—Adam, as you now refer to him, much to his delight—curiosity was the first thing you recall feeling. He had qualms regarding his appearance, as you could clearly tell, and he was hiding even from you. He moved from shadow to shadow, as quietly as possible, always looking over his shoulder.

Only when his eyes landed upon your figure did he stop and reconsidered his choice, albeit for a single moment.

When you approached him, he backed away from you; you inched closer, he ensured there was more space between the two of you. When you stepped into the shadows, in his comfort space, could he finally exhale, audibly so, and freeze, long enough for you to study him.

“What happened to you?” you asked.

“I am made by the hands of a cruel man.”

You held your breath as you came even closer to examine him to the best of your abilities. It was tough to do so in the darkness, but you dared not ask him to step outside of what little comfort you presumed he had. There were scars all over his face and hands, of that you were certain. You suspected the rest of his body carried the same marks.

“Are you in any pain?”

He fell silent, unsure of how to answer you. You could tell he was struggling from his small grunts, so you took his hand into yours, an act of kindness that to you felt so natural, yet to him felt startling and downright shocking.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone, in the woods,” you continued. “Come with me.”

“Where to?”

“Warmth.”

He seemed confounded by your kindness, offering him a place to sleep in your house, as well as food and warmth. He studied everything with a fascination that almost exceeded humanity, but as he finally took off the big cloak hiding him from your sight, you saw more of him and you understood, with a certain horror, that he had indeed been created by the hands of a madman.

And yet you’ve known no gentler soul than that of Adam’s. No man had ever been kinder or more timid than him. It took you by surprise each time; he never forgot to say please and thank you, always helped you with chores—as a way to express his gratitude for allowing him to stay with you, you presumed—and always built a fire in the evening for the two of you. The nights were growing colder and colder, and the woods were not safe, particularly not in the dark.

“You do not have to do all the hard work around here,” you said to him one evening, a fortnight after your first meeting. “I can manage.”

“I would like to provide you with help. To—thank you for allowing me to stay.”

You smiled at him. “It is my pleasure. I hope you are comfortable.”

“You provide great comfort. And warmth.”

“I have to ask… what is your name? Do you have a name?”

He faltered, and instantly you knew the answer to your question—and subsequently regretted it.

“My creator’s name was Victor Frankenstein.”

“He never gave you a name?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Very well. Have you… heard any name you might like?”

“I… read a tale of the first man on earth, Adam. And his time in the Garden of Eden with Eve.”

“How about Adam then? Would you like that?”

He smiled; by gods, he smiled and looked wildly beautiful as he did so.

“Adam. Yes,” he concluded as he sat next to you by the fire.

That had become somewhat of a routine for the two of you, to huddle up by the fire on cold winter nights and on occasion read. Adam remained so curious about everything, and his eyes sparkled when he saw you with books. He always asked what you were reading and if you were finished with the book, he’d start right away; if you were only beginning to read it, he’d ask you to read out loud. Sometimes you’d both read the same book twice or even thrice, as they were hard to come by.

But Adam didn’t mind, and you certainly didn’t.

Months passed by in this fashion, with the two of you finding a natural rhythm to the daily life you were building together. It all came naturally, as if there was no other prospect for either one of you. Adam seemed more than content to take care of the heavy lifting around and inside the house, as well as offering you protection from external threats. You assured him that there were less of those than one might think, especially around those parts of the countryside, but he continued as such. You learned it was his way of showing affection—that, and bringing you various trinkets from his trips outside, which included a variety of leaves, a bracelet, a couple of blankets and flowers.

He always brought you flowers.

And you always kept them and the leaves in carefully made ornaments.

Often it all felt too good to be true; you were almost afraid to hold such tender moments close to your chest and to share them with Adam. He’d told you his tale, how he came into this world and how he came to life, what his creator, the man by the name of Victor Frankenstein, had done and his treatment of Adam, all of the loss and pain he’d endured in such a short time span. Your heart broke and ached for him all the same.

You ached seeing him remain full of curiosity, tenderness and love, even joy more often than not.

He was human by any definition you could think of.

You did whatever you could to soothe some of his pain as well; when he awoke during the night, screaming and crying in fear, you sat next to him till the morning, gently stroking his hair and holding him close, whispering small encouragements in his ear.

“Do you not fear me?” he’d asked once during the night. Somehow by that point, he was the one holding you, slightly obdurate as it might have been. “Are you not repulsed by my nature?”

“Should I be?”

That had obviously never crossed his mind, for it rendered him speechless.

“I do not know. I—I do not think so.”

“I do not think so either.”

“I have done… terrible things. Unspeakable things to men who were merely standing by.”

You turned towards him, grazing his cheek and feeling his warm breath over your lips. “Then we mustn’t speak of them.”

And you didn’t. As the winter stretched out and the cold engulfed the country, you and Adam remained warm and full in spite of it all. You were never not enthralled seeing him interact with animals so easily. It felt beyond endearing, and you particularly enjoyed watching him feed the deer that often gathered outside of the house.

Everything about him felt easy and kind and beautiful, and if you were being honest with yourself in the increasingly rarer lonesome moments of yours, you’ve become very fond of Adam.

In truth, you believed you loved him.

How, precisely, you could not tell. Perhaps the longing hiding in your ribcage, begging to be gently exposed, was not from a place of genuine need, but rather worry.

You tried to stifle it. You had all the time in the world, you felt. And truthfully, you were not certain how you could broach the subject with Adam, if there was even need for it. There was nothing which insisted upon being defined—all feelings passed with ease and mutual understanding between you and him, and you wished for nothing else of this life.

“Can you read me some more of the book, please?”

Adam’s request came tonight after eating soup, some stew with carrots and potatoes and a pie you baked for dessert. You were both full and content, now by the fire. You held Pride & Prejudice in your hands, re-reading it for what felt like the hundredth time.

It was yours and Adam’s favorite.

You chuckled. “We’ve read this so many times already.”

“Please?”

He blinked slowly at you, a gesture you felt he did subconsciously, yet it was beyond endearing to you.

You knew you couldn’t resist, and ultimately, Adam knew it too. He sat cross-legged before you, his eyes unmoved from the direction of your face as you opened the book and cleared your throat.

“From the beginning?”

“If you’d like. Thank you.”

“’It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of someone or other of their daughters.’”

Adam smiled, and you did too. You did not know how long you read into the night or when your eyelids began to feel heavy, nor when you finally drifted off to sleep, once waking by the swing of familiar, strong arms, carrying you to bed and cuddling next to you. All you knew is that you were as warm as you’ve been for months now, heart and soul both full, never aching.

“I love you,” came from his throat, words so saccharine and fulfilling you felt your eyes tear up, closed as they were.

You knew there was no need to say it. After all, you hadn’t said it even when you thought of it and wanted to. You knew that what you and Adam shared transcended mere words and actions.

And yet you couldn’t help but reciprocate, still and cozy in the dimmed light of the fire still cracking somewhere in the grand room. “I love you as well, Adam.”

[usergambit]

"And he'll be a great man some day."

CALEB WIDOGAST & NOTT THE BRAVE in THE MIGHTY NEIN (2025)

[illinicoise]

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

[spn-fandom-breathing-heavily]

not even risking that shit

[codyslipring-deactivated2015060]

scrolled past this, re-evaluated my life, then SCROOOLLLED back up and hit the damn reblog button. 

[tumblgang]

She ain’t no games in real life so I take her serious all the time

Anyone with a name that starts with a “Z”, ends with an “i”, and isn’t some kind of Italian pasta, IS SERIOUS

I’m not climbing no mountain with a pig on my back, 🙅🏽🙅🏾🙅🏿 Negative.

[skuubasally]

Nope. I know better, have your reblog Madame Zeroni.

[luckytaters]

who the fuck is Madame Zeroni

[saudadesinfinitas-deactivated20]

Look at these stupid children who don’t know who Madame Zeroni is

[drayaintshit-deactivated2019030]

☝🏾😂

[callmedeku24]

Man lissen if you don’t know you better ask somebody AFTER you hit the reblog button

[emeraldmercury]

Idk who she is but I have an exam today so I’ll reblog her

[haiku-robot]

idk who she is but i have an exam today so i’ll reblog her

^Haiku^bot^0.4. Sometimes I do stupid things (but I have improved with syllables!). Beep-boop!

[jacobmick]

Because wise, I am.

[seymonecristina]

Oh fucks no she’s back lmao must reblog. I’m sorry guys

[secrettranslittleboy-blog]

Sowwy for the cuss words but I don’t need bad luck right before I move 300 miles to a new place

[just-sleeping-or-killing]

Guys forgive the language, but I don’t want to have to do exercise to break a curse

[slavefoxie-deactivated20190218]

Not even risking not doing this lol

[angieanswers]

nope nope nope nope sorry guys not even risking it

[blue-pixiedust]

Yes madam zeroni

[moonlight-prose]

the creature who is exploring your body- groping, licking, biting, etc - wondering why yours is so different from his. at first it’s nice and sometimes even tickles, but when you slowly respond to his touch its not long til he’s overstimulating you.

whispers of darkness

a/n: love love your mind babes because this had me nodding in solidarity at the screen. between jumping from a borrowed laptop and my phone this took a bit to write. but thankfully i managed to sit down and churn out the rest in a mad rush. and because it's me there's a bit of angst but like not really if i'm being honest. this was so fucking fun to write and i did change it up a tiny but i really love how it turned out. divider by the amazing @saradika-graphics.

summary: time ceased to exist when you found him in the forest, when he read to you by a fire, and the moment you kissed him with an earnest smile. OR letting the creature explore how he wants.

word count: 2.2k+

pairing: the creature x f!reader

warnings: explicit so minors dni 18+ only!! tiny itty bit of angst, romance, body worship of sorts, gothic love, overstimulation, edging, lots and lots of kissing, the use of my english lit degree, waxing poetically about needing to fuck the creature.

The baritone of his voice grew dark against the glow of a raging fire he started to keep you warm. Chunks of wood ripped clean off trees he toppled, brush gathered at the forest’s edge and packed in around the base, and a cauldron—now empty of stew—settled on a hook in the center.

The pages were crinkled beneath his fingertips. Flipped delicately and set back into place as the curve of his spine bent forward to see the words better as night drowned the world in darkness again.

“I have loved her all my youth, But now old, as you see, Love likes not the falling fruit, From the withered tree.”

Your head pressed into his arm, fur draped over your legs as his voice washed over you. Calming waters strung together with blotches of ink, mistakes from the press no doubt yet still legible despite it all. He recited poetry like a whisper, reverence dripping off the stanzas and melting into your skin like chocolate on your tongue. Sweet, pleasant the longer he kept going.

“Know that love is a careless child, And forgets promise past, He is blind, he is deaf when he list, And in faith never fast.”

“Your voice is practically warmer than the fire,” you mused, pressing your nose into the thin fabric of his shirt—the cloth now smelling of rosemary and river water.

His hair was pinned back with twine you found in your pocket, giving you the chance to see his face in its entirety. The pale shades of his skin and muted gray tones of dead flesh sewn together with nimble fingers. You know the stories of his creator, listened intently as he recounted the years he spent on this plane of existence—the anguish in his throat that spilled out back tears and suffocating grief.

Solemnly uttered a year ago when you came across him in the woods—lost to the world and yet returning from the icy tundra from where he once existed. To say you clung to one another was an understatement. He could see the strike of lightning that brought life to his bones in your eyes, the dark clouds of forever slowly dissipating the longer he remained in your vicinity.

You smiled at him as if you’d know him all your life. An old friend returning from the past. A new soul already etched into yours.

There was no other option but to take his hand in yours and let him follow where you went. Traipsing after you with earnest in his heart and a belonging in his bones. You saw love beneath scars and healed stitches. An eternity was trapped in a steady beating organ he knew belonged to you. He never said it aloud, terrified of your response even after the time you spent together.

But you knew in the way he pulled you close by the fire, his chin resting soft atop your head, thumb running smooth along the length of your forearm. Tracing your only scar that sat ugly and raised on the edge of your wrist. A disgusting promise of permanence from a man who once claimed to love you—a life you could forget in the deep rumble of his voice.

“Tell me the end,” you breathed, tipping your head back to catch his gaze. “Before we sleep.”

Lips pulled into a grin, fingers tugging the page over with a breath. “But true Love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning; Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself…never…turning.”

“Mm,” you sighed. “I understand that.”

“Tell me.” The bend in his neck was unconscious, a familiar instinct he did to hear you better, to feel the sound of your voice vibrate against his skin.

“True love being a durable fire.”

The crack of wood splintering beneath the heat and sparks scattering out into the air echoed in place of your voices. Shared breath taking over the space where your lips were so close to his. You kissed him once. Months ago in the warmer air as he followed you through the forest on a stroll to find herbs and flowers. It was quick—fleeting. Stolen and chaste beneath a tree that wept the petals of small pink flowers, a soft press with a smile before you were dashing away on a different path.

It wasn’t until hours later that you wanted to ask what he thought. Pick his mind for more than just the comfort of friendship and hope it might evolve into more. But embarrassment won the battle warring in your mind, emotions traded for silence until life had no choice but to go on.

“Never sick,” he muttered, nose brushing yours as heat spilled into your cheeks. “Never old.”

“Reminds me of you.”

His eyes shut, lashes a dark shadow along the tops of his cheeks—both different lengths and some paler than others. “I…remind you…of love.”

“I like to believe-” Your fingers clasped around his wrist as you pulled his large palm to your face, allowing it to splay across your cheek. “That you were made for me to love.”

Breath stuttered in his chest and you smiled at the soft choking sound that came from his throat—warmth settling in the base of your stomach. This was inevitable. The wanting, the need for more than just friendship trapped within these four walls. He didn’t just exist to be a stranger turned companion, he was yours. Never in the hand of his creator, nor in his command, but meant for you to spend your days with. To hear the promise of his love in every breath and flutter of his heart.

His mouth sealed over yours, clumsy and unsure, barely remaining a second before he started to pull away. But your hand stopped him. Your fingers pressed soft against his cheek and dragged him back with a gasp, tasting the weight of poetry on his tongue when you licked into him with a bitten back moan. The fire raged in your bones, spreading out to the tips of your toes as he banded an arm around your waist and yanked you up into his lap.

“What do I…” The book hit the ground with a thud, your fingers quickly undoing the laces at the front of your bodice.

This was more than what you intended, but his curiosity kept you still and waiting. His dark gaze slid along your form uncovered by the thin fabric of your clothes, the top pooling around your waist and exposing your hard nipples to the cold air. Tension simmered between you, echoing with a loud breath he took when your hand guided his to the base of your throat.

You could feel the hesitation bleed into the air, fear of harming you, of doing something wrong, now pressing down on his shoulders. “How?” he pleaded with wet eyes.

“Touch,” you breathed, leaning into his mouth with a grin. “Wherever you wish.”

Nimble and trembling fingers traced the lines of your collarbone, the expanse of smooth skin so unlike his stitched together chest and abdomen. Marks littered his skin like a map he would never be able to retrace. Your body remained the way he imagined as you slept soundly beside him—unmarred by the cruelty of a creator, grown and formed and certainly not made.

You shuddered beneath his hand, teeth sinking into your bottom lip at the first brush of his thumb along the curve of your breast. He wanted to study you. Watch the rise and fall of each breath, witness how your limbs pulled and bones shifted beneath hot skin that warmed his palm. And you would let him.

There would be no question, no resistance to his touch. You were pliant beneath him, malleable and soft as he cupped your breast and felt the weight in his hand—your nipple pressing into his rough skin.

“Oh-” He flinched at the sharp gasp, but your hand clamping tight around his wrist kept him in place. “D-Don’t stop.”

“You echoed with pain.”

Lips molded to his with a breath he swallowed, a smile twisting soft against your mouth. “That wasn’t pain my love.”

The click of spit on your tongue trading the taste with him echoed in his ears, burning against pulsing skin as he dragged his mouth to your throat. He wanted to hear it again. That soft pull of breath and sharp pitch of your voice in the depths of your chest. Fingers pinched your nipple tentatively, pulling slow as your thighs clamped tight around his thighs, your head falling back and chest pushed forward.

“Bliss,” you got out between heavy breaths. “It’s bliss.”

Pleasure, paradise, satisfaction.

The meaning was familiar to him now. As if his body recognized it long before he did, parts of his soul flickering to life at the sight of you writhing against the strokes of his hand. Need shot down your spine when his mouth suckled at your other breath, his hand gripping tight at your back when you went limp in his arms. A cry ripped free when he cupped at your breast, kneading it gently as spit glistened along your skin.

It was soft, a silent prayer etched into your form when his hand slid down to your bare waist. Fingers spreading along your ribcage and mapping the layout of a body he’d see behind shut eyes. You giggled at the stroke of his thumb against your stomach and until then he never realized the skin could be ticklish.

He wrenched free from your breast, heaving in a breath just to see you smile, to hear your laugh again. “Some parts are different than others.”

“My side is tender,” you replied, curling your fingers into his now mussed hair. “It usually doesn’t get touched.”

“Should I move past it?”

“No.” Another stolen kiss had him chasing you with a grin. “Keep going. Please.”

You couldn’t exactly be sure how much time passed in the span of you being shifted from his lap to the pile of furs on the floor, but he had relented from his exploratory touches. Clothes were pulled off your form until you lay bare beneath him. With your legs hooked around his waist and his bare chest pressed to yours as heat crowded around you.

Something formed between the two of you. Expanding with every exhale until you could no longer ignore its existence. That unspeakable love you now felt press into the base of your chest. Thundering along your heart.

He watched the flutter in your chest as he dipped his hand between your thighs, the wet pool of slick jarring him for a brief moment until he was brave enough to see it web around his fingers.

Trembling beneath him, you felt his mouth seal over your breast again, his touch pressing against your folds as you sobbed brokenly. Your eyes were blurry with tears, body reaching past the limit you could take. But a part of you didn’t want to tell him no.

It broke you to think of him pulling away, severed you down the center to imagine the loss of his touch. So you grit your teeth and let him bring you to a brink that continued to grow and fade in a pattern that broke you. The edge rushed up to meet you again as you shut your eyes and blindly grasped for it with a shuddering breath. A crest you knew would never crash, a flood of heat pulling tight at your stomach.

He began to pull away, to slide his hand over your thigh, but something kept him there. Dark eyes latched onto your twisted up face, your mouth falling open the moment his fingers pressed against you roughly. The shake in your thigh should have let him know, but he’d never seen someone like this before.

Oblivious to the signs of what you could feel in your bones. It snapped with your cracked shout, his face pressed in close as another gush of slick poured out of your fluttering hole.

Tears spilled onto your temples, your eyes fluttering open to see his mouth parted in a gasp and feel his breath on your cheek. But the burn of pain had you yanking at his arm to make him stop—your mouth finding his with a soft pleased sigh.

“That was bliss,” he stated, touching your hip as you came down with shallow gasps of air.

You nodded, feeling his tongue press soft against yours. “That was more than bliss.”

He smiled. “The fires of love then.”

“Well…it did say it would never die.”

Brushing two fingers along your cheek, he watched in rapture when you chased their touch, your nose nuzzling into his palm. “Will the embers of it die out one day?”

“No,” you vowed. “Not as long as I’m with you.”

“The companion I sought but could not find?”

“It was I who found you.” The words wound tight around his heart. “Or were you looking for me all this time?”

His nose pressed against your cheek. “I searched for what seems like centuries.”

“Then time has finally ceased.” Wet fingers cupped your neck to tilt you closer. “You’ve found me my love. Your companion.”

A smile was traded between kisses, his other hand reaching for the furs to drape over your bodies. “A durable fire.”

[mirrormauve]

little by little

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

wc: 11.7k

summary: You are forced to marry quickly after a rumor is spread about you.

warnings: loose historical au (read I had no time period in mind just an idea which means historically inaccurate to any time period), forced marriage, forced proximity, religion (implied christian), unspecified age gap, shame, loneliness, guilt, religious guilt and shame, anxiety and depression, mentions of death/wanting to die, abusive family dynamics, kind of dad's friend but only kinda, fear of violence, fear of intimate violence, mentions of violence, gender norms of the time period, sexually inexperienced reader, brief smut (fingering, handjob, piv)

a/n: this was literally supposed to be 700 words. girl, anyway.

He is much older than you thought he would be.

Much older than you were led to believe in the feeble, short few days you had to come to terms with the betrothal.

Fear chokes you, holds your lungs in terrible, tight fists, as work roughened hands lift your veil.

This is how you first see him, cloaked in lace quickly scrounged by your mother for this moment, fingers trembling in white sleeves that don't belong to you. You have avoided looking at him, until this moment, unsteady gaze on his shoes instead, the hem of his trousers, afraid that you might lose your composure otherwise. And you will not give anyone the satisfaction of your tears.

The veil softens his features, rubs out some of the lines from his face like charcoal smudged on a page. You tilt your face up as he folds the fabric back. His movements are surprisingly gentle, careful not to brush your face or hair.

You keep your expression carefully composed, stony. He might be your father's friend and peer, but he is certainly older. His forehead is lined; crow's feet bracket his eyes. His beard is mostly gray, and it looks as though his dark hair is following suit. A scar bisects the bridge of his nose, others mark the high points in his cheeks, faint nicks that could have been from shaving or something else entirely. Brawling when he was a boy, maybe, falls taken while drunk.

It's hard for you to pass judgment since you don't know him at all.

Despite that, his shoulders are broad. His chest and arms are thick. He looks strong and capable, and that could bode very badly for you.

Even so, even so much older, he is handsome.

That handsomeness means nothing for you know nothing of him, of what kind of man he is, how he might treat you as a wife.

The chapel echoes around you, empty but for your father and the priest. White winter light spears down from a window set high in the stone wall, cold, high wind whistling just beyond.

His eyes travel over your face, cataloguing your features like you have been memorizing his. Your eyes meet his for the briefest of moments. The touch is not warm; his brows lower over a hardened gaze. He looks to the priest and nods, who begins the ceremony without preamble. Apparently your looks have been found suitable enough to go through with it.

You will yourself not to cry, to keep the bile rising up the back of your throat in check.

The words pass over you in a torrent, meaningless and loud, vows and promises of obedience and faithfulness, humility and deference. All, it seemed, directed at you. Your husband, you gather, would be your shepherd, your judge and jury, your king, dealing out punishment as he saw fit for the mistakes you were guaranteed to make.

Like a child. For obviously you, a girl, a woman, needed such guidance. Your family would.

Your stomach knots at the thought. Children, which meant you would have to endure the act you'd been accused of in the first place to land you here, in this quiet church on a blindingly cold Saturday morning. In shame, in relative secret.

"You have been ruined," your mother had said when you were told of the arrangement, spittle flying in her anger and disappointment. "We have no choice."

"Mother," you had pleaded, "It isn't true."

Her gaze had been cold and hard by necessity, steeling herself for the fate that awaited you. All because jealous girls had condemned you. "The mayor's daughter has spoken against you. Would accuse her of being a liar?"

Bad enough, to have relations out of wedlock; terrible, wretched, that you had done so where someone could see. That you had been caught in the snow, against the side of her father's stables with a farmhand. Loud and unseemly, and, worse, unabashed. The picture of untrammeled lust.

"I did not—" You had protested, throat thick with tears. "I haven't spoken more than a word to the boy." Boy, because he was a few years younger than you. He'd eagerly taken up the story from the mayor's daughter, something swaggering in his voice, falsely humbled by his mistake for which he would not be punished. The only reason you were not being forced to marry him, was his engagement to the daughter's best friend. Though, she had not looked happy to be taking on the embarrassment of being attached to a man with a wandering eyes, something mean had glittered in her face too. "I wasn't even anywhere near those stables—"

"Enough!" Her voice had rung loudly in the kitchen. "It's been settled. You will be grateful anyone would marry you with those accusations hanging over your head. It's this or-or," she stammers over the words, "destitution."

It doesn't matter. You know nothing you could say matters. It's the mayor's darling daughter's word, and all her friends', against yours, and you have spent too many years being untamed for it to matter. You should have been married years ago, instead you disappeared into the forests surrounding the village for days at a time, read when you should have been pursuing the womanly arts of cooking or mending or weaving, argued when you should have practiced humility and silence, skipped Sunday service. Worn trousers only once, because you had received lashes for that.

You were accused of waywardness or sharpness of tongue and ill discipline. Someone, the whispers said, should have beaten it out of you long ago; that a timely marriage and children could have mellowed you out.

Too late for all that now.

"An old friend of your father's has graciously agreed to help us," she'd said casually, bustling about the washing. "You're lucky he is in need of a wife."

It froze something within you. "Mother, please—"

"You should have been married years ago, anyway," she says briskly. "Your father should have never allowed you such wildness and freedom. It does not suit a lady. Look where it has landed you."

Her scorn hurt, and your venomous tongue retaliated. "But to a man I don't know? You would throw me to wolves for this? He might be a brute—"

"You could do with a hard man," she'd said, not looking at you. "It might finally teach you your place."

"I would rather die—" you'd all but choked.

"By all means," she'd all but snarled, throwing down the washing in her hands, "drown yourself in the river if you see fit to. It would spare us the shame."

She had refused to come to the chapel, though she'd helped you dress, done your hair, that morning. She walked as far as the gate at the end of the yard, and you'd sworn as you walked away, through the encroaching blizzard, that you'd heard her sob.

You suspect your father is only present because it is his duty to present you, and give you away. Since the accusation, he hasn't been able to look at you. His darling daughter he'd always been so kind to, so proud of despite the way people spoke of you, your cleverness.

The thought makes your throat ache, that they could so easily lose their only child.

A hand touches yours and you jump.

Your fiance slides his rough palm around your hand and grips it softly in his, squeezing. He says your name, a question in his voice, and you feel faint, dizzy.

The priest clears his throat and you sense that you've been absent from the room for longer than you meant to be, lingering in memories that already seem a lifetime ago. The vows are repeated again, droning and long.

His hand is warm on yours, your trembling, icy fingers.

You are thankful you don't have to repeat the vows verbatim. Saying his name would rot something inside you, falsehoods hidden inside promises. I take thee, Joel—

No. You couldn't bear it.

All you have to do is say—

"I do."

You aren't sure it's your voice but who else could have said it?

Far away inside yourself, you watch in horror as his mouth repeats the same.

"I do."

A deep voice, like his mouth is cave.

You brace yourself for his kiss, his touch, his head bowing over yours, but he only squeezes your hands again and releases you.

Like birds with broken wings, they fall limp at your sides.

The men gather themselves, leave you at the altar along as the descend from the pulpit and cross the chapel.

You hear warnings as you stand there alone in the pale shaft of light that grows fainter with each passing moment, the storm worsening outside, the sun already sinking on this terrible December day.

Headstrong, you hear of your character.

Willful.

Stubborn.

Needlessly reckless, sharp tongued, sly.

A tricky little thing.

"She may require a firm hand," the priest says, "I know her temperament well, have known her since she was a child. But she's a good girl and will learn her place, with the proper corrections. She can learn to be an obedient wife."

Your father doesn't dispute this as help from the church is offered, if needed, to assist you in learning the place and pace of an obedient, good wife. Spending time with godly women, instead of among the trees. "And mother," he adds. "Of course." He chuckles, "Winter is very long here. And she is nearly past childbearing years."

It's bullshit, of course.

It should not be possible for your stomach to knot itself more, but something sours and you have to press a hand to your stomach to keep the empty maw yawning open inside you at bay.

You still stand at the head of the church, listening to this, thinking that the icy water of the river might yet be an option. Maybe you can fling yourself off the wagon as you pass over a bridge.

The priest calls your name sharply, and makes an exaggerated gesture toward your husband. "Off with you, girl. Your husband is waiting or did you not notice?" His expression, when he turns back, says, see? this is the obstinacy I tell you of.

Joel doesn't comment and you can't yet read the expression on his face .

He pushes the church doors open and disappears into the worsening storm, the coming night.

You are not even afforded a wedding band.

.

.

.

Though his home is supposedly only a half day's ride west from your town, it is full dark by the time you arrive.

You have never really left your village before, and to you it seems a world away and terribly lonely. Isolated. A cottage at the edge of the world, hemmed in by bristling fir trees, whispering snow drifts.

You're glad to be there, if only to get out of the snow and wind, away from his body next to yours on the wagon bench that you want to curl into just to warm yourself for a moment.

Joel offers you a hand which you reluctantly take, helps you down from the wagon. He ushers you inside and says something about the horses before he disappears back into the storm, leaving you there alone. The space is small and cold, the hearth only ashes after his day away from home.

Though you're freezing, you can't make yourself stoke the fire.

Although, maybe if you did and he could warm himself, he might not want to warm himself with you. On the other hand, maybe warmth would encourage him, would tempt him.

In either case, you're a wife now and you watched your mother long enough to know what that means. Aside from the rest of it, he will expect cooking, a hot meal when he comes back inside.

But, the priest and your father had called you stubborn, and so you would be. You might as well be all the things they accused you of.

Something petulant pulses in your belly.

Swallowing your anxiety, you perch at the table and decide to wait. You don't want to serve him; you don't want to be his wife. And, besides, you don't know what provisions he has, where the larder is. He may beat you for poking around where you don't belong while trying to find it.

Every choice seems worse than the last, so you refuse to make one. You sit at the table, freezing slowly as the snow on your shoulders melts and bleeds into your coat. You feel a distance from yourself, as though you are literally frozen to the chair, mind pulling apart from your body like sticky caramel leaving looping threads behind. Time crawls by and you aren't sure how much of it passes before the door bangs inward in a swirl of white.

When he comes in, his eyes flick to the cold grate, to the empty stove. He does not berate you. He doesn't look at you at all.

Joel merely passes you at the table and builds up the fire, a process that takes longer than it should because the wood is wet. He hadn't any by the stove and had to bring some in, snow flecked and iced over.

You don't offer him any conversation, and he leaves you to your thoughts until quietly coaxed meek flames sputter into a roar.

It's only then that he speaks to you for the first time.

"You're cold. C'mon over here and warm up."

You're terrified to approach him, and hesitate to buy time. "You've been working so hard," you offer demurely as you can. These are some of the first full sentences you've spoken to him. "You should warm up."

He eyes you for a moment. "You're shiverin'."

There's no denying it. Tremors rack your shoulders, the thick wool of your coat soaked and weighed down.

You clear your throat and stand, steeling yourself to stand next to him at the grate, to surely have his hands press against you. You're his wife now, sold like a pig to slaughter, and he will want to touch you. You might as well stop being prudish about it and get over it. As far as he's been told, as far as your reputation is concerned, you are versed in this anyway.

You smooth out your skirts and approach.

To your surprise, he moves out of the way, giving you a wide berth to stand at the fire alone.

"You can take your coat off," he offers.

"Must I?" You ask, a tad snakily, without thinking.

"No," he answers, and you swear his mustache twitches, like he is repressing a smile, "might help with the cold, though."

It weighs heavily on your shoulders, cold and wet. You know he's right but shedding it feels like peeling off your skin, all that's beneath is that thin, hurried, second-hand wedding dress.

Even as unconventional a girl as you were, as opinionated and strong willed, you'd always dreamed of a wedding. A love match, in a dress sown by your mother's hands, witnessed by your friends and family, merriment, so many flowers you could drown in them. Instead, this. A fist closes tightly around your heart, squeezes until it feel like something might pop.

Joel opens cabinets, pulls out provisions you hadn't dared to look for earlier. His hands are rough and red from the cold, the brutal weather. The knobs of his knuckles are swollen. You sense he's keeping his back to you, moving slowly, so that you can observe him uninterrupted. Snow is peppered over his shoulders and hair, still unmelted for how cold the room is.

Despite it all, you find you'd like to touch that fine snow, curl a lick of dark hair around your finger just to see if it was as soft as it looked.

You unfasten the buttons and let the coat slip down your shoulders. The warmth is sudden and hot against your back through the thin material of the dress. You turn into it and close your eyes, try to imagine you're by the hearth at home, flames flicking hungrily behind your eyelids.

Joel clears his throat, nearer than you expect, and you start. "I'll hang that up to dry," he says, holding out a hand. "You hungry?"

You clutch the coat to your chest before releasing it to him, careful not to touch his hand. "No," you answer, sure that putting anything in your body would come straight back up. "But please, you should sit," you plead. You hate how simpering you sound, your voice an unrecognizably anxious animal in your throat. But he wields so much power over you, will always now, and should be decide you weren't fit to be his wife he could cast you out, or correct you as he saw fit. You are now this, forever. Nothing but this. "I'm your wife," you continue, the word hot and dry in your mouth, "and it's my duty. Let me fix something for you. I'm a decent cook."

You are a terrible cook. You never had the patience, which had made your mother click her tongue. But there are a couple things you learned to make decently.

Joel, to your surprise, waves you down, after hanging your coat on a hook by the door. "That's all right. I've been feedin' myself for awhile; one more night won't hurt nothin'."

You hover awkwardly and only sit when he insists that you do, warming yourself by the hearth while he rummages around.

The wind moans outside, rattles the shutters and the panes of glass in their window frames. The front door creaks, like someone is leaning on it, trying to get in.

The sounds are lonely but you don't break the silence of his quick dinner.

He clears the table and then sets about filling a warming plate with hot coal from the grate.

You heart stutters a nervous tattoo in your chest when he disappears with it through a door behind you. Your mind had skimmed over it, not let you contemplate where it might lead.

All the stories you've heard from the many girls that married before you told of pain, that it was just something you endured for your husband's pleasure. It feels okay, you'd heard from one blushing friend, whispering just outside the belfry on summer afternoon, once you get used to it. But it's awful to start.

It does not help matters, that your mother made the man out to be a brute, that he might be the man to cure you of your willful ways.

What wilfulness, you have to wonder.

You simply did as you pleased, which, you suppose was the point. Women were to be obedient and meek, led not leaders. You took your own counsel, spoke your mind. Look where that had landed you. With the mean daughter of the mayor jealous and telling tales of all that time you spent alone.

It had all ended with a husband twice your age, that you did not know, that might be a strict disciplinarian. Your world had always been small, but you were free to roam it. Now it has shrunken to the size of a pin. To this room and this man and nothing more.

And, you are terribly afraid of violence.

Your parents were never strict with you, had hardly ever used corporal punished. You don't know how to endure that kind of pain. Better to be cautious for now, follow each of his whims, bow to any request or demand. You can push later, find the weak spots later, you only have to bear him for now.

Joel returns twice for more pans of coal, lids snapping closed with a metallic clang, before he carries your little suitcase through.

You stand when he gestures you within.

The room is spare and clean, and you have to tramp down the instinct to turn and run, fling yourself into the snow and run until your legs gave out.

The door closes behind you with a soft snick. To contain the heat of the room, you think desperately.

Something rustles and you turn to find him undressing.

You have never seen a man's nude body before, aside from the time you and a friend has spied on boys at the river once when you were young, seeing nothing but murky water and thin, veiny chests, and the curious part of you just wants to watch, to discover it. Instead, you reach for the buttons on your dress and follow suit, fingers shaking.

It seems odd, you think, that he isn't touching you, tugging the fabric loose himself, but maybe this is how it's done. Maybe this is how he does it. Perhaps you should be helping him.

You glance up to find him still not looking at you, redressing in warm underclothes.

You falter, unsure, and let the buttons hang loose at your chest.

The uncertainty is making you feel like a caged animal.

What does he want with you? You can take it into your own hands.

They had called you brave and determined, let that be true.

You let the dress slip off your shoulders and pool on the floor. You step out of the ring of fabric, approach him slowly, presenting yourself to him in your underthings, shoulders bare, nipples perking against the fabric in the bone-deep cold.

His eyes travel the length of your body, eyes eventually landing on yours.

His gaze doesn't seem brutish, but men are good at hiding it when they liked to. Maybe you're seeing what you need to, to reach for his hands.

Joel curls one hand around both of your wrists, stops the trajectory of your hand toward his chest. "We don't have to."

A confused combination of rejection and relief rushes through you. "I'm your wife. You don't want to have me?"

He exhales, his warm breath ghosting over your lips. "It ain't that. I know you didn't choose to marry an old man," he says, tongue soaked with a bitterness turned inward. He releases your hands, steps back. "I'm sorry I don't have nowhere else for ya to sleep."

"Oh," you murmur, a tight fist clenching around your throat.

You had been prepared for anything but consideration, but this.

None of this is how you imagined marriage, a husband, this long night.

He nods, doesn't seem to expect you to say anything else. You close your hands around one of his. "Husband," you say softly, saying his name feels too intimate. "I can't bear the uncertainty. Please, I would rather have it done."

Joel watches you, his eyes flicking between both of yours. He covers your hands with his free hand and pushes them down. "Nothin' to be uncertain about. I won't touch you."

He releases you and moves away, seeming to mean what he said.

The candles are blown out, the room plunged into darkness and you settle in the blissfully warm bed together, a wide space between your bodies.

The coverlet smells of sweet summer hay, at odds with the chill in the room, freezing your nose. It smells of something deeper too, a heady scent of salt and skin and cotton.

You don't dare sleep, despite his words and supposed kindness.

It could be a trick, a test, something to make you loosen your guard, for you to fall asleep only to wake with those rough hands on your body, pulling you apart in ways you can only guess at.

You lie in the dark, missing something you never even really had.

His breathing evens and deepens in sleep, but adrenaline and distrust and worry won't let you follow. You do not want to follow. You watch his shoulders lift through the dark, the line of his nose, the part of his chapped lips.

Eventually the world lightens to a gray muteness beyond the shuttered windows, and only then do you let yourself cry.

Mourning, but relief, too, that at least the first night is over.

.

.

.

While the blizzard abates over the next few days, the snow does not.

It continues down day after day, making the already perilous, winter weathered roads, completely impassable. You are stuck, trapped, an animal with it's foot caught in a snare.

For the first three days, you don't sleep at all, forcing yourself to stay awake and vigilant by any means, pinching your skin until you bled to forego sleep. But eventually exhaustion forces you to, shepherds you into dreams where it's warm, there are no men, no churches or mayor's daughters, and you walk unmolested through green forests alone, only a leather-bound notebook and leaping fish for company.

You wake and mourn something that will never be.

The land is beautiful, at least, iced white like the little cakes you sometimes saw in the baker's window just down the road from your home, but brutal and harsh, unforgiving.

You become aquatinted with Joel's house and the keeping of it, and feel quietly relived when he spends most of the day tending to the land, the horses, the other animals in the stables you've yet to see. You sense that he doesn't know what to make you of either, what to do with you, how to interact with you, how to fit together now that you're condemned to be stuck that way.

Loneliness infects you like a sickness, an unattractive melancholia that's only broken in the evenings when you warm yourself at the grate and eat dinner with Joel. Even though you don't speak the company is welcome, just the presence of him buoys you a little, shields you from the cold. Your fears that he would be a terror to you pass slowly, though you haven't had the opportunity to do something that might require his retributive, readjusting hand, stuck inside as you are.

A guiding hand, the priest would call it, towards the just path of being a good wife.

You mend clothes, cook to the best of your ability, sweep and scrub and wash until your hands are raw and stinging from the pervasive cold. You yearn to wander as you used to, to walk among the swaying, frozen trees, to at least go outside. You tell yourself that you are working toward asking him, that you won't neglect tasks for it.

As long and terribly lonely as the days are, the nights are worse. You ache with homesickness and betrayal. You are without even the comfort of your own things, since passing the roads are impossible, you only have the small suitcase you'd been able to carry. Your father had been set to deliver your things the next day. You have no way of knowing if he even attempted the journey.

A different feeling has joined that cacophony of confused familial hurt, something like lust and shame.

Joel washes before bed at the basin on the dresser, and you are often subject to this display though he turns his back to you. You are the one to lie out the cloth, the soap, and warm the water he uses to wash away the stink of the stables. Musky leather and hay and heady sweat, replaced with the clean scent of soap and skin. Often, water drips down his broad shoulders, pools at the base of his spine, curves over the thick, twisting muscle in his biceps and forearms.

He is no boy at a river, but neither is he your contemporary. His chest hair is gray as the hair of his beard, wrinkles tucked into curious corners of his body. It fascinates you, so different from your own body.

Betrayal of yourself pulses between your thighs, an ache that you want to reach beneath the coverlet and touch away, though you don't dare.

Each night, you expect to be the one where he reaches for you, claims you and seals your marriage but he never does.

You remember your friend's words. It would hurt and then be okay. You want to know for yourself what okay feels like.

It makes you wonder what it would be like, a curious daydream.

One horrible night, your usual dream of freedom morphs into that want, only it's not your hand massaging away the want, but Joel's. Those rough, broad fingers between your legs. You had to roll out of bed and gulp down water at the pitcher in the corner of the room, feeling stupid and wretched. Silly, even. For what would he get out of touching you there? Nothing, just your own desire run amok.

The closest you get to touching him, is bandaging his cold ruined hands, standing between his legs where he sits at the table, looking and not looking at him, his eyes raking over you. He had said thank you so earnestly, it had made your face warm.

Weeks pass into more than a month and a half in this way, one cold, dark day bleeding into the next, the soft humiliation of feeling unwelcome and unwanted and terribly alone, like a butterfly with it's wings pinned. For all your intrigue, he seems profoundly uninterested in you. He leaves you to your own mind, to your own lonesomeness. You are, maybe, just a girl that did his cooking.

You long to stretch your legs, take a walk, explore uninterrupted as you used to, report what you saw in the journal you haven't dared to take out in front of Joel, buried in your case beneath your clothes. You're already trapped, what if he didn't like you to write? Trapped by body and mind might really drive you to drown yourself in a river or go seeking a length of rope.

Things change when he finds you crying one evening, from the ache in your chest, from the caged wounded-ness, from the fear that still occasionally lurched to the front of your mind, for all the cruelties he could inflict so suddenly, if he chose.

You don't dry your eyes quickly enough and the next sleepy afternoon, eyes drooping from boredom, Joel slips inside in a burst of cold, snow peppered in his hair. Before you have the chance to offer him supper from the stove, he's saying your name and giving you pause.

"You want to come out to the stables? Maybe it'd do you good to get out of this house." If you didn't know better, you'd say he sounds worried.

"Are you—"

"I ain't puttin' you to work just yet," he says with a smile. It's a joke, and you find it disarming. "Just to stretch your legs. See another living thing that ain't me."

"Yes, okay," you agree, maybe too quickly and eagerly, because he laughs. You let him hold out your coat so you can slip your arms into the sleeves.

Joel holds the door open and offers his arm for you to balance on as you cross together through the thick icy drifts of snow to the stables. His arm is sturdy and strong beneath your fingers, warm even through all the layers you're both wearing. Fat flakes of snow sticks to your lashes, white flurries drowning your vision of Joel. His strong jaw, the tight squint of his eyes against the white glare of the world.

You glance away, feel that tightness bloom in your belly.

It feels good to walk, to cross a distance instead of pacing the cottage floor in circles all day long. He pulls back the stable door. It's surprisingly warm within, from the combined heat of the animals' bodies and whatever work he'd been sweating over. There are two horses and a cow, a smattering of chickens with their own little coop at the back.

You can't help but rush to them, patting noses, feeling hot breath on your face. The chickens squawk something terrible, but a spotted one rubs against your leg and let's you bend at the waist to pet it.

Joel fiddles around at a bench in the corner, breath puffing before his face. You see the flash of a pairing knife, wood shavings fluttering to the ground.

You tentatively creep closer, trying to peer over his shoulder at what he might be making. You would have never guessed he was creative.

"We only have goats," you say as you stroke the face of the mare whose stall is nearest Joel, as near as you can get without being obvious. "Very mean and terribly stubborn."

He chuckles, puts down his work and leans over the side of the stall. "Well, none a' those here."

It's silent for a long time, the plunk of snow against the roof, the quiet sound of the animals breathing. Joel clears his throat awkwardly after awhile and you stiffen. "Listen, I know we ain't had the best start with the weather and all. That and I'm not exactly the husband anyone looks for."

You turn to him, meeting his eyes, and feel something between you soften. "You've been kind to me. Kinder than I deserve," you answer. "Considering that marrying me will have hurt your reputation."

You wonder what he was promised in return for this. You assumed it was a child, that he was getting older and wanted to continue his line and so needed a young wife. But, he hasn't attempted to touch you at all.

"Ain't really got a reputation to speak of anyway," he chuckles. "Never cared about it neither."

How you wish you had the luxury of not caring about it. You glance away, smooth your fingers down the horse's freckled nose. "Were you ever married before?"

"Once," he answers. "Long time ago."

"When did she die?"

Joel shifts. "Hasn't," he grunts. "Far as I know. One mornin' she was gone, never came home."

You feel your eyes go wide. "Oh. I didn't know."

A runaway wife.

A vast thing you did not know possible.

"It's all right." He shakes his head. "I'm guess I'm askin' what I can do to help you feel better about this whole mess. I shouldn't have—" he waves a hand toward the direction of the house, "just left you on your own for so long. In the house. I figured it was better. That you might not. . ." He doesn't continue and you don't need him too.

He thought he was making you more comfortable, that you wouldn't have liked his company.

You don't correct him, because it's true. When you first arrived it was very true.

"Oh." You think for a long moment, of all the silence and tiptoeing around each other. Maybe there's a better way than that, if not the way of a married couple. "They lied about me, you know. The mayor's daughter and her friends and that boy. I didn't do anything wrong."

He looks a little embarrassed to be hearing talk of your supposed sin of the flesh so bluntly. "I figured," he answers, rubbing his chin.

You blink. "You did?" He nods and you continue. "She was jealous, I think, that I did as I pleased. I guess that's what could help me." You hurry to continue, because he'd only just told you of his first wife disappearing without a trace. "Of course, I would keep up with the work, and I can help here, too," you gesture around. "I'd like to help with the animals. . .But I'd like to roam, too."

He thinks on it for a long minute. "I'd maybe even appreciate work out here more. I can milk the cow, if it's anything like milking a goat. I can chop wood. If you'd allow it."

That earns you a chuckle. "You want to chop wood?" He asks, a little amused.

"If you'd allow it," you cast your eyes down. "Of course I don't want to disobey you."

You aren't expecting him to take your hand and jump when he does. You'd both removed your gloves when you entered the barn and his skin is warm and calloused against your own.

His jaw works as he contemplates you, a fascination in his eyes. "Forget all that nonsense about obeying and whatever else that priest was goin' on about." He shakes his head, "I'm too old to think any of it means anything."

You aren't sure what he means by that, but nod all the same.

"So, how 'bout this. We'll start takin' it all on together. I did my own damn housework for years so I ain't completely useless. And you can help chop wood, if it suits you to."

It sounds too good, so you contain your enthusiasm and nod. "A fine idea. We might know each other better then, to spend some time togeher."

He nods, and something pink rises in his cheeks. "And," he shuffles his feet, squeezes your hand in both of his. "that's enough. Understand? You're might be my wife, but I'm no fool."

You understand what he means. That this thing is more partnership than relationship. It soothes you, if it also disappoints you a little. All those parts of him you think of exploring, suddenly out of reach.

"I understand."

"Good, come spring, when it's warmer, we'll figure something better for sleepin'."

You nod and then dare to ask, "And wandering? If the work is finished and I'd like to walk alone?"

He touches your cheek for the first time, the barest brush of his fingers, a tentative affection. "Always home before dark. That's all I ask."

"I can do that." You cradle the hand that had touched your face against the mare's stall, daring to hope.

You feel like you can breathe for the first time since the mayor's daughter stood and pointed her finger at you in church all those weeks ago.

.

.

.

Spring comes late in the year this far north.

The roads turn to mud that sticks the horses' hooves in place, bogs down the wagon.

Joel watches you lift the ax above your head and bring it neatly down on the splint of wood balanced on the stump in front of you, just the way he'd shown you months ago, in the dead of that terrible winter. If you wanted to chop firewood, who was he to tell you not to?

The shaw around your shoulders flutters in the breeze as you retrieve the fallen logs, reveals the strength in your forearms.

He glances away. You are the most unsettlingly pretty creature he's ever set eyes on, and much too young for him. Much too good for him, much too good for anyone. All the warnings he'd been given on your temperament had sounded only like compliments to him, and he'd been proven right. And now that you'd loosened, he appreciates your unflinching opinions, your sharp pointed tongue.

And, Joel doesn't necessarily mind being bossed all that much. You're usually right, anyway.

If he is worried sick right up until the moment when you return to the cottage when you roam about, no one is the wiser of it. You always return before dark, and he never tells you not to go.

Some creatures just didn't need caging; they'd come home all on their own if you let them.

Preventing you from walking alone, taking time to yourself to explore would be akin to clipping a bird's wings. He's sorry for all those weeks at the start when he left you inside, hadn't realized you thought you couldn't leave the cottage, not even just outside.

It's still cold and your breath unspools in front of you in a pale cloud as you work, sweating and breathing hard through your teeth.

He feels a longing for you that he probably shouldn't. He had made a promise to you and he intended to keep it, wife or not. You content now, at ease, in his presence. The longer he keeps that vow as the days grow longer, the more you'll settle.

Soon, the roads will clear and you can go into the village for supplies that are bitterly needed after such a long winter. He thinks you'll like the town, less haughty and judgemental than the one you grew up in.

The afternoon sun dapples over your skin, makes the sweat on your brow, at the base of your throat, shimmer. He glances away, his thoughts already spiraling toward what you will smell like that evening, coated in a day's hard work. Lying beside you each night in bed is a sweet, unending torture. You dream often, murmuring in your sleep, occasionally pierced with a cry, sometimes a grunt and moan. Mouth parted, chest heaving. He wonders what or who you dream of, and goes to great pains to hide how hard he often is in the morning.

It feels sort of like a betrayal, how quickly his mind conjures up your bare skin, waiting and open, unfolding just for him, the imagined taste of you on his tongue, the plush part of your lips, little pink tongue pressing against your teeth.

He could only endure it. Once summer came, he might be able to take care of it elsewhere and not risk you overhearing, or worse, catching him.

Aside from the torture of sleep, everything else is fine. You're clever and quick; a better chess player than him by far. You best him nearly every evening you plat. You write and draw in a little notebook that you once squirreled away like he might take it. Now, you leave it on the table, let him read little bits of stories, thumb through your drawings of animals you come across. You only have to hear something once to be able to repeat it verbatim, reciting poetry or stories not in your notebook for him when requested.

You've improved his life, the cottage and farm, in way he wouldn't have been able to picture before. This isn't what your father had meant when he came begging him to marry you and save their reputation, said Joel could use a woman's touch, a kind of helper.

It was bullshit, but maybe the loneliness finally got the better of him. After his wife disappeared, he hadn't thought of remarrying. Clearly he's the type you leave.

He continues watching you, brushing the mare, when the sound of an approaching wagon meets his ears. Joel glances up to find the ax abandoned against the stump, you hurrying quickly toward him in the mouth of the open stable.

"Someone's coming," you say, brow creased with worry, reaching for his sleeve. "Joel, I thought the roads were too—"

"Me too," he answers, checking the revolver at his hip. "Let's see who it is." He pushes his hand against your spine and feels your body loosen as you walk together toward the distant road.

The wagon plodding up the road eventually pulls to a muddy stop just at the fence line, a man jumping down from the driver's seat. "Father," he hears you murmur, before starting across the yard without waiting for him.

Joel follows, watches his old friend wrap an arm around you, murmuring your mother's sent greetings. You face folds at the mention of your mother, but you brighten quickly.

Joel hadn't even known your father had a daughter, until he appeared like a wraith at the edge of his land all those months ago, begging a favor.

Joel had told you of his own daughter one late evening when neither of you could sleep. Feeling your comforting warm attention across the mattress as he spoke to the dark ceiling. How his wife leaving, had also been a mother leaving.

Sarah had died very, very young, and though he'd never know for certain, he can't imagine selling her off the way your father had you. A wad of cash offered like you were goods to be traded in service of their name. It had soured his opinion of the man, and any leftover good will he felt toward him when they were younger.

Soiled, now that Joel was a hypocrite, finding comfort, among other feelings, in you, even if you were his wife. You're young, and you've placed immeasurable trust in him that he'd had to very carefully earn.

Joel joins you and shakes your father's well meaning hand as you say, "Stay for dinner, please. We'd love to have you and hear any news from town. We've been alone all winter."

"Of course," he answers jovially, glancing over you. "I thought for sure you'd have a spring chicken on the way, my dear."

It takes you a long moment to realize what he's getting at. A complicated knot of feelings writhes over your face before hurt dominates.

He clearly expected to find you pregnant.

You smile and don't answer, leading them toward the house instead.

.

.

.

The afternoon air is already below freezing again when your father finally leaves, wagon disappearing back down the road, unloaded of your meager things that you haven't missed in months. An odd anxiety has taken hold of you, and though you have too many chores to get done, you tell Joel you're going on a walk and leave without waiting for an answer.

You feel like a lamb put out to slaughter, though what else should your father have expected than to find you a pregnant wife, muted and different than you had been before marriage. It stings that he hadn't even asked after your well being, if Joel was treating you well, was good to you. It didn't matter you suppose, you aren't his problem, and if your husband saw fit to be cruel to you, that was that man's right.

He'd sat at the table and talked only to Joel where once he used to look to you, find pride in his clever daughter's conversation.

Now, you are silent, talked about like you aren't present, about how well you are or aren't fulfilling wifely duties. Clearly you'd failed in at least one respect since you were not pregnant. Never would he guess that Joel had never even stuck you, left the marriage unconsummated. It makes you feel adrift, all the easier to discard, since he could easily nullify the marriage for something like that.

You couldn't read how Joel felt about the whole thing as your father threw out childhood anecdotes about your petulance and reluctance to learn from your mother without care.

Humiliating. It made you seem frivolous and silly. Worse, many times over he implied thanks to Joel for the purchase of damaged goods, your supposed fling with the farmhand referenced repeatedly and only thinly veiled by polite convention.

Joel, apparently a damned martyr for marrying you. He was suffering so greatly by taking your hand in marriage.

Though, your father had said, wiping his chin of the grease spilling down it, good to have a woman's touch, as I told you before. It's no good for a man to take on duties of the home, or be, ah, alone all the time. I don't know how you stood to be without a wife for so many years.

It was a humiliating, punishing few hours. Clearly, your family had not thought of you beyond gladness that your indiscretion no long sullied their name.

You feel foolish too, for the affection you feel for Joel. When you are only a little help mate to him. That is why he draws no closer, doesn't really want to know you as a husband would know you.

You walk and walk, head down, alternating between seething rage and despair in turns. You don't notice the shadows creeping in at the edges of your vision, how quickly the sun has sunk behind the mountains. A horrible shame traces up your spine, making you shiver.

The world is still icy and cold, snowbanks piled high between muddy ruts cut into the earth. You don't notice how close you've strayed to the rushing creek, swollen with melted snow runoff spilling down the mountainside. You boot catches on the edge of an slick stone.

You grasp at a low handing tree branch to keep upright but fall into the water heavily, spluttering as it sweeps you into it's rush. Your lungs feel frozen as you gasp and flail for anything to find purchase on. All those times you thought of throwing yourself to a river's mercy, here was God doing it for you, for your ungrateful hardness, a nasty little girl that wanted too much and had no good sense.

Maybe God thought you had sex with that farmhand too.

Or maybe it was the sins of the flesh you imagined with a husband that did not return your desire.

It's almost easy to stop fighting the current and let it drag you down instead. You can't swim and maybe this is fate. No one would miss you, people would sigh and say maybe it was the most decent thing to happen to you, a blight scorched off the town's good name.

The water closes over your head, darkness swims at the corners of your vision.

You aren't sure how long you're under when something hard catches under your elbow, hauls you coughing and spluttering to shore.

A face looms above yours as you try to draw breath into your frozen lungs, coughing until you turn on your side and throw up, first water and then the little dinner you'd been able to stomach. "Breathe," a voice murmurs, which you only belatedly connect to Joel. Then, angrier, "What the hell were you thinkin'?"

You can't answer him just yet, feeling faint, still hiccoughing into the dirt, lungs still spasming from the shock of the cold water.

"Before dark," he growls suddenly when you finally manage to suck in a full breath of night air. "Come home before dark. That is the one goddamn thing I asked from you."

A new fear steals into you, that you will finally find out what happens when you disobey, and on the heels of your father, Joel's good friend, reminding him that you were dirty and used, beneath him in almost every way.

You cower, waiting for a blow on the black soil of the creek bank. "Joel, please, I'm sorry—" The word sicks in your graveled voice.

It doesn't come right then. Instead, his arms fit beneath your legs, around your back, and lifts you from the ground. "Jesus, sweetheart, no—I got you," he says softly. "Just breathe."

"Joel—"

"'s all right, now."

"Please don't—"

"We're just goin' home, or you'll freeze to death."

Your mind sways in and out of consciousness as he walks, dark branches wheeling above your head in a dark tangle, the world silent and near pitch black by the time you return to the cottage.

He sets you on your feet in the bedroom, yanks your coat down your arms. "Help me here, darlin'," he says, his voice softly desperate, that sweet little pet name a suspected accident. "You might lose fingers if you don't."

You help him wrestle with the fastenings of your clothes. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

Only a muted embarrassment and helplessness reaches your mind, that he is seeing you nearly naked for the first time like this. His hands seem far away.

Joel tugs the blankets around your shoulders and hastily fills a pan with coal from the hearth. "Too damn cold," he mutters, and you wonder how long and far you'd gone if the fire from dinner was already spent. Distantly, you realize he is peeling himself out of his own clothes. "You'll get faster warmer," he explains. You nod, feeling very tired. "Don't close your eyes," he says, voice suddenly harsh. "Keep lookin' at me."

You struggle to follow his command, watching as so much skin is revealed, then pressed against yours.

His body is so hot, when your skin touches his, that it feels like being set aflame, touched by a scorching fire.

You whimper and he shushes you, presses you closer, head tucked beneath his chin. "You're all right," he murmurs, though it sounds as though he is trying desperately to convince himself. "You'll be all right, sweetheart."

For a long while he holds you in silence, scratchy lips against your forehead, beard pressed against your temple. You feel every part of him pressed against every part of you, the hair on his legs and chest, the muscle of his biceps and forearms, chest and collarbones and feet. The first time his hands are on you this way, because you'd been a little too emotional and nearly drowned yourself.

His broad palms splay over your spine, cradling you as shivers start to rack your body again. You hadn't realized they had stopped.

A relieved sigh climbs out of his throat.

"Were you trying to leave?"

You don't know how he means it, like his first wife had, or like you were trying to die. "No," you answer, "No, I fell in. I was upset." Your teeth chatter, click together so violently you're afraid you might bite your tongue. "I didn't realize how late it was. I'm sorry, Joel."

"Scared me, is all."

"I'm sorry," you whisper against his throat. "For all of it. I'm so ashamed."

He shakes his head. "Should be your father that's ashamed."

"I'm being punished," you continue. "For something I did not do."

Joel's hand pauses in its path down your spine, for just a moment. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "I'm sorry for it."

"Not you," you nest down against him. Maybe if you were more coherent, you'd feel nervous about it, but it just feels good, his arms around you, his body against yours, finally. "I don't mean you, Joel. You are not my punishment."

"All right now," he mutters. "Enough a' that."

You are sure you move first, though if asked, Joel will say he did. You tilt your chin up and press your cold mouth to his.

Stolen little girlhood kisses amount to nothing compared to this. His heavy hands, his scratchy cheeks against yours. Full and warm blooded. Cradling and caressing and sighing just like you. His breath is yours.

It's all consuming, like a star parting the night sky.

.

.

.

Summer arrives quietly, softly.

You visit your family as a married couple, and Joel holds your hand through the Sunday church service you attend together even though some of the congregants eye you with stony, judgemental stares. You take pleasure in the burning gaze of those girls on you, angry that you don't seem uncomfortable with the man they'd indirectly sentenced you to.

As quickly as is possible, you leave again. It's hard to be there, among the stares but also among a village that used to be your home.

"Sure you wanna go so quick?"

"Yes, Joel."

He mulls it over, hands on his hips.

"What?" It occurs to you that maybe he isn't ready to leave. He has no family; you've only spoken to each other for months and months aside from that visit from your father and once from Joel's brother, who had been taken by surprise at your presence. Maybe he was craving company other than your own. "Would you like to stay longer?"

"No, I don't want you to feel like we're in any rush to get back."

You blink, taken aback. "I don't. I'd like to. . .go home."

His face softens. "All right, girl. Let's get a move on then." Joel helps you onto the wagon bench and starts to climb up when the priest, who Joel had managed to avoid earlier, passes by your parents' house.

"Mr. Miller! A moment?"

"What's he want, I wonder?" He asks, leaning his arms against the side of the wagon, his face close to yours. "I ain't his parishioner. Technically."

You roll your eyes. "Go see what he'd like," you say tenderly, touching his cheek just to nettle the other man. Indecent touching! You can hear the sermon already forming. Lusts of the flesh! Good thing you no longer attend to this town's church and will not have to hear it.

"Yes, ma'am."

Despite the intimacy, he has not touched you, not really, since that day you nearly drowned. You long for him to kiss you again, just once, but fear it may have been an accident borne of your stupidity, his fear of loss.

Joel climbs steps back down from the wagon and approaches. You watch the robin's egg sky instead of the men, counting the crowding of little white puffs on the horizon, pretending that you can't hear every word being spoken, of being tamed, cowed, broken. How is he faring with his new wife?

You mean to hear Joel's answer, but you mother is suddenly laboring onto the wagon bench beside you. You had not heard her approaching and had avoided speaking to her at church and lunch, Joel dutifully standing between you.

"We didn't get a chance to speak."

"Should I have something to say to you?"

You mother catches up your hand, holds it between both of hers. "I didn't want to send you away."

"And yet you did, for something you know I did not do. To a man you knew nothing of."

She huffs. "What's done is done. We did it to protect you, to save your name." You nod and tug your hand away. "Never mind all that," she says gently. "Tell me, how is he as a man? Does he treat you well?"

"I think," you start, watching Joel and the priest. "He might be the best man I've ever known."

She peers at you curiously. "He doesn't hurt you?"

"It would be much too late for your guilt if he did," you answer, "but no, he doesn't."

"You listen to him." Your mother sounds amazed.

"He listens to me. Let's me be." You shrug, "So I do the same."

She seems bewildered by that, that by not holding you down, forcing you to something else, you were better for it.

Your mother doesn't get to give an answer, because Joel is approaching.

She kisses you goodbye and he helps her down from the wagon. "So," you say when the village is finally behind you. "What did you tell the Father? How did you break my restless spirit?"

He chuckles. "I told him there wasn't anything to break."

It warms you to think he believes it. "Even when I fall into creeks in the cold?"

"I think your spirit is what kept you from drownin' so—"

"Oh, ha ha, very funny."

You want to lean into him, but wait until you're on the final stretch of dusty road when the evening sky is beginning to darken at the edges to do so, heavy against his shoulder.

You work together to curry the horses and stable them for the night, exhaustion aching in your bones by the time you turn in. Summer is as bright as winter is dark, and the sky is only just starting to darken, blushing pinks and smouldering orange over the trees.

Joel is saying something about a book, something about chess. He talks so much, now. Even when he's quiet, you know the language of him.

"Why don't you kiss me again?"

He blinks and meets your gaze, looking like a fish out of water. "I, uh—"

"If the first time was a mistake," you say. "It doesn't offend me. I like things as they are."

He clears his throat and bows his head, approaches you slowly, all the time looking down at his feet, brows tilted together. "I didn't mean for it to go like that," he admits. "That's true."

You meant it when you said you like things as they are, but disappointment still burns hot that his affection had been unintentional. "Okay," you agree when he stops in front of you. "That's just fine."

He shakes his head. "It ain't that I don't want that. But I promised you, I wouldn't. Our, uh, marriage vows didn't mean shit. But that, sweetheart, it meant something. I meant it."

"And if I said I wanted it?"

"You don't need to feel like you have to," he says quietly but firmly. "I wouldn't be able to stomach it."

You push your palm against his cheek, stand nearly chest to chest with him. "You have never made me feel like I needed to do or be anything at all for you." You lean against him, "I'd like it if you kissed me. And if, um, you'd like to—" Long held shame, years of hearing about how women were lustful temptresses comes creeping in. "Well, the rest of it—"

"If I'd like to what?" He teases, something wicked in the grin that pulls at the corners of your mouth. "Touch you?"

"I suppose," you say haughtily, flustered.

"Where?" His hot hands press to your sides, over the curves of your hips where no one has ever touched before. You startle and fall against him, your skin alive beneath his hands. "Here?"

You cover his hands, guide them boldly over your body, to your ass and waist and just beneath your breasts, back down to your hips. You lean in so your mouth brushes his. "You should make more vows to me. New ones that say you promise to never stop touching me."

"That could be arranged."

"Oh wonderful. I should hate to have to hunt down another husband."

He's pulls you toward the bedroom, the bed beyond. He has kissed you again, but he intends to do something to you, that much is clear.

"Hunt one down, huh? I think I fell into your lap."

He fell into your lap. The thought is a nice one.

You nod, bum hitting the edge of the bed. "I should think so. Had those girls witnessed even this behind that barn, I would have been killed where I stood. A happy accident that they didn't and I was given you instead."

His laugh is like a bark. "Ain't you somethin'."

He tilts you back, looks at your coiled body and hums. Your knees are pressed together out of habit, arms folded across your belly now. Still fully clothed and you feel naked as he looks down at you with a reverence and devotion you have only before seen in a pew. You settle your heels at the edge of the bed."Tell me again," he requests.

"I want you," you say quietly. "I want you to touch me."

Just as in your dreams that you thought frivolous and unrealistic, he peels your thighs apart and pushes his hand between your legs. You gasp and fight not to skitter away from his touch, to keep your hips against the mattress. If that's how warm only his hand felt through your clothes, you can't imagine what it will be like without.

He leans over you, moves his hand to tilt your chin up instead, finally presses his lips against yours again after so long.

"Joel," you sigh against his mouth, scratchy cheeks that you cup in your hands. "You'll be gentle with me."

It's not a question.

"Mm." His nose draws a line down your cheek to your jaw, mouth pressing against the underside of your jaw. You gasp when his teeth scrape along your skin, just a little. You tangle your hands in his hair, tug at the graying strands that slip through your fingers until he grunts against you.

Joel settles between your parted thighs, lost to you, apparently. "Joel."

"Sweetheart," he answers, lifting his head to look at you.

"I know it will hurt. Please make it easy on me."

He leans on his forearm, placed above the crown of your head, his other hand yanking the skirt of your dress up. "I will do everything to make it easy on you."

"Okay," you breathe, smoothing the worry. He wouldn't hurt you on purpose, of that you're sure.

He works you out of your clothes as you pull at his. There's only one part of him you haven't seen, one part of him you've never seen of any man. You tug at his trousers until a button pops open and you can push your hand down.

You gasp at the feeling of him in your hand, hard and warm, his skin soft and damp. You aren't sure what to do, not the way he moves with such certainty, thick fingers slipping beneath your underwear, parting the folds of you.

You watch his face as you move your hand, circling your fingers around him seems the natural fit of things, sliding your fist up and down his length. There's friction though and you wonder if it feels good for him.

He is signularly focused on you though, and for a moment you forget his cock in your hand because he touches something that makes your back arch off the bed, a moan yanked from your chest.

"There she goes," he coos, still moving his fingers over you, not even inside you yet.

That will go inside you, you remember suddenly. It feels too big for your hand, let alone your cunt. You squeeze his cock and rub your thumb along the head where you feel something leaking, helping your hand slide around him.

"How does that feel—"

He groans, and you turn your gaze to him, repeating the action, watching him shudder. "Am I doing okay?"

It gives you no small satisfaction to literately have him in the palm of your hand, giving to him. You stroke him slowly, tightening your grip as you reach the tip. "Jesus, girl," he murmurs, and then thrusts into your hand.

"Am I?"

"Little too good," he grunts. "I ain't gonna be much use to you if you keep that up."

You don't know what he means, especially since you want to keep making him sound like that forever. But you trust him, so you release him and kiss him instead, nipping at his bottom lip, feeling like an aching wound as his slips a finger inside you.

There's a little pressure but it doesn't hurt. You can feel how damp you are, easing the passage of his fingers, a second and third following, stretching you to almost the point of pain, but mostly it feels good, his hands working some kind of spell over you in tandem until your world bursts with pleasure.

Waves of it crash over you, slicking your skin with sweat in the warmth of your bedroom. He helps you out of the last bit of your clothes, nude body bared to him, hands scooping your breasts in too warm palms, brushing tentatively over your nipples.

So many thngs that you did not know could feel good.

Your mouth goes dry when you finally see his cock, aching from your attentions, the head an angry red. You have the most bizarre desire to out him in your mouth, that is only vindicated as not odd when Joel puts his head between your legs and makes you come again without his fingers even entering you.

"Please," you whine, beckoning him toward you, so open and vulnerable and never so safe. "Please just do it. I'm ready."

"You are, sweetheart," he coos. "Best I can get you anyway."

He lets you grip him and guide him to your entrance, pushing inside you in increments. You wonder at what brutes the men in your village must be like to have all the girls saying this is only something to endure. For though it hurts a little, it overwhelmingly feels good. Like stretching a sore muscle. He is heavy and warm, your bodies locked together in a way you will mourn when it parts.

Joel holds you close, pushes his forehead gently to yours, breath ghosting over your lips, so warm and present it makes something deep inside you sigh in satisfaction.

Here you belong, you are sure, here you are understood and wanted. You touch him wherever your hands can reach, marveling at the plains of his body as he ruts into you, skin slapping against skin.

He grunts against your neck when he comes and you follow only a moment later, panting into the dark of something that is now yours, clutching him tightly to your chest.

A new vow kept.

.

.

.

He wakes you in the middle of the night with gentle prodding.

The night is a soft sweet song outside your window, the low sounds of the land around you. "Joel?" you ask, pressing one hand over your eyes, rubbing away sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," he assures. "There's just somethin' I wanna show you."

"Now?"

"If you're willin'."

Well, you are always willing, with him. Wrapped in only your dressing robe, he leads you outside, across the yard to the stables by lamplight.

He is shirtless, and you are close enough that you can see the flex of muscle in his arms when he rolls the doors open, and the cratered parts of him you finally got to touch.

"Joel—" You complain. "What—"

"C'mon, now," he motions you inside, the red light flickering over his features comforting instead of eerie.

"I'm sore you know," you grumble. And you are, a pleasant kind of pain that accompanies the pleasure he had given you. It's nothing like the girls had described to you. It had only been good. He had only been good.

He just chuckles, no small amount of pride in it, and leads you to the workbench that you can never quite tell what he does at. "You feel okay?" He asks, sincere.

"Okay," you scoff. "You very well know what you did to me."

"All right," he says softly. "Enough of that."

"Show me."

He clears his throat, and nods, pulling you near him at the bench.

There among the softly snuffling horses, he presents you with a tiny wood carving of a woman that looks just like you. You gasp and take her carefully from his hands, holding her up to moonlight and then lamplight, the exquisite detailing of her.

She has your nose and eyes. The shape of her body in movement, the exact way you hold your hands in miniature. An expression on her face of determination and muddled anxiety. Afraid, but getting on with it.

He has adored you, you see, from the moment he met you. He studied you as closely as you studied him. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah," he agrees, hand on your spine, "suppose I've got a good muse, though."

Your face feels hot, your whole body alight. "When did you—" just to confirm what you think you know.

"Morning after we married," he says. "Somethin' about the way you looked, I just. . .I had to get it down somewhere."

You rub your thumb over her silhouette. "She is missing her wedding band."

Joel's eyes flick to your hand, empty. "I suppose she is." He takes your hand and kisses it's fingers. "As you are."

You nod and tuck her into your palm, leaning up to kiss him again. It's okay, you know he keeps his word.

[punkshort]

'long way down' masterlist

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader

Summary: Working as a personal assistant for the most eligible bachelor in New York City has its perks: above average pay, expensive goody bags from parties, traveling to exotic locations, dining at exclusive restaurants. It's a dream job that practically fell into your lap. The downside? You've been hopelessly in love with him for years and he has no clue. Even if he did, he isn't willing to give up his playboy lifestyle for a steady relationship. That is, until he meets Lucy, and everything changes.

Warnings: slow burn, power imbalance (boss/employee), language, food and alcohol consumption, some minor physical trauma, hurt/comfort, mention of SA (the part from the movie), eventual smut (18+ MDNI), angst, minor infidelity, so much fucking pining and yearning, more warnings to be stated each chapter

Status: in progress

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Chapters:

please notice

there is a light that never goes out - posting Oct 4

thin line - posting Oct 11

there's no way - posting Oct 18

potential - posting Oct 25

bruises - posting Nov 1

head over feet - posting Nov 8

-> if you wish to be notified of chapter updates, please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications

[teejaywyatt1]

Chapters: 46/? Fandom: John Wick (Movies) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: John Wick & Original Female Character(s) of Color, John Wick/You, John Wick/Reader Characters: John Wick, Winston (John Wick), Original Female Character(s) of Color, Viggo Tarasov, Santino D'Antonio, Bowery King (John Wick), The Adjudicator (John Wick), Marcus (John Wick), Ms. Perkins (John Wick), The High Table (John Wick) - Character, Continental Hotel Doctor (John Wick), Iosef Tarasov, Helen Wick, Aurelio (John Wick), Charon (John Wick), Zero (John Wick), Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont, Caine (John Wick), Katia, Ruska Roma - Character, Killa Harkan Additional Tags: Violence, Reader-Insert, Assassins & Hitmen, Murder, Sex, Smut, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, This is nasty NASTY, John doesn’t play about his girl Series: Part 3 of Skyline Series Summary:

Your simple world is turned outside down when you become the object of affection for the World’s Deadliest Assassin after crossing paths.

[jaa1682-27]

😍😍😍😊

[im-baba-yaga]

"I got a taste for men who are older."

[boredth]

Bookbinding with John Wick Wick is Pain (2025)

[teejaywyatt1]

Chapters: 46/? Fandom: John Wick (Movies) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: John Wick & Original Female Character(s) of Color, John Wick/You, John Wick/Reader Characters: John Wick, Winston (John Wick), Original Female Character(s) of Color, Viggo Tarasov, Santino D'Antonio, Bowery King (John Wick), The Adjudicator (John Wick), Marcus (John Wick), Ms. Perkins (John Wick), The High Table (John Wick) - Character, Continental Hotel Doctor (John Wick), Iosef Tarasov, Helen Wick, Aurelio (John Wick), Charon (John Wick), Zero (John Wick), Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont, Caine (John Wick), Katia, Ruska Roma - Character, Killa Harkan Additional Tags: Violence, Reader-Insert, Assassins & Hitmen, Murder, Sex, Smut, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, This is nasty NASTY, John doesn’t play about his girl Series: Part 3 of Skyline Series Summary:

Your simple world is turned outside down when you become the object of affection for the World’s Deadliest Assassin after crossing paths.

[vanilleandclove]

galapogos; michael berzatto x f!reader

your therapist deters you into describing how you came to fall in love with mikey. slowly but surely breaking your shell into understanding how you feel in the aftermath by retelling your life with the enigma that was michael berzatto. your mutual shared love for the smashing pumpkins and dad rock brings you closer than you’d like to admit.

warnings: the bar exam is offered during the last tuesday of february in chicago FOR CONTINUITY PURPOSES: it has changed to beginning of february, reader is midwestern (i'll forgive you), im mexican not italian so butchered italian-american terms of endearment, they have sex to radiohead (sorry), protected sex via birth control!!, grief— a whole lot of it. the interchanging of "michael" and "mikey" is very much intentional, posting this at 5 am!! word count: 4.6k notes: listen to galapogos by the smashing pumpkins because this is very much how i would perceive mikey & the reader — even though it’s a breakup song. the metaphorical usage of archipelagos (galapagos islands) as isolation is perfect, but it also is the connection between our familial connections & childhood being conflated to our ways of romance. it’s about evolution and adapting. 

prev - next

“Let’s start from the beginning” your therapist breathed out, sitting comfortably in their armchair. 

“The beginning?” you quirked a brow, “When we met or started dating?”.

“Whichever you prefer. Personally, I celebrate meeting my spouse as an anniversary rather than us starting the relationship, it varies”. 

“Well we met Superbowl 2014” you told them, looking into their eyes as you smiled slightly from the extremely distant memory. 

“Yo! Richie and I placing bets, y’wanna join in?” you heard an obnoxious voice next to you as you sat nursing an extremely expensive glass of scotch. “You okay sweetheart?” you heard the voice ask, in your peripheral you saw the man’s body shift towards you.

Sammy had a quaint, hole-in-the-wall, pub in southeast Chicago, he was an old friend of your father’s therefore, he protected you fiercely. 

“Aye! I don’t want either of you around angioletta, let her be, sweetie just took the Bar” Sammy scolded, pointing at the mystery guy next to you and someone behind him with his dishrag. 

“Which is?”.

“You serious? Y/n over here is gonna be a big shot lawyer dumbass, THE BAR!” Sammy emphasized both dumbfounded and proud. “Again neither of you, be damned if she ends up with a fucking Berzatto. Now Carmy is sweet, be more like Carm, Mikey”. 

“Carmy is a kid for one” the man joked, making a mockery with his voice, “Two, you her father or something?”. 

“No. He’s friends with mine” you interjected, looking towards Sammy to wave him off as he looked at the TV screen, it was the first quarter and the Seahawks were leading 8 to 0. “Who do you think is going to win?”.

“You always speak like that?”.

“Like what?”.

“Like you’re a teacher sweetie” he batted his eyelashes to mock you, “Loosen up you’re not taking ‘the Bar’ now— What’d you even score on that thing anyway?” he shrugged with his beer in hand, taking a swig before you. 

“I don’t know,” you shrugged back.

“Whadda’ mean?” he furrowed his brows, missing a tackle shot that led his friend to yelp out in excitement and curse about how someone named Jimmy owes him money. 

“Illinois takes around two months to release scores, pretty big test a lot of people wanna be attorneys in Chicago in general” you educated him, “I’m not worried, I maxed out on my LSAT, and my practice exam scores were all— Fuck, I sound like a dickhead” you groaned, proceeding to down the scotch in front of him. The alcohol burned your throat before going down smoothly, this was the most you’ve drank in months; only due to a promise you made to your family as to not cloud your brain before the Bar. “So what’re you betting on with me?”.

“Denver wins 48-27” he spoke up without hesitation, “I’ll put fifty on it”.

“Hm. I raise you, Seahawks win 40-7” you betted, “I’ll put fifty-five”.

“You’re on sweetheart” he winked, his eyes telling the story of being interested in you, “I’ve never seen you around here, y’from Chicago?”.

“Yeah, born and raised” you cleared your throat as you both remained fixated on the TV, “I went to school in California for my undergrad, then UChicago for law school— you?”.

“You’re a smart woman” he stated in awe, “Didn’t go to college, went straight to work”. 

“You’re a resourceful man” you quipped, “If my parents didn’t pay for my college I would be severely down in the dumps”. 

The night continued on, one dirty martini followed by an espresso martini and then simplified lastly by a Dos Equis beer, Michael got you talking on and on about public policy and Bruno Mars. Pridefully giving you the fifty-five dollars and accepting his fate as a sore loser, he walked you home in the middle of the night— strongly reiterating to Sammy that he’d just make sure you got home safe. 

“Y’know, normally, I never let men walk me home— ever, it’s a safety hazard” you spoke up in the cold air, keeping close to Michael and his body warmth. 

“If it’s any consolation, my phone has location pinging” he breathed out, easing tension with humor, “I don’t think you’re a dickhead” he told you, the title flying past your head. 

“Thanks?”.

“Earlier, when you were talking about your TSAT-“.

“LSAT… sorry” you corrected before feeling like you shot yourself in the foot. 

“Anyways, earlier. I’m no defense attorney- law expert- whatever the fuck but it sounds fucking hard” he continued, “I know food, not juris-prejudice”. 

“Jurisprudence” you corrected yet again before, a smile crossing over your face as you made it to your apartment, “Wanna go up?”.

He looked you dead in the eye, his glassy irises telling you more than what his lips did, “Nah, another day”. 

“Another day?” you bobbed your head, smile growing bigger, “Quite presumptuous Berzatto”.

“You don’t think we’d see each other another day?”.

“Chicago’s a big city” you shrugged.

“Leave it in fate's hands then” he smiled, waving you off as he walked towards the pub, with both a smile and a way with his eyes, it’d be hard to miss him in public. 

Then you met again, in April after getting your Bar score, a shining 310. Therefore scotch was needed to celebrate with your dad as the Red and White Sox game 2 played on Sammy’s TV, the pub noticeably more crowded.

“Ay Sammy who’s this fucker in the Red Sox jersey!” your dad seeming insulted, “We’re in Chicago, leave that pansy ass shit in New England”. 

“You don’t even like the White Sox’s dad” you rolled your eyes as your dad almost picked a fight.

“They’re from Chicago, anyone from Chicago, is a brother of mine”. 

“Who’s winning?” you asked, back to the TV. 

“Whites 2-0”.

The night raged on more and more, only for your dad to realize the Red Sox dude was Mister Berzatto’s eldest son, Michael. So when a Cubs fan inserted himself into the mix, tried to square up on Mikey, your dad was quick to defend him.

“It’s just a game boys, leave it” your dad put space in between the two, “You are two of one, you from Chicago and you from Chicago, stop being a dickhead and fight for real reasons”.

“Sweetie, you want water? That’s your fifth glass of Scotch” Sammy spoke up as the Cubs fan and your father began to increasingly argue. 

You nodded to Sammy as you heard the argument get even more aggravating behind you, hearing Michael shout a string of curses and a loud smack, the body of your father colliding with your back. The act led you to whip your head around quickly in anger, the Cubs dickrider having clocked your father’s jaw unannounced, only for Michael to immediately fight back and beat him down to the ground. 

The man’s whole face was covered in blood as Michael threw punch after punch- blow after blow, only for his friend, whom you’ve come to acknowledge as Richie, to have to pull him off, knuckles bloody and jaw tight with anger.

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you okay?” you cursed out, making sure your father took a seat to balance himself before attending to Michael, the blood that laid on his body was not his, therefore he did not care.

“Sonny, get this asshole outta here” Sammy told the de facto bouncer, setting aside ice for Michael, “Nice one kid but Jesus, we have cameras”.

That is when you fell in love with Michael, bloodied knuckles, prickly stubble and a buzz-cut adjacent set of hair. He wouldn’t fall in love with you until a month later, well, at least acknowledge his feelings for you. 

“You listen to The Smashing Pumpkins?” you queried after seeing the band tee Mikey donned, worn and faded— noticeably loved and used. 

“Yeah” Mikey quickly answered, watching the Red Sox game that he had to beg Sammy to put on. It was Monday night and Chicago was tiring out, preparing for summer to reach the city. He groaned as a player was struck out, “You?” he asked several minutes later. 

“They’re one of my favorites- yeah” you nodded. 

You had volunteered to help out with Sammy over the summer break you had specifically forced yourself to take as a way of having some alone time before work. Four years of undergrad, followed by three years of law school and one year for the Bar exam, you needed a break. Luckily the District Attorney’s office does rolling applications and you were confident enough to know it was a guaranteed spot as being an UChicago alumni. So Sammy seemed like the logical choice, free booze and the occasional Mikey and Richie. 

“What else do you listen to?” Mikey immediately asked afterward, removing his attention from the TV screen and back to you. 

“I'm a huge Radiohead fan, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains—“.

“You had me at Radiohead” he chuckled, “Richie and I plus some of our cousins go to shows every now and then, y’should join one day”.

“Bunch of Italian-American men at a rock concert?” you quirked your brows, “Sounds pretty intrusive but tempting”. 

When Michael realized he included you into his familial life, talked your ear off with his relationship with food, loved to brag about Natalie and Carmen, spoke about his father to you, he knew. He knew you were special, not just special but a pivotal structure he yearned for— home was rough, life was rough, seemingly crumbling. You weren’t. You were structure, strength, and integrity, a promise for a better life than what he was afforded. 

“We started dating that summer” you smiled from the memory, “I had just gotten back from my cousin’s wedding upstate, he had been waiting on my porch for a couple hours with a bouquet of poinsettias, he knew I loved them when they were in season”. 

It was the one day out of the summer where it rained down, the peak of July, yet pouring rain. Despite the near three sideswipes you almost got into, you made it to your apartment safely. Whilst swiftly grabbing your overnight bags and almost ripping your nail completely clean off from the trunk of your car, nearly slipping in a puddle that formed just shy of the gutter and drainage, you spotted Mikey. 

You squinted, wondering if you were just imagining things from the lack of sleep, “Hey” you simply spoke up, quite dumbfounded by his presence on the steps leading to your apartment.

“I uh—“ Mikey tried to begin to speak, words catching his tongue as he stuck out the bouquet, “Went to three different farmer’s markets and had to beg a florist to try— they’re fake but-“.

“You got me poinsettias?” you cut off, caught off guard by the intimacy of him trying.

“Fake poinset- yes, I got you poinsettias”.

You bit your lip as a way to try and hide your smile that instinctively grew on your face, “I don’t know Berzatto… I might just think you like me” you joked, taking the bouquet from his hands. “I’m sorry I’ve been dry, it's just the wedding, work, and-“.

“Let me make you dinner,” he proposed, breathing unevenly and shaking simultaneously. You were making Michael Berzattto nervous. The notion made you smile, biting your lip yet again to hide it. 

“Gnocchi” you replied, “We could make it together… at my place… Friday night”.

“Friday night?”.

“Friday night”. 

“Do you find yourself nostalgic about these memories often? Relying on them or avoiding them?”.

“Avoiding” you nodded, looking down at your feet, “I haven’t been able to talk to people who knew him like I did”.

“Do you know the reason or is it a bodily response?”. 

“Carmy has his smile— when he gets extremely excited, lets his teeth show, he has the smile that Mikey got from his dad. I can’t be around Nat and Pete because I miss that. I miss being with him in public and in private, with friends, with family. He is so heavily ingrained in my life”. 

“Let’s do an exercise, I do this with most patients who've lost someone they were rather intimate with” they cross their legs and fix their posture, “Where would you see your relationship in 5 to 10 years from now if this never happened?”.

“Married, maybe a kid or two, sober and somewhere on the East Coast because he wanted to move there while taking care of the Beef during the summer” you instantly told them, “Two Boston Terriers and one Pitbull, all girls because Mikey said they’re more protective”.

“Do you think the circumstances you had while in the relationship, that would be achievable?”.

“He tried, he kept trying even when it got ugly, when it got worse” you furrowed your brows, “He never stopped trying”. 

“You reiterated Michael had never left drugs at your home and self-medicated, where would he seek solace for his addiction?”.

“The Beef,” you confessed, sighing lightly, “He’d keep them in his desk, he said since they were out of sight it made him stop from using as much”. 

“What happened to them?”.

“Richie threw all of it out,” you told her. 

“Tell me about the Michael no one else knew, not the addict or someone’s best friend— him as an intimate partner”. 

Michael was a pleaser when it came to you. Cooked you dinner without fail, when he was sick, when he was stressed, even the night he passed. Combed through your hair after you showered, would shampoo and condition it when you took showers together. He’d massage your lower abdomen when you were cramping, made soup when you were sick, kissed your forehead before going to sleep no matter the day or time. He was a pleaser, in all forms of the word.

“I just don’t think that changes anything— mom is still going to be mom” it was Christmas, 2019, the Christmas that Donna accepted you as a constant in Mikey’s nonlinear life. “Where’s Y/n?”.

“She got swamped at work, got stuck interviewing” Mikey breathed out to his sister as they stood inside, “Where’s Carm?”.

“He went out to run some errands for mom— last minute Christmas presents probably” Natalie theorized, “Must suck, you’d think lawyers would have the day off”.

“Mikey, is Sarah coming?” Donna asked, red wine attached to her hand. 

Michael could only sigh and walk back into the house, “It’s Y/n ma, I haven’t dated Sarah since high school”. 

“Beats me, I loved Sarah”.

“Yeah you’ve loved anyone but Y/n”. 

“Can you blame her? She makes more money than you” Lee put in his two cents.

“I’m sorry? Was anyone fucking talking to you?” Mikey got annoyed, Lee and Donna were fighting again— already on the verge of their fifth break up. 

As if the universe had spoken, you had emerged, knocking on the front door, seemingly freezing from the snow. The knit red sweater dress hugged your body in ways that Mikey could only gulp as his mouth went dry upon seeing you, your coat being held into your arms as your hands carried the box of pastries you had picked up before heading over. 

Instinctively, Mikey opened the door, immediately walking out to seek some alone time with you, even with the cold air biting your skin, making your nose slightly leak from the frost.

“Hey— Sorry I’m late, there was way too much traffic downtown” you breathed, smiling from seeing the man in front of you, “You would not believe the day I had, six fucking cocaine charges from teenagers! Why can’t people just do weed like normal people?”.

“Thank god you’re here” Mikey sighed of relief, the worry and stress lines seemingly diminishing from his face, he could breathe again.

“C’mon it couldn’t be that bad” you eased, opening the box of pastries, “A bunch of chocolate puff pastries for my man… chocolate tart for Carmy, eclairs for Nat, a couple of crepes for Lee and your mother”. 

“You really know how to make me want to fu—“.

“Carmy, I got you chocolate tarts” you interrupted, looking over at the boy as he parked his mom’s car. 

“Lee and mom are fighting by the way, just— let mom deal with it, please? I don’t wanna have to talk to the fucker about respect today”. 

“Ight, when’s Richie coming?” Carmy shrugged, grocery bags in hand.

“In two hours probably, why?” Mikey answered, his arm instinctively wrapping your lower waist.

“So you don’t have to tell the fucker about respect” Carmy quipped before going into the house.

Hearing the door shut behind him, Mikey wasted no time to give your lips a kiss laced in fervidity. His hand found a light purchase on your neck, not pressing down, but holding your head in a position to not leave, sending waves of electricity throughout your nerves. 

“We have to go inside” you whispered as you pulled your lips painfully from his. Small pecks followed as you both tore yourselves apart from ravaging each other in the front yard. Mikey’s lips found themself on the pulse point of your neck, lightly suckling just before your hand pushed him off smoothly, “It’s Christmas baby, family time”. 

“Whatever” he groaned, kissing the base of your forehead before leading the way inside. 

“Ah, your escort’s here!” Lee joked, catching the attention of Michelle, Donna’s sisters and their kids she invited over, Carmen and Natalie— the loud Italian home now rang quiet.

Your blood began to boil, just as much as you figured Mikey’s was, his jaw tense and teeth beginning to grind against each other. Lee has made his fair few jokes catered as a dig to Michael, which Michael would undoubtedly have the sense to shrug off, but you? The woman who showed and gave him nothing but respect despite it all, that let him talk more words than the Berzatto’s would allow, the woman that is standing in front of him with pastries in hand on Christmas. 

“You motherfucking son of a bi-“ Michael began, his grip on your immediately leaving once the words lingered in the air. 

“Lee, can I have a word with you— outside?” you smiled, your head tilting with curiosity as your eyes bore holes into his soul, he was on complete display, “Baby take the desserts to your mom please, I’ll be right back” you handed the box to Mikey who was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of your stare. 

Back outside, you met with the likeness— dislikeness— of Lee. “I just saved you from getting your brain caved into your skull, a thank you would be appreciated” you joked, basking in the silence that ensued after. “You know, with being with Michael and all, I know he cares about what his family thinks. Even if they don’t dictate his life, I know Donna’s opinion holds more weight than I could even put money on” you let the cold air and wind occupy space in the silence you let him think in, “I also know Michael’s opinions of you are not great— neither are Carmy’s or Nat’s. But that shit you just pulled? Demeaning me in front of a family that at most tolerates you because Donna cares for you meanwhile you’re just some good-for-nothing prick with a superiority complex? You have balls so far up your ass I can’t even begin to describe how much that must make your ass sore” you joked, humiliating the man. Scoffing before turning on your heels and leaving him in the cold.

“He’s gonna drag you out of his life like he does the rest of them” Lee spoke up, voice stern and stagnant. 

You could only scoff again, your breath shaky from the cold, “You think you know him when you don’t. You don’t know jack shit about him, or Carmy- or Nat” you objected, “Merry Christmas, you fucking asshole”. 

“I’m telling you this now, your relationship is not gonna end where you’re walking down the aisle in a white dress— hell he might even baby trap you before you make it to engagement” he snarky added, “Tell Donna she can call me tomorrow”. 

You made your way inside, beelining straight to the kitchen where Michael stood there tense as Donna cooked, his foot tapping rabidly just before you eased his worried with caressing his flexed arms. 

“Where’d Lee go?” Donna exasperated as she wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead.

“Fucking pri-“.

“He said you can call him tomorrow, h’just left” you told her, gripping Mikey’s bicep in order to shut him up.

“Fucking asshole” Donna breathed out, “Y/n you’re drinking with me tonight” she declared, that is when you knew Donna accepted you as part of the family. 

Michael was a pleaser, on all accounts. 

“Baby, can we please change the song?” you tight lippedly moaned as Mikey found himself holding you down by your thighs as his tongue circled your clit. Your clit vehemently ignored your pleas of changing the song to something more sensual at least. 

All I Need by Radiohead was the song that got you through breakups and filled you with dread and oddly, a newfound sense of excitement as the piano riff played, but now you’re on the brink of an orgasm to it. 

The strings of curses leaving your mouth upon instinct as Mikey didn’t let up, his arms holding you down as your eyes and head lulled back, your hands clenching and unclenching from the sheer ecstasy the man gave you. Your stomach rolled, Mikey’s fingers finding the way to toyed with the bud as he held you down and controlled your bottom half. 

“Baby stop” you regretfully moaned as you almost cummed, to your surprise in the middle of the piano riff of the song. Mikey’s arms loosened and he stood there sitting as your pussy pulsed, red, and throbbing— you stood up as well, sitting tilted up as your nether regions decided to make you a villain as you stopped the pure magic Mikey was performing with his tongue. “I just—“ your voice faltered and hitched, you were crying?

“Hey baby girl?” he soothed his voice, immediately wrapping his arms around you, “What’s wrong?”, he kissed the top of your head.

“Cum in me” you whispered, smacking yourself in your head as you wondered if the pleasure is what was making you emotional, “I wanna feel it”. 

“Baby that’s risky” you knew the risks, you also knew you were always on time for your pill every single day and even made a habit to carry with you everywhere you went, “Are you sure?”.

“Please baby?” you pleaded, sniffling lightly.

Michael was a giver, a pleaser, by all accounts, he could never deny you. Need it be your nails digging in his back as he groaned, the way your legs recoiled each thrust- he had his own selfish reasons- but the look you gave him whilst pleasing you, that was the biggest one of all. The twinkle in your eye as they welled with tears from the way the man made sex feel like an art form— the way you knew he was all yours. His cum seeping out of you nevertheless he still picked you up and showered you alongside him, despite the sensitive nature of you, you wanted more, and more. 

As the night winded down, Michael stood holding you securely, watching Criminal Minds as it played on the TV, your feet caressing his calves as his hands caressed the curvature of your hips— sensually but not teetering upon the guise of going another round. 

“So no sex to Radiohead?” Mikey posed the question, both as a joke and genuine curiosity. 

“As much as I loved that— fuck no” you giggled lightly, moving your head to face him and kiss his lips, “R&B is a very popular genre you know” you proposed.

He smiled before kissing your lips once more, “Whatever you want baby”. 

“I miss him” you breathed, the inhale rattling in your chest, “I miss him. People keep asking if they can talk about him to me like he’s some taboo subject— I want to remember all I can of him” your chest ached, “One day I’m going to wake up and forget his scent— I read somewhere that you forget specifics first. Then it’s the sayings and-“ your breath hitched as your body began to give up, it felt like jolts of anguish. “Personality and sayings stick”. 

“What are you most afraid of forgetting?”.

“His voice” you began to sob, coughing out months of pain and resentment towards him leaving, “There are days that I can’t even— all I have is a fucking voicemail!” you wailed, “Why did he have to go? Why would he just leave huh? To the fucking bridge— I could’ve stopped him!” your voice rang and bounced off the sterile walls, throat hurting and feeling constricted. 

“Y/n, you said it yourself— he was sick, he never got help—“.

“I was there!” you broke down, “How could I not know? We shared a bed together, I kissed him every morning and night- every chance I got. I lived and breathed him… how could I let him—“.

“You will not blame yourself over something you lacked control over” a stern voice came through your therapist, “People suffer silent battles internally for years and ages, not everyone can have or be willing to have a second sense to acknowledge it. You were his lover— a near wife of his, not a healthcare provider or therapist,”.

Your bottom lip quivered as a shiver ran down your spine. Whenever you were stressed you swore you could feel him. Feel his fingers tantalizing cascade down your spine, easing your worries. You could imagine him sitting next to you, trying to hold you together and to prevent you from shattering. Your jaw tensed and it felt like your teeth were going to crack against each other. 

“Why?”. 

Why did he stay true to his promise and not write you a goodbye, an explanation? Did he feel you were not owed one? That you’d be okay? Returning back to the apartment that didn’t have a soul, didn’t have him, you could only drop to your knees against the floorboards. The guttural and wrathful sobs and screams that left your body almost made your neighbors want to call for a welfare check. Mustering up enough strength to grab your phone from your pocket.  “Can you come over, please?” you spoke against your phone.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[glimmerfics]

✜ You've been PROMOTED!? From Junior Accountant to Trusty Sidekick ✜

"You'll receive appropriate compensation," he says, guiding you towards the sedan. "Hazard pay, as mentioned. A considerable raise." He opens the passenger door for you, then adds with that same dry almost-humor, "Perhaps even dental."

Maybe being chased after by Russian mobsters is worth it for a stable job in this economy. Well... anything sounds great when it means you get to spend every waking moment with the dark and mysterious Christian Wolff.

Stand by his side and maneuver your way into a FAT paycheck or deep into his HEART? The choice is all yours! ٩(ˊᗜˋ )و

🎮 interactive fanfic The Assistant by Boomtiggaboom

🔗 link to play: https://glimmerfics.com/stories/b6271517-the-assistant

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 7: Care

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: It’s nice to be taken care of. To have your sore feet rubbed, your tired back massaged, and breakfast made for you. You can’t remember the last time you were able to be taken care of by somebody else. Chapter Warnings: domesticity in the apocalypse, pining and yearning, talk of death, mentions of nightmares, pancakes, oh my god can they just tell each other how they feel?!, smut, oral (f & m receiving), 69, face sitting, cum eating Words: 6,500

A/N: Another chapter of me going "do I... do I include this?" and the horny gremlin inside of me telling me "YES."

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

In, out.

In, out.

Gentle breaths.

You’re asleep, wrapped in his arms, his hand trailing up and down your spine. It amazes him how soft your skin is, how sweet you smell, how perfect you fit next to him.

The vulnerability of wanting someone so completely has scared him for years. And yet, he allows himself to savor you, the peace you bring him, and the feel of the rise and fall of your chest against his.

It feels right.

When you’re with him, he doesn’t have the nightmares, he doesn’t feel the pull of despair, he doesn’t wake up trying to remind himself he’s still alive.

But he still thinks about it. All of the time. The gaps in his memory of New Year’s Day, the pain, and the all-encompassing black void. He knows there’s more. He needs to know.

He lies awake most of the night, the unanswered questions and the overwhelming desire for you flowing through his body with every beat of his heart. 

He can feel the changes. The more you’re here in his home, the more it feels like you're never supposed to leave, and now as he holds you tight… he thinks he’d like to spend every morning like this.

—-

It’s only you and Steven running the clinic today, an unexpected surgery has taken Dr. V and Wendy away from seeing patients, while Linda is sick. You’re thankful for the busy day, you hardly have the time to think about last night and waking up in Joel’s arms this morning.

Steven is updating you on the chart of a pregnant woman who’s close to her due date. You're trying to focus, but all you can think of is opening your eyes and seeing Joel’s bare, golden chest first thing this morning.

“If we need to help induce labor, we can try red raspberry leaf tea. I’ll show you how to dry and make it, if you’d like,” Steven offers, but you barely hear him. The sound of Joel moaning your name last night still plays in your head.

Steven calls your name. “Hey, you there? I know today’s been long.”

“S-sorry, yeah. That works,” you say, trying to shake the thoughts of Joel out of your mind.

“What exactly works?” he quirks an eyebrow up with a smirk.

“Oh, uh… the tea.”

Steven chuckles. “You alright? You seem distracted.”

“Just tired,” you answer quickly. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Ah. Need anything for that? We have chamomile and valerian root.”

“No, I’m fine,” you assure. “Just need to get through the day.”

“Well, only a few hours left,” he says, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

—-

By the time Joel made his way down to the kitchen this morning, you were already gone. No chance to ask you how you feel, no chance to look at your beautiful face, no chance to kiss you again. He’d be worried he went too far if it wasn’t for the way you leaned up to kiss him before you nuzzled closer against his chest and fell asleep last night. You’d left his coffee cup near the coffeemaker, two slices of bread in the toaster, and a bowl filled with muesli on the kitchen table. He hasn’t had someone look out for him like this in years. Hell, he hardly ever let Tess care for him in a way that he now thinks he could have learned to appreciate.

He's been restless all day, moving from one room to another. Something, anything to do to distract himself from last night and how much he wants it to happen again.

He’s sitting at the dining room table with his guitar, figuring out the bridge of a song he’s been trying to learn. It keeps his mind busy for a little while, but even then, his thoughts always drift back to you.

He thanks his lucky stars when he hears Tommy’s familiar succession of knocks before he walks in through the front door.

Thank god, another distraction.

“Afternoon,” Tommy greets as he takes a seat on your usual chair across from Joel at the table. “Been a helluva week…”

Tommy drones on and on about the Jackson happenings. The Member House’s roof is finally repaired, patrollers on the Hoback run found a box full of prescription glasses, and there’s an abundance of tomatoes growing in the greenhouse. Joel just nods along, pretending like he’s fully listening as he gently plucks his guitar strings.

“Maria heard a rumor you’ve been out walking.”

“Just a little yesterday,” Joel answers, setting his guitar to the side. “To the end of the road.”

“Well, my house is just a little farther than that. Think you’re up for coming over tomorrow for dinner? Benji would love to see you. Bring your girl.”

“My girl?” he asks, his eyebrow arching.

“Testing, brother,” Tommy chuckles. “You seem distracted.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “A lot on my mind.”

“Yeah?”

"Been having nightmares," he admits. "About what happened. They feel real."

Tommy’s smile falters, and his face loses color. "What do you remember?"

“Too much, but there’s this, feeling I don’t understand. Feel like I’m missing something. It still don't feel right."

"What do you mean?"

"I remember parts. The lodge, the group, the golf club, the gunshot. But then, nothing. Just waking up here, with her."

Tommy shifts uncomfortably. "She said there might be gaps. Trauma does that."

"It's more than gaps," Joel insists. “I want to know what happened. Everything.”

Tommy straightens and swallows. "You sure about that?"

"I am."

"Let's take this outside," Tommy says, standing abruptly. "Think we both could use some fresh air. I’ll get the whiskey."

Joel breathes deeply, steeling himself as he sits in his rocking chair. His heart begins to race when the front door opens and Tommy’s boot steps fall against the porch. 

"To health," Tommy offers, taking a seat and raising his glass of whiskey.

Joel grunts, clinking his glass against his brother's before taking a small sip. "Now talk. From the beginning.”

Tommy nods, staring out at the yard. "It was bad, Joel. Worse than you know." He takes another sip. "By the time we got there, you, Dina, and Ellie were down."

Joel's hand tightens around his glass as the shattered memories begin to surface—the freezing cold, Ellie's pleas, pain, and the darkness.

"Ellie was screaming your name. Me ‘n Jesse came in guns blazing. It was chaos. I don’t know how we did it, but we killed every last one of 'em. When I finally got to you..." He pauses, swallowing hard. "Christ, Joel. There was so much blood. Your head, your chest. That leg. I thought for sure..."

He trails off and takes another drink. Joel waits, every muscle in his body tense.

"We got you out, back to Jackson. Ellie was hurt but conscious, Dina wasn’t hurt but barely conscious. You were–" Tommy's voice breaks. "You were gone, Joel. Cold. You were... dead."

Joel feels a chill run through him.

Dead.

Not just injured. Not just close to death.

Dead.

"What the hell are you telling me?" His voice comes out harsher than intended, disbelief edging into anger.

“I’m telling you what you asked me to tell you,” Tommy replies. “No pulse. No breathing. Nothing. All I could think was you'd be back with Sarah. Nothing else, just that finally, you were with her again."

Joel shakes his head. He was so close to being back with his baby girl, he can't believe it. “No,” silently escapes his lips.

"The storm had subsided enough, I was able to radio Maria ahead, she ran ‘n found her. She remembered she was a doctor from when she arrived the day before," Tommy continues. "She wouldn't give up. She just kept working on you. CPR, right in the middle of the street ‘n then when she got you back, we ran you to the clinic ‘n she… she saved your leg. She saved all of you.”

Joel drains his glass, needing the burn of alcohol to ground him. All these months, he thought you were just his doctor, his caretaker. But you're more than that. You're the reason he's still breathing.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

Tommy shrugs. "At first, you were too weak. Then... I don't know. Seemed like something you'd want to hear from her, not us. And she never brought it up, so..."

Joel nods slowly, and he understands. Your constant presence, your dedication to his recovery, the way you look at him sometimes, like you're still checking to make sure he's really there. It all makes sense now.

"She never told me," Joel whispers, more to himself than to Tommy.

"Maybe she didn't want to scare you. Or maybe..." Tommy shrugs. "Maybe she didn't want you feeling like you owed her something."

"I died," he says, testing the words.

"And she brought you back," Tommy confirms. "Some folks in town call it a miracle."

Joel doesn't believe in miracles. He hasn't for a long, long time.

But, then, when he can just make out the shape of you approaching, the rays of the bright, afternoon sun beaming off of you, he knows he believes in you, his own miracle, with your skills, your determination, and your healing ways.

"She's important to all of us," Tommy says quietly as he looks over at Joel, focusing only on you. "Saved one of our own. But..." he pauses. "She's important to me because I know how much she means to you."

Joel doesn’t say anything to deny it. He can’t deny it anymore, not now knowing all that you've done for him. Not when just the mere sight of you approaching makes the heart you brought back to life beat faster in his chest. And then, when you spot him and smile, all he can do is stare, like it’s the first time he’s really seeing you. Someone who refused to let him die. Someone who's spent half a year bringing him back to life.

Tommy stands, taking one last drink before he asks, “Alright?”

Joel nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Well then, brother, I’ll leave you with your girl.”

Joel nods, still reeling from the news. “Yeah, thanks.”

Tommy smirks before he makes his way home, greeting you as he leaves.

Last night, he had you in his bed, touched you, kissed you, and heard you moan his name, and now, today, he finds out you saved his life.

He can’t look away from you as you step onto the porch.

“Hey,” he says, his back straightening at the sight of you.

“Hi,” you answer, your voice a little hoarse.

“Long day?” he asks.

“Quite. My feet are killing me,” you sigh.

He doesn’t want you to feel any type of discomfort; he wants to care for you like you’ve cared for him for all these months. It’s the least he can do for you.

“Let’s head inside, the seats are softer in there,” he suggests, rising and leading you into the house with his hand against your back.

You sink into the cushions of your usual spot on the sofa with a tired sigh and begin unlacing your boots. Joel watches you, wanting to help in any way he can. Instead of sitting in his usual recliner, he joins you on the couch. You don’t question him, you just take your shoes and socks off and start to rub your tired feet.

“You’ve been on your feet all day?” he asks.

“Yeah, they’re killing me,” you sigh. “I’m exhausted.”

He hates watching you like this, knowing how much you sacrifice not only for him, but for everyone else in Jackson. He reaches forward and picks up the jar of salve from the coffee table.

“Gimme your foot,” he says, holding out his broad palm.

"Joel, what—”

“Your foot,” he repeats. “You said it hurts. Let me.”

“There’s no way I’m letting you…”

He shakes his head.

“After everything you’ve done for me? It’s only fair. S’not gonna kill my pride, I promise.”

You hesitate, watching him, then reluctantly turn and place your feet in his lap.

He scoops out a dab of salve, rubs it between his palms to warm it, then begins to knead it into your arch, your heel, and across your toes.

The salve turns slick under his touch. You sink back against the couch, your head tipping back, a long, happy sigh escaping your lips as you close your eyes.

Something sparks in his chest as he watches you relax under his touch.

“You work hard,” he says low. “I see it. You oughta take care of yourself too, not just everyone else.”

“That’s the plan,” you say quietly, your eyes still closed with a smile across your face. 

—-

There’s no mention of what happened last night, but there is tension. So much tension. Tension in the way he touched you, massaging your feet, taking care of you in the gentle way you’ve been taking care of him. Tension in the way his eyes watched your every move from the table as you made dinner. Tension in how close he stood as you both washed the dishes.

The tension carries over on the porch as you sit next to Joel, watching the night sky overtake the sunset.

You’ve been yawning nonstop, between last night and the busy day at the clinic, you haven’t been this tired since the beginning of Joel’s recovery.

"Rough day?" he asks.

"Mmm," you nod, trying to stifle another yawn and failing.

Joel looks over at you. The way he's been watching you seems so different today.

“Tommy asked us if we wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow night. Figured it might be good practice for me to get out more,” he says.

“I’d like that,” you smile.

You’re savoring this time with Joel, but your eyes are beginning to burn, and your body feels heavy with exhaustion. You just want something soft to rest your head on. Without thinking, you scoot your chair closer to Joel’s and lean over, resting your head on his shoulder.

His body tenses for a moment before he relaxes, his shoulder softening beneath your cheek. After what happened between you last night, something like this should feel so simple, but it still feels like you might be overstepping a line.

"Is this okay?" you ask, too tired to lift your head.

"Course it is," he whispers.

Another invisible line crossed by your need to be closer to him. Joel’s porch might just be your favorite place now. Jackson is quiet as everyone settles into the evening. Your eyes grow heavier as the silence stretches between you and Joel… until he speaks.

"I remember the cherry blossom petals,” he says lowly.

You angle your head up to look at him, confused by his musing. "Hmm?"

"When I... when I woke up, I remember the cherry blossoms blooming, ‘n I remember first seeing you..."

Your heart quickens when his head angles down and his brown eyes meet yours.

You remember those first few weeks, the uncertainty and fear that he wouldn't survive, that everything you were doing would be in vain—that you’d lose the man you didn’t even know.

"Those days were so scary," you admit.

"I know,” he breathes out. “I'll never be able to thank you for what you've done for me, ‘n I'm happy you're now able to help others."

You smile softly. "I'm also happy to help you—" you say, another yawn interrupting your words, “—still.”

Joel's lips twitch in a small smile. "Tired," he observes.

You nod against his shoulder.

"Should head in," he suggests. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s your day off, right?"

"Mmm," you hum an affirmative, but don’t move to get up.

Joel chuckles before he gently shakes his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says as he stands and offers you his hand. You take it, and let him pull you to your feet.

You sway slightly from exhaustion, before you follow him inside and up the steps.

You stop at your bedroom door, turning to face him. Joel stands closer than expected, his brown eyes roaming your face.

"Night," you say softly.

Joel places his hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth against your skin.

"Night," he whispers back, but neither of you make a move to leave.

He pulls away and clears his throat. "I suppose it'd be easier if you just...” he says, his hand moving to the back of his neck, “sleep in my bed instead of me waking you up… just in case."

"It would," you reply almost too quickly. "Let me just get changed."

He tries to hide his smile, but a small one slips. "I'll be there," he says.

—-

The revelation Tommy shared with him earlier echoes in his head. He had lost his life, and you gave him a new one. And now, after months of you healing him, you’re still here, about to get into bed next to him.

He struggles to calm the heart that you restarted when he hears your footsteps approach his door. His back straightens against the headboard, and then, you’re there, in his doorway. God, you’re beautiful, in your simple sleep shirt and sleep shorts. Everything about you looks so soft.

"I brought you water," you say, placing a glass of water on the bedside table.

You’re standing in the same spot you were last night, before he reached out and pulled you into his arms, but tonight he resists the temptation. Tonight, he just wants to be near you, to sleep next to you, to wake up, open his eyes, and see you.

"Thanks,” he says lowly.

You nod, your eyes fixed on the copy of Lonesome Dove sitting on his table. "Do you want me to read more tonight? We're getting close to the end."

Joel shakes his head. "No, you're tired enough," he says. "Maybe tomorrow."

“Okay,” you respond, yawning.

It all feels right, watching you pull down the sheets and climb into his bed. You gift him a shy smile before you turn onto your side, facing away from him.

"Goodnight, Joel," you whisper. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

"Night,” he says before he turns the lamp off and lies on his back. He stares at the ceiling, his hands resting on his stomach, listening to your breathing.

He turns to look at you, watching your back rise and lower. Last night, you'd fallen asleep with your head on his chest. Tonight, all he’d have to do is scoot over and reach for you to bridge the gap between your bodies.

Carefully, he rolls onto his side and faces you. He reaches out, his hand hovers above your back before he gently lowers it and begins rubbing slow, lazy circles. He doesn't know if this is okay or if this crosses an invisible line, but you don't flinch or pull away at his touch.

"Feels nice," you drowsily whisper.

He massages his way across your shoulder blades, down your spine, and back up to your shoulders.

You let out a small moan that heats him from within. He reminds himself that this isn't about wanting you. This is about your comfort and caring for you.

He rubs away the tenseness that sits tight underneath your skin. It’s the least he can do.

Soon, you’re asleep, and he stops, leaving his hand to rest on your hip as he very carefully scoots closer to you.

That night, there are no nightmares that lurk. No fears or regrets that chase him. There's just you beside him, the person who saved his life, in more ways than one.

—-

This should feel strange—waking up again in Joel’s bed, but it’s beginning to feel like this is where you were always meant to be. In Joel's room, in his bed, with all of him surrounding you—it almost feels more like home than your own room across the hall feels.

Joel isn’t in bed, and the robe that’s usually hanging on the hook near his door is absent.

You stretch and yawn. This might just be the first time you’ve slept late into the morning since you arrived in Jackson.

You don’t even bother changing from your pajamas before you head downstairs, lazily shuffling along the hardwood floor into the kitchen.

Joel is standing at the stove with his back to you, holding a spatula.

"You make pancakes?" you ask.

"I do," he says, turning and smiling at you. "Actually think I'm pretty good at making them."

You lean against the counter beside him, looking into the pan. “They look good. Why didn't you wake me?"

"You've been working so much. Figured it'd be nice for you to sleep in. It's your day off.”

"Well, thank you,” you say, giving him a smile before grabbing the placemats. “I’ll set the table.”

With a mug of coffee that Joel insisted you have, you sit at the table, selfishly stealing as many glances of Joel as you can while he finishes cooking breakfast. His gray shirt hugs his broad shoulders, his wavy hair is a bit mussed from sleep, and his golden skin gleams in the soft light filtering in through the curtains. You like how he looks when he walks over to the table and places your plate in front of you with a smile; you could easily get used to this.

Your first bite of fluffy pancakes confirms what Joel told you: he really is good at making pancakes.

"These are so delicious," you tell him between bites.

"Glad you like 'em,” he says.

It’s nice to be taken care of. To have your sore feet rubbed, your tired back massaged, and breakfast made for you. You can’t remember the last time you were able to be taken care of by somebody else.

“Figured we’d head to Tommy’s before sunset,” Joel says.

"Are you sure you’re good to walk? It's quite a distance. Your leg—"

"M’leg's fine," he interrupts.

“I just don't want you pushing yourself too hard."

"I know my limits," Joel says, his eyes meeting yours. "And I know when something's worth the effort."

“Right,” you nod, feeling as if his words have more meaning beyond just a discussion of a walk to Tommy’s house.

"We can also talk to him about your trip outside Jackson," Joel adds, surprising you. “I understand it's important to you. I’ll make sure Tommy will have good people with you."

"Thank you," you say, meaning it. "That means a lot to me, Joel."

“I’d take you if I could,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on the table. “But my leg.”

“I know Joel, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

"I just want you to be happy here. In Jackson."

What he doesn't say, but what you hear anyway: With me.

—-

The walk to Tommy and Maria’s was easier than expected—his leg only mildly hurt toward the end. Now, he’s comfortable, sitting in a wooden rocking chair, with a glass of whiskey, watching you and Benji play on the front lawn. You're beautiful like this—carefree and laughing, a big smile lighting your face as Benji animatedly talks to you.

"She's good with him," Tommy says. "He normally takes forever to warm up to new people."

Joel nods, unable to take his eyes off you.

"People are already talking about how great she is," Tommy says.

There’s a sense of pride in Joel's chest. He's not surprised—he knows all too well how good you are.

"She belongs here," Joel says quietly.

"Yeah, she does,” Tommy says, holding up his glass to cheers Joel. He takes a drink before he turns to his older brother. “How's it been?" he asks. Since I told you?"

"Still processing," he answers.

Tommy nods. "Makes sense. You tell her you know?”

Joel shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Benji races toward the porch with his favorite giraffe stuffed animal clutched in his arms. You follow behind, slower with a soft smile.

"Uncle Grumpy! Look!" Benji exclaims, thrusting his giraffe toward Joel. "We fixed him! Just like how she fixed you!"

“He looks good,” Joel says, smiling at his nephew. Benji’s wide smile, bright brown eyes, and springy curls remind him so much of his Sarah.

"Come on!" Benji says, grabbing your hand. "I want to show you my room. I have more animals that need doctor help."

"Lead the way,” you say. “Uncle Grumpy, huh?" you ask, with a wink as you’re led into the house.

Tommy chuckles as he stands. “I’ll head in… check on the chili and make sure he’s not overwhelming her. She’s been through enough with your ornery ass."

“Shush,” Joel says.

He likes seeing you here with his family, making his nephew smile, and talking to his brother and sister in law like they’re friends. It’s something he never thought he’d have.

Maria joins him on the porch, leaning against the railing with her arms folded.

“Looks like you’re no longer Benji’s favorite,” she says, nodding toward the house.

“Guess she’s good with kids,” he says. “Reckon she’s good with everyone.”

“Seems it. Tommy said he told you," she says without preamble. "About what happened."

Joel nods, still looking at the door. "Yeah."

"You were dead, Joel," Maria says, her voice matter-of-fact. "When they brought you in, I thought—we all thought—but she wouldn't give up.” She takes a deep breath. “Not bad for a refugee, huh?" she adds with a faint smile.

Joel nods.

"I remember when she arrived on that transport the day before. She was exhausted, half-starved, but still offering to help. Said she was a surgeon.”

Joel listens, wanting to hear the details about you that he's never heard.

“She was the first person I thought of when Tommy’s call came in. She wasn’t even here for 24 hours, and she was thrust into an almost impossible situation, but she proved her worth to Jackson—and to you.”

Joel swallows.

“Like I said,” she continues, “you're allowed to want things that make you happy."

The screen door creaks open, and Benji appears, holding your hand, leading you back outside, animatedly chattering away to you. The sight makes his chest ache in a way he thought it never could again.

Maybe Maria is right. Maybe he is allowed to have this happiness.

—-

It’s well after midnight by the time you and Joel get back to his house. Whatever lines that existed between you and him have blurred beyond recognition. From how he rubbed your back until you fell asleep last night, to how he casually draped his arm behind your chair at Tommy and Maria’s, to the way his hand would slightly brush against yours as he walked home beside you.

Now, you’re back in his bedroom, clad in your sleep shirt and shorts. Joel’s already filled a glass of water for himself and you, another small way he’s beginning to care for you.

You run your hand along the cover of Lonesome Dove, tracing the embossing of the cover. “Do you want me to read more tonight?”

“Can I read it to you instead?” he asks.

Your breath catches at his offer. You nod, your heart feels like it’s going to flutter out of your chest when you climb into bed beside him, sitting up with your back against the headboard just like him. He reaches for the book and opens it, picking up where you stopped those few nights ago, when everything changed.

“Newt, the Rainey Boys and Pea Eye got to go into town the next afternoon. The fact that the first group drug back in ones and twos, looking horrible, in no way discouraged them…”

You love seeing Joel like this—soft and unguarded. The lamp backlights him in aureate tones, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Your eyes roam his handsome face from the plush of his lips, to the sharp point of his nose, and up to the soft waves of his hair.

You’ve been trying to resist him for so long, this invisible pull, this slow step to touching him more, to wanting him more, to needing him. You scoot closer, pushing those boundaries again, you’re so close now, your arm touches his.

“As they were talking, a party of some half-dozen soldiers came riding up the street, led by the big scout, Dixon.”

His voice comforts you, deep and slow, his accent drawling as your feelings for him and the ways he’s been caring for you draw you closer to him. It’s beginning to feel almost impossible to stay away from him.

You slink farther down, and before you can even realize what you’re doing, you rest your head on his lap, softly sighing a contented sound.

Joel pauses, looking down at you before he begins reading again, his hand resting on your shoulder, moving back and forth against your skin in a soothing pattern.

“Call walked down the street and picked up his hat, which had fallen off. The soldiers rode slowly past him. Two dismounted and began to try to load Dixon on his horse. Finally all six dismounted—the man was so heavy it took all of them to get him up and draped over his horse. Call watched. At the sight of Dixon, his anger threatened to rise again. If the man moved, Call was ready to go for him again. But Dixon didn’t move. He hung over his horse, blood dripping off his head and face into the dust…”

Joel stops reading… folding the top of the page down to bookmark it before setting the book on the table.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he says. “This damn book hits too close to home sometimes.”

You nod, rising from resting on his lap, settling beside him. “I understand.”

Joel turns the lamp off and lies down. There’s an air of tenseness now, but it’s not the same crackling feeling of desire between you; this one sits heavier and deeper.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes roaming your face, before he answers. “I am, because of you.”

He rolls to his side, pulling you close to his chest. He gazes into your eyes, an almost panicked look in them before he kisses you. He rolls you beneath him, his solid weight lying heavily on top of you. But then, he groans and you can recognize it’s one of pain, not of pleasure.

You pull away. “Joel,” you say breathlessly, “your leg. You need to be careful.”

He rolls off you with a frustrated sigh. “Damnit. Sorry.”

“No,” you say, propping yourself up on an elbow to look at him. “I like it… but your leg is still not okay. I want you but—”

“Fuck it,” he growls, reaching for you again. “I don’t care. Come here.”

He wraps you in his arms, his hands roaming your body, his mouth covering yours before his lips travel down your neck, nuzzling and licking your sensitive skin there.

You let out a moan when the bristle of his beard rasps against your skin. He bunches your sleep shirt up as he kisses his way further down your body, when he reaches your chest, he nuzzles his face between your breasts before he kisses his way over to your nipple, licking and sucking it into his mouth while his large hand cups your other breast.

He groans against your skin, his eyes looking into yours as he kisses his way across your chest, drawing the other nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling around it.

“Joel,” you moan, threading your fingers through the soft waves of his hair.

He pulls back, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “Keep going,” you implore, reaching down to pull your shirt over your head and tossing it aside.

His lips trail further down your body. You’re desperate for him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your heart pounding as you part your legs for him. Joel moves, shifting himself down to settle between your thighs, but as he adjusts, you see the flash of pain that crosses his face. He tries to hide the grimace, but you catch it.

“Joel,” you say. “Your leg. We should stop.” God, the words hurt to say. You want to feel his mouth against you all over your body, but the two of you have worked too hard and cared too much to let tonight undo his months of healing.

He sighs heavily and moves to lie beside you. Frustration radiates from his side of the bed.

You turn to him, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry, you’ve come too far, and the last thing I want to do is have you reinj—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I just… god, I want to taste you.”

Your pussy pulses at his words, your slick soaking your sleep shorts at his confession.

You kiss him again, then pull away to look into his eyes, seeing the desire for you sitting deep inside them. That desire causes you to move your hands to your shorts, pulling them down and off, leaving you naked for him.

“Fuck,” he grits, pushing himself up to yank his shirt up and over his head. He reaches for you, pulling you on top of him. You can feel the hard outline of his cock pressing against you through his pants. You rock against him, his deep groan echoing into the quiet night.

He plants his hands on your back, pushing you forward to fold over on top of him, your chest meeting his, his mouth chasing your lips, desperate to kiss you. Joel’s hand glides down your body, his fingers leaving a trail of heat as he reaches your pussy, wet and pulsing for his touch. You’re moaning into his mouth, your tongue licking against his.

“Christ,” he groans. “You’re so wet f’me,” he marvels.

You whimper in response as he explores you, running a thick finger up and down, painting your slick arousal across your pussy.

“Tell me what feels good,” he whispers. You can feel the rumble of his desire to please you vibrating through your chest.

“That,” you breathe, grinding against his hand. “All of it.”

He dips a finger inside, gently fucking into you while his thumb swipes back and forth against your clit. Your head falls forward, nuzzling into Joel’s neck, your eyes closed as he draws the pleasure out of you.

“Look at me,” Joel commands. “Need to see you.”

You force your head up and your eyes open. His gaze is intense, his lips parted as his hand savors you.

“Joel,” you whisper as you begin to feel your orgasm crest, almost unbelieving you’re moaning his name out again. “I’m close.”

He pulls his hand away.

“Baby, listen to me,” he lowly commands.

Fuck. Baby. You almost feel dizzy at the way his deep voice sounds calling you baby. You pull away, your lips parted, panting for air.

“I want you to sit on my face. Need to taste you proper.”

You nod frantically and lean in, kissing him before you move up his body, turning to face his feet and stretching your legs wide for your knees to bracket his shoulders.

You lean forward, resting your hands on his thick thighs. You can feel his hot breath against your cunt as he takes in the sight of you wet and ready for his mouth.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he growls before he grips your ass, pushing you down against his mouth.

You gasp, almost losing your balance at the first feel of his tongue licking a long path across you. You can feel the scratch of his beard against your thighs as he pushes his face further against your cunt, devouring your pussy like it’s never been ate before. His tongue circles your clit, flicking at the sensitive bud. You feel set alight by him, by his care, by the way his nose presses against your clit when he fucks you with his tongue. You don’t know how long it’s been since Joel has done this, but fuck, he knows how to make you feel good.

His hips buck in the air as he eats you, his cock straining under his pajama pants. You reach your hand over, rubbing your palm against him through the soft fabric. You want to see him, to taste him, to feel the heat of him against your tongue.

His moan reverberates against your pussy when you tug his pants down and his cock springs free. He’s so thick and hard, precum glistening on his tip. You marvel at the sight of him, wide with a prominent vein nestled in a thatch of dark curls. He really is golden-skinned all over. Joel Miller is all man, all rugged, all beautiful.

When you lower your head and get your first taste of him, his hips jerk up, a long “fuck” is grunted against your cunt. He tastes like Joel… earthy, sweet, and salty.

He doesn’t stop groaning as his tongue pumps in and out of you, his grip on your ass matching your grip on his thighs. Your lips stretch around his thickness when you take him deeper into your mouth. His hips begin to pace along with the rhythm of your mouth bobbing up and down on his length. When you take all of him into your mouth he hisses, squeezing your ass hard as his whole body tenses.

It doesn’t take long for him. A low growl of your name is muffled against your cunt when he cums, his cock pulsing between your lips, spilling hot and thick across your tongue. You swallow him down, moaning along his length as you feel your orgasm ripple through you. His tongue flicks rapidly against your clit, his hands pulling you apart so that he can press you farther down against his mouth. You let go of Joel’s cock as you scream his name, your pussy clenching and flooding against his mouth. He drinks you down, groaning with satisfaction just as you collapse against him, your cheek on his leg as you catch your breath.

When you feel like you have the strength, you move off his body and lie down, turning to face him. You can see your wet glistening across his beard when he smiles, his eyes half-lidded.

“Come here,” he says, pulling you close. You tuck your head against his chest as he pulls the blanket over your naked bodies.

“Thank you,” you quietly say.

“Hmm?”

“For taking care of me today and last night.”

He holds you tighter, pressing you closer against him. “It’s the least I can do,” he whispers.

That night, you fall asleep in Joel’s arms, the last thing you hear is Joel softly whispering, “Good night, baby.” 

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

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