I’d always been the quiet girl at the back of the classroom the one teachers forgot to call on, the one boys never bothered to talk to unless they needed a pencil or answers to last week’s homework. I wasn’t invisible, not exactly, but I definitely wasn’t someone people looked for.
In some ways, I’d grown used to it. Expected it, even. Everyone had their place in high school, and mine seemed to be somewhere between the spare chair and the bookshelf.
The boys in my year loud, messy, chaotic hardly ever noticed I existed. They’d laugh with each other, talk about girls who looked nothing like me, and tease the ones they actually found interesting. I was never on that list.
Not even close.
And every time I liked someone, there was always something wrong with him.
He drank too much.
He smoked behind the gym.
He cheated on his girlfriend.
He had a reputation he’d definitely earned.
It made me feel stupid for even hoping.
So I stopped expecting anything. I kept my head down, books close, dream of love quietly folded into the back of my mind like a note no one would ever read.
Until Eddie Munson sat next to me.
It happened on a Thursday the kind of day where everything felt slightly off-kilter. Mrs. Kline had rearranged the seating plan because she “felt the energy in the room had grown stale.” Everyone knew that just meant she was bored.
I usually sat by the window. Quiet corner. Easy escape.
But when I walked in, my seat was already taken.
By him.
Eddie Munson.
Leather jacket.
Wild hair.
Soft brown eyes that held mischief and warmth in equal measure.
He glanced up the moment I hesitated by the desk.
“Oh,” he said, smiling, like he’d been waiting. “You’re Y/N, right?”
My stomach flipped. People rarely used my name unless I reminded them of it.
“Um… yeah. That’s me.”
He drummed his rings against the desk. “Looks like Kline’s decided we’re seat buddies now.” He kicked out the chair next to him with his boot. “Come on. I don’t bite.”
I sat down slowly, heart thudding so loud it felt like the whole room could hear it.
He smelled like spearmint and cigarette smoke and something faintly like pine, and it made my hands feel too warm.
“Sorry if I stole your spot,” he said, turning the chair slightly so he was facing me. “But I’m not sorry enough to move.”
I blinked. “You like sitting by the window?”
“Nah.” He grinned. “I like sitting next to interesting people.”
My cheeks heated so fast I nearly short-circuited.
“You don’t even know me.”
“Sure I do,” he said cheerfully. “You’re the girl who reads during lunch. Who draws stars all over her notes. Who sits like she’s trying to fold herself into a smaller shape because she thinks taking up space is rude.”
I stared at him.
He noticed things?
About me?
No one noticed things about me.
Eddie’s smile softened. “See? I pay attention.”
“Why?” I blurted.
He laughed, head falling back. “Brutal question! Why would anyone pay attention to me, is that it?”
“That’s not... that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s fine.” He nudged my elbow. “I know what you meant. And the answer is simple.”
He leaned closer, dropping his voice.
“Because you’re worth paying attention to.”
My heart just about imploded.
The lesson started, but it was impossible to focus. Eddie tapped his pencil, whispered jokes under his breath, and slid little drawings onto my notebook when the teacher wasn’t looking.
At one point he nudged my foot with his.
“Tell me something,” he murmured.
“Like what?”
“Anything you want.” He smirked. “Your greatest fear. Your favourite chips. The darkest secret you’ve ever kept. Dealer’s choice.”
“Um…” I considered. “I like lemon sherbets.”
He gasped dramatically. “Thank God. A girl with taste.”
I laughed under my breath before I could stop myself.
And he looked… proud?
Like he’d earned it.
When class ended, I assumed he’d go back to his friends, that this had been some passing amusement.
But he didn’t move.
He packed up slowly, waiting for me, twirling a ring around his finger.
“So,” he said. “You walking to your next class?”
“Yes.”
“Mind company?”
I blinked at him. “You want to walk with me?”
His eyebrow arched. “Is that shocking?”
“Yes,” I said honestly.
He laughed. “Well, get used to it. I like your company.”
The words sank into me like sunlight.
No one had ever said anything like that to me.
Not with sincerity.
Not with warmth.
He walked me to my next class, talking nonsense and making me laugh until my cheeks ached. And before leaving, he tapped the doorframe beside my head.
“Same seat tomorrow?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He grinned like I’d gifted him something.
“Good. Don’t bail on me.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
I swallowed. “Promise.”
He walked backwards down the corridor, finger-guns aimed at me, hair bouncing with every step.
I watched him until he disappeared around the corner.
I didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.
The next morning, something strange happened.
People stared at me.
Girls who’d never spoken to me before whispered when I walked past, giving me suspicious glances. Two boys nudged each other and smirked like they’d seen something they weren’t supposed to.
I was confused until I walked into class.
Eddie was already sitting there.
And the moment he saw me, his entire face lit up.
Not a polite smile.
Not a “hi, nice to see you again.”
A beaming, relieved, delighted grin.
Like I was the person he’d genuinely been waiting for.
“Hey, star-girl,” he said, flicking his fingers in a wave. “Get over here.”
Star-girl.
My stomach flipped violently.
I sat down, feeling the heat in my cheeks.
“People are staring,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said casually, leaning back with his boots on the table. “They’re trying to work out if we’re dating yet.”
I choked on nothing.
He laughed. “Relax. I’m joking.”
Was he?
His eyes were too soft. Too warm. Too full.
“Why would they think that?” I asked.
He tilted his head. “Because I like talking to you.”
“That’s… all?”
“That’s enough,” he said, smiling again. “More than enough.”
The teacher walked in, and Eddie leaned close, voice low and confidential.
“You know,” he murmured, “people underestimate you. They think quiet means boring. But I think quiet just means people haven’t bothered to ask the right questions.”
I swallowed hard. “Like what?”
He smirked. “Like… what does Y/N look like when she smiles for real? What makes her laugh? What’s her favourite song? What’s the first thing she thinks about when she wakes up? What kind of person does she write about in her diary and pretend she doesn’t want?”
I blinked at him.
He tapped his ring against the desk. “Those are the things I want to know.”
My heart hammered.
Why me? Why was Eddie Munson loud, chaotic, weirdly charming is interested in me?
“You’re being very… friendly,” I said lightly, trying not to combust.
“Well, sweetheart,” he said with a grin, “maybe that’s because I like you.”
My pulse stopped.
“What?”
He shrugged too casually. “I like you. Been waiting for you to notice, actually.”
I stared at him, brain short-circuiting.
He chuckled at my expression. “Don’t look so shocked. You’re brilliant.”
“Am I?”
“You are to me,” he said simply.
I had to look away before I melted into the floor.
From that day on, Eddie made it his mission apparently to involve himself in my life.
He waited for me after classes.
Sat next to me at lunch.
Walked me home, spinning stories and jokes until my face hurt from smiling.
He sought me out, every single day, like he’d decided I was his favourite person and that was that.
He made me feel wanted.
Seen.
Worthy.
Once, as we sat under the bleachers, he nudged me with his shoulder.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Of course.”
“Why do you act like you’re not allowed to be liked?”
The question hit me so hard I couldn’t speak for a moment.
“I don’t know,” I managed. “I guess I just… don’t expect it.”
Eddie frowned, brows knitting together. “Has anyone ever told you you’re not worth it?”
“No,” I whispered. “Not in words.”
He nodded once, like he’d decided something important.
“Well,” he said, shifting so he was facing me fully, “you deserve people who choose you. Who see how amazing you are. Who want you around because you make their day better just by existing.”
My breath caught.
“Eddie…”
He reached forward, tucking a strand of hair gently behind my ear.
“And if no one else wants to be that person,” he said softly, “I will.”
My heart collapsed into something soft and fragile in my chest.
I don’t know when exactly I realised I was falling for him.
Maybe it was the way he’d walk ahead just to turn around and make sure I was still beside him.
Maybe it was the way he listened when I spoke, even if I rambled or stuttered.
Maybe it was how he teased me, but never cruelly.
Or maybe it was how, when we sat together in class, he always leaned ever so slightly into my space like being close to me was his default.
One afternoon, as we were packing up, he tapped my wrist.
“Y/N?”
I looked at him. “Yes?”
He smiled slow, warm, full of something new.
“Can I take you out sometime?”
My breath stopped.
“Like… out out?” I asked.
He laughed. “Yes, sweetheart. Like an actual date.”
I stared at him, heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
“You don’t have to say yes,” he added quickly. “I know I’m… a lot. Messy, loud, dramatic.”
“I’d love to,” I said.
He froze.
Then his grin broke over his face like sunlight.
“Wicked,” he breathed.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, hesitated, and then leaned in close.
“So I’ll pick you up Friday?” he murmured, eyes flicking briefly to my lips.
“Friday,” I whispered.
He winked. “Can’t wait, star-girl.”
And for the first time in my life, I walked out of school feeling like the girl people saw.
And maybe, for the first time, love didn’t feel like something impossible.
content : fluffy, fluff, fluff, reader and johnny are sleeping together, established relationship, relationship is fairly new (not mentioned), reader has hair, cuddling !
summary : literally justreader and johnny getting out of bed in the morning—or lack thereof
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
it had been at least four hours since you’d both woken up for the first time at 7 a.m.
you’d whispered ‘good morning’s’ to one and other, smiling and even a little shy in that first-thing-in-the-morning way. then you’d tucked your head into his chest, draped your leg back over his hip and weaved your fingers through his hair.
he’d woken up first that time—barely seconds before you had, he watched you for a couple seconds before you started stirring, then you regained your senses that sleep had numbed, smelt his weird, expensive all in one shampoo, that supposedly smelt like coconut before he’d swam and surfed too much and it stared smelling like salt, sea and something else that you guessed was the scent of coconut fighting to not be rid of, you felt his arms, one slung over your waist lazily, his hand tucked just under the curve of your ribs, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin, his other arm under you, being squashed by your weight for so long that having a blood supply may as well have been considered a luxury than a necessity, especially since he swears he’d rather have it fall off before moving it.
lastly, you heard his breathing, even and familiar and a little faster than you knew it to sound when he was asleep.
so, considering all of those things, you opened your eyes and there he was, a small smile on his lips, eyes half lidded, hair a tousled mess, eyebrows raising a little when his eyes met yours, like he’d wanted you to sleep forever and a little longer.
you whispered, ‘morning,’ and so did he. you said you felt gross, he told you that you looked perfect. you called him a lair. he called himself your boyfriend.
you smiled and scrunched your nose, before nestling your head into his chest. he kissed your hair and there was a little pillow talk, until your breathing fell back into that tired rhythm and so did his.
the next time, you woke up first and it was already a quarter past nine.
his lips were slightly parted, releasing small puffs of air every so often, a few damaged, bleached blonde stands of his hair fell onto his forehead, his arm still tight around your middle like he was afraid you’d take off at any given moment—even in his sleep.
your fingers parted through his hair, pushing back the hair that lay across his forehead, brushing it back, letting your finger nails gently scrape against his scalp in the way you knew he’d always loved so much.
then his breathing caught and his mouth closed—he waited a couple seconds, as if to see if you’d stop if he shifted, or woke up too fast—then his lips curled into a grin—a pleased, content grin. his eyes flickered open and met yours immediately.
he told you that it was considered creepy to watch people whilst they sleep. you denied all charges and claimed that he snored—he did a little. he called you a liar. you made ridiculous snorting noises that were supposed to mimic his snoring and called him a tractor.
he was adamant that you were lying. you teased him and he called you mean. you countered him by reminding him that he loved you. he agreed, without a second thought, pulled you back in and pressed dozens of kisses to your forehead.
you melted back into him instantly, your leg wrapping back over his hip, your foot pressing against the back of his thigh, letting out a little sigh as you did so. his head nudged its way into the crook of your neck, taking advantage of your hair laying against it, using it as a pillow and taking in the soft smell that he loved so much.
he suggested that the two of you stay like that all day and as much as you wanted to, you refused and said you had to be real people and that others would notice if the two of you disappeared all day. he told you that the world could survive without you guys for one day.
you called him clingy, although you were already pushing your arm up through the duvet to let your fingers drag through his hair like they’d never left. he called himself your boyfriend, yet again and then you announced that you’d both only stay in bed like that for five more minutes.
five minutes became ten and ten became fifteen then you’d both drifted back off to sleep—until it was just a couple minutes shy of eleven a.m and of course, he woke up first—after you explicitly told him not to let you sleep in all day.
he weighed out his options : wake you right then and face your fake-mad attitude, let you sleep for longer and face your real mad attitude or pretend that he was also asleep and let nature take its own course.
as tempting as the last option was, he knew he should wake you up.
so he did, and to his surprise you were hardly mad. all he got was a groan, but you were just as tired as him and you couldn’t be mad at him right after waking up, not when he already looked like he was bracing himself.
when you finally stared sitting up to push yourself out of bed to make yourself presentable, his arms tightened around your waist, keeping you stuck in place. you accused him of wanting you to look like a sleepy mess all day. he told you that that wasn’t true at all and the you looked cute that way anyways.
after johnny failed miserably at trying to convince you that you guys laying in bed for at least three days was ‘self care’, and people did it all the time, you managed to peel his arm off of you and slip out from under him.
he whined and called you a monster. you told him you’d take that over being lazy. he groaned.
when convincing him to get up wasn’t enough, you pressed the tiniest, quickest, barely-there kiss to his lips and told him he wasn’t getting anymore if he didn’t get up and brush his teeth.
he got up and stayed wrapped around you like a koala whilst you brushed your own teeth and washed your face, trying to occupy him with one hand combing through his hair as you sorted yourself out, his head stuffed in the curve of your neck.
summary: when you wander out into the fog to clear your head, joseph offers you far more than simple solace
pairing: joseph x reader
warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni), no use of y/n, afab reader, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamics, consensual bdsm, spanking, belt use, impact play, light choking, breathplay, possessiveness, marking (biting), praise kink, degradation undertones, crying during sex, piv sex, fingering, unsafe sex, dirty talk, aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 5.4k
a/n: this hit me like a bolt of lightning girlies
likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!
🦋masterlist
Barn work is never truly finished for the night.
A lantern burns low near the tack wall, its flame bending each time wind slips through the seams of the old boards. The horses shift restlessly in their stalls, warm breath fogging the cool air. Leather creaks and hay rustles softly under-hoof. The whole place smells of damp earth and oil and animal heat.
Joseph moves through it without hurry.
His coat hangs over a beam, sleeves rolled up neatly to the elbow as he runs a cloth along a bridle that has already been cleaned once tonight. There’s no real need for it, but there is comfort in repetition—in checking what does not strictly require checking.
Order is easier to manage than the thoughts that tend to wander when the house goes quiet.
Then, the wind changes.
At first, he pays it little mind. The house has been unsettled since Mr. Earnshaw arrived back from the pub some time ago—doors opening sharply, a raised voice carrying faintly across the yard before dissolving back into the dark. Of course, none of it is his place to question.
Then, he hears it again: a sound beneath the wind. Not the horses, nor the hinges, but something uneven, breaking on an inhale.
He stills, cloth pausing between his fingers. His head tilts, listening the way he does when a mare grows restless in her stall. The sound comes again, softer and unmistakably human.
Setting the bridle down with deliberate care, his brows furrow as he crosses toward the barn doors, one left slightly ajar.
Fog has crept across the threshold, pale and low to the ground, swallowing the yard whole. The house beyond is only a darker shape against the darker sky.
For a moment, he sees nothing. Then, just as he’s about to turn and go back inside, movement resolves from the mist.
You.
You wander without direction, hair unpinned and loose about your shoulders, a thin chemise clinging damp at the hem. A shawl is wrapped tight around you as though it might keep more than the cold at bay, and your feet are bare against the cool, wet grass, though you hardly seem to notice.
His jaw tightens and he steps out into the fog, lantern light spilling into the yard behind him.
“Lass!”
Your head turns at once, a sharp gasp spilling from your lips as you start at the sudden sound. Hardly a second later, you’re moving, the prospect of relief carrying you through the dark, damp air. There’s no hesitation in your hurried steps as you cross the yard, closing the distance between the two of you as though nothing in the world could’ve kept you back.
He barely has time to brace before you reach him.
His hands come up instinctively, catching you at the waist as you press into him. The shawl slips between you as your fingers fist into his shirt, breath breaking against his chest while the warmth of him seeps into you.
He feels the tremor in you, the cold in your skin.
His gaze flicks once toward the house—dark windows, the suggestion of movement where there may be none, though he doesn’t wish to chance it.
Without a word, his hand shifts from your waist to your back and he turns you, guiding you firmly toward the barn doors. He moves quickly now, one arm tight around you, shielding your face against his shoulder as he steers you across the threshold.
The door is pulled mostly closed behind you, muting the yard and the house beyond. Lantern light swells warmer around you both.
Only then does he lean back enough to see your face.
Tear tracks glisten faintly. Your breathing is uneven, lashes wet against flushed skin. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, rough from work but careful.
“What’s happened?”
For a moment, you cannot speak at all, shivering still while the heat of the barn warms you. Your breaths are uneven and shallow as you press your cheek against his chest, as though lifting your head might undo you.
“Mr. Earnshaw came home drunk,” you manage at last, voice low and unsteady. “I woke when I heard a crash, h-he’d knocked over a decanter in the hall… I thought it best to see to it before morning.”
Your fingers tighten slightly in the linen of Joseph’s shirt, as though you expect him to vanish if you loosen them. “He did not… appreciate the assistance,” you continue, putting it mildly. Swallowing, you force yourself to lift your head enough to see his face. “He spoke as though I were—” you say quietly, shaking your head as though to clear it, “He said vulgar things, things no decent man ought to say.”
The words had felt wrong—ugly. You can’t bear to repeat them.
“I felt I couldn’t stay inside after that,” you finish, voice softer now. Your breath trembles again despite your best effort to steady it, “I wanted to get some air and… I suppose, I’d hoped you would be out here.”
His fingers tighten fractionally against your waist—brief but telling—before his hands lift to cradle your face instead. The calloused pads of his thumbs stroke beneath your eyes again, slower this time, wiping away the lingering dampness there. His gaze never wavers from yours, dark and intent in the low light.
“You came to the right place,” he murmurs. His voice stays low when he speaks next, steady as the flame in the lantern, though something in him shifts—turning sharp beneath the surface, “Good girl.”
Your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it—only barely, but enough to be heard in the still quiet of night. Heat rises unexpectedly beneath your skin from the weight of his approval, of how it seems to still something restless in you.
You hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until now.
Without meaning to, you straighten slightly beneath his hands—chin lifting a fraction, shoulders drawing back—as though you might better deserve the praise if you stand steady enough to receive it.
One hand slips from your cheek to curl lightly around the base of your neck, fingers pressing just enough to feel the frantic pulse beneath your skin. His other hand drops to your waist again, guiding you another step deeper into the barn, toward an old workbench where the lantern light burns brightest.
“Let me look at you.”
It’s not a request. His hands skim down your arms, checking for marks. Every brush of his fingers against your skin speaks of quiet fury restrained, though his expression betrays none of it. Only when he’s satisfied do his hands still.
“Did he touch you?” His voice drops lower, rougher, though he doesn’t move away. Outside, the wind whistles through the cracks in the barn walls, but inside, the air feels thick—charged.
The cadence of his voice makes you pause for a second, the genuine concern there taking you by surprise for the briefest instant.
“No,” you say at last, steady despite the tremor that still lingers in your chest. His thumb traces the line of your jaw again and you lean into it before you can think better of it. “He came close enough that I could smell the drink on him,” you admit quietly. “He caught my wrist when I stepped back—but I pulled away.”
His jaw tightens at your description of the event and, without thinking to, his fingers skim down until he can rub slow circles against your wrist with his thumb, soothing where the other man had grabbed.
“Good,” he says, softer this time.
Then, he shifts, stepping back just enough to shrug out of his waistcoat. The fabric still carries the warmth of him when he drapes it over your shoulders, settling it carefully before tugging the edges closed at your throat. It’s heavier than your shawl had been and carries the faint scent of leather and smoke and the clean, sharp trace of oil from the tack room.
Like him.
You draw it closer without thinking, heart racing as his hands linger there, fingertips brushing the hollow beneath your jaw.
“You’ll stay here tonight.”
It’s not a suggestion. You like that—how he decides things so easily. There’s something relieving about it—not having to wonder when you’re with him.
His gaze flicks toward the loft where fresh hay is piled thick beneath spare blankets—where he’s spent many a night himself. When he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable in the lantern glow, but his voice lowers, roughens—
“And if he so much as looks at you wrong again, you come straight to me. Understood?” His fingers slide from your throat to tilt your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His thumb presses just slightly against your bottom lip and suddenly the world feels very small. “Say it.”
“Yes,” you breathe at first, the word slipping out before you have a chance to steady it. It sounds so small in the space between you. Heat creeps up your neck a second later—not from embarrassment, exactly, but the realization that he won’t accept something unfinished. He never does. “I’ll come to you,” you say a bit more firmly, “I… I won’t try to manage it alone.”
The promise settles somewhere deep in your chest. You’ve spent so long anticipating moods, smoothing over tempers, keeping yourself small and unobtrusive—handling things quietly, enduring them all on your own.
With him, perhaps you won’t need to.
“Thank you,” you add, hands finding his shirt again—not clutching like before but merely resting there, feeling the solid line of him beneath the fabric.
The barn feels warmer now than it did moments ago, quieter.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely, at your words. It isn’t quite a smile, but something closer to approval—satisfaction. His thumb brushes once more against your lip before withdrawing, his hand instead settling against the side of your neck, fingers curling gently around the delicate curve of it.
“Good,” he murmurs again. This time, the word lingers, like a quiet benediction.
His touch lingers, too. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t rush to put distance between you. Instead, he stays close, his warmth bleeding into you through the borrowed waistcoat and your chemise, his breath steadying yours by sheer proximity.
After a moment, his free hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of hair back from your face. His fingers trace the shell of your ear before tucking the strand carefully behind it. The motion is absent, almost distracted—like he isn’t entirely aware he’s doing it at all.
“You should rest,” he says at last, voice low. His thumb strokes once along your cheekbone—then, reluctantly, he steps back, just enough to give you space to breathe.
You feel it, though—the absence of his warmth against you, the quiet where his fingertips had been resting on your skin. It feels like a test, almost, like he wants to know if you’ll follow after him.
His gaze flicks toward the loft, then back to you. “Unless,” he adds, quiet—knowing, “There’s something else you need?”
The offer hangs between you, unspoken but unmistakeable—his usual deference giving way to something far more intentional.
For a moment, you stay quiet—considering. The loft waits with the promise of warm woolen blankets and the safety of sleep. But the thought of lying there alone—with the dark, with your thoughts—makes something in your chest tighten.
And you’ve heard that tone before. You can remember the last time he’d used it, and what had come after—the way the hemp rope had felt tied neatly around your wrists, how he’d guided them upward before his hand had settled around your neck, fingers pressing in at the sides.
He’d been getting better at that, recently—knowing how tightly to hold you, when the pain was enough.
The world seems to narrow when he takes hold of you like that, down to the sound of your own breathing and the certainty of his hands. Everything gives way to instruction instead of chaos and structure in place of noise.
Your pulse quickens and you glance once toward the loft and then back to him.
The space between you feels larger than it should… So, you step forward, close enough that the distance he’d given you disappears and you can feel the warmth of his body again. Your hands lift and come to rest at his chest, just beneath his collarbones, fingertips pressing lightly.
“Joseph,” you say, voice softer now—stripped of any pretense. You search his face the way you had that first night, swallowing once. “I don’t want to think anymore,” you murmur, the confession barely a whisper. Your fingers tighten slightly against his shirt, “Please…?”
His hands lift and catch yours before you can pull them away; his grip is firm, anchoring, turning your palm upward against his own. His fingertips trace the delicate lines there, following the path of your veins, the faint calluses from scrubbing floors and hauling water.
He doesn’t speak, not yet.
Instead, he guides one of your hands downward, until your fingers brush the leather strap of his belt. The worn surface is warm from his body and familiar in texture, worn smooth where it’s been handled often, rougher at the edges.
You trace that difference with your thumb, cheeks heating. You’ve felt it before—in gentler moments, in stolen ones. You remember the way it feels when it’s drawn through your hands, how the metal of the buckle feels against your wrists or across the delicate column of your throat—how the sound of it moving through the air alone is enough to make your breath catch.
That’s what you fixate on—the first sharp snap of it through the air, the measured pause afterward, the sting. Your breaths quicken as you remember the way his hand would settle at the small of your back before the next stroke—steadying, claiming, reminding you to hold still.
Now, fingers close over yours, pressing them more firmly against it.
“Tell me what you’re asking for,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. There’s no teasing in it, no playful coaxing—only quiet command.
He already knows, but he wants to hear you say it—loves to hear you say it.
He won’t give it unless you do.
Your fingers tighten around the leather—not pulling at it, but acknowledging it. Acknowledging the want for that clean, burning clarity. There’s a beauty in the way each measured strike empties your head of everything but the present moment, the way his voice sounds when he tells you to breathe—to let go.
“I want you to be in control,” you say, more steadily now, “I want you to hold me still.” Your pulse jumps, heart thumping quickly in your chest, but you don’t look away. “I want… I want you to use it the way you have before.”
His exhale is slow, controlled, but his fingers tighten around yours where they grip his belt.
For a long moment, neither of you move while the weight of your words settles.
Then, with a deliberate slowness, he unbuckles it and pulls it free from the loops on his trousers, letting it slide through his fingers until it dangles between you—a silent promise.
His voice drops to something gentle, rough at the edges, “Turn around.”
He likes this part—those first few seconds after he really takes control. He loves to watch the way your lashes flutter, the way your shoulders loosen and fall just slightly.
Pulling his waistcoat from your shoulders, he hangs it over some nearby railing before his free hand slides down to your hip, guiding you gently but firmly—fingers pressing into the softness there as he turns you toward the workbench.
“Hands on the wood,” he says, close to your ear now, breath warming the side of your neck as he gathers his belt into a neat loop, holding it in one hand, “And don’t move them.” He stops then, waiting for you to obey, to see if you’ll hesitate or second-guess yourself, though he knows you won’t. You haven’t yet.
Already knowing what he wants, you move with practiced ease and bend forward until you can rest your palms against the smooth surface of the workbench before he’s even finished giving the order. He lets out a quiet, approving hum, watching as you lean down further, turning your head to press a cheek against the table.
“Yes, sir,” you say easily, voice breathy and soft but not yet the way it gets when he’s truly gotten you out of your own head—not when it goes all sweet and high-pitched, almost dreamlike.
One hand rests lightly at the base of your spine—steadying, possessive—as the other slowly gathers the silky material of your chemise, pulling it up and up and up, until your bare bum is exposed and the fabric is pooled at the small of your back.
Even though the two of you have done this a handful of times before, being exposed like this still makes you flush.
He can’t help but admire you like this—so trusting. Then, with one hand still resting against the base of your spine, he raises his belt, letting the weight of it hang in the air for a heartbeat just to hear the way you whine at what’s coming.
Then—
Crack.
“Ah!” The first strike lands firm across the backs of your thighs, sharp enough to sting, to steal your breath—but not hard enough to break the skin, not yet. The pain of it settles over you quickly, warming your skin and making you tremble.
“Count.”
You squirm a bit, shifting your weight from foot to foot, but you remain poised exactly how he wants you—hands on the bench, bent over.
“One,” you finally whisper, stuttered and soft.
“Good girl,” he mutters lowly. His fingers drag lightly over your heated skin, tracing the stripe left behind before lifting the belt again.
Crack.
This time, it lands just above the first, overlapping slightly—enough to make your breath hitch sharply. His hand stays firm at your back, keeping you steady when you jolt. Your back arches for a second before you relax, exhaling shakily while your fingers dig harder into the workbench’s surface.
“Again,” he orders, expectant.
“Two,” you whimper, head down, whining as he gently pets you for a moment to let you catch your breath.
“So sweet,” he whispers, thumb rubbing slow circles against your spine, soothing you even as he lifts the belt once more, “So obedient.”
Tonight isn’t about punishment; it’s about making sure you feel nothing but him.
Crack.
The third strike comes sharper, more deliberate—enough to pull a keening sound from your throat, to make your knees buckle slightly as the sting mellows into a pleasant heat.
But he’s there, catching you before you can falter.
“Easy,” he says quietly, grip tightening at your hip, “Stay with me.”
His thumb brushes your tender skin, assessing, before he leans down and presses a single, fleeting kiss to the slope of your shoulder.
“Three,” you whine after a moment, leaning more heavily against his side. Your breath catches in your lungs and you sniffle, eyes watering. This is nothing new, it’s happened each time before, always seeming to come with the release that the pain brings. “Please, more,” you whisper, swallowing thickly.
He presses another kiss to your shoulder, then the nape of your neck. His breath ghosts warm against your skin, steady despite the pulse you can feel hammering beneath his ribs where his chest presses against your back.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice laced with approval. His fingers skim lower, tracing the fresh welts, testing the heat of them. “So pretty when you take it.”
He lifts the belt again.
Crack.
This one lands higher still, right where your bum curves so beautifully, sharp enough to make your vision blur for a second, to pull a choked sob from your throat as the pang of it prickles over your skin like thousands of tiny needles.
But his hand is already there, soothing the sting before it can fully settle, his touch firm and grounding.
“Count,” he reminds you when you falter, your mind pleasantly clouded.
“F-Four,” you finally grit obediently, sniffling as another sob claws itself from your chest.
His fingers tighten at your hip, pulling you back just slightly against him to remind you he’s there. Swallowing thickly, you whimper as tears leak from the corners of your eyes, wetting the wood of the bench beneath your cheek.
Crack.
The fifth and final strike comes slower, more carefully—less about the pain now than the rhythm of it, the certainty. He gives you a minute, silently admiring the way your body pushes against his, the way your breath catches in your throat.
“Five,” you whisper dutifully and he hums at how dazed your voice is, all docile and sweet just how he likes it.
His free hand slides up your spine until his fingers can gently tangle in your hair, smoothing through the soft strands. He tilts your head back just enough to meet his gaze, pride settling in his chest when it takes you a second to focus on him.
“Look at me,” he orders. And when you do—when your tear-bright eyes finally focus on his—he exhales sharply and brushes his thumb over a stray tear. “Good girl,” he says again, quiet—almost reverent.
Then, without warning, he drops the belt entirely and instead, slides his hands around your waist before turning you firmly toward him, relishing the way you gasp. His mouth crashes against yours—hungry, claiming—as he lifts you easily onto the workbench and settles between your thighs.
The hard wood makes the welts on your bum smart and you whine, the noise muffled against him. He kisses you at a near frenzied pace, like he couldn’t hold back any longer. It’s messy, all teeth and tongue, but it’s exactly what you need.
His hands slide up your thighs, gripping just tight enough to leave bruises—enough that you’ll feel them tomorrow and remember. He doesn’t stop kissing you, not even as he shifts you toward him, pulling you to the edge of the work table.
“Perfect,” he whispers against your lips, pulling back just far enough to speak. His voice is wrecked, low with want, “Look at you.”
He doesn’t give you time to reply before his mouth is on yours yet again, insistent. His fingers thread through your hair to hold you steady while he kisses you deeper, harder. The streaks on your backside ache against the wood but the pain is distant now, secondary to the way his body presses against yours, to the way his teeth catch your lip just shy of cruel.
His kisses are hardly ever gentle, but you don’t want them to be. The roughness of them is settling, grounding you in the moment and keeping your thoughts only on him.
When he finally pulls away, it’s only to strip off his shirt, tossing it aside before pulling you somehow closer. His bare chest is warm against yours, his heartbeat erratic beneath your palms. You don’t fare any better, panting against him as if you’ve been sprinting.
“You’re mine,” he growls against your throat, biting down just once—marking. “All night. Understood?” He soothes the sting with his tongue before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath.
“Yes,” you breathe, nodding eagerly at his words while you hold him tightly, nails digging into his shoulderblades, “I understand, m’yours.”
Groaning, he presses his forehead against yours, the blue of his eyes nearly eclipsed by black.
“What is it you’re after?”
“You,” you whine instantly, entirely consumed by need. Your thighs tighten around his hips, keeping him pressed to you like he’d go anywhere else. Sucking in a shaky breath, your eyes go unfocused—only for a precious second—at the way the sturdy fabric of his trousers feels pressed against your bare center. “Want you, Joseph, please…”
The sound that tears from his throat at your plea is barely human—raw, possessive, hungry. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks as he drags you flush against him.
“Then you’ll have me,” he growls before crashing his mouth to yours again, swallowing your whimpers as his hands roam, pulling at your chemise until it’s rucked up around your waist, until his fingers can find your soaked center.
He groans against your lips.
“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His thumb strokes once through your slick folds, slow and soft. “Already like this for me?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before pressing two fingers inside without warning, savoring the way your back arches against him. A choked cry tears from your throat and you try to squirm, but his hand pins you down, keeping you still as he pumps his fingers deep and curls them just so until your thighs tremble.
“Ah!” You keen at the pressure, heart hammering at the way he grins when you shake against him. Frenzied, you claw at his back as he works you in a familiar rhythm.
“Look at me,” he orders and when you do, he smirks—wicked. “Good girl.”
Just as the pleasure begins building within you, he withdraws them, making you huff out a whine as he quickly undoes his trousers instead, pulling his cock free without ceremony. Panting, he lines himself up, pressing the thick head against your entrance—
And pushes into the hilt, groaning deeply against you.
Your thighs quiver around his hips and you jolt at the sudden stretch of him, whimpering out his name again and again while your body adjusts.
Distantly, you register that you must be making too much noise for his liking—especially for this time of night—which is why you hardly flinch when he brings one hand to your lips, clamping it over your mouth to muffle your pleasured sounds, as the other wraps around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze tightly, only barely—just enough to leave you feeling soft and floaty.
Once he’s certain you’ll be quiet, he moves.
His hips snap forward in a brutal, relentless rhythm, fucking into you with deep, sharp strokes that punch the breath from your lungs. The workbench creaks beneath you, the sound nearly drowned out by the slick slap of skin on skin, by the muffled little cries you make against his palm.
He watches you while you fall apart beneath him, taking in the way your lashes flutter, the way your thighs shake, how your body grips him like you’re afraid he’ll stop.
He wouldn’t—never.
He drags his thumb over your lips, smearing spit across them before pressing down harder, silencing you further as he leans in, his mouth hovering just above yours.
“Feel that?” He growls, voice wrecked, “Feel how deep I am?”
His hips snap forward again and he relishes the way you nod in his hold. His cock hits that sweet spot inside you, making your vision whiten at the edges.
“You take me so well,” he rasps, fingers flexing against your throat, “So perfect for me.”
And when your eyes roll back, when your body starts to tighten around him, he smirks and slows his thrusts just enough to tease—
Before slamming back in, unforgiving, until you’re sobbing against his hand and coming undone against him. The barn is filled with the sounds of your muffled screams and his ragged groans and the unrelenting, filthy rhythm of his hips as he spills inside you.
Only when you go limp beneath him, when your tears spill against his fingers, does he finally let go, forehead dropping against your own with a groan.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your shared panting and the occasional shudder of aftershocks between your thighs and the distant shuffling of horses in their stalls.
Then, with an aching gentleness, he pulls himself from you and gathers you against his chest. One hand comes to the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through your hair as though he fears pulling it too tightly now. The other smooths down your spine while you begin to settle.
He presses his mouth to your temple, easier now that the heat has ebbed. “Easy,” he says softly.
Your cheek rests against his bare chest; his heartbeat is still erratic beneath your ear, though it begins to steady as your breathing does. He bends and quickly retrieves his shirt before coming back to you, draping it loosely around your shoulders before drawing you closer once more, shielding you from the cool air creeping in through the barn walls.
After a moment, his hand finds your wrist again and his thumb presses lightly over the place where Mr. Earnshaw had dared grab you earlier that night. Something hard passes through his expression—gone almost as quickly as it comes. He rubs slow circles there, soothing what has long since faded.
“You’re all right,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you.
You tilt your head back to look at him. The lantern light catches the planes of his face—sharp cheekbones, lashes still damp from sweat, mouth parted slightly as he studies you in return. There’s something different there now—not the hunger from before, not the steady severity he wears during the day.
Something softer.
“You’re not just somewhere I run to when I’m in need of something,” you say softly.
The words hang between you for a second, fragile.
He stills. His thumb pauses against your wrist and his jaw tightens, only slightly, before he turns to look at you properly.
“You came to me tonight,” he answers, like that’s the only part that matters.
“I’d like to keep doing that,” you reply, heart skipping, “If that’s what you want.”
His gaze searches yours for a long moment, as though weighing something unseen. Outside, the wind shifts again, rattling the doors faintly on their hinges. The fog beyond the cracks has begun to thin. You can see it paling the dark just beyond the threshold.
“You don’t know what you’re offering,” he says softly. There’s no cruelty in it, no real denial—only weight. His grip on your wrist tightens just slightly, grounding. “It isn’t a small thing.”
Your breath falters, but you don’t look away. “I know enough,” you murmur. “I know I don’t want it to be just this.”
He seems to settle at that, shoulders relaxing a bit.
“If you’re mine in here,” he finally says, low and measured, “you’re to be mine out there as well.”
Your breath catches from the gravity of it, from the decision in his tone. The barn feels close now, warmer.
You lift your chin, just a fraction.
“Then I’m yours.”
For a heartbeat, he says nothing. Then he raises his hand and drags his knuckle along your cheekbone, though your tears have long since dried.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “you don’t need to wait for a reason to come.”
A faint smile, not quite visible but felt, teases at the edges of your mouth. “I won’t.”
“Good,” he exhales. This time, when he pulls you close, it’s with a gentleness you haven’t felt yet, as though he finally has something precious to keep.
Pulling away from you, he helps you down from the workbench, cooing when you wince at the welts across your bum. Kissing at your forehead once more, he helps you to the loft without another word.
The hay is warm when you lie down, the blankets thicker than they have any right to be.
He lies beside you, one arm curved around your waist, palm resting against your stomach. You fit against him easily now, and sleep creeps in quickly as the two of you settle together, breaths evening out.
Outside, the fog thins further, the first hint of dawn threatening at the horizon.
Unlike usual, Joseph doesn’t rise to see to the morning chores. Instead, he presses his mouth lightly to the crown of your head and closes his eyes.
When sleep finally takes him, it’s with you still tucked safely against his chest.
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