#postwarintimacy

Summary:

October 1948. The Middlesex Scandal is yesterday’s headline, but the county still whispers Joe Teague’s name like a prayer or a curse. With the bogs turning gold and the war finally loosening its grip, you and Joe decide to tradeily the knot in a quiet ceremony at St. Mary’s—twelve guests, one priest, and a ring forged from a melted-down .38 slug. The honeymoon is a single night in a borrowed cabin on the Mullica River, where the past knocks one last time, and the future finally gets a word in. Some stains fade in candlelight. Some vows are sealed in sweat and breath.

Warnings:

• Explicit consensual sex (detailed, loving, period-appropriate)

• Brief violence (one intruder, non-lethal)

• Alcohol use, swearing, PTSD moment

• Pregnancy mention (positive, no complications)

Rating: Explicit (NC-17)

Tags:

#JoeTeague x Reader, #WeddingNight, #1940sRomance, #PineBarrensHoneymoon, #SheriffInLove, #HealingSex, #PostWarIntimacy, #HistoricalErotica, #FoundPeace

The ring was ugly in the best way: dull silver, a hairline crack where the bullet had been. Joe turned it over in his palm the night he proposed, kneeling on the porch swing like a man asking permission to breathe.

“Figured we’d already survived hell,” he said. “Might as well make it official.”

You said yes before he finished the sentence.

St. Mary’s smelled of beeswax and confessions. Father Brennan—ex-chaplain, Guadalcanal cross on his vestments—married you at four o’clock, sun slanting through stained glass and painting Joe’s cheekbones red-gold. Ruth Greely, all grown up in a year, scattered late asters down the aisle. Deputy Kowalski stood best man, ribs still taped from the shack fight. Your cousin from the council cried into her handkerchief. Joe’s vows were short: “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep coming home. That’s the deal.” You answered with the only promise that mattered: “I’ll keep the light on.”

The reception was potluck in the church basement—spaghetti, kielbasa, three kinds of Jell-O. Someone spiked the punch; Joe pretended not to notice. At eight you slipped out the side door, his hand warm at the small of your back, and drove the Ford south through the pines to a fishing cabin Kowalski’s uncle never used after Pearl Harbor.

The Mullica River slid past the porch like black glass. Inside: one room, iron bed, kerosene lamp, a bottle of champagne sweating in a bucket. Joe locked the door, set the .38 on the dresser anyway. Old habits.

You unpinned your veil, let it pool on the floorboards. The dress was simple—ivory rayon, borrowed from the widow at the beauty parlor. Joe’s fingers shook on the row of pearl buttons down your spine.

“Never thought I’d get this far,” he murmured against your nape.

“Shut up and keep going.”

He laughed, breath warm, and the sound undid you more than the champagne. The dress whispered to the floor. You wore nothing underneath but gooseflesh and nerves. Joe’s eyes went dark the way they did before a firefight—focused, reverent. He traced the faint scar on your ribs from the night Needles’ pipe caught you.

“Still sorry,” he said.

“Still mine.”

You worked his tie loose, shirt buttons, suspenders. His skin was a map of shrapnel and sunburn, the Marine tattoo on his shoulder faded to indigo. When you pressed your mouth to the puckered scar under his collarbone he shuddered like a man coming in from the cold.

The bed creaked under your combined weight. Joe kissed you slow—mouth, throat, the hollow between your breasts—learning the geography of peace. You tasted salt and bourbon on his tongue, felt the tremor in his hands when he cupped your face.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered.

“Only if you stop.”

He didn’t.

He slid down your body like a penitent, mouth mapping hipbones, the soft skin inside your thigh. When his tongue found you, you arched off the mattress, fingers tangled in his hair. The lamp painted gold across his shoulders; the river kept its own time outside. You came with his name cracked open in your throat, the sound swallowed by pine walls and the hush of water.

Joe rose over you, eyes asking the question his voice couldn’t. You answered by guiding him in—slow, deliberate, the stretch and burn of finally. He groaned into your neck, hips stuttering as he fought for control. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back.

“Move, Joe. I’m not made of glass.”

He moved.

The rhythm built like a storm over the bogs—urgent, inevitable. Sweat slicked your skin; the headboard knocked the wall in a heartbeat cadence. You felt him falter, breath hitching.

“Look at me,” you said.

His eyes locked on yours, raw and unguarded. You clenched around him deliberately and watched him unravel—spine bowing, a broken sound that was half sob, half prayer. The pulse of him inside you triggered your second climax, softer but deeper, a wave that left you trembling.

After, he stayed inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing like he’d run a mile.

“Mrs. Teague,” he tried out, voice rough.

You smiled against his mouth. “Sheriff.”

A knock shattered the quiet.

Joe rolled off the bed in one motion, .38 in hand before his feet hit the floor. You grabbed his shirt, heart hammering.

“Teague!” A voice through the door—Kowalski, panicked. “State police just pulled a body outta the river. Queen of spades in the mouth. Thought you’d wanna see before the feds swarm.”

Joe’s shoulders sagged. He looked at you—naked, flushed, utterly unafraid—and something fierce softened in his face.

“Give me ten minutes, Kowalski,” he called.

He dressed in silence, movements precise. You watched him buckle the belt, slide the badge into his pocket instead of pinning it on. When he came back to the bed you caught his wrist.

“Bring him back to me, Joe. The man I just married, not the one L.A. still owns.”

He kissed you hard, tasting of gun oil and promises. “Ten minutes. Then I’m yours till morning.”

The door shut behind him. You lay in the tangle of sheets, river light flickering across the ceiling, and felt the faint flutter low in your belly—too early to be sure, but enough to smile into the dark.

Joe returned at dawn, boots caked in mud, eyes clear. The body was a drifter, no ties to Cohen—just a copycat with a deck of cards and a grudge against the world. Case closed by breakfast.

He crawled into bed still dressed, wrapped around you like you were the only solid thing left.

“Tomorrow,” he mumbled into your hair, “we burn the queen of spades. All of ’em.”

You traced the ring on his finger—cracked silver, unbreakable. “Tomorrow,” you agreed. “Tonight you’re off duty.”

Outside, the Mullica kept rolling, carrying the last of the war downstream. Inside, Joe Teague slept with his wife’s heartbeat under his palm and, for the first time in years, didn’t dream at all.

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