yet another day of me being personally victimised by the fact i’ll never be close enough to pedro to relate to this and feel safe enough to simply be myself around him…. so sick and twisted truly!!!
Summary: When Ashton goes for a night out with the band, (Y/n) realises she's never seen him drunk. And that frightens her. She's had bad experiences with drunk exes, and doesn't want Ashton to be the same.
Enjoy.
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"Do you need a ride anywhere?"
The words barely made it past (Y/n)'s lips before she felt Ashton's arms wearing themselves around her waist, and she was faced with a coy grin that made her stomach bubble with adrenaline.
She could feel his palms pressing flat against her lower back and the dip in her spine like he was trying to mould himself into her frame. He seemed to radiate warmth like an electric blanket and it made (Y/n) want to move closer, as close as possible, to soak up that warmth and the fuzzy feeling it created.
The smell of his cologne hit her like a fresh breeze before it seemed to wash over her and fade to the back of her mind when his lips sought out hers. The way he kissed her made it clear that he was trying hard not to let his lips conform into a smile and break the contact.
(Y/n) let her hands settle on his shoulders, thumbs brushing over the material of his leather jacket which reminded her of the kind of protective jacket to be worn when riding a motorcycle. Not that that was what Ashton was going to go and do today.
"No, but thank you." He punctuated each word with a kiss to her cheek until her eyes were bashfully looking down at his chest, unable to keep eye contact.
Ashton appreciated the thought and gesture, he would never expect (Y/n) to drop him off when he went out, especially when she wasn't even joining him tonight.
After another kiss to her cheek, then a peck to her lips, he continued. "Cal's getting an Uber and swinging by here to grab me on the way."
(Y/n) nodded and moved her hands from his shoulders so her arms were curved around the back of his neck instead. Her head inclined back a little so she could look up at him properly.
That did seem like an easier option than any of them getting lifts from friends, and none of them could drive tonight, not when they were going out for drinks. An Uber was an easy task, and Calum lived nearby so it was better to share the ride than to all travel separately.
"Well have fun."
She tried her best to hide the relief from her voice at the fact that she wasn't going along with them.
The band were all heading out for a night out. Nothing big or special, no parties or huge social gathering or close family and friends. Just the four of them going for a few drinks and perhaps wandering to a club in the process.
That wasn't (Y/n)'s idea of fun and if she had been extended an invitation, it would have been politely declined. She wasn't one for getting drunk or going partying or dancing in clubs. She would much rather go watch a film or stay home with a book and have a night in.
"I'll see you when I get back… if you're still up." Ashton's lips quirked up into a grin that flashed his teeth and (Y/n) found herself smiling along with him.
He didn't know what time he would be back, it all depended on what stuff and nonesense the band got up to tonight and how drunk they all got. Ashton knew when to call it a night, he knew when he'd had enough and when he needed to draw the line and make his way home, but he doubted very much that he would be home before eleven o'clock, unless something happened.
Either way, he would see (Y/n) when he came home, and if she was asleep then he would do his best not to wake her.
"See you soon."
Sleep wasn't going to be possible tonight.
Somehow (Y/n) knew that from the moment Ashton stepped out the house and the door closed behind him. She had stared after him as if waiting for him to step right back through the door, staring into space as she thought about what would happen when he came home.
He'd gone out drinking; (Y/n) had never seen Ashton drunk before.
The most she had witnessed was when he had a few drinks at home, and that was completely different. He had barely been tipsy, nothing close to being drunk and nothing like the level of drunk (Y/n) was used to being around in the past. The drunks she had dealt with in her life had been horrible, rude, sometimes violent.
What would Ashton be like when he'd had a few drinks in him? Would he be loud? Maybe he got angry or agitated or slightly aggressive. Perhaps he got overly emotional and became a ticking time bomb before he exploded. Would he be the kind of person who couldn't stand upright when he was over the edge? Would he be funny or nasty or horny?
(Y/n) had absolutely no inkling as to what Ashton would be like, because she knew from experience that people who were civil and kind when sober could become the nastiest of people after consuming alcohol. Their whole persona could change, they could have a completely different side to them that no one would believe unless they'd witnessed it for themselves.
She didn't know what Ashton's drunk persona would be like, and (Y/n) dreaded the thought of ever finding out.
for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, (Y/n) glanced down at her phone but as she expected, she'd received no new messages from Ashton since the photos he'd sent her nearly two hours ago.
Selfies of him and the band at the bar, or raising glasses together, or the one of him and Calum grinning so wide that their cheeks should have split and torn at the seams. The photos were lovely and it showed that Ashton was having a good time, which is what (Y/n) wanted. But she couldn't gage his persona from a photo. She couldn't tell how drunk he was from a photo, and she feared what he would be like when he walked through the door.
Her past experiences with drunken partners was horrid, the track record wasn't a good one. It was the part that (Y/n) hated about being in a relationship; seeing and being around her partner when they were drunk or going through an alcohol-induced rage.
The longer Ashton stayed out, the more (Y/n)'s worry started to spike.
It almost seemed strange to think that in all the months they had been together- and the fact that they had not long moved in together- she had never actually seen what Ashton was like when he was drunk. And tipsy was very different from drunk, tipsy could disguise what a true drunk was like, it could hide a whole other person from sight.
The thought of Ashton being anything like her ex when he was drunk made (Y/n)'s blood curdle in her veins and she found herself cowering back into the pillows.
Her arms stayed close to her chest binding the blanket over her middle while her knees tucked up towards her stomach.
Each time she tried to tell herself to get under the covers, to lie down and turn the lamp off and go to sleep, she couldn't manage it. The tv was playing some random animated movie in the background, but the volume was almost on zero.
She didn't want to go to sleep and be woken abruptly when Ashton came home. It felt safer to stay awake and wait up for him than to risk falling asleep and upsetting him. What if he expected her to stay up and he got angry or upset if he came home and she was asleep already? What if he started lashing out? (Y/n) would rather be awake to see than wake in fright if he started becoming violent.
Rob was an awful drunk.
Most of the memories (Y/n) had of being with her ex weren't the best, but at least when he was sober, he was amicable and usually pleasant to be around. It was once he'd had a few strong drinks in him that Rob became intolerable.
One drink was never enough, he could never stop at just one and by then he was on his way to being thoroughly vibrating with alcohol.
He was an aggressive alcoholic, he could never resist a drink and once he was drunk, (Y/n) found herself facing a bully. A violent person who tended to lash out and hit the walls when he got upset, someone who kicked the doors if they were in his way or if she dared to close them to separate herself from him.
He was someone who would grab her by her hair because he knew it was an effective way to drag her towards him or throw her to the floor. Sometimes he would become so upset he started to cry instead of scream, and other times he shouted so loud that her ears would ring and she could do nothing to make him be quiet or calm down.
The night usually ended with (Y/n) locking herself in the bathroom, sleeping o the bath mat with a towel around her acting as a blanket. It was the only place with a good enough lock on the door that Rob wouldn't break down, and (Y/n) knew huddled up in that space, that she was safe from him.
Usually when the morning came around, Rob would either forget that she had spent the night in the bathroom or he would chose to ignore this fact altogether and pretend it didn't happen. He liked to pretend a lot of things didn't happen, that he wasn't living out Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde when he was sober and drunk, that he didn't evolve into something horrid when alcohol mixed into his system.
A gas burned at the back of (Y/n)'s throat and her frame jumped, shoulders hitting the headboard as she sat up straight as a ruler.
The front door had slammed closed. Ashton was home.
(Y/n)'s fingertips were turning numb, so much so that she could scarcely feel them anymore. Her hands were tingling and shaking with adrenaline and the fact that her blood was circulating in her chest and stomach, a fight or flight response of self- preservation.
Her knees dropped down so she was sat cross-legged on the bed and she found herself leaning forwards, straining her hearing and putting all her focus into trying to listen out for the sounds around the house. To try and work out what he was doing and if he was okay, judging his mood and behaviour by the sounds that she could hear.
It was rather hard to keep in focus when she could barely hear anything over the pounding of her pulse in her ears. She had to hold her breath for a good five seconds and slow down her breaths to a mellow rate to stop her ears from ringing and thundering.
She heard him laugh first, such a light and rather high-pitched sound before he said something else, sounding like "Yeah, back now." And so she figured he was on the phone to someone, maybe the band perhaps, telling them he was home safe.
Perhaps he wasn't that drunk after all.
It felt like a lifetime had passed before Ashton finally seemed to move and start to climb the stairs.
He was loud when he climbed the stairs, not as quick or light-footed as he usually would be. His feet seemed to crash against the floor and made (Y/n) wonder if he was wearing a pair of his thick leather boots. A thundering bash resonated up the stairs and she shuddered, unsure whether he had slipped and fell against the wall or the stairs or if he had lashed out and hit the wall. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.
Her arms weaved tighter around her waist, hands pinching into the flesh of her upper chest just beneath her armpits until the skin burned and blood welled beneath the surface.
She loved Ashton so much. She loved every part of him and his persona and kind, generous personality. (Y/n) didn't want to have that dampened down and destroyed by bad memories of what he was like after a drink.
"Oh shit."
Another thud sounded in the hallway just outside the bedroom and (Y/n) cringed, closing her eyes for a few seconds as she imagined whether he had kicked something or just stumbled.
The moment the bedroom door opened, anticipation rolled through (Y/n) in such huge waves that she almost flopped back onto the pillows. The single touch of a feather could have knocked her down.
Shallow panting breaths thundered past her chapped lips and her eyes dilated like the lens of a camera, focusing on Ashton as he made his grand appearance into the room.
His hair looked like it was electrified, each natural sand-coloured curl was crimped and some were stuck to his damp temple with sweat. It only seemed to electrify the brightness in his hazel eyes, but he wasn't close enough for (Y/n) to properly look into his eyes. To see if he had that drowsy, far-away look in them that gae away how drunk he was. Rob's eyes were always bleak, half-lidded and distant when he was over the edge or on the verge of alcohol poisoning.
"Hey," a smile took over Ashton's features and made dimples crease in his cheeks as he nudged the bedroom door shut behind him.
"Hi, d- did you have fun?" (Y/n) seemed to breathe through the words, though she could barely take in a proper breath each time she tried. She had to force herself to gasp, to suck in air so the light-headed feeling wouldn't overwhelm her or make her pass out.
"Yeah, yeah it was a good night. M- Michael's still going strong." He wafted his hand near his head to imply that Michael was still out enjoying what was left of the night. Though Ashton was unsure how he was still drinking. "Miss me?"
It took him a good minute to shrug his arms out of his leather jacket that felt like it had shrunk during the course of the evening, but that was just his inhibitions and coordination giving in to the alcohol. Once he finally peeled off what felt like a second layer of skin, Ashton shrugged the jacket onto the chair in the corner.
The smile still graced his lips as he moved towards the bed, pressing his hands down to steady himself so he didn't face-plant the mattress.
But when Ashton lifted his head and finally got a good look at his partner, the smile that had been stuck on his face for most of the evening finally started to falter at the sides and fade away. She looked like she was shrinking away from him.
With slumped shoulders he sank down onto the end of the bed, relieved to be sat down and to give his sense of balance and coordination a break. He leant over, one hand still pressed down into the mattress and he was one second away from trying to crawl on the bed towards (Y/n), when something made him stop.
She looked frightened.
Her arms were encased so tightly around her middle that Ashton was sure she was about to cut off her breathing. And she was pushing back into the pillows like she was trying to glue herself to the headboard. It looked like she wanted as much space between herself and him as possible, and the mere thought of that being true made bile rise in the back of his throat.
It was as if Ashton had been doused in cold water. Shivers tore through his frame and he pushed himself back so he was sitting up straight, eyes narrowing and constricting as he observed his partner with unfiltered concern and panic.
"What? Baby what's wrong?"
He didn't receive an answer, just that same unsettling look and those eyes that wouldn't meet his. Those eyes that kept roaming him from top to bottom like she was analysing for something, but never at his eyes, like she didn't dare meet his gaze in case he said or did something. Although what she thought he might do, Ashton had no idea.
Worry continued to surge through him in such crashing tidal waves that he found it hard to keep breathing himself, almost matching her shallow pants breath for breath.
"Have- have I done something… you're looking at me like- like you're scared."
He didn't dare ask or say that she looked like she was scared of him because the mere thought was making Ashton's heart constrict. And he didn't want to say that to then have (Y/n)'s expression prove him right. But that was how she seemed. The way she was shrinking away and backing up from him, the way she wouldn't meet his eyes yet kept observing him like that, it was like (Y/n) was waiting for him to lash out or say something cruel.
And she didn't know what to say. (Y/n) didn't know how to answer that when no words or ideas or anything seemed to form or fathom in her mind. All she could think was that this wasn't how Rob was like when he came home from a night out.
At any moment, she was expecting Ashton to shout, to raise his voice and go red in the face with aggression and fury. She was waiting for him to reach out for her, to tangle his hands in her hair or tell heer how stupid she was being and try to knock some sense into her.
Before she could stop herself, the words "Are you drunk?" were tumbling from her lips.
Asking Rob something like that was always a fearful thing because even if (Y/n) meant it in an inquizitive and kind way, it was always seen as an accusation. She had learnt not to say things like that, but clearly her instincts had been forgotten this time around.
But Ashton didn't look angry. The words didn't seem to offend him, if anything he seemed to think it was a natural question because his expression remained concerned and didn't drift into anything resembling anger or annoyance or down-right furious.
"Drunk-ish, but I'm not paraletic. I'm still with it," his hand motioned near his head and then held out at his side to make his point clear. He might be drunk, but he wasn't bladdered or in any horrible state where he wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning.
"Oh," (Y/n) nodded, though her gaze focused on her lap like she was sure there would be some sort of anger directed at her at any given moment.
She looked like she had calmed down a little, and Ashton dared to shuffle a bit closer and move towards the middle of the bed rather than perching here on the edge. He didn't want to get too close and have her look at him with those frightened doe eyes again, but he didn't want to feel so far away when they were talking.
He sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, one arm draped over his thigh and knee while his other hand reached out for her. He was careful, tentative as his fingers ghosted her arm before gently sliding round to curl over her hand that seemed to be gripping and pinching her upper chest. As gently as he could, Ashton tugged her hand away from her chest, resting their entwined hands on her lap as he began to ghost his thumb along the side of her hand.
"Would that- would I scare you, if I was pissed up?"
That seemed to be the only logical thing that Ashton could figure out and reason for the way (Y/n) was acting, the way she was looking at him. She had been fine with him before he went out, so it stood to reason that she was anxious now because she thought he was drunk, because she was afraid of how he would act if he was.
(Y/n) nodded, keeping her eyes focused on their entwined hands so she didn't have to look up at him.
"I was expecting you to be… to be different, a different version of you, when you're drunk."
"Why? Who said I'm a bad drunk?" A slight twinge of hurt crept into Ashton's voice, but it wasn't because of or aimed at (Y/n).
Had someone told her he wasn't a good person when he was drunk? What had they said about him? Who would tell her something like that? Ashton wasn't that kind of drunk, sure he could be cheesy and get the giggles even during a serious situation. He got sleepy a lot as well, but he wasn't angry or violent or rude when he was drunk, not in the slightest.
(Y/n) tightened her grup on his hand, finally looking up at him as she shook her head intently to calm him down. She didn't want him believing anyone had spoken badly or rudely about him when that wasn't the case.
"No one, but that's usually what happens."
That wasn't what Ashton was expecting. For a second he stared at her with wide eyes and his lips parted, about to tell her that she was wrong, that he didn't usually act like that, but then it dawned on him.
She wasn't talking about him. (Y/n) didn't mean that this was what usually happened with Ashton because for one, no one had told her as much and two, he had never actually been drunk around her or acted badly because of it.
"Baby I don't understand."
He sounded so sincere yet so confused, like he was shrouded in darkness and needed (Y/n) to hold a light out towards him, to show him the way and the truth.
Again (Y/n)'s eyes wouldn't meet Ashton's as she tried to explain. "Rob was never the same when he was drunk, I had to be careful around him."
"Who's Rob?"
"My ex."
That was what Ashton expected to hear, though he still had to ask just to make sure. The conversation of exes had always been brief, something that came and went as quick as a change in the wind. Ashton wasn't always one to talk about his past relationships or how they made him feel, and (Y/n) had never brought it up other than to say she didn't get along with her ex.
With his teeth biting down into his lower lip, Ashton looked down at their joined hands and began to brush his thumb across the side of her hand, creating pins and needles in his wake.
"What was he like, after a drink?" He was almost afraid to ask, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted the answer, though deep down Ashton knew he needed it. He needed to know what was going on, why (Y/n) was so reserved and afraid and what it had to do with her past.
"Nasty." There was no need for thought or comprehension, the word left her lips without a second to think.
It was the one word that made sense, the one way (Y/n) could think of to describe what Rob was like. Because without ever seeing Rob when he was drunk, Ashton would never see the full extent or know the deepest levels Rob would sink to when he was like that.
"His eyes, there was always a strange hazy look in them when he'd had a few drinks. He got loud, always shouting like he'd gone deaf… then he'd start to lash out. He'd kick the doors, hit the walls, he just got so angry."
Ashton took a deep breath to stop himself from saying something he shouldn't about this idiot of an ex.
With a little leap of faith he shuffled closer until his knee bumped hers and they were finally close, finally touching with no worries or threat separating them. He hadn't wanted to get too close before, in case the proximity made (Y/n) uncomfortable, that was the last thing Ashton wanted to do.
But she didn't pull away or look at him with that fright in her eyes. She didn't shrug away from his touch or look unhappy or worried when Ashton leant closer until their noses were millimetres away.
"Baby, did he ever hurt you?"
Once again, (Y/n) found herself staring down at their entwined hands, looking at the small 5SOS tattoo on the outside of Ashton's wrist. "Sometimes he would- he would grab me," her free hand moved to her hair, implying where he would clutch at her. "He only hit me once."
Ashton's upper lip curled like he was about to sneer at the mere notion that someone would dare do that to her, to make her so frightened and to go as far as to lash out and physically hurt her.
Something along those lines was on the top of his tongue but he kept silent when he realised (Y/n) was no longer looking down at their hands. She had turned her head, suddenly looking at her right shoulder and when Ashton followed her gaze, he realised she was staring at the scar that looked like a jagged S shape.
"I didn't duck in time, the picture frame caught me." When she closed her eyes, (Y/n) could still see that frame hurtling towards her. She could feel the frame smashing against her shoulder blade and see that large shard the size of her finger as it scratched and imbedded into her skin.
A horrified look took over Ashton's expression as he ran his free hand along his mouth and down his jaw, unable to look at the scar when it only prompted him to imagine what it had looked like at the time it was inflicted. It wasn't a childhood accident or a fall or a trip or the result of a game gone wrong or anything Ashton would of imagined.
"We never talked about exes much," Ashton murmured quietly. He preferred to express himself through songs than talking to others. Not to say that if (Y/n) ever asked him something, he wouldn't answer because he would, she could ask him anything.
But it didn't cross his mind to bring up the subject with her, exes just wasn't a topic of conversation they ever brought up.
Another thought suddenly seemed to cross Ashton's mind because (Y/n) found him staring at her so intently and with a rather high sense of urgency within his warm hazel eyes.
"Did you really think I'd be like that? That I'd shout or become violent after a drink?" There was no malice or irritation in Ashton's voice, just understanding and the smallest edge of fear, in case she said yes.
"I don't know, never saw you drunk before."
Deep down (Y/n) wasn't sure she believed Ashton would become just like Rob when he was drunk, but she couldn't shake that sense of fear that he would. That just maybe, he would be somewhat like that. After all, Rob was the only significant relationship she'd had before Ashton, not counting one or two people when she was in college. And her experience with him had been horrifying to say the least.
"Some people change after a drink, I didn't want you to be one of them."
Bolts of electricity shot through (Y/n)'s blood when Ashton lifted their entwined hands and pressed her palm against his cheek. The touch was so warm, so affectionate and loving that (Y/n) was sure her heart was going to explode. And the way he leant into the touch made her bones tingle.
"I'd never get like that with you. Never."
He could see now that it was a trauma response when she had backed away from him, when she had held herself so tightly and looked petrified when he came into the room.
It wasn't so much that she believed that Ashton would lash out, it was that she was used to someone having that reaction. It was what she was used to, and that made his stomach churn. She had been triggered and thought back to what she knew, what she had experienced and presumed would happen again.
Shying and backing away from Ashton was a self preservation reaction, a way to try and keep herself safe when she thought she was in a dangerous situation.
The very notion that this reaction was necessary in her past relationship, that she had every reason to back away and become frightened and try to hide herseld away when she was with her ex, it was horrifying to learn.
Ashton pressed a soft, warm kiss to the inside of (Y/n)'s wrist before he continued. "I tend to laugh a lot when I'm drunk, but I'm always me. I'd never be like that, disrespectful or cruel, and I'd never hurt you, not in any way. I promise."
Raising her other hand, she cupped Ashton's face between her palms and leant towards him until she was within reach of kissing him. The touch made her lips tingle and feel electrified and she felt his fingertips gliding along her forearms, not grabbing or clutching at her, just grazing; comforting.
He would never be like Rob; and that was a promise that (Y/n) knew she could rely on.
Summary: During an intimate moment, Ashton unintentionally triggers some bad memories for (Y/n). So they stop and have a heart to heart and make a few promises.
(Mentions of past abusive behaviours. Mentions of sex, not really smut)
Enjoy.
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That feeling, that one simple flicker of movement, was enough to bring (Y/n) crashing down from the clouds she had been absorbed in.
(Y/n) wasn't too sure where her mind had been before that touch seemed to electrify something within her; she had been in a million different places all at once. Focusing on the feeling of her right hand that was laced through with Ashton's, sweat suctioning their palms together. Feeling the way his chest rose and fell above hers and how each time he seemed to remember he needed to breathe and took a deep breath, she felt the comforting feel of his weight over her.
She could feel each nerve ending within her that was sparkling like a fire cracker and intensified with the heat her body was producing and giving off like she were laid on top of hot coals. (Y/n) could hear the soft feather-down pillow creasing and making a soft crunching noise with each feather moving every time she pressed her head back or shifted her weight slightly.
She could feel the welcomed burning in her hips from parting her knees to the sides to accomodate Ashton lying in between her legs. The light tapping against the end of the mattress where she was sure either his foot or simply a toe was moving and tapping in a small way of grounding and regulating himself. Always moving, always a little tremor somewhere within him whether he knew it or not.
There were dozens of other feelings and sensations that split (Y/n)'s mind and took her attention, and she revelled in each one.
Right up until that new flickering movement snapped something within her mind. Then there was nothing to focus on but that one touch. Nothing else came close, nothing else mattered.
Nothing else grounded her attention like that feeling. That movement of Ashton's hand that had previously been somewhere near her bare hip, previously holding onto her hip or tracing the dip in her waist or running up the side of her chest.
Now his hand snook past her shoulder and ghosted against the back of her neck, shifting into the small gap between her head and the pillow.
(Y/n) didn't know what he wanted to do, whether he was trying to ground himself to her, to hold onto another part of her- since her right hand was interlaced with his left- or just draw patterns on her skin or run his touch all over her body. She had no idea what he was doing, but his intentions didn't matter.
His warm, slightly damp fingers ran across the back of her neck and caught on a loose tendril of hair near the base of her skull.
It was enough to break something within (Y/n)'s mind.
Her eyes opened again, but her gaze was blurred, eyes unable to focus on anything around her. She could barely see Ashton and the halo of light that curved around him and always made him look like an angel to her. She couldn't see the flushed tint of red blotching his skin. She couldn't see how he was biting on his lower lip or make out the outline of his thick pointed shoulders that always made her think of rulers or shelves with how straight and tense they were.
Her head gave the slightest movement to the right, barely a centimetre difference in angle, and her blurry eyes seemed to latch onto a spot above Ashton's shoulder. A patch of wallpaper that was distant enough to have the pattern blurring into a mesh of beige and cream colours before her.
(Y/n) didn't have any choice in where she looked or what she was looking at, because she wasn't trying to find something to stare at. Her eyes locked onto that patch of wall and as soon as they did, her mind was gone. Drifting off, leaving the room, thoughts and memories and a strange sense of numbness crawling all through her head.
Everything else within her felt disconnected, like she had flipped a switch and put her body on pause.
No signals seemed to be reaching her brain. No sensations coming through anymore, not the heat surrounding her and that her body was giving off, not the pins and needles in her lower leg or the way her stomach had been fluttering just seconds earlier. Even her ears seemed to have tuned out and let in a white noise like she was a tv that had been turned on standby.
It would wear off soon. (Y/n) knew it would, it always did. In a minute, a quarter of an hour, an hour maybe. It always wore off in the end, sometimes it lingered even after the sex ended, but it would always fade eventually. It just took a while.
Ashton shuddered. His eyes opened quickly, trying to decipher what that sudden change was that he felt, and what it meant.
It was (Y/n). Her left hand that was on his shoulder, it wasn't moving anymore. He had been grounded by that touch, by the feeling of her fingers tracing patterns against his shoulder or how she would tap a rhythm out against his skin. Sometimes her hand dipped further down and pressed against his back or traced the dip of his spine, feeling how it shifted and bent when he moved.
Her hand wasn't moving at all now, her fingers were poised on his skin like she had turned to a wax figurine or was posing as still as possible for a portrait.
That was when his breathing hitched at the tightness in his left hand. His eyes darted down, locking onto the spot where their entwined hands were resting comfortably on the mattress. (Y/n) was squeezing the life out of his hand, she was gripping so tight that his knuckles and the back of his hand had turned a pasty shade of white with barely any trace of soft pink or pale red left.
The blood had been squeezed out of his hand that was almost spasming in her tight grip, and where her fingers had turned to stone and were pushing down in between his knuckles, her nails were digging in too. She was creating crescent moons in the back of his hand and despite the lack of blood to his hand, the skin was starting to tear and he expected small droplets to arise at any moment.
It almost felt like she was trying to tell him something, trying to give him a secret message that he couldn't decode or work out.
That was when he looked down at her, properly looked, eyes coming back into focus and constricting as he tried to take her in and see what was going on.
She looked frozen.
His teeth released his lip that pulsed and throbbed now that the blood was returning, and his mouth hung open slightly as he looked down at (Y/n).
There was a strange, distant look in her eyes that Ashton didn't like. It made him think that her mind was suddenly so far away, like there was thousands of miles in between them. Despite how close they actually were and how they were physically entwined.
It was like she wasn't here with him at all.
His blood ran cold at that thought, all the heat fading from his burning skin that now felt frozen and tense and tight. His eyes narrowed and his stomach tensed as he realised that (Y/n) wasn't even looking up at him anymore.
She seemed to be staring at something behind him- or above him, he couldn't quite tell- her eyes were simply zoned out, aimed at something over his left shoulder. He wasn't sure that (Y/n) was actually looking at anything in particular, to him her eyes looked spaced, like they were staring but not really seeing.
The kind of way he was when he was zoning out in the studio trying to create lyrics, and his mind took him on a journey. Or when a specific memory from his childhood came to mind and suddenly he couldn't see the room in front of him, but the memory, clear as day playing out before his eyes, transporting him to a different time and place. He would stare, but he wouldn't see or take in anything. That was how (Y/n) looked to Ashton right now.
A deep frown etched into Ashton's features and he stopped.
His hips ached as he pushed his weight down onto his knees, feeling like he was sinking into the mattress in between (Y/n)'s thighs. He shifted his left arm a little, keeping his hand locked in (Y/n)'s grip that she didn't seem to be able to release even if she wanted to. But he moved his arm so that some of his weight was resting on his elbow.
The last thing he wanted to do was bring (Y/n) back to reality by letting all his weight crush down on her or make her feel trapped underneath him.
Deep breaths raged past his lips and made his shoulders heave whilst he lowered his head a little so that he was closer to her, more in her distant line of sight.
"Hey…" his right hand that had been somewhere between her neck and the pillow, reached out until he could trace his finger along her cheek.
He dragged the digit down her jaw, tracing the bone underneath and feeling the softness of her skin. He dragged his index finger back up towards her cheek before going back down towards her chin. He was trying his best to gain her attention without frightening her or shocking her back to reality, because clearly her mind wasn't here with him anymore.
It was as if a light had been switched on in her mind. Ashton watched in apprehension and slight wonder as (Y/n) blinked, and suddenly those distant, blown pupils were constricting and coming back into focus. Finally, she was looking up at him instead of somewhere behind him and he knew she could see him, she was back in the room again.
"Why'd you stop?"
Her voice was so quiet that Ashton was sure he had misheard her altogether and he took a few seconds to stare down at her, brows raised as he stared down at her like he didn't recognise her at all.
"Wh- really?" Shock entwined in his voice and must have crossed his face because (Y/n) looked surprised. "Baby, it didn't exactly look like you were with me. Where'd you go just then?"
He could see the wheels turning in (Y/n)'s mind, putting two and two together and realising that Ashton had noticed her zoning out, he noticed her mind wandering off and leaving the room they were in. Leaving him behind, leaving the intimacy they had been previously been locked in.
She took a moment to gather her thoughts, to try and piece them together, as if she didn't even know where her mind had gone or why.
"I… I don't know." (Y/n) tried to smile, but she could see that it didn't work and that her words did nothing to calm Ashton down because his expression still looked frightened.
He was looking at her like she was hurt, like he had witnessed her getting hurt but she was trying to tell him that she was completely fine.
That answer wasn't comforting to Ashton, not at all. He stared down at her, waiting for more words, for an explanation so he knew whether to start panicking or to laugh and try to calm down. He got nothing. Just those beautiful, encapsulated eyes watching him like he was the one who needed to say something, that he needed to lead so (Y/n) knew what to do next.
Adrenaline sparked to life in (Y/n)'s stomach when "Okay," suddenly sighed past Ashton's lips and he was moving.
He was moving away from her, pulling out, shuffling back like he was about to climb off the bed and leave.
(Y/n) felt her heart thunder in her chest and the air seemed to clog in her throat and stop her breathing as she watched him, suddenly afraid she had upset him. But he didn't go far.
He shifted to his left so he was no longer laid in between (Y/n)'s thighs, letting his weight rest on his left hip that was pushing down into the mattress now. His right arm carefully laid across (Y/n)'s middle as if letting her know that he was still here, still holding onto her, still close and connected in some manner.
His left elbow dug down into the pillow to push himself up so he wasn't fully laid down on his front, allowing him to look down at (Y/n) rather than lying on his chest and staring up at her.
Ashton waited patiently for (Y/n) to move, for her to shuffle up a bit so she was propped up against the pillows instead of lying flat. They could talk better this way, they could see one another as they spoke.
"Talk to me," he coaxed gently, tracing his fingers over her hip which made (Y/n) lean into him because he knew that touch tickled.
He needed to know what just happened, what it meant and why she had suddenly drifted off like that. Because although (Y/n) didn't seem to know where her mind had wandered off to, Ashton was sure, he could feel it in his bones, that she knew exactly why she had just zoned out. And he wanted to know why too.
(Y/n) couldn't quite meet his gaze, and that set off an alarm within his chest. Her eyes seemed to be intently focused on the darkly inked star on the underside of his right bicep. It was right within her eyeline when she tilted her head down because of how his arm was strewn across her bare chest.
It was easier not to look at him as she spoke. "When you touched the back of my neck, I- I don't know, it just made me think," the rest of the words didn't seem to want to come to light.
She didn't know why she was telling him this. It didn't matter, not really. She was alright, she had stopped zoning out now, she was back and they could carry on having sex. They didn't have to talk, but (Y/n) could see in Ashton's eyes that he wouldn't let this go. He wasn't going to move in any direction until they'd had this conversation.
"Think of what?" He prompted gently, continuing to trace her hip because he knew a small bit of touch like this would ground (Y/n), it would give her something to focus on so they could keep talking.
"When Max used to do that, sometimes to- to make me shut up. He had a bruising grip."
Again, (Y/n) couldn't find it within herself to look up at him. Her gaze focused intently on that star on Ashton's arm. Such a plain design, nothing intricate like some of the other tattoos he had, but it was the perfect image to lose her thoughts in and it was easy to look at. Easy for her eyes to zone out even if her mind stayed right here, having this conversation with him.
(Y/n) knew why that touch had set her mind spiralling. She knew it was because for a split second, it reminded her of something she used to feel, a memory she wanted to keep repressed.
It reminded her of the way her ex used to be with her during sex. It made her think of the times when his hand would grab the back of her neck, for a variety of reasons. To clutch her skin until bruises appeared that would have to be hidden behind her hair or upturned collars. To shake her head as if to shake some sense into her and bring her back to reality. To make her listen to him, or to tilt her head so she was looking at him when he spoke to her.
Sometimes his hand would move higher and his fingers would weave and knot into her hair. He could shake her head better when he held her by the hair. He could frighten her when he did that, he could push her head down or back or drag and move her by gripping her hair.
She wasn't always sure why he did it, but everytime he did, (Y/n)'s mind would drift off.
A reflex, a safety precaution. He couldn't intimidate or frighten or hurt her if her mind wandered and she zoned out. All she had to do was zone off until he finished, until sex was over or he'd had enough of bruising her neck or skin. Then it was safe to come back to reality.
It hadn't been intentional to zone off right now with Ashton, it was just a mechanism built into her mind.
As she spoke, Ashton dropped his gaze and his stomach clenched horribly when he saw that one of her hand was moving, clenching like she was giving a visual of what Max would do and how it made her feel. He was sure she didn't realise she was doing it either.
He felt like he was going to be sick. The last thing Ashton wanted was to make (Y/n) think of her ex when they were having sex or to trigger her and make her mind shut down like that.
"I'm sorry," Ashton's words were so sincere that a look of surprise washed over (Y/n)'s face. Especially when he brushed his thumb over her waist so tenderly it felt like a feather gliding over her skin. "I didn't know, you've never told me that before."
He knew her ex wasn't a good person. Ashton had heard bits and pieces whenever (Y/n) suddenly felt like sharing or she dropped little things into conversation. He never asked because he didn't want to pry, he was the same, closed off when it came to certain topics or parts of his life.
But he had gathered that her ex was the bad sort, that he was rude, imposing, intimidating and sometimes hurtful. Ashton just never knew the extent of it. He didn't know her ex had ever been violent or hurtful towards her during sex. He would have been a bit more cautious, a bit more alert, if he knew.
"It's okay. And you didn't have to stop, I- I was just drifting," she rose her hand to wave it near her head, signalling that she had just zoned out for a bit.
(Y/n) hadn't expected him to stop or pull out just because her mind had wandered off. He didn't have to do that, she wouldn't of said anything or made a big thing of it or a fuss if he carried on.
Once again it seemed that her words made him frown and (Y/n) felt her heart surging up into her throat.
One look from Ashton was always enough to spark adrealine within (Y/n) for one reason or another. But the genuine hurt that flashed through his eyes made her want to cry.
She felt him lean closer until his chest was almost laid over hers again like he had been a few minutes ago, and his face was close enough that if he were smiling, she would have been able to see the dimples in his cheeks and see how deep they went. Their temples were practically touching now.
"You zoned out because I triggered you. Baby I- I had to stop. I'll always stop if something like this happens."
It was as if (Y/n) didn't even realise that what she experienced was a trigger, and that it wasn't a good thing.
Ashton would rather hurt himself than ever think of carrying on with sex if he'd triggered (Y/n). He couldn't just 'carry on' like everything was fine if she wasn't okay, if she was remembering something bad or if she felt afraid or uncomfortable or just wasn't in the mood anymore.
It wasn't sex if he was the only one enjoying it or actually, mentally participating in it, and even then that wasn't enjoyment if (Y/n) wasn't one hundred percent into it.
Stopping was the only option, the only thing to do, and nothing would change Ashton's mind on that. Though it did make his blood boil and blister through his veins to think that, clearly, Max was never considerate to (Y/n). He had clearly carried on, clearly didn't think of her or how to treat her right or make sure she was okay.
"And I'll always check in, make sure that you're okay, but I need you to promise me something."
Goosebumps rose on (Y/n)'s skin when she felt Ashton's hand move from her hip so he was suddenly cupping her chin. His touch was light enough that if she didn't want it there, all she had to do was turn her head and break the contact, and he would let go. But she didn't move at all.
If anything, (Y/n) leant into the touch, relishing in the way that his thumb stroked the dip over her chin beneath her lower lip. He carefully tilted her head up so she was no longer staring at his arm and had nowhere to look but into his glossing eyes that were so full of emotion that they looked fit to burst.
"If you ever want or need me to stop, you have to tell me."
No response would form in (Y/n)'s mind at those words, she found herself staring at him dumbfoundedly while she let her head lean forwards a little until Ashton was holding her head up in his hand.
He stroked his thumb across her lower lip, eyes widening as he waited for a response; for a promise.
But the way (Y/n) looked at him, it broke something inside of him and sent fissures crackling through his heart. She was looking at him like this was the first time, ever, that she had ever had someone be considerate with her, whether about or during sex or not.
Had no one ever taken her thoughts and feelings into account before? Ashton wanted many things, but he would never want to be the first person to take (Y/n)'s feelings into account. Because that meant for years before they'd met or started dating, no one had ever shown her the respect she deserved and needed.
"Don't you ever think you can't tell me to stop or that I'd be annoyed if you did; frankly I'd be heartbroken if you didn't. Okay, promise?"
"I promise."
The words were nothing more than a whisper, but they were enough to make Ashton's lips curve into a smile and sent a flood of warmth and adrenaline surging through (Y/n)'s stomach.
She felt his lips ghosting across hers, the touch so light it was barely there and it made (Y/n) lean towards him all the same, pushing into his chest to chase after his touch.
"Good; you can trust me. You can always trust me."
actually sobbed while reading this…. it’s such an important topic, @megalony did SUCH an incredible job writing this :’))) i’ll be coming back to this for years to come that’s for sure
Summary: (Y/n) usually joins the band at the studio when they are recording. But one of the record producers becomes inappropriate with her and threatens the band's upcoming album if she tells anyone. When the band find out, they are less than pleased.
Enjoy.
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"You like that one?"
(Y/n)'s hands hovered over the keys, fingers stretched and ready to dance back across the ivory chords in repetition the moment Luke gave her the go ahead.
A smile danced its way over her lips when she lolled her head back to look up at him where he was stood beside her. Luke always looked unnaturally tall when he wore those kind of flared, high waisted trousers that made his legs look as tall as trees. But with (Y/n) perched on the piano bench, feet hovering over the pedals and hands poised over the keys, Luke loomed taller beside her despite the way he was arched forward to be that bit nearer to her own height.
He had the kind of grin on his face that flashed his teeth and made him look youthful, boyish even.
With a nod of his head, Luke was pointing down to the piano. "Play it again, before we forget."
Not that either of them had such a horrible memory that they would forget what (Y/n) had just come up with, but Luke didn't want to take any chances.
He had his phone now clasped in his hand, thumb hovering over the record button ready for when (Y/n) repeated the melody. He wanted to record it so he could keep listening to it and get the melody stuck in his head. Then he could write it down on paper, make sure that it wouldn't become lost or a forgotten piece of art. And he could keep playing it to work out the rest of the song and see how the other lyrics worked with this tune.
This was why Luke loved bringing her to the studio, especially when they were trying to get the songs all mapped out.
He could start singing the lyrics- part of the time they got the songs written first, then worried about adding music afterwards- and (Y/n) would play around with a few chords either on the piano or on guitar. They would mess around until something clicked, and then adapt from there.
As requested, (Y/n) repeated the melody, twice, just to make sure Luke had it all on record and he had enough to work with and start toying around with the rest of the lyrics he had written down.
Her lips worked into a bright grin when she felt him lean over once he'd stopped recording, and press a longing kiss to the top of her head. The touch made her system swarm with butterflies and adrenaline and her nerves ignited like they had been set on fire.
She heard Luke murmuring "I love that," implying the melody, against her temple.
She reached her hand up to smooth circles against his lower back, leaning into his side for a few moments as she closed her eyes. It was about time to go and get another drink and take a break, now that they had sorted that melody out.
He could take that melody to the rest of the band and get their opinion and see if Ashton could get a beat to go along and blend in with that. Which would be a big task in itself.
With her hand still resting on the small of Luke's back, (Y/n) pushed up from the piano bench and pressed a soft kiss to his warm cheek before she stepped back.
"I'm gonna get a drink from the kitchen, want anything?"
"I'm good thanks," he punctuated the words with a kiss, not really wanting to let her go but he caved in eventually and (Y/n) grinned to herself as she headed out of the room.
This was one of the many reasons why she loved being here in the studio with the band when they were in the pre-recording sessions. Of course she loved being here to watch them get all the songs recorded and finished up as well, but this part was one of the best.
Being able to sit down with them, go through lyrics, help play some of the melodies with them and give a few pointers here and there. Even if she could just tag along to watch on some days, it felt like she was part of the magic, that she was witnessing something spectacular. No day was ever the same here in the studio.
She couldn't quite tame the smile from her lips as she aimed down the corridor and towards the kitchen with the aim of getting a drink.
The kitchen was colder than the rest of the studio, it was like the arctic compared to everywhere else in the studio. (Y/n) had a feeling she would hang out in there for a while to cool down and have a few minutes away from the loudness of the studio. She could hear the band's voices, still loud as if she were back in the room with them rather than wandering down the corridor aiming for the other end of the studio.
The grin wouldn't wipe away from her face as she reached her hand up and ran her fingers through her hair, making sure it stayed out of her eyes.
But as she headed down the brightly lit corridor, lined with posters, photos, glittering silver and golden vinyl records and award posters, (Y/n) locked her sights onto another figure heading in her direction down the corridor. And she could feel her smile slowly starting to dampen ever so slightly.
Alec.
He was one of the executive producers here at the studio, someone who (Y/n) ran into from time to time, but thankfully didn't have to have a lot of involvement with.
He was someone who had always questioned in the beginning why (Y/n) was here when she wasn't technically part of the band. Each of them had spoken up for her, saying they liked to have her around, that she was Luke's partner and helped in the creative process. He didn't make comments like that anymore, but (Y/n) never felt at ease around him.
He was too unsettling. His gaze lingered too long, there was always something behind his smile, something like he was analysing her, like he was checking for something or checking her out even.
He was the kind of person who stood too close, who let his hands linger on her skin, who leaned in to whisper something to her when he could have just spoken normally and without getting in her personal space.
(Y/n) knew she wasn't the only one who avoided being around Alec, who liked to keep him at arms length if she even had to be around him at all.
Her eyes cast towards the wall on her left, letting her gaze linger and catch on the silver glimmer in the photo frames so she didn't have to look directly at Alec. She didn't want to be caught up in a conversation with him, especially since no one else was around.
For some reason, the thought of being secluded and alone with Alec didn't sit right with (Y/n) at all. She would rather hurry into the kitchen and avoid him than be caught here in the corridor without anyone else loitering around nearby.
"(Y/n), how are you?" He dipped his head in greeting towards her and (Y/n) let her eyes dance across him.
There was something about the way his lingering eyes raked her up and down that made her shiver, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He grinned a crooked grin that showed a few bleached white teeth, but combined with his narrowing eyes and the tightening muscles around his jaw, it almost looked like he was sizing her up. The kind of way someone would look at an opponent to gather whether or not they could win against them in a fight.
Unable to keep her eyes on his, (Y/n) angled her head down and forced a tight-lipped smile in response. "Fine, thanks."
"Looking lovely today."
Her head remained trained down towards the floor and she nodded, but wouldn't give a response. She didn't want to be thanking him for compliments she didn't want to receive, nor did she want to encourage or lead him on in any way.
With her hands twitching and curling at her sides, unsure what to do with themselves, (Y/n) carried on walking and tried to stick close to the wall so they wouldn't brush past one another when they crossed in the corridor.
It didn't work. An arm suddenly stretched out in front of her, the hand planting against a wall creating a barrier that she would either have to force down or duck underneath to escape from.
Her mouth pinched into a tight expression and her shoulders tensed and heightened as she sighed to herself.
"Excuse me-"
"What's the hurry?"
The hurry happened to be an imminent sense of uncertainty that was turning quickly into dread. But (Y/n) knew if she said that out loud she would only rile him up or upset him, and she didn't want to cause any arguments.
She decided to duck down and try to hurry underneath his arm than cause a scene by grabbing his wrist and forcing his arm out of her way. And she had a feeling if she tried to weave around him in the other direction, he would just step in front of her path again and try to block her exit.
She got beneath his arm and managed two steps away from him before his hands were suddenly locked around her hips in a tight enough grasp that he pinched her skin and made her heart explode with panic and growing terror.
"I'm just being friendly."
The words were almost a sneer as if he were saying an insult or making fun of her, and they chilled (Y/n) to her core.
This was not friendly. This was not kind or fun or anything that (Y/n) wanted or had agreed to. They weren't friends, and (Y/n) certainly didn't want him this close or touching her like this.
"Get off."
Her palm forced against his chest in an attempt to push him back, but she froze with a gasp when he shoved and her back hit the wall with a clatter that made the picture frames rattle. A corner of one of the frames jabbed into her shoulder and made her wince, but it was Alec's hands digging forcefully into her hips that made (Y/n) feel worse.
Her knees were tremoring as she tried to lock them in place and hold herself up, not wanting to slide or fall to the floor or rely on Alec to hold her up against the wall. That would only suffice to make things worse- worse than they already seemed to be.
With her hand curled into a fist she tried to put all of her force into her arm and thrust her fist into his chest, either to wind him or push him back enough to break away from him, whichever happened first. The force jolted Alec's system, but it invoked a rather frightening smirk on his crooked lips that made her core tremble with fear.
She didn't expect his left hand to get go of her hip and grasp the side of her face instead.
The heel of his hand pressed beneath her jaw with enough force to make her mouth and tongue ache and his short nails scratched her skin as his fingers moulded against her cheek. Using his grip and force to thrust her head back until the back of her head was pressing into the wall and her face was angled up towards him.
The pressure on her chin made her lips part but (Y/n) couldn't get any air to escape her lungs. It was like there was a blockage in her chest, a cork in her lungs preventing them from expelling the air properly.
Not that it mattered when Alec's lips were then smothering her own with a ferocity that made her cower back against the wall and had the inside of her lips cutting and grating against her teeth.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she found the will to moe her trembling limbs. Both hands thrust against Alec's chest and shoved until she managed to push him off her and she was no longer pinned to the wall. Her chin and throat ached when his hand finally left her skin and her head lolled down as if her neck had snapped.
Deep, raging breaths gulped past her lips as one hand reached out to cover her mouth and the other pressed against the wall, using it as guidance to help herself stumble away from him. She wanted as much distance between them both as possible. She didn't want to be anywhere near Alec after that, much less stay in the same building as him.
"You- you're insane!"
She choked through the words, doing her best to hold back the tears as she continued to add distance between them, despite how Alec was grinning like a mad man.
His hand ghosted over his chest, implying she had used enough force to hurt him or at least made his chest feel tight where she had whacked him to push him away. Though he was still smiling, and in the blink of an eye, he surged forward and clasped his hand around her forearm that was trembling and pressed against the wall.
Quicker than she believed her reflexes to be, (Y/n) yanked her arm away from him and slapped him across the face before she could stop herself or think better of provoking him.
Her eyes were as wide as full moons, glossed over with unshed tears she refused to allow to fall while she was still in Alec's horrid presence.
"A word of advice," he heaved through the words, clearly trying to get his breaths back while he sneered at (Y/n) who was taking cautious steps away from him.
She didn't have the energy or the force in her legs to run, to flee and get into the nearest room with a lock to keep Alec away from her. But she couldn't stand still either, not in case he lunged and tried to go for another forceful attack like that.
"I wouldn't go spreading rumours to any of your friends." His head ticked to the left, indicating in the direction of the studio room where the band could still faintly be heard. "The label doesn't like scandals, we drop artists who make a fuss. Bear that in mind."
(Y/n)'s heart severed and dropped down to her stomach like a stone sinking to the bottom of the ocean.
Her hand stayed meshed against her mouth as she fled the corridor and flung herself into the kitchen, kicking the door shut behind her with such a resounding bang that she jumped forward with a shuddering yelp.
What was she going to do? Did she try and gather herself and her thoughts and go back to the band after a few moments in here alone? Did she hide out in the toilets until she felt calmer and composed? Or did she grab her things and leave?
It would be a long walk home, Luke had driven them both here from home and she could hardly take his car whether she asked him or not. He would wonder what was wrong, he would want to take her home himself and if he did that, (Y/n) wasn't sure she would be able to hide this from him for long.
There was no way she could tell him what Alec had just done.
If she told Luke- or any of the band- what had happened, then it would create havoc for the band.
(Y/n) wouldn't be the reason why they got dropped from the record label. This was their album, their hard work, this was what they had been working so hard on for the last year and a half. (Y/n) wouldn't cause them trouble and have them dropped from the label and leave them scrambling to find another record label to take them on at such short notice and produce their album that was already underway.
If they were dropped from the label, there could be consequences. Alec was a producer, he was an executive, he could spread lies about the band, he could label them as trouble, make some calls and make it even harder for them to get a new listing.
(Y/n) couldn't do that to Luke, to Michael and Calum and Ashton.
But she couldn't remain here in the studio either; she couldn't put herself at risk around Alec in case he did something like this again.
What was she going to do? What was she going to tell Luke?
***
"Aren't you getting ready, we've gotta leave soon."
Luke began adjusting the rings that sat on his fingers, pushing them further along until they were almost welded against his knuckles. Out of habit, he spun them around a few times as if checking they were tight enough to stay where they were, but loose enough to be able to get off again at the end of the day.
He turned on his heels and looked behind him when he didn't receive an answer. His eyes locked on (Y/n) immediately, watching how she was stood with her back and hips pressed up against the kitchen counter. She had one leg crossed over the other, and both hands were held close to her chest, fiddling with a loose thread on her shirt like it was the most important thing in the world.
"Not today."
A frown worked its way onto Luke's lips and he stepped closer to (Y/n), running his now ring-clad fingers through his hair to bounce his curls and part them so they didn't hang right down into his eyes.
"Why not?" His tone was concerned, caring, worried and it made (Y/n)'s stomach jump up into her throat.
Shaking her head, she uttered "I don't feel like it today."
She coudn't look up at Luke as she spoke, too afraid that if she looked him in the eyes then she would end up spilling the real reason why she didn't want to go to the studio with him today.
He knew something was up, (Y/n) hardly ever refused to tag along and join him at the studio. This was the first time in a long while that Luke could remember where (Y/n) was opting out of going with him.
"Baby what's wrong?"
Luke took another cautious step closer until he was standing in between (Y/n)'s legs. His knee gently nudged her thigh to one side so he could be even closer, feeling her thighs closing in around his legs like she was trapping him exactly where he was, where he wanted to be.
He leant his hips forward against her own and reached both hands out to carefully cup her face. His thumbs glided across her cheekbones as if smoothing out invisible creases in her skin and as gently as possible, he tilted her head back so she was finally looking up at him.
(Y/n)'s breath caught in her throat when Luke pressed his temple down against hers and the end of his nose bumped hers. She could feel each tender breath he took which fanned against her mouth, the soft rise and fall of his chest, even the way his lips curled into a smile that made her want to melt into a puddle on the kitchen floor.
"I don't wanna go today… not in the creative mood I guess." It was hard trying to keep her tone neutral and bland as if this were no big deal. She didn't want Luke to worry, and she couldn't go and tell him the real reason why she was declining to go.
Her hands rose up and curled around his wrists, trying not to cling too tightly and let ouot the panic she was doing well to bundle together and push down. Even the tears she thought were about to spill managed to be held at bay.
"You don't just wanna hang out at the studio for the day, no pressure to join in?"
(Y/n) shook her head, unable to trust her voice again because the truth was forming at the back of her mind and threatening to spill from her lips. She shivered and leaned into the touch when Luke tilted his head back and merged his lips with her temple, pressing soft butterfly kisses to her crown.
"Okay."
He wouldn't fight it. He knew something was up, he could feel it in his bones and he knew there had to be a reason (Y/n) didn't want to come along today. Even if she didn't feel like trying to help with the music or lyrics, she would always come along and be there at the studio rather than staying home alone.
And he was sure that she wasn't ill or feeling under the weather. There was a reason, but if she didn't want to tell him, then Luke wasn't going to push the subject. (Y/n) would tell him when she was ready, he trusted in that.
The spoon in (Y/n)'s hand began to clink and tap against the rim of her cup, almost acting as a rhythmic beat like a metronome.
Her left hand pressed down into the edge of the counter until the sharpness was pressing into the palm of her hand and her arm was at the point of straining from how she was pushing her weight forward. But it was helping. It was helping to calm down the worry and mounting anxiety within her.
(Y/n) didn't want to be panicking today, she didn't want to be worrying or getting nervous.
It had been a big decision this morning to come down to the studio today, where she had specifically avoided for the last week and a half.
She knew she couldn't keep avoiding coming down here, Luke was getting worried and the band were asking if she was okay. They missed her, it wasn't the same without everyone here and even though (Y/n) wasn't strictly in the band, she was still part of the creative process. They wanted her here.
And she knew it wasn't fair on herself as much as on them if she stayed away. Alec didn't have that right to keep her from the studio, to make her feel like she couldn't be here in case she bumped into him.
As long as she kept out of his way, as long as she stuck to the band and made sure she was never on her own, then she should be alright.
That was what she told herself, anyway.
"When is it again?" (Y/n) spoke softly, glancing over her left shoulder to look towards Michael who was currently rummaging around in the fridge for a drink of his own.
"Next week, probably Friday. You up for it?"
"If I can choose at least one of the movies, then of course." Movie nights with the band were always fun, but (Y/n) knew there would be a right concoction of films. Cheesy rom-coms, at least one shitty film, and a horror would definitely be in the mix.
She heard Michael utter "I'll think about it," in that cheesy tone that made her grin to herself.
The whistling of the kettle grew louder and drew (Y/n)'s attention away but she found herself looking back over her shoulder again when the kitchen door creaked as it swung wide open again.
Oh God.
Her stomach sank down and grew heavy like she was about to throw up her lunch and the swarm of adrenaline that shot through her system made her feel even worse. Her lips curved into a grimace as she angled her head down towards her cup, refusing to look in any other direction.
She didn't want to catch his eye; (Y/n) didn't want to spare one glance in his direction and be embroiled in conversation with him.
The last time (Y/n) had seen Alec was when he threatened her in the hallway. And she didn't want a repeat of that incident again.
She wasn't sure what he said to Michael as he entered the room, the blood pounding in her ears was far too loud for (Y/n) to hear anything over the top of it. Her blood felt like champagne fizzling in her veins and it made her head swirl and become dizzy.
The kettle whistled and clicked as it boiled, but (Y/n) couldn't find the will to move, not when she could feel Alec moving close behind her. He was closing in on her like an animal about to devour its prey.
Her nerves ignited like they had been set on fire when his heavy hand set on her shoulder and (Y/n) felt like she was being weighed down by such a simple touch. The touch itself would have been insignificant if it had come from anyone else, but from him, it was almost like a warning had flared in (Y/n)'s mind.
She tensed up, elbows pinning into her sides and frame going rigid as she fought the urge to shake off his touch. She didn't want to make a scene.
"Nice to see you back again, you've not been around the last week or so."
When it seemed that Alec was saddling up to stand beside her, (Y/n) stepped to the left to try and add some distance between them. She didn't want him beside her, she didn't want to be anywhere near Alec; she didn't trust what he might do.
Out the corner of her eye she noticed Michael aiming for the door. He'd gotten the drink he came in here for, and of course he saw nothing wrong with her chatting to Alec, he couldn't see the rising, alarming panic building up within (Y/n). He wouldn't think twice about leaving her alone in Alec's presence. But (Y/n) wasn't going to be put in that situation; not again.
"Hold- hold on a sec, I'll walk with you."
Michael turned as he stood in the doorway, glancing at (Y/n) over his shoulder. A frown pulled at his lips when he noticed her sudden unease and he could hear a twinge of panic in her voice.
It was hard to stop herself from trembling as she reached out for the kettle, trying to be swift in making her drink so she could leae the room with Michael and feel safe. But she ended up being hasty and clumsy instead; the boiling water splashed over the rim of her cup and scalded her index and middle fingers when it splashed onto her.
She barely flinched, teeth biting down into her tongue to stop herself from hissing because the pain was nothing compared to her utter panic when she felt Alec leaning in towards her.
"Surely you know your way around by now?" He whispered the words in her ear and reached out for the kettle that she had barely set down. His fingers curled over her own like a sheet of sandpaper scratching her hand and he did well to grab onto the kettle when (Y/n) yanked her hand back and let go.
Backing up, she forgot about her half-made drink on the counter and turned on her heels, leaving before Alec could reach out and grab her arm like he clearly intended to when he reached towards her. She wouldn't give him the chance to do that again.
Her heart thundered in her chest and pulsed in her throat as she scrambled for air, breathing like she had been submerged under water and almost drowned.
(Y/n) swallowed hard, forcing her feet to move faster as she aimed towards Michael and latched one hand around his oversized jacket sleeve for security. Sticking close to his side as they left the kitchen in somewhat of a hurry, although Michael was none the wiser to why they were practically running out.
"Your drink-"
"I don't want one anymore."
"What's wrong?"
When Michael looked down, his breath caught in his throat when he realised that (Y/n) was shaking. Her left hand that was latched onto his sleeve was tremoring and he could see the small bubbling blisters on her fingers where she had scalded herself from the kettle. But it looked as if she barely felt it or even noticed she was burned.
He received no answer to his question, just (Y/n) clinging to his sleeve as she steered them back towards the studio where the rest of the band were cooped up.
As soon as they headed into the room, (Y/n) made a beeline for one of the plush armchairs and sank down. Her knees coiled up to her chest and both arms bound around them, pinning her knees to her chest so her chin could rest on top of them. Her head angled to the left, staring towards the far window that only provided a view of the cyan sky and the few clouds floating by.
It looked and felt as if she were cutting herself off from them, like she was desperate to hide herself away in a corner and be forgotten. The thought made Michael's stomach drop as if it had been hollowed out.
His eyes cast over (Y/n) for a few seconds before something bubbled over in his mind and he made a beeline for Luke.
Whatever had unsettled (Y/n) had been enough to worry Michael, and he wasn't going to sit around and watch her close herself off and become upset. He wouldn't force her to talk to him if she wasn't comfortable with that, but the least he could do was tell Luke that something was wrong.
It was as if (Y/n) could feel a pair of eyes burning into her because just when she glanced to her right, she found Luke already looking dead ahead at her. Michael was stood at his side, uttering something in his ear too quiet for (Y/n) to hear, but it sent a wave of unease washing through her stomach nonetheless.
Her eyes followed Luke as he made a beeline for her, concern glittering in his eyes like stars.
Once he reached her, Luke slowly crouched down beside the chair she was in, folding his arms on the arm rest with his chin perched on his forearm. There was a tender look in his eyes and a smile on his lips that always made (Y/n)'s heart skip a beat no matter how many times she had witnessed that smile over the years.
He stretched one hand out, ghosting the back of his fingers along her arm when (Y/n) ducked her head down and chose to stare at his rings rather than keep his gaze.
"Baby, what's the matter? Has something happened?" His voice was quiet, mellow, but there was an encouraging urge to his voice like he was desperate for an answer.
(Y/n) shook her head and tilted her chin down so her lips were meshed against her arm, partially hiding herself away from him and preventing him from seeing how close she was to bursting into tears. As much as she wanted to tell him, she couldn't. She knew she shouldn't have bothered coming in at all, staying away would of been the best course of action.
Trying again, Luke grazed his hand along her arm and spoke in the same gentle, understanding tone. "Something's clearly upset you, you've barely been in the studio the last two weeks."
"You've been on edge here all day, tell us what's going on. You can talk to us." Calum tried his hand at being tactful and understanding as he sat down on the chair next to (Y/n)'s, nudging his elbow lightly against her arm.
They had all noticed that she hadn't really wanted to be here for almost two weeks, and now that she was here today, she hadn't been herself. Not joining in, sticking to this room and barely leaving it even when Luke went next door to the recording room to try out a few melodies. Something wasn't right, but none of them would make fun or laugh or be annoyed by whatever it was that was upsetting her. She could tell them anything.
"I can't."
The tears glistening in (Y/n)'s eyes and the way she spoke, so quiet like she was on the verge of breaking, it made Luke's heart palpitate.
"Yes you can."
"Is it Alec, or one of the producers?" Michael knew he'd guessed right because (Y/n) took a sharp breath and seemed to push back in her seat, unable to look at any of them.
"Talk to me." With his left arm still folded on the armrest, Luke reached out and took her hand in his free one. He threaded their fingers together to both give her some comfort and to stop her from biting her nails down to the nub. She had to tell them, or at least him, what this was all about, he was starting to become worried now.
(Y/n) gave Luke's hand a tight squeeze, almost shaking in his grasp while she turned her head so they were looking at one another again.
She could feel the rest of the band hovering round, trying not to crowd but they clearly wanted to know what the problem was, especially if it was something they could help with or sort. But (Y/n) couldn't see how any of them could help with this, not when she had made it worse by coming back to the studio when she really shouldn't have.
"He pinned me to the wall, wouldn't let go, th- then he kissed me… I pushed him off, but he said the label- the label would drop you, if you made a fuss over it."
It was as if (Y/n) had killed the sparkle in Luke's eyes; she watched it become snuffed out the more words that fell from her lips until there was nothing left but darkening cyan blue that was practically churning black by now. She could see Luke's upper lip curling like he was about to snarl.
It took a lot for him to get angry, for him to be annoyed with anyone even when he had every right to be, and now she had made him look volatile.
His hand tightened around hers, but that was the only movement he made, like the rest of him was made out of stone and couldn't possibly be moved.
But out the corner of her vision, (Y/n) could see the others shifting. She could see Michael biting down on his painted nails like he was trying to stop himself from saying something or lashing out. Calum's hands were deadlocked together in his lap until his knuckles were threatening to burst through the skin, and Ashton was suddenly on his feet with one foot tapping the floor like a mad hare.
Shallow breaths escaped (Y/n)'s lips as she tried not to let the sobs in her chest break free. "If I'm not here, then t- then there's no issue, you can finish up the album."
"He told you to stay silent, or he'd get the album dropped from the label?" Ashton confirmed with such a horrified expression that (Y/n) had never seen on him before.
Using the band as leverage against her. That was beyond cruel; that was sick. How did he think he could get away with something like that? How did he think he had the authority and the power to hurt (Y/n) like that, to upset and frighten her and then threaten the band against her if she spoke out.
"Oh my God."
"Where is he?" The words seethed past Luke's lips in such a volatile tone that if any of them hadn't seen the words leave his lips, they wouldn't have believed it had been Luke who said them.
He pushed up from being crouched beside the chair, his hand untangling from (Y/n)'s as he turned around, but he didn't get far. Calum's hands were on his shoulders and Michael was in front of him blocking his path to get out of the room. They couldn't have Luke starting a fight, that really wouldn't do them all any favours.
"Woah, no. No, no we're not doing that." Calum patted Luke's shoulder as if trying to simmer him down and stop him from even thinking about starting a fight. Because if Luke did that, then Alec would have leverage against them instead of the other way around.
The four of them seemed to share a look as Ashton moved to stand on Luke's other side, like they were children huddling round in a playground to come up with a new game plan.
Whatever they began to murmur, (Y/n) couldn't hear with their voices being so low and her head spinning and feeling like it was full with cotton wool.
She snapped out of her thoughts when Luke was suddenly in front of her again, looming above her like a skyscraper. He bent down towards her, legs as straight as tree trunks while his hand held out in front of him until (Y/n) placed her palm in his, unsure what he wanted or what he was about to do.
"Let's go." He coaxed (Y/n) to her feet, keeping her palm tightly bound in his as he guided her from the chair and out of the room.
For a dreaded moment (Y/n) was sure that Luke was going to search the entire studio until he found Alec and either gave him a piece of his mind or started an argument with him. But instead, Luke directed her into the next room where all their instruments were and the recording booth was.
Confusion plastered across (Y/n)'s face when the band filtered in behind them and almost immediately, they were all moving towards their instruments.
(Y/n) watched them all, her free hand now curled around Luke's arm to keep herself pressed up into his side as he slowly trailed around the room grabbing his things. But it was the rest of the band who worried her. Calum and Michael were gathering their guitars and bass and the cases, kneeling down on the floor with all their instruments that they were starting to pack up.
And when she looked at Ashton, horror plastered across her face as she watched him kneel down and begin to unscrew his drumkit, clearly ready to take it apart.
"Wh- what are you doing?"
"We're packing up."
"We're not having this label stuck on our album after they've been inappropriate and then threatened you." Michael's tone was kind and he wore a smile when he looked across at (Y/n) from where he knelt on the floor. But he spoke as if it was rather obvious.
The four of them had just agreed. They were leaving. There was no way in Hell that they would have this record label printed on their next album after someone had just touched (Y/n) inappropriately and then threatened the band against her to keep her quiet.
They would rather leave with all their material and find another label to help them produce than stick around here after that.
(Y/n)'s hand tightened around Luke's arm until she was practically cutting off his circulation. She pushed herself into his side like she was trying to glue them both together, but her wide eyes stared up at him when he turned to face her.
His right hand stayed entwined with hers, their palms suctioned together, while he reached his free hand down to caress her face, fingers ghosting across her skin. His lips curved into a smile and he stepped closer until their chests were touching and his nose touched hers, their lips close enough that there was barely a breath of space separating them.
"We have the rights to our own music, baby, we can go to a different record label if we want. If he wants to play the imitation game then we'll raise the stakes."
This wasn't their first album, far from it. The band had evolved and their music was well known. They didn't have to fight or beg for a studio to produce their music and they weren't stuck for choice either. If they went to another label it would be easy to get signed on.
This new album was halfway done, they had their songs ready, their lyrics prepared and bass melodies prepared. Recording, polishing up and burning cds was all that was left to do. Changing labels might set them back a few weeks but it would be worth it.
They could do what they wanted, and if Alec wanted to try and intimidate them, then they would leave. It would cost the label to have the band quit at such short notice and go to another firm.
It was the label's loss, not theirs.
And it just so happened that Calum knew a few online tabloids and journalists he still kept in touch with. In a week's time, there would be an email in their inbox detailing Alec's name, the label and studio he worked for, the details of the intimidation game he tried to play against them, and how the band had severed all contact with the record label.
Summary: Tim is your second TO after a mid-year transfer. He wants answers about what happened at your last station but doesn't realize what they might cost you. In the end, he's the one at your side, the TO you can trust.
Warnings/Word Count: angst, depiction of harassment/assault, fluff and comfort, Tim threatens someone, Tim and r makeout but he lets her lead everything bc he's a big softie. 2.5k+ words, requested
A/N: I made the threatening scene more graphic at first then dialed it back and kept the rated R version for myself haha
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The body cam clicks into place, acting as an audible, tangible start to your day. The Mid-Wilshire station is beginning to feel more comfortable, even as you stare at a scuff on the wall and listen to murmured conversations behind you. Your new training officer, Tim Bradford, told you to get ready while he speaks with Sergeant Grey. Maybe he’s talking about you, theorizing about why you’re here, maybe not. Regardless of what he tells you or keeps from you, you have to be careful around Tim.
Two months ago, when you asked your previous TO why he was talking about you in the locker room, you learned that there are some things you’re better off not knowing.
“You ready?” Tim asks.
You flinch, turning on your heel to nod. “Yes, sir.”
He gestures toward the garage, following you to the shop. You’ve only been his boot for five days, a work week, yet Tim has already realized a few very important things about you. Like all boots, you’re careful in what you say. But the kind of timidity you display each day is different. You keep Tim at arms’ length, hesitating to trust him. When you were shot at yesterday, you obeyed his every command. But when he asked why you became a cop, you picked at your finger until it bled, refusing to talk to him.
Transferring to a different police station is never meaningless, but moving in the middle of your rookie year is almost unheard of. That’s why Tim thinks something happened at your previous station or worse, with your first TO. You won’t talk to Lucy or Angela either, so he knows your hesitancy and anxiety doesn’t begin and end with him.
Despite it all, Tim trusts you. He only has to figure out how to convince you to trust him too.
“Bradford!” Grey calls, jogging out of the station.
Tim puts the car in Park and steps out of the driver’s seat.
“I need to borrow your boot,” Grey adds.
You exit the car, your fingers hooked together as you join your watch commander. He leads you into his office wordlessly, sitting with a heavy sigh.
“How is your first week?” he checks.
Stiffening your shoulders, you nod. “It’s going well, sir.”
“Better than your last station?”
Swallowing, you prepare to say yes.
“I don’t need to know what happened,” he continues, “but if you have problems here or want to talk to somebody, let me know.”
“I will. Thank you.”
You return to the shop, somewhat surprised to find that Tim waited for you. He’s scrolling on his phone when you buckle your seatbelt, not looking up until you’re secure.
“Everything okay?” Tim checks.
“Yes, sir,” you reply. “Grey just wanted to check in at the end of my first week.”
Tim hums, then asks, “What happened before?”
Your breath catches in your throat, your chest tightening as you press your knuckles into the opposite palm. That question is one that you haven’t even answered for yourself. Even if you could admit it, you won’t tell Tim because he could be the same.
While you grow more anxious, silent as you shut down from fear that this is either the end of your career or the beginning of what you thought you escaped, Tim’s wondering about your past shifts. His curiosity evaporates, replaced by an undeniable bad feeling deep within him. Something happened at your last station and, based on your reaction and how you act around him, likely involved your original TO.
Tim is different. He knows he is. And he’ll prove it to you if it’s the last thing he does.
You were too quiet for the rest of your shift after Tim asked about the beginning of your rookie year. Now, he stares at his television, not actually watching it as he thinks about you. Kojo whines, pressing his snout to Tim’s side.
From the moment you stepped into the bullpen, Tim knew that your nervousness and rigid posture was more than the ‘I’m new to being a cop’ separation. It was more personal. He’s asked around a little, but no one knows what happened at your last station. The few people who know where you transferred from don’t know anything more.
The morning of your second day, instead of demanding you tell Tim where you are, he asked careful, open-ended questions about your rookie experience so far. Each question made you increasingly more anxious. When you dug your fingernail into your skin, he stopped asking. Everything he does to try to help makes it worse. If Tim could, he’d take you to a safehouse, show you that you’re safe now, and dedicate his life to showing you that you can trust him.
“Uh oh,” he hums. “Kojo… I think I’m in trouble.”
Kojo huffs, shifting into Tim’s lap.
“Yeah, you’d like her.”
“Sergeant Bradford?”
Tim lifts his head quickly, surprised to see you standing in the doorway, backlit by the sunrise. He came in early to work on something, but time passed too quickly when he found your transfer paperwork.
“Sorry,” Tim offers when you step back. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” you reply, offering a small smile. “Uh, roll call is starting.”
“Right. I’ll be right there. Thanks.”
You nod, then walk away. Tim has more questions than he did before, and asking you seems to make it hard for you to so much as breathe. You have all the makings of a great cop, as long as Tim doesn’t push you too far. But, at the same time, he needs to show you that whatever happened before doesn’t have to define you now.
After today, Tim has a day off to do as much investigating as he pleases. The bad feeling in his stomach has become a pit, a familiar sense of dread that someone overstepped, robbed you of your safety and maybe even your identity. Your last TO has something to explain as far as Tim is concerned.
“Good call,” Tim applauds when you return to the shop after a traffic stop that led to an arrest.
“Thank you,” you murmur, straightening your belt.
“Did your last TO teach you to watch for that?” he asks lightly. “What was his name again?”
Tim saw the paper just this morning, but it feels like a careful in. You look at him then and Tim is suddenly struck by the realization that he’s never had eye contact with you before.
“He didn’t,” you answer flatly. “One of my teachers at the academy did.”
“Okay,” Tim replies, his grip tight on the wheel as you look at him. There’s something in your eyes that he recognizes just as much as the dread within him.
You blink, then turn away without answering his second question. Tim, for all his faults, knows better than to press. He doesn’t want you to shut down again, not when you’re finally letting him in, granting him a glance inside to see who you really are behind the hurt and the fear.
“Name?” the officer at the front desk asks.
“Sergeant Tim Bradford,” Tim replies, dressed in his civvies but still displaying his badge on his hip.
The officer passes him a visitors’ badge, then buzzes him into the heart of the station. Tim looks around, quickly identifying a boot in long sleeves.
“Excuse me,” he calls. “Is Officer Damian Jacobs here?”
“Uh, he’s not actually my TO, but I haven’t seen him today,” the officer replies. He glances down, then adds, “Sergeant.”
“What do you think of him?” Tim asks. “Decent guy?”
The rookie looks around quickly, then drops his voice to answer, “The guy’s a piece of work.”
Tim’s jaw tightens as he nods. “Thanks.”
He asks three more people, including a lieutenant, for their opinions on your previous TO. They all offer variations of the first answer; Officer Jacobs is described as a jerk, a narcissist, and something a little stronger. Yet no one mentions the rookie that left because of him.
Tim smacks his hand on the steering wheel in his truck, upset with himself for failing to find out why you left. Jacobs had to have been the reason, but if he didn’t force you out, what made you decide to leave? He’s tried asking questions that might lead you to telling him and gotten nothing. Maybe it’s time for a more direct approach.
After riding with Officer Chen yesterday, you prepare yourself to be questioned by Sergeant Bradford about how it went. He asks questions clearly intended to get more than a yes or no.
When he stops on the sidewalk and asks, “What did your last TO do?” you aren’t expecting the blunt question.
You were on edge all week because of his prior questions, but this is different. Without expecting it, you can either remain quiet, hesitate and come up with a vague answer, or tell the truth.
Your mouth moves faster than your mind, your thoughts a jumbled mess of anxiety and self-preservation. “He harassed me,” you blurt out. “He made my life miserable. I- I was never safe.”
“He harassed you?” Tim repeats.
Pressing your arms to your side, you take a deep breath and start at the beginning. If Tim wants to know, you’ll tell him. You’ve been waiting for rain to put out the fire inside you for so long that if Tim decides to bounce you for this, you’ll take it as a sign, a miracle break in the clouds.
“Officer Jacobs was inappropriate from the beginning. He’d follow me around, make disgusting, lewd comments when no one else was around. A week into training, when he realized I wasn’t telling anyone, he started turning off my body camera in the shop. He’d touch me, ask me questions that I didn’t want to answer.” You take a shaky breath, your eyes on Tim’s boots. “The day before I submitted my transfer request, he followed me home.”
You can’t see Tim’s hands curl into fists or his jaw clench as he listens. His gut feeling was right — as usual — but he didn’t realize how angry he’d be when he finally got the answers he thought he wanted.
“He pushed me and came inside,” you continue. “He- he tried to force himself on me and I was too scared to tell anyone, so I just left. And maybe that makes me a coward or a bad cop, but-”
“You’re not a bad cop,” Tim interrupts roughly.
You lift your eyes, which Tim immediately realizes are glassy. His shoulders drop, his gaze softening as he looks at you. You don’t need his anger or his sympathy, you need a reminder, you need to trust him.
“He’s a horrible person,” Tim reassures you, “but that doesn’t say anything about you. You’re here now, away from him. Okay? We would never do anything like that.”
You drag the back of your hand across your face and nod. “I know that now. I- I was scared to get close to you at first but you’re different.”
“And you’re more than whatever he made you feel,” Tim adds, stepping toward you with his arms spread at his sides. “You’re safe now.”
You nod, whispering, “Thank you.”
“Has he tried to contact you since you transferred?” Tim questions as he opens the door for you.
“No,” you answer. “I don’t know what I’d do if he did.”
“You’d call me.”
But part of you had already thought of that.
Tim marches into the station in his uniform, his eyes hard. Officers move out of his way, and the rookie he spoke to before points across the bullpen.
“Jacobs!” Tim barks.
Officer Damian Jacobs turns, wide-eyed before Tim grasps his lapel and slams him against the nearest wall.
“You think it’s okay to harass women?” Tim demands. “You thought it was okay to assault your rookie?”
The officers around him gasp, several murmuring to each other.
“I didn’t!” Jacobs insists.
Tim presses into him, blinking when Jacobs struggles to take a full breath.
“You’re going to resign,” Tim says.
“No, I’m not!”
Tim leans in, his voice low as he repeats, “You are going to resign. And if you don’t, I will personally ensure that you never wear a badge again.”
“Get me fired,” Jacobs dares. “No one will believe her.”
“I never said I’d get you fired,” Tim murmurs. “And I believe her. Trust me when I say that is enough.”
“Sergeant Bradford!” someone greets.
Tim releases Jacobs, stepping back as the TO falls to the floor before scrambling up.
“Sarge, this brute just attacked me!” Jacobs yells.
“Sergeant Bradford is a highly decorated officer,” the watch commander says. “I doubt he attacked you.”
Tim spares one final glance at Jacobs, then walks toward the door. “Jacobs assaulted a rookie; harassed her until she felt like transferring was the only way to stay safe.”
“If I had done that,” Jacobs seethes, “what would stop me from going back after that stunt you just pulled?”
“Jacobs!” his watch commander interrupts. “My office now.”
“Go near her again,” Tim dares. “You won’t like what happens.”
Someone knocks on your door while you’re making dinner. You don’t get many visitors, so you approach the door slowly until you can see that it’s Tim.
“Hi,” you greet, inviting him inside.
“Jacobs resigned,” Tim says, his hands in his pockets.
Your shoulders drop as you look at him. “Thank you.”
“He resigned. No reason to thank me.”
Patting Tim’s arm, you argue, “That’s not going to work on me. I may be quiet in the shop, but I know you. You’re a good guy, Sergeant Bradford.”
“Tim,” he whispers, leaning into your touch. “Please.”
“Okay,” you agree with a smile. “Want to stay for dinner, Tim?”
“You’re not worried I’ll let you down too?”
“I’m not worried at all. Are you?”
Tim blinks, then steps back. “I’ll stay for dinner, but you can’t do that.”
“Do what?” you question.
“Don’t- don’t look at me like that. You’d have to get another TO.”
You smile, and Tim forgets what he was saying. He needs you closer, needs to feel you against him, needs to breathe you in like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
“Would that be so bad?” Tim questions then.
“What? A third TO?” you clarify. “Depends on the why, I guess.”
Tim lifts his hands to your waist, hovering his hands beside you until you step forward into his hold. “If this is the why?” he whispers, looking between your eyes and your lips.
“I don’t want another TO,” you murmur, spreading your fingers over his chest. “But I want this.”
“Then we’ll lie.”
“You’re a bad example,” you whisper. “Kiss me?”
“I’m the bad example,” Tim grumbles before his lips meet yours.
He kisses you like he won’t get a second chance, though you both know this is the beginning rather than a one-off. His touch is desperate, passionate, laced with apologies and desire.
“I’m only a rookie for a few more months,” you remind him when he pulls back. “And I’m eighty percent sure Wade knows that we were going to get here eventually.”
“We’ll take it as slow as you want. Tell me if it’s too much,” Tim pleads, his forehead against yours.
Summary: Being single has left you starving to be touched. One night, Joel steps in and soothes the fire in your skin.
CW: MDNI. 18+ only. Reader has hair that can be brushed.
Word count: 2k
A/N: for @penvisions. I hope this helps. 💕 Let me know if you want the tag removed.
Your skin was screaming.
Being single was really great- most of the time. But every once in a while, the lack of physical affection ate away at you. You missed the little things: a hand resting low on your hip when moving through a crowded room… a warm hand gripping yours as you cross the street. A lap to lay your head in; and fingers in your hair; massaging your scalp.
Tonight you’d tried all the tricks: a weighted blanket; a hot bath; that weird compression garment that made you look like a caterpillar in a cocoon. You even considered booking a massage; but that just felt too desperate.
And this is how Joel ended up finding you on your back porch, late into a Friday night; curled up in a chair with your arms wrapped around your legs; staring off into the night sky.
“Hey darlin. What’rya doin home on a Friday night? Shouldn’t you be out with your friends, dancin?”
Joel knew you loved hitting 6th street. The energy, the live music, the ridiculous stories you’d bring home to share with him. But tonight, you just couldn’t bring yourself to go out with your friends, when you were the only one without a partner.
“Just… felt a little too lonely this time, to be the 5th wheel, you know?”
Joel hummed in agreement as he dug out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slipped a cig between his lips; cradling the box in his big hand as he lit up the end. You watched, with longing, as his inhale made the tip glow. God- you were jealous of a cigarette!! This was a new low.
“Yeah, I’understand.”
He’d been single since Sarah’s mom had left, over 20 years ago now. You never saw him bring anyone home, through Sarah’s whole childhood. And a few years ago after you’d graduated college and moved back to Austin, Joel was still there next door- as single as ever.
“I thought once Sarah went off to college, I’d be ready to find love again… but now it’s all dating apps and hookups. Couldn’t find a girlfriend to save my life.”
He took a slow drag… savoring the pull; before blowing it out above your head. You tried to look away, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
“Yeah. Same for me. No one wants to commit anymore- let alone just be a decent human being.”
He noticed you staring after the second pull; the look of need in your eyes.
“Y’want some?”
You licked your lips and nodded in response. Joel took the cigarette from his lips; bringing it down right in front of your mouth. The heat of his fingers pressed warm to your lips as you leaned forward and took a long drag. You couldn’t help your eyes closing at the softness of his touch. And Joel noticed.
When you sat back in contentment, Joel took another hit as he watched you hold your breath; tilting your head back against the chair; slowly letting the smoke waft from your parted lips.
“More?”
“Please.”
His fingertips met your lips once more; but this time, his thumb caressed your cheek. Gentle. Slow.
Leaning into his touch, you savored those seconds; willing them to stretch… to slow down… to linger.
Joel noticed. And he understood better than you knew.
After you exhaled, Joel tipped your chin up til your eyes met his.
“Wanna come over?”
His deep brown eyes settled you.
“I got some takeout that’s still warm, and some chick flicks Sarah sent me for her visit next week.”
The thought of spending tonight with Joel sounded so much better than being alone.
“Sure.”
“Good girl. I’ll see you in a minute. My glass door is unlocked.”
He gave a gentle wink as he walked backward, then turned around. You watched as he walked away; taking a few more hits before stamping out the butt on his porch. The curves of his muscular body glowed in the porch light as he disappeared into the house.
You slipped back inside your home and put on some pjs, then walked through your yard and into his.
When you looked inside, the lights were off in his living room; the kitchen lights bleeding cozily over the island and giving the place a gentle glow. It was inviting. Lived in. Not a typical bachelor pad. It felt… like family.
“Not sure what you’d want, so I made ya a plate with everything,” he said as you entered his kitchen.
The amount of food he handed you, could have stuffed you for an entire day. His thoughtfulness made you smile.
“Thanks. It looks amazing.”
Joel grabbed another plate and started filing it.
“Go on and eat on the couch. The movies Sarah sent are on the coffee table.”
You sat down and dug into your plate for a few bites, while trying to decide- the period piece? Or the modern lesbian christmas rom com? You weren’t up for the sci fi one tonight.
When Joel joined you on the couch, he helped you decide.
“I’ve had enough jane austen to last three lifetimes, with the way Sarah was obsessed in high school. Let’s go for the other one.”
You teased him and he took it in stride, as he got the movie started.
You sat in comfortable silence together; enjoying your meal as the story unfolded.
When you were full, you set your plate on the coffee table, and scooted a little closer to Joel; til your bodies touched all along your sides. Resting your head on his shoulder, you tucked in while he finished eating.
Joel reciprocated by setting his plate in his lap so he could wrap an arm around you. His arm was huge, and heavy- exactly what you’d been needing. The pressure grounded you… quieting your mind; letting you focus on the movie more than your aching skin.
The couple on the screen were so sweetly in love. You wanted to be swept away in the beautiful story; but instead all you could think of, was how you were missing out on all that love. All that touch.
“Honey, you cryin?”
You hadn’t even noticed the tears that had been quietly falling. You quickly wiped them away; embarrassed at your show of vulnerability.
“Sorry. I-”
“Don’t be sorry. Ain’t nothin wrong with tears.”
He squeezed you tight against his side; his dad skills taking over.
“What’s got the waterworks flowing?”
You paused, wondering if you should dump this on him.
“Well… I just… haven’t had a partner in a while. Sometimes I… really miss being touched.”
You waited for the embarrassment; the cringe… but it never came. Instead, Joel surprised you.
“Here-”
He put his mostly empty plate on the coffee table, and sat back on the couch; scooting his hips down and putting his legs close together.
“Come lay down. Put your head in my lap.”
You hesitated for just a second- his offer catching you by surprise.
“Unless you don’t want to?”
That got your attention.
“No- I do- thank you.”
The warm smile on Joel’s face reached his eyes; making them twinkle.
“‘Spent more nights on this couch with Sarah’s head in my lap, than I can count. ‘M happy to do it again for you.”
You slowly situated yourself in his lap; so careful not to get too close to that; and settled in.
“There you go. Now you just relax, Sweetheart. I got you.”
The movie faded into the distance in your mind; as Joel’s hand made it’s way into your hair. The tips of his fingers massaged your scalp in slow; soothing circles. You felt your body go lax; the stress of the day melting into the couch as he touched you.
Soon your breathing slowed; and you forgot about the movie. You let your eyes unfocus; and then close entirely.
His touch was heaven. Just the right pressure. Tracing the edges of your hairline… pressing circles behind your ear from top, to bottom. His thumb and fingers kneading the nape of your neck until you nearly fell asleep.
This is what you had needed.
It was everything.
Joel took his time with you; letting his touch linger in the spots that made you sigh. Gently tugging your hair up and holding it, watching until the tension in your body relaxed some more.
“That’s it. Just like that,” he soothed.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed; and you didn’t even care. All that mattered, was Joel’s hand in your hair.
Eventually his hand moved to your neck; massaging the crux of your neck and shoulders. He worked out the knots he found; patiently feeling them soften; and release.
And later, when the movie had ended, he simply hit replay, and tucked back in to taking care of you.
You fell asleep there, in his lap.
Time passed, and he stayed right there; giving you the touch you so deeply needed, even in sleep.
When you woke up with your head in his lap, around 2am; Joel set down the book he’d been reading in the dim light. His reading glasses sat adorably perched near the end of his nose.
“Joel?”
“Yeah baby?”
“Wha time is it?”
You rubbed your bleary, sleep-gooped eyes.
He checked his watch. “Just after 2.”
You sat up on your hands; then stretched good and long.
Before you could speak, Joel offered, “Before you go, can I brush your hair? I’d hate to send you home with a rat’s nest to take care of tomorrow.”
You giggled groggily, before nodding.
Joel spread his legs. “Come sit on the floor. Between my feet.”
You followed orders, and tucked yourself in. It felt forbidden and wonderful, to be close to him like this.
“Alright baby. Incoming.”
Your eyes drifted closed at the first gentle pull of the brush through your hair. You’d always known he was a great dad, but now you really knew. He untangled your hair with gentle precision. He never let a knot pull too hard. And soon, your hair was flowing again.
You shivered as he split your hair into three parts, and began braiding it. Each plait tickled your scalp as he folded each one over the other. The soft scrape of his fingertips drifted down your back as he got closer to the end. By the time he put a hair tie on, you could barely hold your head up. Blessed sleep was coming for you once more.
Joel got up and scooped you into his arms, grunting a low, “Here we go, Sweetness. Time for bed,” as he lifted you up and carried you through his home, and back across the yard to yours. The soft flex of his chest beneath your head, would have had you drooling if this was any regular day; but today? Everything about him brought you peace. There was rest in his strength, his touch; that you hadn’t been able to find anywhere. And all this time, it was right next door waiting for you.
Joel carried you into your house, and to your bedroom. He carefully tucked you in, and brushed a stray lock of hair out of your face once you settled in.
He took your hand.
“Any time you feel like this again, I want you to come over. No more suffering alone. I’ll cook ya somethin, and we can cuddle up. Will you do that for me?”
His soft eyes were insistent. “Say it.”
You nodded. Or at least you tried to.
“I’ll come over.”
“Good.”
And with a kiss on your forehead, he sat in the chair beside your bed; holding your hand until long after you’d fallen asleep.
summary: you want to give Joel a birthday gift he won't forget, but desperate to prove you can, you almost hurt yourself in the process. Joel has to remind you of some ground rules.
pairing: Joel Miller x Reader
warnings/tags: 18+, smut, PIV, anal sex, use of sex toys, discomfort and pain during sex, sex gone wrong, but you try again, soft dom!Joel, light sub/dom dynamics, praise, very brief mention of past depression and medication, aftercare and fluff
wc: 5.4k
a/n: my entry for the 2026 kinky challenge hosted by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking🫶 I chose Joel + anal (obviously lol) This is the Gifted Kid Burnout Couple but you don’t have to read the series to enjoy this smutty one shot 🤭 @rosharanfiction thank you for encouraging me to write weird porn for overachievers and being the sweetest beta reader 💕
You adjusted the straps of the babydoll and once more smoothed down the gauzy fabric above your thighs. The position you’d posed yourself in—prone with your knees bent, exposing the slope of your ass just enough—was beginning to feel uncomfortable, but you stayed put.
It wasn’t even because it was his birthday—he told you he didn’t care much about a celebration—but since you finally got together, he was so careful with you, and everything you did, especially in bed, seemed focused only on your comfort.
At first, you were grateful for that. He touched you with so much care and patience and never once complained—not about how rare it was for you to even get in the mood, not about the time and effort it took to get you aroused enough to fuck—but if you were getting frustrated about it, you could only imagine how he felt.
Now, finally weaned off the medication, you were relieved to see your body slowly going back to normal. The first few times it happened, when you felt the spontaneous gush of wetness in your panties as you ground on his lap, you almost cried with exhilaration.
With things finally back to normal, you wanted to give back to him. To finally do something he liked.
You tested the waters first.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” you asked him in the quiet of the evening, lying on his chest as your breathing slowed down.
“Course you can,” he answered quietly, playing with your hair.
“Tell me what you’re into.”
“Sweetheart, I think you know that pretty well by now.”
“I know. But, you know.” You buried your face into his chest. “Things we haven’t done yet.”
He fell silent for a while as his fingers threaded through your hair.
“I’m sure there’s some freaky stuff you’d like to try,” you prodded.
“Nah, I’m a simple guy.”
“And what do simple guys like?”
“Simple things. And whatever you like.”
It was always like that with him. Even before all this mess, when you fucked, he was happy to do whatever you wanted, but always so hesitant to as much as suggest anything new. It was even worse now, when he seemed to walk on eggshells around you. You didn’t mind it at first, but lately you couldn’t shake off the guilty feeling.
“Yeah, tell that to the guy who whispers the most random filth in my ear when he fucks me.”
You had to give him that—no matter how much he tried to restrain himself, when he was close, something dirty always slipped out. He rolled his eyes with a chuckle.
“I’m sure there’s something weird even a simple guy wants.” You scrunched your brows, thinking. “Like, I don’t know, anal.”
You wanted to chuckle, but a sideways glance at his face revealed a sight you didn’t expect—Joel’s face flushed so intensely the tips of his ears turned red.
“Oh my god, I was right?”
He looked down and shook his head before looking back at you.
“Sweetheart, I…”
“Do you want it?”
“I don’t… I don’t expect it, okay?”
“But you think about it?”
“I guess.” He shrugged, the flush still present on his face.
It took you a while to convince him you were willing to try the things he wanted, although the pace he set was so slow you thought you might never get there at all. For the past weeks, you encouraged him to at least feel around, but a slick fingertip slipping inside the rim of your hole was the farthest he let himself go.
That’s why, when the day of his birthday came, you knew exactly what the only appropriate gift was.
The idea itself was hot—not something you’d fantasized about yourself, but the concept was growing on you. When you thought of it, you imagined his raspy voice guiding you through it, the heady feeling of complete submission, and finally letting him lose himself to the pleasure he’d denied himself for so long.
What you didn’t imagine was the amount of unsexy prep you had to go through before getting even close to that. But you were good at that—being prepared.
With that being done, you were finally ready to give him the best gift he’d ever received—now wrapped in the see-through babydoll, a gemstone base of the plug peeking between your cheeks.
You were very pleased with yourself when you finally heard the rattle of the keys and the distant sound of his boots.
“Sweetheart?”
You were tempted to say something, but you wanted him to figure it out himself. His footsteps circled the apartment before finally getting closer and closer to the bedroom.
The floor creaked when he finally stood in the doorway.
“Oh, sweetheart. Now that’s a real pretty gift.” He leaned against the doorframe as if worried he’d fall and instantly covered his mouth with his hand.
You smiled in excitement and kicked your legs, letting the sheer fabric reveal even more.
“Come unwrap it.” You almost giggled at how cheesy this was, but he looked hypnotized as he finally approached you.
He ran his large palm along your calf and your thigh, slipping underneath the lingerie, cupping your cheek, and squeezing the flesh.
You pressed your face against the mattress in an attempt to hide the smirk, ready for him to finally notice.
“Christ.” His hand stilled on your ass cheek, gently parting it. “Is that?”
“Mhm.” You hummed and kicked your legs up and down again. “Happy birthday.”
“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, while his fingers circled the puckered skin around the base of the plug. “That’s so damn pretty.”
The words had barely left his mouth when, in one swift motion, he flipped you onto your back and dragged you to the edge of the bed, a surprised gasp slipping out of you.
Once he had you positioned, he sank to his knees on the carpet, and before you could realize what was happening, his face was between your legs, his hands securing your thighs on his shoulders.
You shuddered when he closed his mouth over your folds, gently lapping at them.
“Can I play with it?” he asked, his voice pleasantly vibrating against you.
“Yes, please.” You lifted your legs a bit more.
Soon his mouth was on your clit while his fingers closed around the gemstone base of the toy, gently playing with it—tugging a little before slowly pushing it back in.
The slow, gentle stretch of the plug against your rim, paired with his tongue, felt unreal, and soon you were letting out small whimpers in rhythm with his movements.
“Joel.”
“Yes, baby? Good?”
“Good.” You panted. “Really good.”
“Can you come like this, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” You nodded, your eyes squeezed shut with pleasure. “Just don’t stop.”
His lips were back around your clit, sucking it harder as his fingers continued massaging your hole with the plug. Soon your whole body pulsed—something snapped—and you were coming, clenching hard around the toy, aftershocks spreading through you until you felt them in your toes. You let out a long wail as you shook, Joel licking you gently through it.
Limp and boneless, you fell back on the bed, and Joel stood up from the floor to finally kiss you. His lips closed over yours—hungry, wet, still tasting of you.
Your hands were quick to tug on his T-shirt, and he broke away only to pull it off and throw it across the room. He crashed his lips against yours again while he kicked off his jeans and boxers, finally naked against your skin, covered only by a thin layer of the see-through lingerie.
“Hands and knees, baby,” he ordered with a playful slap on your thigh, and you wished he’d struck it harder.
You rolled over and propped yourself up on your knees and elbows, pressing your face down and arching your back to present your holes to him.
“Christ,” he muttered as he cupped your ass cheeks in his large palms, groping the flesh and spreading them apart.
You were already a wet, swollen, aching mess between your thighs, desperate to be filled by him.
His thick, leaking tip grazed your slit, slicking himself up and rubbing against your swollen folds. Finally he guided himself to your entrance and slowly pushed in, sinking inside inch by devastating inch, stretching you open around him.
You sucked in a sharp breath.
“Christ, that’s good,” he panted. “You okay there?”
“Yes. Yes.” You nodded as he started gently rocking his hips, his hands still spreading you wide apart.
The drag of his cock was more intense than ever, with the plug still stretching your other hole, and you felt full in a way you’d never felt before. It was overwhelming, but it nearly made your eyes roll back in pleasure every time his hips met your ass.
“How’s it feel, baby?”
“Full. Feels so full,” you moaned, pushing your face into the mattress between your arms. “Can you feel it?”
“Yes, sweetheart, I feel it,” he groaned and picked up the pace of his thrusts. “Makes your pussy even tighter,” he groaned, his grip tightening on your hips.
You moaned to the rhythm of his thrusts, your noises mixing with the obscene squelch of him gliding through your wetness and the slap of his skin against you. He palmed your cheeks, fingers occasionally grazing the base of the plug or the skin around it.
“You like it, sweetheart? Like havin’ your holes full?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” You mewled against the bedsheets, your pleas barely audible.
It felt so good. You’d never imagined it could feel so good. The overwhelming stretch, the fullness, the surrender of it all—you were dizzy with pleasure, ready to finally give him more.
“Joel,” you whimpered.
“Yes, baby?”
“Please fuck me.”
“Oh, I’m fuckin’ you, baby.” He snapped his hips harder against you. “Want it harder?”
“No.” You tried to twist your face so you could see him. “Want you to fuck me there.”
He slowed his thrusts and ran his hand along your waist to stroke your hip.
“Baby, we don’t have to.” His voice softened.
“We actually have to.” You licked your lips. “That’s the gift.”
He paused but didn’t pull out.
“I’m very satisfied with the gift I’m gettin’ right now.” He leaned in to kiss the skin between your shoulder blades.
“Please.” You shifted your hips back and forth to glide on his cock, pulling a low grunt from him. “I’m ready.”
“Baby, but this is really good too.” He resumed slow, shallow thrusts. “We don’t have to do everything today.”
“I really want to try.” You whined and shifted forward, making him slip out with a loud, wet pop.
He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head a little in amusement. He always did it when he tried to deny you, but eventually caved.
“We can try, okay?”
Removing the plug was the first reality check of the night. For some reason, pulling it out proved much more difficult and uncomfortable than getting it in there in the first place.
But Joel’s hands were gentle and attentive as he touched you, slowly coaxing the toy out while stroking your thigh.
“You sure you don’t wanna turn around, baby?” he asked as he poured lube onto his fingers.
You shook your head against the mattress. “I think it’ll be easier this way.”
“Okay.”
His fingers replaced the toy, and it felt okay enough for you to regain some of the confidence you’d had earlier. He poured copious amounts of lube on them, and soon the liquid mixed with your own wetness pooled between your legs and beneath you.
He took his time stretching you, murmuring in your ear and kissing the soft skin behind it. Soon you felt ready, a rush of excitement washing over you at the thought of fulfilling his fantasy.
He had you prone on the bed now, hips propped up on a pillow, his broad body hovering over yours, the heat of his chest against your back. You loved when he fucked you like this—enveloping your body in his, putting most of his weight on you.
“Okay, sweetheart.” He ran his hands down your back to your cheeks, parting and spreading them. “Tell me if somethin’ feels wrong, okay?”
You nodded against the bed as he notched his wet tip against your hole, not applying any pressure yet. Somehow, he felt even bigger this way.
Slowly, with only a light push of his hips, he finally breached your rim, and you tensed immediately at the foreign feeling of something so much bigger than the plug or his fingers.
The stretch was sharp and immediate, and instinctively you clenched, making it even worse.
“Hurts?” he asked, stopping any movement.
You buried your face in the sheets to hide your wince. “A little.”
“Wanna stop?”
For a split second, you considered taking him up on that, but decided against it. You wouldn’t want to give up now.
“No. Don’t move,” you said through clenched teeth.
“I’ll pull out—”
“No.” You cut him off, clenching even more at the thought. “Don’t move.”
“Sweetheart, I don’t wanna hurt you, lemme just—” You felt him lean back to retreat and it was enough to sharpen the sting even more.
“Don’t fucking move, okay?” you said, your teeth clenched, your voice weak.
He stilled entirely, his hands resting gently on your waist, stroking the skin there in soothing circles. You stayed like that for a few breaths, trying to relax against him.
“Okay,” you whispered when you felt yourself loosen enough to accommodate him.
“Better?”
“Yeah. You can move a little. Slow.”
He carefully rocked back and forth, a movement so small it was barely noticeable. You did notice it, though—the burning stretch now accompanied by a tugging at your hole.
“This okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He rolled his hips, careful not to move faster or deeper, just a steady sway. When you stole a glance behind you, there was a deepening crease between his brows and a clench in his jaw, a drop of sweat rolling off his forehead. The man was fighting for his life not to spoil this with his eagerness.
“That’s good, sweetheart,” he cooed. “You’re doing really good for me right now.”
You finally exhaled, remembering you had to breathe. The stretch was still intense, but dulling out with every shallow thrust.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, baby, you’re doing perfect. Taking it well.”
“M’not. I’m taking forever.” You whimpered, suddenly very aware that while it was starting to feel better, he was only two inches deep at most.
“No, it’s perfect, baby. Can feel you opening up for me already.”
That was not true—you still clenched around him, your body not entirely happy with the intrusion—but you wanted it to be true, to give him what he wanted.
In a moment of boldness, you pushed back against him, and despite him giving his all not to rush this, his next thrust came out sharper. The sudden change pulled two simultaneous noises from you—a surprised groan from him and a pained gasp from you. He stilled his hips immediately.
“Fuck, sorry. You okay?” He reached for your face, trying to see your expression, but you buried it deeper in the sheets.
You ran a quick calculation in your head—how much longer could he really last? You were sure you could take it for a little bit more.
“Yeah, keep going,” you nodded, although your body was stiff as a board now.
“Sweetheart—”
“Please, I can take it.”
The words had barely left your mouth when you felt him twitch, and you worried he’d just pull out—but it was worse than that. In a matter of seconds, the pressure of the stretch lessened entirely, and just like that his cock softened enough to slip out of you on its own.
You buried your face deeper into the sheets, humiliation painting your face red.
“Sweetheart,” he cooed, trying to scoop you into his arms, but you lay flat, heavy against the mattress. “Baby, look at me.”
“Why’d you stop?” you let out, the words almost muffled by the sheets.
“I don’t wanna hurt you. C’mere.” He tried to pull your body toward him again.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
He finally wrapped his arms around you and manhandled you onto your back, pulling you onto his lap.
“And what the hell are you sorry for, hmm?” he asked, searching your eyes.
“I ruined it.” You blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears at bay.
“Sweetheart, you didn’t ruin anythin’.”
“But I did. I mean you…” Your voice started to break. „You’re not even fucking hard anymore.”
“You were hurtin’.” He cupped your face. “I don’t get off on that.”
“I’m so fucking sorry.” The words slipped out again, and before you could stop it, your eyes started to water.
“Hey, hey, no.” He kissed your cheek and temple while wiping away the stray tear that started to travel down your face. “It’s okay.”
Your skin crawled with humiliation. You came up with this whole idea, wanted to do it for him for his birthday. You spent the entire afternoon preparing, wrapped yourself up like a present—and then failed to take it and made him feel bad in the process as well. You wanted to disappear altogether.
“Can I lay you down? I wanna clean you up, okay?”
You nodded, and he laid you down gently against the cushions before getting up from the bed. You buried your face in the sheets again, mortified by what had happened and the stupid tears still prickling in your eyes.
When he returned, you didn’t even look at him, only curled up tighter. You felt his hands on your thighs, parting them, and instinctively pressed them back together.
“Come on, baby, let me,” he whispered as he coaxed your thighs apart with his fingers—this time with no resistance.
He wiped you gently with a towel, starting with your thighs, moving to your mound, and finally reaching between your cheeks.
“You’re okay,” he whispered with relief. “Everythin’ looks okay.”
Blood rushed to your face when you realized that the entire time you wanted him to continue, he’d been worried he’d injured you.
When he was done, he scooped you into his arms, not making you look at him or talk to him, and you were grateful for his touch and the silence.
“Hey.” He must have noticed you weren’t asleep anymore, even though you tried to hide it.
“Hi.”
You buried your face in his chest, and he cupped the back of your head, cradling you against him.
“You wanna talk?”
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
“Stop apologizin’.”
“I thought I could do it.” You spoke fast, afraid your voice would break. “I did the prep and everything. I wanted to do it, and I really thought I could, and I don’t know what—“
“Stop.” He cut you off, his voice quiet but firm. His hand stilled in your hair for a moment before he started stroking it again. “I can’t have you toughin’ it out for me. Not when somethin’ hurts.”
“Mhm.”
For a moment he didn’t say anything, just held you against him.
“I’m not upset we had to stop, you understand?” he said finally. “I’m upset you tried to make me keep goin’.”
“I’m sorry.”
His arm tightened around you.
“Sweetheart.” He exhaled slowly. “You were hurtin’, and you were still tellin’ me to keep goin’. That ain’t somethin’ I’m okay with.”
You nodded against his chest.
“I just… don’t want you thinkin’ you gotta prove somethin’.” he said after a moment. “Not to me.”
“Mhm.”
His hand moved slowly through your hair again, quieter now, like he was still thinking about it.
After a while, he let the topic drop with a sigh, pulling you a little closer against him. You spent the remainder of the morning tangled together under the covers.
Eventually, after convincing him you were fine, you made love—gently rocking together while he kissed you, slow and careful.
You didn’t mention it, ask him about it, or plan anything for the next few weeks.
You wanted to be strategic about it, but one day you just felt like trying again. In the evening, when you closed your laptop and waited for him, you decided it wouldn’t hurt to be ready—just in case.
He was particularly needy for you that day, kissing you from the minute he walked in, walking you back to your couch with so much urgency that you just had to try.
You were already half-naked and grinding on his lap when you finally asked him.
“Please. I really want to,” you murmured against his neck, sending a shiver through him.
He sighed and shook his head as if you were an unruly child, and not his girl offering herself to him.
“Okay. But new rules.”
You perked up, surprised he caved so soon.
“What rules?”
“What I say goes,” he said. “You only take what I give you.”
Arousal shot through your body at his tone—gentle but authoritative. You hadn’t visited that space with him for a while now.
“Okay.” You nodded eagerly.
“Wanna be good for me?”
You nodded again, this time barely containing your smile. The corner of his lip twitched too, pleased that this still seemed to work so well with you.
“Tell me what to do.” You ground against him again, but his hands stopped you, and soon he was pulling you off his lap and onto the couch.
“I’m gonna draw you a bath first.” He rose from the couch.
“But I showered—”
He turned to you with that stern look you hadn’t seen in a while.
“What was the rule?”
Heat crept up your cheeks.
“What you say goes.”
With a nod, he turned away and disappeared into your bathroom. When he called you, you had to stop yourself from running toward him.
The bathroom was dark, save for a candle lit on the tiles. For a moment you were overcome with affection for the man crouching beside your bathtub. He knew you well by now—all the little things you liked, even the ones that made no sense to him, like your candles or why you never turned the big light on.
“Are you getting in with me?” you asked before dipping your toes into the hot, soapy water.
He nodded toward the bathtub, urging you to get in while he stripped too. Soon the water rose dangerously close to the rim as he slipped inside behind you.
“Careful.” You giggled as you settled back against his warm chest.
You lay like this for a while, soaking in the hot water, held tight with his arms around you, listening to the trickle of water as you shifted in the narrow space. The candle flickered, and the light danced across your wet skin.
“Feels nice,” you whispered.
“Good.”
His hands started slowly traveling along your skin, tracing invisible patterns with drops of water, while his lips closed over your neck, placing wet kisses along it—from your collarbone to the lobe of your ear.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against his shoulder as his fingers teased your nipples, gently circling them and tugging until you started to whimper.
Your body was hot, relaxed, and pliant from the bath, and his touch felt electric now. You wanted to suggest getting out, then remembered the rule, so you patiently waited for his cue.
His hands were stroking your submerged thighs now, palming the skin and grazing his fingers closer and closer to your core. Suddenly he stopped, his hands returning to the rim of the tub.
“Turn around for me, baby.” He noticed your confusion and tipped your chin up with two fingers. “Facin’ me, okay?”
His hands slid to your hips, steadying you as you shifted in the narrow tub.
The water dropped, then rose again, spilling a little over and down onto the floor.
You rolled over until you were on all fours, and he pulled you on top of him again, guiding you to straddle him with your knees around his hips. The narrow tub barely allowed it, but as soon as you slumped against Joel’s chest, you were comfortable again.
His lips found yours in a languid, wet kiss, sucking your bottom lip before tracing it with his tongue, again and again, until you melted against his body. His hands traveled down your sides until they landed on your thighs, spreading you open.
You were too busy kissing him to notice anything, but you heard the click of the lube bottle, and soon his slicked-up fingers were on you—tracing your slit, rubbing your clit, teasing your entrance.
“Joel,” you panted.
It seemed like ages before he finally moved his fingers from your folds to your puckered hole. Your eyes met mid-kiss, and soon his slick fingertips were circling you, pushing against you until they finally breached you.
He fingered you shallowly for a while, two fingers stretching only your rim, until you whined against his lips, and finally he pushed in deeper. Your body was soft like butter for him, and there was no resistance when his fingers slid in deep.
He thrust them back and forth while still sucking on your lips, and you wanted to stay like that forever—warm and safe and open—if it wasn’t for the water getting lukewarm and your knees uncomfortably digging into the porcelain.
Your hips shifted slightly against his hand, chasing the feeling.
“Ow.” The sound slipped out, and Joel’s eyes were on yours in an instant.
“Hurts?” He asked, as his fingers stilled inside you.
You shook your head. „Knees.”
“Come on, baby.” He pulled you up. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?”
Once he laid you on the bed facing him and knelt between your legs, but before he resumed touching you, he made it a point to go through the rules again.
“You don’t move unless I tell you.” He gave you that stern look again until you nodded.
“It hurts, you tell me.”
“Mhm.” You gripped his arm with one hand, while the other trailed down his chest towards his cock.
“The moment anythin’ hurts, you tell me.” He repeated, tilting your chin up with his finger until you looked at him.
“I will.”
“One last thing.”
“What?” you asked, impatience clear in your voice.
“You have your toy somewhere here?”
You shot him a puzzled look.
“The… flower thing?”
Oh. The rose toy. Joel had found it once while digging for lube in your nightstand, completely baffled by the weirdly shaped little thing until you showed him how it worked. You’d never actually used it together.
You nodded.
“Want you to use it when I fuck you, okay?”
Heat filled your cheeks at the prospect, but you had to appreciate the resourcefulness.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
You pulled the toy out of your drawer, thanking yourself for charging it the night before.
“Ready?” he asked, pressing a soft kiss between your breasts as he looked up at you.
“Mhm.” You nodded.
He hovered over you, slotted between your open legs, one hand supporting his weight while the other slathered his thick cock in lube. You watched him stroke it a few times before he guided it toward you and nudged your rim.
He waited for a beat, eyes locked with yours, until you placed the rose over your clit and turned it on to the medium setting, making you gasp at the sensation.
You gave him one final nod before he slowly inched inside you, pushing through the tight ring of your hole until the fat head of his cock was enveloped in your heat.
The stretch made you gasp, for a moment the sting of intrusion similar to the first time you tried it, but everything else was different now. Your body was softened and relaxed by the bath, the toy delivered sparks of pleasure as it buzzed against your clit, and you were safe in the arms of your man—the man you wanted to be so good for. With all of that combined, you were relieved to see you didn’t clench at all.
He watched your face closely, looking for signs of discomfort, but all he saw was bliss as your mouth parted to let out small whimpers and pants.
He rocked gently inside you, slipping in a little deeper with each sway of his hips, his face tight in concentration.
“Oh.”
“Good?” he asked with a smirk.
“Yeah. Fuck, yes, it’s good,” you uttered between gasps.
“That’s a good girl. Lettin’ me have her like this.”
Your breath hitched at his praise as the toy buzzed against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.
The stretch of his thrusts still stung a little, but it was distant now, overshadowed by the overwhelming feeling of fullness and the tingly sensation.
“Gooood girl, takin’ it so well,” he drawled, and finally what you saw in his face was not worry or restraint, but raw pleasure.
You wanted to give him so much more. You wanted him to lose himself in it. Before you could stop yourself, your hips shot up—immediately stopped and stilled by his hand.
“Calm down, overachiever,” he warned. “You only take what I give you.”
“Yes, yes. I will.”
“Good. That’s a good girl.”
The combination of his steady thrusts in your ass and the buzz of the toy against your clit was finally making you dizzy with pleasure, small moans escaping your lips.
Joel was struggling to stay quiet, too, his exhales coming out as low, raspy grunts as he drove into you.
“Christ, feel that? How good you’re takin’ it now?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
You were so open and pliant, he slid in with no resistance now, and the steady slide of his cock made you dig your nails into his arms in unexpected ecstasy.
“You’re lettin’ me in so good now. Lettin’ me in so deep.”
“Fuck. Joel.”
“What, baby?”
“I think I—”
Your thighs started to tremble, and your breathing turned erratic.
“You’re gonna come like that?”
“Yeah, I think I’m close.”
Your words seemed to awaken something in him. Even if the restraint was still there, preventing him from sliding all the way inside or pounding you hard—he seemed to give in to pleasure.
“Fuck yes, baby.” He grunted. “The little toy is workin’, yeah? Gettin’ my girl off while I fuck her ass?”
His words tipped you over the edge. The combined sensation of fullness, stretch, and vibration unlocked a release so intense your entire body arched and shivered, your walls contracting around Joel’s cock so hard, you thought you’d push him out.
Joel kept up steady thrusts until you went completely limp.
“You okay, baby?” He asked, stilling his hips.
“More than okay.”
“Okay if I keep goin’?”
“Yeah.” You nodded. Your eyelids were heavy, and your limbs didn’t work anymore, but there was nothing you wanted more than to see his pleasure now. It was, after all, a long-overdue birthday gift.
He thrust into you again, experimentally, checking for signs of discomfort.
“Joel, please.” You whispered and pulled him in for a wet kiss. “It’s okay. Feels good.”
You raised your legs higher, letting him slide in a little deeper.
“Good. That’s my good girl.”
He was still only halfway in at most, but he didn’t seem to mind as his thrusts picked up their pace until he was fucking you so fast you had to remember to catch your breath.
“Fuck, I’m comin’,” he panted, gripping your thighs hard. “I’m comin’ in your ass.”
A few sloppy, disjointed thrusts later, his face scrunched up, and you felt him twitching inside you, painting your insides with his hot release.
“Damn, sweetheart,” he groaned as he collapsed on top of you.
“Good?”
You were smothered by his weight, your shared release trickled between your legs, and all the excess lube glued your bodies together—and there was no other place you’d rather be.
“The best.” He mumbled against your neck.
Joel took his time wiping you down with a towel before pulling you tight into his chest and pressing soft kisses along your collarbone.
“Feelin’ okay?” He broke the silence.
Okay was an understatement. You were overflowing with emotion, at the same time relieved and satisfied, giddy and grateful.
“Mhm.” You shrugged, trying to sound unaffected. “I could even do it again, I guess.”
His kisses trailed along your neck.
“Oh, really?”
You nodded, trying to suppress the giggle when his lips moved to your jaw.
“Yeah, maybe for your next birthday.”
It was his turn to chuckle against your skin.
“Yeah? What about Christmas?”
You tilted your head like you were considering it. “If you’re good.”
He laughed, the crinkles around his eyes deepening, and pressed his mouth against yours in a deep kiss.
🫣
tagging everyone who showed interest in gkb/this fic, no pressure though: @lizzie-cakes @picketniffler @primadonnasdream @canyoufeelthemagicintheair @ctrlaltthea @mcthsman
need joel miller to comfort me after a very rough day by letting me settle in beside him and putting my head on his chest and telling me everything’s gonna be fine, that he’ll be there for me until the end of time :(((
i’m the biggest “joel miller is only soft for you but harsh and cold to the rest of the world” believer ever and yes i can elaborate but no i will not apologise
here’s my personal take on husband!joel as i am a softie for joel being a softie behind closed doors alright (pls don’t be too harsh on me as this is kinda the first time im publishing anything writing wise on here but lmk if i should elaborate on any of these in detail :)) )
husband!joel who insists it’s you that fell first and harder than he did but both he and you know he was whipped from the second he laid his eyes on you but he just doesn’t want the public to know that behind all that sternness is a softie at heart
husband!joel who no matter how much of a shitty day he’s had, always comes home to kiss you goodnight and rub circles on your back while you lay in bed together, even if his body is screaming at him to get rest
husband!joel who cooks you breakfast every sunday morning, sets it on a plate to bring up to your room so he can gently wake you up, along with a coffee that he tries to recreate from what used to be your favourite order at a coffee shop before the entire world went to shit
husband!joel who often stays awake at night just to admire your beautiful sleepy face, not in a creepy way but a totally “i don’t know how i got so lucky to even have someone as pretty and breathtaking as my wife again even after everything went to shit”
husband!joel who sometimes has rougher days mentally where he just cannot believe anyone would willingly wanna be with him even when he’s so closed off and has done so many bad things and in his opinion never deserves happiness again (during those days you tend to him even more than usual and are always quick to assure him that if anyone deserves a little extra love and appreciation, it’s him)
husband!joel who really didn’t even wanna speak to you at first because he was so insecure about his age and how much more vibrant you are in comparison to him, he didn’t want to bother you or bring you down with him
husband!joel who tommy had to push to ask you out on your first date because he just couldn’t imagine anyone, let alone you being interested in him or spending more than 30 seconds in his vicinity
husband!joel who immediately notices the slightest shift in your mood and would take hours out of his day to rack his brain trying to figure out whether he did anything wrong to piss you off before coming to you and asking you head on what bothers you
husband!joel who would never admit this publicly, has read more than one book on how to be a better husband and how to communicate properly (he found a book that sounded interesting enough in the jackson library and decided to check it out) because he was way too young when he married sarah’s mom and didn’t know how to be a good spouse, nor did he have a good male father figure in his life showing him the way and he didn’t want to fuck up your relationship because that scared him more than what lingers out in the wild behind jackson’s walls
• Joel Miller x reader
• Word count: 1300
• Warning! ⚠️: Explicit sex, discomfort, mild signs of post-traumatic stress, hurt-comfort, toxic past relationships. Bad communication, at the end two idiots in love.
• You want him...you really are, but the smell, the sounds, the sensation on the skin suddenly becomes too much...
“Somos ecos buscando un espacio en blanco en un lienzo saturado de colores y estrépito...”
...........
That day tended toward a gray hue; clouds swallowed surroundings as if believed they owned the entire valley. An old window of the house rattled with every gust of wind. The entire garden was covered in a blanket of reddish-orange leaves, and puddles formed in every corner after a very wet night in which the fury of thunder could be heard throughout town. You lost yourself in the caress of fog over the foundations of your home, which you observed from a privileged spot on the sofa.
Since the movie night had been canceled, after a hot shower that you both shared to wash away the day's activity—during which your partner couldn't resist placing his fingers firmly but gently on your waist—you and Joel had no choice but to skim through the dusty book he had found on the last patrol. It wasn't that the story failed to generate interest, but it result in one of those moments where both of you tried to read same lines with your eyes, but it didn't work for the mind. Short letters were lost under a fluffly cushion.
The thing was, you craved each other's touch more than any real entertainment. The hugs and languid kisses, whether on forehead or the lips, became more and more frequent. A small radiator helped keep the room warm, even though it wasn't the coldest autumn you could remember in Jackson.
You were in a daze, dreamless, still conscious but relaxed enough not to care much about what was happening around you.
So, almost without realizing it, you were practically on top of him, as if your body were deciding on its own. Few hours passed, and Joel began to shift restlessly, skin friction you were providing was finally taking its toll. The thin fabric separating you seemed insufficient, especially since you'd both chosen worn tracksuit bottoms—even more so Joel, who had decided to save his last pair of clean underwear for work the next day.
A soft moan that almost escaped his lips was enough to tell you what direction the night was taking inexorably.
Joel was practically overflowing with honey as you both moved to the bedroom, unable to distanced an inch away from you. You truly felt like were barely touching the ground, his hands on the muscle of your buttocks. Soon the soft sheets tickled your nose, infused with scent of natural plants left by the soap you had just used. You felt a small bite on the end of your shoulder, which caused a shiver.
The contractor seemed more hungry for contact than usual, as if just the brush of his nose against your cheek lifted something heavy from his shoulders—a feeling akin to slipping off shoes that were too tight after a long day.
His body enveloped you like a protective halo, embracing you completely, hidden in your neck as he disappeared into soft walls, but your mind didn't seem to follow. The strident sound of rain started again, shapes of the cement ceiling giving you a headache. You were sure the town would flood; at the assembly they'd ask for your moral advice as always, on how to manage it, and Joel would have to fix the dampness. It reminded you too much of a patrol accident a few years ago, where everything spiraled out of control.
Your breathing became increasingly ragged, the sensation in your core shifting from something pleasant to an itch—not unbearable, but not something you'd seek. Joel didn't seem to notice and interpreted your whispers as genuine pleasure.
The air in the room had shifted, and Joel stroked your hair to adjust position. You found yourself facing the pillow, your hips slightly raised, the thrusts uneven. You didn't want him to feel bad; his climax was close, and you were sure it wasn't that big of a deal. What kind of person who loves another would ignore such a moment of connection because they were distracted by a memory of some blessed weather phenomenon? Your boyfriend had been so respectful, always showing you affection, and this was a slight on your part. You should continue. It would all be over quickly.
But what you hadn't anticipated was the moisture in eyes and your vacant stare. Joel realized something was off. Your body wasn't cradling him the way it normally had. He didn't feel the tightness you used to when you were at your peak. And now that he thought about it, you weren't even making a sound. It wasn't that you were particularly loud; in fact, he'd be embarrassed to admit that used to be his role. But his trust in you made it easy. But that wasn't happening now. He raised his hand to turn your face to the side and make eye contact, and what he sensed ruined everything. You were unwell.
With a grunt, he sat down beside and pulled your figure toward him. Hesitant at first, you responded quickly. "Hey, hey, what's wrong, honey? I was too rough... I feel like an idiot."
His gaze was intensely worried, his brow furrowed and his lip curled between teeth. Guilt surged within you, and tried to reassure him.
"No, no!" (Your voice was still hoarse) "It's definitely not you... It was just a passing stuff, give me a minute."
Joel made the most utterly confused face you'd ever seen. It would have been almost adorable in a different situation, like a puppy who doesn't know where its home is.
"It's not necessary. It's obvious this isn't the moment. I'm just sorry I didn't realize it sooner."
You gently ran your fingers along his arm.
"It's nothing...it's just that I've been really busy lately, I guess that leaves its mark on" (The former smuggler leaned towards you).
"You're right...but if something else were happening...you'd say so, right?"
The almost broken tone caused the barriers you'd built to slowly crumble. You rested forehead on your knees, as if creating a small cocoon like a silly child.
"I'm just...I'm a terrible partner. I have you by my side, you look...like this, and I can't even focus for a damn hour."
The sob echoed in the room, and Joel looked like he'd been beaten. But he didn't give up. His shoulders tensed like when he'd shot an infected from countless meters away, and made sure all your attention was on him.
"Listen carefully...I don't really know what's going on, but I care about you, a lot. This is just a change of plans, nothing more. Your worth is measured by you and what I feel, not by sex, as much as I enjoy it. Not gonna lie"
He raised an eyebrow suggestively, making you laugh, always with a watery murmur.
"I care about you too... but I don't know what I was thinking... I've only been with someone else a couple of times before you, and that was a problem. My head is noisy, and I can't shut it up."
Joel squeezed your hand; you swore he dug his nails into his palm.
"That... wasn't fair to you. Nobody has the right to demand anything. In this world, we have far more issues than not appreciating what's given to us. The problem was them and their selfishness, not you."
You leaned on his shoulder, feeling a little comfort for the first time all night. Rest was elusive, but it didn't hurt; simply allowed to stretch your legs. At some point, you would explain to him how you lost your brother on a patrol where the rocks were slippery and a bastard took advantage to steal from you, but for tonight, you could just exist, without giving reasons to anyone. Nakedness was armor, not a instrument for controlling your being.
neeeed a joel x reader fic where they’re in the middle of it and reader drifts away mentally for whatever reason and joel notices immediately and stops, asks what’s wrong and they have a conversation about it, no more after that. maybe readers not used to her bodily reactions getting noticed and respected.
i feel like that kinda representation on here is little to none but it’s so important because yeah, we’re all horny for joel miller but we’re also not machines and sometimes our brains get in the way and it’s okay to stop midway through without having to fear consequences and i truly think joel would wanna stress that it’s completely okay as well.
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 snarkily, 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.
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 aggressive, 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 hands 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 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 shawl 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. Your boot catches on the edge of a slick stone.
You grasp at a low hanging 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 warmer faster," 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 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 your 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 his 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 just 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 hasn't 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.
request: “reader and joost have been together for a while now and are fully comfortable with each other. a few months into the relationship reader has a really bad day and joost comes home after a show or after being at the studio maybe and reader is stressing herself thinking he’s gonna wanna be intimate and she’s so worried about saying no or even being able to say no to him and how he’d react (bc she’d never not been into him like that before) but maybe she has some trauma from a previous relationship where she had to be ready and willing 24/7 so that’s stuck with her… ofc joost feels somethings wrong and maybe he didn’t even necessarily wanna do anything but the way she was stressing sm made him realise they needed to talk about it and he needed to really let her know he’d never ever be mad or treat her differently if she said no or even hurt her…”
tags: dead dove do not eat, f! reader, non-famous! reader, established relationship, almost entirely hurt x comfort, with just a little bit of angst in there if you squint, all characters are dutch and speak in dutch but dialogue is written in english for obvious reasons.
warnings: detailed and frequent descriptions of an eating disorder, vague (?) mentions of SA, rpf.
word count: 6,249.
notes: words cannot express just how proud i am of this one, and how i’ll forever owe the anon who requested this my life <3 + big big hugs and kisses to my beta readers @minuutvanverval and my friend g! love you both so so much xx
enjoy! 💋
── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──
you always feel so cold now, don’t you?
the sun’s been coming out a little more; rain doesn’t hang so heavy in the sky like it has been so much lately. but whilst everyone else seems to be ditching their big coats for lighter jackets, you’re still all bundled up in your layers, aren’t you? shivering. the hairs on your arms becoming coarser; darker.
you know better than to be doing this to yourself again, letting the hunger sit and twist inside your stomach not out of necessity but simply because you can. skipping meals, ‘forgetting to eat’, flaking on dinners out with the girls just because you can’t bear to face all of the inevitable questions they’d ask. it’s just been so long since you were last like this, this corrupted, not since you were a teenager — you’ve almost forgotten how good it feels.
and it’s only gotten worse since joost left for berlin, signing himself up to spend two straight weeks sleeping on teun’s sofa whilst they work on a million different projects all at once. he’d asked, almost begged for you to go with him, because of course he did. ever since that night he called you from antwerp, the two of you had yet to be apart for so long. you’d almost agreed, too, but then you started to slip, and the very last thing that you wanted to be for him was a distraction. you knew full well that without him around, something like this was bound to happen, and yet you insisted on staying behind anyway.
it’s just…you never thought that this fall from grace could be quite so violent, did you? that after five months of pure bliss with joost, being his and calling him yours, you could still fall this far down. five months of travelling around europe every weekend, date nights that always end with an orgasm so strong that it rewires your brain, somehow.
you honestly thought that you could handle it though, because you always have, you always do. you know who you are and what you’re doing when you’re like this; it’s easy — safe. it’s been years since your last relapse, but it’s you, down to your core.
it never should have caught you so off guard when you fell so ill, no doubt because of it. you’re fine. you’re not dying, or anything, you’re just feeling a little too tired to get out of bed and there’s an aching behind your eyes now. it feels like a lot, a little too detrimental, but that’s just because you just don’t get sick like this very often. it doesn’t normally knock you so hard off your feet.
except that was your exact predicament now, wasn’t it? you’re sick enough to have been signed off work for a couple days, and because you made the mistake of telling joost that, too sick to meet him at the airport, either. all you’d said was that you were just feeling a tad ‘rundown’ and dizzy, nothing that was too much worse than a simple cold or something, and he had more or less put you on bedrest. he would be fine and you shouldn’t worry, he’ll just get a taxi to yours instead and he’ll come play doctor until you’re better.
joost just wants you to relax and take it easy, because that’s all he knows. you never told him that it was getting bad again, that thing you had when you were younger. that no matter how hard you try, you just can’t seem to remember if you’ve managed to swallow down a hot meal since he left. as far as he’s aware, his girlfriend that somehow never gets sick, has gotten sick, and that’s all it is.
and he’s already on his way; he called you from the uber with an ETA, complaining about the traffic because he’s just missed you so much, and he can’t wait to see you. everything that they needed to get done in those two weeks they’ve finished, finalised, and submitted, and then still found the time to brainstorm several other new ideas as well. he’s so excited to show you it all, but he’s tired and hungry, and his face itches from the stubble that he’s not had the time to shave in a couple days. and he’s only telling you all this now because when he finally sees you, none of it is going to matter to him anymore.
you really wished you deserved him.
you were still horizontal on the sofa, adorning the same pyjamas that you’ve had on all week and buried underneath three different blankets, when joost came strolling in through your front door. with his overpacked playboy-bunny bag heavy on his shoulder and a suitcase rolling in behind him, the first thing he did after locking the door again was look for you.
because it didn’t matter to him that you hadn’t been there waiting at arrivals like it mattered to you. it hadn’t even crossed his mind, actually. he wasn’t dwelling on it like you were, letting it snowball and build up into something that it really wasn’t until you were on the brink of tears, watching his eyes light up as he finally see you from across the room. joost was just happy to be home.
his suitcase tipped over the second that he let it go to shrug his other bag and his coat from off his shoulders, letting it all fall to the floor along with the old beanie he tugged off his head. then he made a straight beeline for you, smiling so brightly that it made you wonder if his cheeks were already hurting, his arms out-stretched and eager to catch you once you finally met him halfway.
it took whatever pitiful strength you had left in you to do so, to leap up and throw yourself into his arms, clinging to him because all of the sudden movement had you feeling too lightheaded to try and keep yourself upright. your knees would have threatened to buckle if he hadn't been clutching you so tightly to his chest; your ears ringing a little and the room falling dark as your vision started to go. when you hid your face in the crook of joost’s neck and took fistfuls of his hoodie in your grasp, he thought it was just because you’d missed him that much, too.
“hey honey.” he took a moment just to breathe you in, humming to himself, his voice soft and vibrating in your ear as he squeezed you. “missed you.”
“missed you too.” you weren’t speaking that much above a whisper. “i’m sorry i wasn’t there to pick you up.”
but he was already shushing you before you’d finished yet another apology, pulling back just enough to kiss your cheek as he squeezed you again. “doesn’t matter; i’m here now.”
he still didn’t know just how much it did.
that it mattered enough for it to smother you. choking; sitting like a rock in your throat that you just couldn’t swallow down. for the rest of the afternoon, you could barely utter a single word to him as you laid together watching as many of the ‘the hangover’ films as you both could stomach. whilst joost giggled and muttered little jokes inside your ear, a large, warm palm slipping underneath your t-shirt and rubbing up and down the soft skin of your back, you could only hold onto him tighter.
your head on his chest as you laid yourself on top of him, desperate to climb in and curl up inside his ribcage but forced to simply melt underneath his touch, just as you always do. every time he drew another absentminded shape along your spine, his focus only half on the tv because he could never ignore just how quiet you were being, it only reminded you of how little you actually deserved this. how having someone glance down and smile at you every time they drew another heart just above your hips because they wanted to see the realisation of it in your eyes — it was a privilege that you just haven’t earned yet.
it mattered to you too much to try and think about anything else. it took up space in every corner of your mind, occupying every single thought. because joost would do absolutely anything for you, wouldn’t he? and you know that he would because he already has, and you’ll never be deserving of it.
you felt a gentle tapping on your hip; heard a soft calling of your name. you didn’t see the small frown starting to tug at the corners of his mouth when it still took you a minute or two to snap out of it.
you twisted your head slightly, resting your chin against his sternum. “hm?”
“what do you wanna eat, baby? i’m gonna order something.”
his question was like a hand around your neck, wasn’t it? suffocating. you had to physically remind yourself how to breathe again properly; deep, in through your nose, and then out through your mouth. the rock lodged somewhere inside your windpipe only seemed to grow in size the longer that joost looked at you so expectantly because really, it wasn't an unreasonable thing to ask someone at all.
you’re just not hungry — and that’s all it is, it’s really that simple. a mere lack of an appetite that maybe you once had, you don’t know, you can’t actually remember anymore. all you know is that it’s fine. you’re fine.
it’s just that you’re not though, are you? because now that joost’s not giving you any room to breathe, asking you what you want to eat as though he’s already decided for you that you are going to be whether you like it or not. it’s only gone and made you panic, hasn’t it? you can’t bring yourself to lie to him and promise that you’ve already eaten; he knows that you haven’t.
“um…” you climbed off him for a moment, only to let him sit up and fish his phone out of his back pocket before you both settled back down again. his lockscreen lit up in your peripheral; his favourite picture of you, asleep, mouth open and dribbling, all curled up next to him in his bed back on the tour bus. “i don’t mind…whatever you want.”
and then he kept talking to you, throwing all of these different suggestions at you as he scrolled eagerly through uber eats and hoped that one eventually stuck. it was just that none of this was actually for him, for his benefit; there was bound to be some bread and cheese somewhere in the kitchen — he would have honestly been happy with just making a couple of sandwiches. if he had gone back to his place instead, it probably would have been a bowl of cereal at best, actually.
this fuss was all for you, as it usually was, because keeping joost in the dark didn’t mean that he was suddenly blind, did it? and he wasn’t stupid either, he could see it in your eyes, hear it in the sound of your voice. something was wrong. he could feel it. he just had no other choice than to believe it was only something akin to a cold, or something, because why would it be anything else?
“what about the place that does all the really cool burgers and stuff? you think they’re on here?” joost hadn’t realised yet that you weren’t really listening anymore, that you’re hardly even in the room with him, still.
the credits for ‘the hangover 2’ were rolling; the tv screen a little blurry from the tears that hung heavy on your eyelashes, no matter how many times you tried to blink them away. you hadn’t moved from his chest, you could still feel the beating of his heart beneath your cheek, but you just weren’t there with him anymore. you were collapsing so terribly in on yourself, because none of this was even remotely okay at all.
he uttered your name again before dropping his phone to the floor, the order confirmation of your dinner tonight still lighting up its screen. he ran his fingers through your hair as gently as he could, dodging all of the knots, and smoothing away any strands that fell across your face and tickled your nose. all you could bear to do was hug him that much tighter and bury your face into the cotton of his hoodie.
“i got you your favourite…the one with all the funny mushrooms.” you nestled yourself in further to his chest, squeezing your eyes shut, oblivious to the joke that joost was trying to make. by ‘funny’ he just meant sautéed; he was only trying to make you laugh. “when was the last time you ate, honey?”
your breathing hitched, coming out as more of a small cough than anything.
he didn’t even mean something by it; the question was innocent, unassuming. he’d felt your stomach rumble in a way that surprised him, in a way that he thought that it shouldn’t have if you’d managed some breakfast earlier.
but it still felt like another hand around your throat, didn’t it? fatal.
“last night, i think. i felt too sick when i woke up this morning. i’m sorry.”
but joost didn’t know, he couldn’t make sense of why you were now apologising to him so earnestly. so he just kept playing with your hair, shushing you, still unaware of all the tears but aware enough to know that you were feeling just little more than fragile. something else he just chalked up to your stomach bug.
“hey, it’s okay. you want a snack while we wait?” there was bound to be something still in his bag from duty free, something he’d bought for the plane just to immediately forget about.
but you shook your head against him, mumbling that you really were fine, you just couldn’t really think about eating right now. and when joost asked you why, you insisted — promising that it was only a tummy ache; not a complete lie, at least. your stomach did actually feel just a little too knotted to be comfortable, but that was just another consequence of what you were doing to yourself, wasn’t it?
you were still fine though, of course you were. it was just a little blip.
that’s what you repeated like a mantra inside your head as you waited, dreading to hear that knock on your front door, almost falling asleep in his arms as you did so. it’s what you told yourself as he carefully slipped out from underneath you once it arrived, leaving you to lay amongst the blankets whilst he collected it, dished it up, put it all onto plates and threw away each of the cardboard boxes that it all came in. every time that he called out to you from the kitchen, almost moaning over how good it smelt and admitting how nice yours looked too despite all of the mushrooms in it, you pretended to be back with him, replying with the occasional ‘oh yeah?’ whenever it made sense to.
you took the plate handed to you hesitantly, with a slight shake to your hands. the longing that gripped your stomach at the mere sight of it, only worsening its ache; your burger stacked high and dripping a little sauce, accompanied by far more fries than usual. it almost made you gag as joost reclaimed his seat next to you, letting your legs fall and settle across his lap.
the next film began to play much to your relief, because it meant that his attention wasn’t solely on you anymore. it meant that you were free to pick at your food without any interrogation, taking the smallest bites and chewing on the same pieces of it over and over and over again, just in case it would help you feel a little fuller than you actually were. in the time that it took him to almost lick his plate clean, you hadn’t even managed half of yours, and you were already done.
your stomach still rumbled, crying out, hungry for the other half, but you pushed it further away on the coffee table.
“i’m still feeling a little sick; i’ll finish it later.” joost hadn’t even said anything, you’d just seen his frown from the corner of your eye as he glanced between you and the tv.
and he was still silent as he put his own plate down before taking your hands in his, gently pulling you closer; a quiet plea for you to come and lay across his chest again. his arms wrapped back around you as soon as you were on top of him, hugging you tightly, his chin resting on the very top of your head. this way, you couldn’t see how that frown of his was still tugging at the corners of his lips.
“i love you.” he couldn’t explain why the words suddenly felt so much heavier to say, as though it would physically hurt him not to. “you sure it’s just a cold?”
but it still pained him when he felt you nod your head ‘yes’ against him, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to fully believe it. there were just too many things that all felt just a little too familiar; an awful kind of nostalgia that was trying to greet him as if he was an old friend.
“cmon, i think it’s bedtime for us now, yeah?” as his hand slipped back underneath your shirt again, caressing along your spine and making you shiver beneath the touch, he heard you yawn. “pretty girl needs her beauty sleep.”
honestly, joost wondered if it was a little too late for that now. you’d gone so still; almost tense. the gentle rise and fall of your chest slowing until he could hardly feel it anymore. he whispered your name once, twice, enough times to convince him that you really were starting to drift off if you hadn’t already.
he couldn’t see that your eyes were still open but wider, unblinking, finally starting to spill all of the tears that you’ve been holding in for so long. he couldn’t really feel you breathing because you’d gotten yourself caught on an inhale, holding your breath, far too scared to move just in case he took that as a sign for yes. he didn’t know that you weren’t asleep or even close to it, and that with every inch his hand trailed further down the curve of your back, the faint wobble of your lip only worsened.
as much as you love him, which of course you do, a lot — more than you ever thought someone could be capable of loving another human being, you already know that you just can’t give him what he wants right now. and you can’t stand that because of how much it hurts. it doesn’t feel fair to either of you; you want to want him too, you always normally do. you’re not quite sure why it is that you don’t tonight.
after every week-or-two trip away like this, it’s how you usually ‘welcome him back’. you take it beyond words by showing him just how much you really missed him; you let him show you just how much he really missed you too. you didn’t think that tonight would be any different because it shouldn’t be, and yet you just can’t seem to bear the thought of doing that again this time.
you’re not crying because joost would ever…he would never, ever force you to do anything that you didn’t want to. you know that, you do, you know that he wouldn’t do a thing like that to anyone, and certainly not to you. because as much as you really do love him, joost arguably loves you even more, doesn’t he? enough to have once, albeit only technically, start a bar fight over you, to defend you, protect you, all because your ex had grabbed you in a way that he really didn’t like. he loves you enough to have still then picked up the phone when you called a month later, despite how you’d refused to pick up a single one of his that entire time, and hadn’t hung up until you’d fallen asleep. the ground had been swaying and the rain had soaked him near-down to the bone, but joost had still stood outside that club for an hour just to talk to you.
you’re crying because you know that you don’t have the heart to say no. you know that you don’t want to tonight, but you’re convinced that he’ll ask and you know that you’ll say yes anyway. it’s what you’ve been trained to do.
his hand dipped down a little further, only just breaching the waistband of your sweatpants, and you jolted.
“woah, hey -” joost was barely even touching you, and it was still enough to make you flinch, sobbing. “- schat, what’s happening?”
but you were already clambering off him, wiping sore eyes on the backs of your hands and sniffing. “i just need a minute, i’m sorry.”
the room tilted beneath your feet, throwing you off your axis as you rushed to get out. you stumbled on the spot with your heart thumping loud in your ears, gripping onto the bookcase beside you just to try and stay upright. a few books fell down at the force, a framed polaroid of you and joost together toppling over, all because your vision was betraying you again, wasn’t it? and all you could do was fight to breathe through it.
except joost had jumped up too, arms already outstretched and eager to catch a hand, a wrist, something just to slow you down for a second. and it was good that he did, that he was right there behind you when he was, because a couple deep breaths weren’t enough to fix the wobbling of your knees. his arms were around your waist just before you dropped, falling a little limp in his grasp.
“fuck-fuck, hey, it’s okay. i’ve got you.”
you didn’t like how frightened he sounded, his voice wavering in your ear ever so slightly. you struggled against him, pushing at his arms and shaking your head, trying to put a bit more weight on your feet. “i’m fine, i…it’s just a head-rush.”
only his arms around you tightened, keeping you held flat up against his chest. “stop it, you’re not fine — just let me help.”
it was awkward, almost a little uncomfortable, how he had to pick you up once you stopped trying to fight him. he carried you as though you were cracked porcelain in his hands; breaking. as gently as he could, he set you down on your bed, brushing the hair away from your face and wiping the tears from your eyes before running off again, mumbling something about going to get you a glass of water.
you didn’t want a glass of water though, did you? you just wanted it to stop. it made you feel too small, too pathetic; your head suddenly far too big for your body. all the tears in your eyes and your stuffed up nose, it weighed you down until you couldn’t just sit anymore, you had to curl up, had to let yourself sink further and further into the mattress.
by the time that joost came back clutching that glass of water in his hands, you were too far gone to even notice that he was back in the room.
“hey, sit up for a sec?”
you didn’t move.
you didn’t want the water.
a heavy sigh fell from his lips as he put the glass down on your bedside table, a few drops spilling out and staining the wood beneath it from the soft shake in his hands. you were scaring him, weren’t you? he’s never seen you like this before, this absent, right in front of him, and it scared him.
joost took a seat on the floor, just beside where you laid on the bed. he raised a hand, tucking a single strand of your hair behind your ear before cupping your jaw in his palm, running his thumb along the bone of your cheek. it was a way of feeling you, of feeling as though you were still in the room with him, without being too much, he hoped. because he didn’t know what was going on, did he? he didn’t know why you flinched so horribly when he touched you before, or why you feel so cold now, only that he didn’t want to make it worse.
“i need you to talk to me, honey. i don’t know what’s happening.” and then he took another, shallower breath when you still hesitated to say anything. you only looked at him, with such a soft, bittersweet smile starting to pull at the corners of your lips. “and i’m scared.”
you would never, ever, deserve him. not in any life.
“do you remember that night we all stayed at daan’s? and we ended up staying out on the terrace all night talking, just you and me?”
he nodded, a little confused.
“do you remember that i told you about when i was younger? when i had to spend some time in hospital?”
it only took him a moment.
last summer, when the air had felt so much thicker, stickier, and the two of you had really only been ‘just friends’. joost had been the one to find you sitting out on the terrace all by yourself, with a half-burnt cigarette in one hand and an empty bottle of beer in the other; everyone else still inside playing yet another round of strip-poker.
the sun had dipped far beneath the skyline, leaving behind a sky full of stars and a chill that brought goosebumps to your arms. you’d been sitting out there in just your underwear — an old, mismatched set that you’d only worn because you hadn’t known that anyone else would be seeing it. no one else had fared any better though; joost was down to just a white vest and his boxers, and daan had been dealt a bad enough hand to have spent most of the night naked.
“hey, you okay?” joost had taken a seat next to you, pulling a cigarette out from the pack that he’d kept tucked in the waistband of his calvin kleins.
you’d only stepped away from the game to use the bathroom, insisting that they could keep on playing without you because you would only be gone a minute or two. you’d been gone twenty by the time that joost had gone looking for you, because of course he had.
“yeah, fine…sorry.”
but he’d just shaken his head with an easy smile on his face; a now lit cigarette hanging from in between his lips. “i think they’ll be fine without us for a minute.” and then he’d paused only to let the sound of roaring laughter from inside pass before trying to speak again. “you’ve been gone a while…something happen?”
when you’d shrugged, your head hung a little low and eyes not sparing him a full glance, he’d pressed it. “do you want to talk about it?”
the fact that had you had crumbled instantly, stubbing out your cigarette and turning to face him properly, — you’d apologised and blamed it on all the alcohol the next morning. “can you promise not to tell anyone? it’s not something…i don’t really want people knowing about it.”
that sweet smile of his had faded at the clear sight of your sore, puffy eyes, and runny nose, and something inside him had twisted a little when you sniffed. at first, he’d only wanted to ask what made him so different. why the girls, daan, stunts, even your boyfriend couldn’t know about whatever it was that had brought you to tears, but he could; why you trusted him more than anybody else.
instead, joost had simply settled for raising his pinky, swearing blindly on his own and his brother’s life that he wouldn’t tell a soul. you could’ve asked anything of him then, honestly, and he would have done it.
“i’m just dwelling on things when i shouldn’t be. it’s nothing, like it happened a really long time ago and i am, i’m better now, but i used to be…i got really sick, joost. when i was seventeen? i think? and i had to be admitted for a couple months; they said if i kept going the way i was, i would’ve…”
you can’t really remember why it had been on your mind so much that night; why you had put that kind of pressure on joost and cried to him about it as he’d clutched you to his chest for the first time.
but you can see it in his eyes now that he does, that he remembers. you watch how his face falls; the crease between his eyebrows growing deeper and his lips parting ever so slightly as they wobble. you’re not only the cause, but now the only witness to the grief that overtakes him, turning him inside out.
“schatje…”
you splutter out a small cry, pulling away from the palm that still rests on the side of your face. because it’s the look in his eyes that does it, that makes you roll yourself onto your back and hide yourself away in your hands, ignoring his desperate pleas for you to stay. it’s the kind of look that makes it just a little too easy to forget that the air around you isn’t so hot that you’re close to melting, and you’re not still on that terrace with him.
joost doesn’t move from his spot on the floor but you can still feel his gaze on you — hear his small coughs as he tries to breathe through a stuffy nose of his own. he’d cried that night for you too, just like he is now, underneath deep breaths and between such tender, careful words of comfort. back then he’d known exactly what to say, what advice to give; he hadn’t been so afraid to merely touch you. he hadn’t been so easily paralysed by seeing you in so much pain.
“…how long has it been this bad?”
it took you a moment or two to think; you weren’t exactly ‘all there’ yet. “three weeks…maybe a month.”
he let out a soft exhale, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “fuck-can i…? baby, can i please -”
you were nodding before he could finish, rolling back over onto your side just so you could pull him up onto the bed with you a little easier.
he looped an arm around the base of your spine and another around your shoulders, scooping you up as he almost fell into you, becoming all tangled with the white sheets. together, you were a mess of knotted limbs; neither of you knowing where one of you started and the other one stopped anymore. legs intertwining; his face buried into the soft of your hair.
falling onto his back, joost could feel the wet of your tears against his neck as you hugged him back just as tightly, returning to your place on top of his chest. and he liked it, needed it. he held you to him as though you would slip right through his fingers if he dared to loosen his grip even just a little.
“i love you.” he spoke quietly in your ear as he rolled you both over onto your sides, his hand finding your face again just so that he could help you meet his eyes. “whatever you need, i’m gonna help you through this, okay? we’re a team.”
you found yourself nodding despite the worry that sat heavy in your gut.
you wanted to say it back. the words were hanging off the tip of your tongue, begging to fall the longer that you stared back at him. because you did, you loved him, just far too much to actually say it. all that came out in the end was an apology, and then three. weepy, tear-choked ‘i’m sorry’s as you curled up into him again, suddenly feeling more embarrassed than anything else. with everything else going on in his life, this was surely the very last thing that joost would ever want to have to deal with.
“no-hey, in what world is this something to be sorry for? please don’t think that you owe me that.”
but you still pulled away ever so slightly, shaking your head and growing stiffer in his arms. “you don’t exactly need this though, do you? this isn’t who you were hoping to be coming home to.”
“and who do you think i want you to be?”
“someone that’s easy, someone that doesn’t make you cry just from the stress of being with them…someone that doesn’t make themselves cry over the thought of having sex tonight.”
you were forcing out a small laugh by the end of it, still shaking your head but laughing as though it really was that silly of a thing. more than once tonight, you’ve made yourself cry over the thought of fucking your own boyfriend, just because you still can’t understand why it is that you don’t want to, and you’ll always be too much of a coward to ever say no. it had you laughing as though joost should be laughing with you, too.
“what?”
except he wasn’t, was he? because he had tears all in his eyes again; his bottom lip drooping down into a small, heartsick frown. “why would that make you cry, schat?”
and suddenly the cat had your tongue now, didn’t it? you could see it on his face, feel it in the shaking of his hands as he let you go to put an even bigger space between you — you’d said the wrong thing. you’d hurt his feelings, confused him; broken his heart all over again, just like you did every time that you ignored another one of his calls.
when he couldn’t bear to wait for an answer any longer, he kept going. “fuck, did i-the last time that we did, did i do something wrong?”
“no! no, no it’s not you, it’s nothing you’ve done, i promise.” you mirrored his every move; sitting up just as he did, wiping the snot from your nose on the back of your forearm. “that’s not what i meant -”
he didn’t believe you, did he? “- if i’ve done something to you, ever, you need to tell me honey, please.”
“fuck-joost, it was him! not you! never, ever you, trust me, i know that.” you were close to shouting without realising it. your voice raised, throat scratching. you just couldn’t sit by and let him think that of himself, not even for a second, you couldn’t do that to him too. “it was him. he never liked it when i said no, or told him that i wasn’t in the mood, or something. he would either just keep asking until i gave in or he’d get mean, or ignore me, i don’t know.”
“and you think i’d do the same?”
“no! it’s just…i don’t know! i want to — i want to want to with you, but i don’t and i don’t know why, and it just feels like i’m letting you down all over again because if you’d asked me tonight, i would’ve said yes anyway.”
the brief, deafening silence that followed didn't help the ringing in your ears much, but you didn’t dare to make another sound besides the heavy panting of your breath. you just watched the gradual slumping of his shoulders as joost really tried to digest what it was that you had just accidentally, almost screamed at him.
it was nothing that he didn’t already know, actually. because that night back in germany, you’d spilled just a few too many secrets than what you probably should have, what you would have had you been just a little more sober. and just like he always is, joost had been there for you as you’d cried about that too, and he’d regretted not being the one to break that asshole’s nose when he’d had the chance.
“you’re…you’re never gonna ‘let me down’, honey. if i ask, or try to do something and you’re not up for it, you can say no, and that’ll always be it. no questions asked.”
“no, i know that, i do, i just…”
as you trailed off, joost leaned forward just enough to pull you into another hug, giving you another gentle squeeze until you melted into him again, hugging him back. “it’s okay; i should’ve remembered what he used to put you through. i’m sorry.”
you couldn’t help but shake your head again as you nuzzled your face further into his neck, breathing him in and leaving a small kiss just below his pulse. “it’s not your fault.”
“it’s not yours either.”
the way that he said it so simply, so surely, as though it was so painfully obvious to everyone but you. it had that weight inside of you starting to shrink, making it easier for you to breathe and relax against him. “okay.”
because none of it would ever be your fault, would it? not to him.
• joel doesn’t rush intimacy. ever. letting you get close is something he does slowly, deliberately, like he’s making sure this is real, and safe, before he lets himself settle into it
• physical touch is absolutely his love language, even if he’d never call it that. a hand at your lower back, fingers brushing yours, pulling you just a little closer without saying a word. it’s grounding. protective. constant
• behind closed doors, he’s gentler than people would expect. not because he’s unsure, but because the world is already rough enough. with you, he softens. slower movements, quieter moments, breathing in sync
• he’s a quiet intimacy guy. joel doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it lands. a low "you okay?" a murmured use of your name like it means something sacred. no wasted words
• once he’s in, he’s all in. joel doesn’t do half love or casual closeness. if he lets you stay, it’s long haul energy, even if he never says "forever" out loud
• he craves closeness more than he realizes. falling asleep tangled together, staying in bed longer just because he can. acting like it’s nothing, while it quietly fills a void he’s carried for years
• his protective instincts bleed into intimacy in subtle ways. not controlling, just attentive. always checking in without breaking the moment. a hand on your back, a thumb brushing your hip, making sure you’re okay
• he’s way more affectionate in private than in public. around others he’s reserved, guarded. alone? foreheads touching, hands lingering, soft little laughs you don’t hear often
• domestic intimacy hits him harder than passion ever could. sharing a bed night after night, waking up together, existing in the same space. that’s what really gets him, proof he’s not alone anymore
• he likes familiarity, routine. same safe place, same time of night, same unspoken understanding. it’s comforting, not boring, something he can finally relax into
• acts of service translate everywhere with him. fixing your jacket, warming your hands, quietly cleaning you up afterward without making a big deal out of it. it’s just care
• when things get slow and close, he watches you. real, steady eye contact like he’s memorizing you, just in case the world ever tries to take you away
• he’s understatedly dominant in the softest way. not commanding, not flashy, just a calm presence that makes you feel safe enough to let go and trust him completely
• he sleeps like he’s protecting something precious. closest to the door. arm around you without thinking. even when everything’s quiet, his instincts never fully shut off
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