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To The Winter Soldier~ Oneshot

Summery: Y/N’s brother was one of the Winter Soldier’s victims. Years later, she finds herself writing anonymous letters to Bucky—letters he somehow receives. He writes back. Neither of them knows who the other is… until they meet.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Note: All characters except Bucky are mine!

Warnings: Smut

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

Flashback: Warsaw, Poland – 11:42 PM

The streets of Warsaw were quiet in the way only European cities could be in late autumn—wet stone sidewalks reflecting scattered lamplight, the fog low and heavy like a held breath. James Buchanan Barnes—at least, what was left of him—moved without a sound down a side alley off Krucza Street.

In this moment, he wasn’t James.

He was the Winter Soldier.

Emotionless. Controlled. Programmed.

His breath didn’t fog in the cold. His eyes didn’t register the beauty of the old city. His body moved like a weapon mid-flight—fluid, silent, deadly.

Objective: Terminate target. No witnesses. No deviation.

He paused just beyond a narrow gap between buildings, his dark tactical uniform melting into the night. The metal plates of his left arm were covered, but still glinted faintly beneath the sleeve as he raised a pair of thermal binoculars.

The man was exactly where the file said he’d be.

Caleb L/N. Age 27.

Hydra’s briefing had been brief. Caleb worked in cybersecurity, was flagged as a low-risk asset who had stumbled too close to a buried Hydra archive while decoding black-market data. He had passed the info to a Polish whistleblower before it could be contained.

Now, he was loose.

And loose ends were to be tied.

The Soldier didn’t question. He didn’t hesitate. He moved.

Caleb was walking alone, clutching a plastic bag with takeaway food, oblivious to the death tailing him from the rooftops. He stopped beneath a streetlamp to check his phone, brows furrowing.

One step. Another.

The Soldier dropped silently behind him, feet absorbing the impact. Caleb didn’t even turn before the strike came—a swift, brutal blow to the back that sent him to the ground gasping, the bag flying from his hands.

“Wha—” Caleb coughed, rolling onto his side, blinking through the daze. His voice cracked. “What the hell—?”

The Soldier said nothing.

He raised the silenced pistol.

Caleb’s eyes locked on his. Wide. Disbelieving. “Wait—please—don’t—”

The shot was muffled. The sound of finality.

The body crumpled.

The Soldier stared down, unmoving, watching until the chest stopped rising. Then he bent, retrieved the phone, and checked for surveillance.

No witnesses.

No mistakes.

He vanished into the shadows like he’d never been there.

The only evidence of Caleb L/N’s final moments was a slowly spreading stain on the cobblestones and a half-crushed paper container of pierogi leaking steam into the night.

Brooklyn, New York – Present Day

The dreams never changed.

Bucky woke with a start, sheets damp, body rigid as if still caught mid-mission. The image was always the same: a man’s eyes staring up at him. Not angry. Just… confused. Pleading.

Sometimes he heard the words.

“Please.”

Sometimes he saw the blood again.

He rolled out of bed before the echo could settle in his chest and paced to the window of the safe house Steve had found for him. The room was small, plain. Quiet. But not even silence could outpace ghosts.

He rubbed at his temple and sat on the edge of the couch, trying to breathe normally.

Caleb L/N.

He remembered his name now.

He remembered the moment they gave him the file, called him a threat, labeled the target. He remembered thinking—before they wiped it all clean again—that Caleb had kind eyes.

The kind of eyes that didn’t deserve a bullet.

But Bucky’s hands had delivered it anyway.

Because that was who he was made to be.

He leaned forward, face in his hands, and whispered through his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

But there was no one to hear.

Brooklyn, 3:15 AM

She wasn’t expecting the memory to hit her like this.

It was a candle. That was all it took. One stupid scent—amber and pine—flickering on her windowsill like the universe wanted to see if she was still bleeding.

She was.

It’d been four years since the government confirmed her brother’s death was the result of a Hydra mission.

Four years since she got access to the file.

And she still couldn’t sleep through the night.

She sat at her kitchen table, robe wrapped tight, eyes stinging as she stared down at a blank piece of paper. Her fingers twitched around the pen. The same pen she’d used to write to Caleb before his job took him overseas. Letters he never got to read.

Now she had something to say to the man who’d taken him away.

Y/N gritted her teeth, then finally began to write.

To the Winter Soldier,

You don’t know me. But I know you.

I’ve seen your face. I’ve watched that grainy footage more times than I want to admit. You were expressionless. Empty. You didn’t hesitate when you pulled the trigger. My brother was carrying takeout, probably worried he was going to be late to meet his friend for dinner. You ended that. You ended him.

I want to believe that you’re not that man anymore. Everyone says you were brainwashed. A puppet. A weapon.

But I’m still angry. And I don’t know where else to put it.

So I’m putting it here. With you.

She stared at it.

Then slowly signed her name.

—Y/N L/N

Three Days Later – Avengers Compound Mailroom

Bucky didn’t usually check the mail addressed to him. He never got any. Not until recently. Not until people found out he was alive. Most of it was hate. Some of it was apology. He didn’t read either.

But this envelope caught his eye.

No return address. Just his name. Carefully printed.

He opened it.

And the words hit like a blow to the ribs.

Caleb.

Takeout.

Please.

The letter fell into his lap. He stared at the name at the bottom.

Y/N L/N.

He remembered now. Her photo had been in the target’s file. Sister. Civilian. Innocent.

He hadn’t thought of her since.

But now—now he couldn’t think of anything else.

___

Y/N didn’t expect a response.

She certainly didn’t expect it to come back three days later in a matching envelope, her own handwriting on the front.

Inside, beneath her own creased letter, was a second note. Short. Clipped. Like someone who wasn’t sure how to speak anymore.

Y/N,

I remember him. I remember the street, the way he looked at me before I pulled the trigger. I remember that I hesitated for half a second. But not long enough.

There is no version of this where I deserve your forgiveness. But if writing helps, I’ll read every word.

—James Barnes

She read it again.

And again.

And this time, she cried not because she was angry.

But because somewhere in the wreckage of war and Hydra and grief, someone who should have been her enemy had chosen to listen.

Brooklyn – One Week Later

Y/N didn’t plan to write again.

She’d told herself it was a one-time thing. A single letter to scream into a void she didn’t think had ears.

But the void had answered.

And now it wasn’t a void anymore.

His words echoed in her head for days. Not because they were eloquent—far from it. But because they were honest. Unpolished. Unpracticed. Like someone who’d forgotten how to speak and was learning again, one word at a time.

There is no version of this where I deserve your forgiveness. But if writing helps, I’ll read every word.

Y/N folded the letter neatly, then unfolded it. Again. Again. Until the edges were worn and the center split like old skin.

Forgiveness wasn’t even on the table.

But if he meant what he said—if this man, this assassin, was willing to carry a piece of her grief for a while—then maybe she had more to say.

So she picked up the pen.

James,

I didn’t think you’d respond. I didn’t think you could.

I read your note a dozen times. I won’t lie—it made me sick at first. That you remember the street. That you remember him. It’s strange. You’re the last person to ever see my brother alive. You know something about his final moments I never will.

I hate that. And I hate that I’m curious.

What was he like? In those seconds, I mean. Was he scared? Was he in pain? Did he try to fight you?

Please don’t soften it for me. I think I need to know.

She didn’t sign her name this time.

She didn’t need to.

Avengers Compound – Bucky’s Quarters

Bucky didn’t touch the letter for a full day.

He left it on his desk like it was a bomb that might go off if he looked at it too long. He wasn’t sure why it rattled him so deeply—he’d killed hundreds. Thousands, if he counted the ones he couldn’t remember.

But Caleb wasn’t just a file anymore.

He had a sister.

And now her voice lived in Bucky’s mind.

He finally opened the envelope late at night, under the sterile hum of his desk lamp. He read the letter slowly, then again. He didn’t cry—he didn’t know how to anymore—but something curled in his chest. Heavy. Familiar.

Guilt had made a permanent home there.

He reached for a pen.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he owed her answers.

Y/N,

He was surprised. That’s what I remember most. Not fear—not at first. Just confusion. Like he didn’t understand why someone would hurt him.

Then came the pleading. It didn’t last long. I was trained to be quick.

No. He didn’t fight me. He looked like he wanted to talk. But I didn’t give him a chance.

I remember his eyes. They were light brown. They reminded me of my sister’s. You probably have the same ones.

I’m sorry you have to carry this. If I could take it back, I would.

—James

___

The letters continued—not daily, but often enough to become a rhythm neither of them understood. Y/N wrote when the weight of memory pressed too hard. Bucky answered with a kind of quiet reverence, never making excuses, only offering fragments of truth.

Did you ever wonder what kind of man you would’ve been if Hydra hadn’t taken you?

Every day. I think about the version of me who died in 1945. I think he might’ve had a dog. A little apartment. Maybe a record collection. I hope he liked jazz.

I grew up thinking monsters lived in closets or under the bed. Now I know they wear uniforms and follow orders. Did you feel like a monster?

No. I felt like a shadow. Like I didn’t exist at all. That was worse.

Do you believe in redemption?

Not for me. But I believe in trying.

Brooklyn – Late December

Y/N sat on the fire escape, bundled in a blanket, watching snow flurry down like ashes. The city looked peaceful in a way she rarely trusted. Caleb would’ve loved this view. He always said New York looked better in black and white.

Her phone buzzed with a new message from her friend Jenna, reminding her of the New Year’s party next week. She deleted it. She wasn’t in the mood for noise or laughter.

Instead, she reached for her notepad.

James,

I’ve stopped expecting your answers to make me feel better, but somehow they always settle me. It’s strange to feel comforted by the same hand that caused so much of this pain. Maybe it’s just because you’re the only one who knows.

I was twenty-two when Caleb died. He was twenty-seven. He used to make me pancakes every Sunday. He’d burn half of them and laugh like it was a victory. He told terrible jokes. He used to hum old movie soundtracks when he was nervous.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this.

Maybe I’m tired of hating you.

—Y/N

Avengers Compound – Midnight

Bucky held her latest letter like a relic. Each word was a heartbeat he didn’t think he deserved to hear.

He had read about forgiveness in books. About survivors reaching out to those who hurt them, about the impossible courage it took. But he had never felt it.

Now he did.

Or at least the beginning of it.

He sat at the edge of his bed, pen in hand, and wrote slower than usual.

Y/N,

He sounds like someone I wish I’d met. I’m sorry I didn’t get to.

Thank you for telling me about him. Every detail you give me is a piece of him that gets to live again—even if just in my mind.

You may never stop hating what I did. But I hope one day you stop hating yourself for surviving it.

I don’t know how to be part of something good anymore. But your letters feel like a start.

—James

By February, they were writing weekly.

By March, Y/N started to sign her name again.

By April, Bucky sent her a postcard from upstate New York, scrawled with a note:

This trail reminded me of something you said. About stillness. There’s a bench here under a pine tree. I think he would’ve liked it.

By May, she wrote back with a photograph—Caleb holding a guitar, mid-laugh.

And slowly, in the space between their words, something unfamiliar began to form.

Not peace. Not yet.

But something close.

Brooklyn – March

The photograph sat on the windowsill for three weeks before she sent it.

She almost didn’t include it. Something about handing over that moment—Caleb, mid-laugh, his guitar crooked in his lap, bare feet on a hardwood floor—felt sacrilegious. Sacred.

But she did it anyway. Because maybe grief didn’t mean hoarding memories. Maybe it meant sharing them, even with the person who had no right to them.

She didn’t expect a reply so soon.

Y/N,

Thank you. I stared at that picture for a long time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so alive. You caught him at a perfect second. I hope that’s the way you remember him most.

I keep it on my nightstand. I hope that’s okay.

Spring’s just starting here. I think you’d like the trail I found. It’s quiet, all pines and river rocks. I sat there today and thought about that bench again. I think Caleb would’ve sat there with you. Probably teased you about how serious you get when you’re thinking.

You ever smile when you’re remembering him? It’s okay if the answer’s no. It took me decades to smile about anything.

—James

Y/N folded the letter twice, pressed it to her lips for no reason she wanted to examine, then set it on her nightstand beside Caleb’s old guitar pick. She hadn’t played since he died.

That night, she picked it up.

Just a few chords. Nothing whole.

But it was a beginning.

Early April-

The rhythm of their writing changed. Not so frequent as before, but longer. More thoughtful. Less like grieving, more like two people peeling open parts of themselves one truth at a time.

Do you remember colors? I read once that trauma makes people forget brightness. When you were the Soldier, did the world feel gray?

Yes. Everything was washed out. Like a dream you can’t wake from. It’s only in the last few years I’ve started seeing color again. There’s a red door in Harlem I like. Deep, real red. Makes me stop every time I pass it.

Caleb used to call me “Firefly.” Said I always lit up rooms. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.

I don’t know you, not really. But your letters feel like light. Maybe the nickname still fits.

Do you ever feel like the pain is all you have left of the person you lost? Like letting go of it is some kind of betrayal?

I felt that way about Steve for a while. Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. It just means you’re making room. Room for what comes next.

I dreamed about you last night. Don’t panic—it wasn’t romantic or anything.

You were sitting across from me in a coffee shop. It was raining. We didn’t say a word. Just sat there. And it was the first time in the dream I didn’t feel angry.

Is that progress?

Yes.

Also, for the record, I panic less than I used to.

Maybe someday we actually do that. Rain and coffee and silence. I think I’d like that.

Avengers Compound – Mid April

Bucky stood at the punching bag, gloves off, sweat slicking his hair to his neck. Sam was gone, off doing recon in Tunisia. The gym was silent.

He stared at the bag, then turned his eyes to the little photo on the nearby table. Caleb. Laughing.

Y/N had written again yesterday.

This one was different.

James,

I’m thinking of traveling. Just for a few days. There’s a cabin in Vermont my brother and I used to visit in the spring.

I haven’t been back since he died. Thought maybe I’d go now. The idea scares me. But so did writing to you, and look how that turned out.

Do you ever go somewhere just to remember?

Or to forget?

—Y/N

He sat down on the gym bench, pulled the pen from his jacket, and started writing.

Vermont sounds like a good idea. Sometimes places can hold echoes. Good ones, bad ones. But they’re real. You get to decide how loud they get.

There’s a cliff on the edge of Coney Island. I go there sometimes. Not for anyone else—just me. I sit there and try to picture who I used to be. And who I could still become.

Maybe we’re all just trying to survive our memories. Some people drink. Some people run. Some people write.

You write beautifully. Even when you’re breaking.

I hope the cabin is kind to you.

—James

Vermont – Late April

The cabin hadn’t changed.

Y/N’s breath hitched the moment she stepped inside. Dust hung in golden beams of light, and the place still smelled faintly of cedar and rain. Caleb’s boots were still by the back door. His fishing rod leaned against the porch rail.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for her pen.

James,

It’s strange. I thought I’d break down the second I got here. But I didn’t. I sat on the porch, and I just breathed. The air smells like pine and ash. Like him.

I walked the old trail he used to love. I found the tree we carved our initials into. Y/N + C, with a lopsided heart. He used to say we were soulmates in sibling form. That no one understood him like I did.

Coming here didn’t make the grief go away. But it’s not strangling me anymore.

Maybe that’s all healing really is. Less choking. More room to breathe.

Thank you for helping me get here.

—Y/N

May–

The letters slowed.

Not because the connection faded—because something else was blooming.

He called her.

It wasn’t planned. He had paced for two hours with his phone in hand before pressing the call button. His palms were damp. His throat dry.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

Her voice was quieter than in the letters. Softer. Like standing at the edge of something fragile.

“It’s me,” he said. “James.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “You sound exactly like I thought you would.”

A breath escaped him—half-laugh, half-relief.

“Is that a good thing?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It is.”

They talked for thirteen minutes. Nothing deep. Weather. The noise outside her window. A coffee shop he liked.

But when they hung up, her chest felt warmer.

And he smiled, just a little, for the first time in days.

Late May-

The letters didn’t stop. But they changed.

More handwritten now. More casual. Like two people catching up, not clawing through darkness anymore.

I played guitar again yesterday. I was terrible. But it felt right.

You’re probably better than you think. I can’t play a damn thing. Tried piano once. Sam said I looked like I was trying to dismantle a bomb.

Do you ever think about meeting in person? I’m not asking. Just wondering.

Because I do. Sometimes I imagine us walking in silence. No letters. Just us. In whatever peace we’ve managed to build.

I think about it too.

Brooklyn – June

It was hot.

The kind of sticky New York summer that made people irritable and sunburned. Y/N sat on the rooftop of her building, Caleb’s guitar on her lap, pen and paper beside her.

She hadn’t written in a week—not because she didn’t want to.

Because she didn’t need to say anything new.

But she did anyway.

James,

It’s been a strange spring. But in the best way. I feel like I’ve been living in grayscale for years, and now everything’s starting to bloom.

You were part of that. Whether you meant to be or not.

I think I’m ready to meet.

I’ll be at the bench. The one you told me about. In the pines, by the river. Two weeks from today. Noon.

You don’t have to come.

But I hope you will.

—Y/N

Vermont – June

The bench waited.

It was simple, old wood and iron, nestled beneath two leaning pine trees by the river. The trail was quiet, save for the occasional wind dragging through the canopy above. Dappled light spilled across the clearing like fragments of memory.

Y/N stood a few paces back from it, her fingers wrapped around the strap of her bag.

She wasn’t early. She wasn’t late.

But he wasn’t there yet.

She sat anyway, her heart pounding in her chest like a second pulse. She wore her brother’s bracelet around one wrist—worn leather, initials carved in the metal plate: C.L.

The last time she’d sat this still with her grief, she’d been standing over a casket.

Today, the ache was quieter.

She didn’t know what she expected to feel when he arrived. Anger? Panic? Closure?

She’d rehearsed a dozen things in her head.

None of them came when she saw him.

He Appeared Like a Shadow Stepping into Light.

It started with the quiet crunch of boots on gravel. No fanfare. No sudden gust of wind.

Just footsteps.

She turned slowly.

Bucky Barnes stepped through the tree line like a ghost who had finally been given permission to live.

He wore jeans, boots, a dark green henley that matched the woods. His hair was tied back, jaw sharp with tension. His metal arm glinted once in the sun before he tucked it into his jacket pocket. As if it were still something to be ashamed of.

He stopped a few feet away.

Neither of them spoke.

The birds didn’t sing. The wind stilled. Time waited.

His eyes found hers, blue and uncertain and flooded with something deeper than guilt. Something human.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said quietly.

“I wasn’t sure I could,” he replied.

“Why did you?”

He swallowed. “Because I couldn’t not.”

She looked at the bench, then back at him. “Will you sit?”

He nodded once and took the far end, leaving a respectful gap between them.

Not a barrier.

Just… space.

___

“It’s quieter than I thought,” he said.

She glanced at the river. “He liked it for that. Said silence was where people got honest.”

“I’ve never been good at that.”

She looked at him—really looked. He didn’t flinch.

“I think you are. It just took you a while.”

A bird chirped in the distance.

He let out a breath, slow and long. “You look different than I pictured.”

She smiled faintly. “Let me guess—taller? Angrier?”

“Both. And louder.”

She laughed. It was short but real.

“I was. When I wrote that first letter, I wanted to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“But I didn’t.”

He turned to her then. “You could have. Every word you sent after that first one… It undid pieces of me I thought were set in stone.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze fell to her hands in her lap.

“I used to dream about killing you.”

Bucky didn’t flinch.

“I’d imagine what I’d say if I ever saw you. I practiced speeches in the mirror. But none of them sounded right. None of them made me feel better.”

“Do you feel better now?”

She met his eyes. “I feel something. And that’s a start.”

___

The path wound along the river, soft underfoot. Moss and pine needles coated the trail, and the world smelled like damp earth and time.

He didn’t touch her. She didn’t touch him. But they walked in step.

“How long have you been clean?” she asked gently.

He knew what she meant.

“Almost five years.”

“Does it get easier?”

He nodded once. “Some days. Others still knock me sideways.”

She paused beside a tree. “Do you remember it?”

His throat tightened. “Your brother?”

She nodded.

“Yes. More than I want to. Less than he deserves. His face comes to me sometimes… in flashes. He wasn’t afraid.”

She looked down. Her voice wavered. “He was brave.”

“He was kind.”

She looked at him in surprise.

Bucky’s gaze was steady. “He looked at me like I was still human. Even when I wasn’t.”

A silence passed between them. Heavy. Necessary.

Then: “He would’ve forgiven you.”

Bucky swallowed the burn in his throat. “Do you?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped closer and reached for his hand—the flesh one.

Warm. Rough. Human.

“I’m trying.”

He nodded. “That’s all I can ask.”

___

They talked for hours.

On the bench. On the trail. Back at the cabin porch, where she brewed him terrible instant coffee.

They didn’t talk about Hydra.

They didn’t talk about Steve.

They talked about small things—music, books, the way Bucky hated peaches and how Y/N used to sing in the car until Caleb begged her to stop.

She laughed again. Twice.

He smiled more.

When dusk settled, he stood.

“I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, surprising them both.

He blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to regret not saying it.”

He nodded. “I’ll stay nearby. If that’s okay.”

“Yeah. It is.”

He hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a folded envelope.

“I brought this. In case I couldn’t find the words out loud.”

She took it. “Thank you.”

He started down the porch steps, then paused.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you wrote to me.”

Her chest ached, but not the way it used to.

“I’m glad you answered.”

Later That Night-

She read the letter by lamplight.

Y/N,

There are some things I still can’t say out loud. Not yet. But I want you to have this.

When I was the Soldier, I didn’t know what I was doing. But when I came back… when I remembered… your brother’s face was the first one I saw in every nightmare.

I didn’t understand why until you wrote me. Until I realized what I took from the world when I took him.

You didn’t owe me anything. Not a letter. Not a meeting. Not kindness.

But you gave me all of it.

I can’t bring him back. But I can try to live in a way that would make someone like him proud.

Someone like you.

If that’s worth anything.

Thank you for giving me the chance to try.

—James

She didn’t cry.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because it did—and it was okay.

She folded the letter gently, set it beside Caleb’s old photo, and whispered into the darkness:

“I think he’d be proud too.”

Vermont – The Morning After

The rain had passed in the night.

Y/N woke to the smell of pine, coffee, and something heavier—familiar, but no longer cruel. Grief, maybe. Or memory.

The river murmured softly outside the cabin window.

She sat up slowly, blinking against the gray light filtering through the trees. Her fingers grazed the folded letter on her nightstand—James’ words from the night before still humming in her chest.

The hurt wasn’t gone. But it wasn’t alone anymore.

She made coffee.

At 7:02 a.m., she stepped out onto the porch in a sweatshirt and thick socks, expecting to be alone.

She wasn’t.

He was sitting on the stairs. Quiet. Still.

Bucky Barnes.

Wearing the same clothes from yesterday, his metal hand curled around a mug, steam rising gently in the morning air.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard her step.

“You always up this early?” he asked.

“I used to be,” she said, sitting beside him. “Not sure why today.”

“You expecting me?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “But I’m not surprised.”

He handed her a second mug.

She took it without question.

____

By noon, he’d helped fix the back step.

By afternoon, they sat at opposite ends of the couch—her reading, him silently sanding down an old chair leg he’d insisted needed smoothing. When she looked up, she caught him watching her more than once.

Neither spoke of the letters.

Or Caleb.

Not yet.

There was comfort in the silence.

And tension too—but not the volatile kind. The kind that builds like a storm behind the eyes. Quiet, patient, certain.

Later That Night –

She made grilled cheese.

Bucky chopped tomatoes for soup. It was domestic in the oddest, most surreal way.

He watched her laugh at herself for nearly burning the bread.

She watched the way he concentrated on cutting, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, metal fingers clumsy but careful.

“You’re not bad at this,” she said, a little surprised.

“Steve used to make me practice. Said if I could dismantle a Hydra bomb, I could damn well learn to slice an onion.”

She smiled into her mug.

When the food was done, they sat at the tiny kitchen table. Two bowls. Two plates.

“You always stay this long when you visit someone?” she asked gently.

“No,” he said. “But I’ve never had a reason to before.”

She didn’t push it.

He didn’t look away.

After Dinner –

“I kept thinking,” she said slowly, “that seeing you would feel like facing a monster.”

Bucky nodded once, not looking at her.

“But you’re not,” she continued. “You’re just… a man. With a lot of pain.”

“That’s the most dangerous kind,” he said.

“Only when it goes untended.”

He finally looked up.

“I don’t know how to let go of what I’ve done.”

“You don’t have to let go of it,” she said softly. “You just have to learn to live beside it.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Is that what you’ve done?”

“I’m trying.”

Their eyes held.

It was a long, silent understanding.

___

He took the couch.

She left a blanket and pillow on the armrest without a word.

In the quiet of the night, she listened to the slow, measured sounds of his breathing. And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone in the dark.

The Week That Followed-

He stayed.

Not every night. Not always inside. But he didn’t leave.

They shared space. Chopped wood. Took long walks along the water. She taught him how to make tea from dried herbs in the cabinet. He taught her how to patch a leaky pipe under the sink.

They spoke about nothing and everything.

About Caleb. About Brooklyn. About nightmares and silence and the weight of too many memories.

One night, she found him on the porch, jaw clenched, breath fast.

She didn’t ask. Just sat beside him.

Eventually, he whispered, “I remembered the first time they made me kill someone. I didn’t even know their name.”

She rested her hand over his. Flesh on metal.

“You know mine now,” she said softly. “That’s a start.”

____

It happened slowly.

A touch of his hand against her back when she tripped on a root.

Her palm lingering on his shoulder as she passed him a mug.

The way he looked at her when she laughed—like he didn’t believe he was allowed to hear it, but was grateful all the same.

One morning, she woke to find him asleep at the kitchen table, a letter in front of him he never gave her.

She read it anyway.

Y/N,

Sometimes I think about the version of me who didn’t kill your brother. Who never became what they made me. And I wonder if he would’ve had the courage to talk to you like this.

Then I realize that man doesn’t exist. But I do. I exist. And I think that has to count for something.

I don’t know what this is between us. I don’t know what I deserve. But I know I want to be someone who listens when you laugh and remembers the sound.

If that’s too much, I understand. But if it’s not… I’ll be here. As long as you let me.

—J

____

It wasn’t a letter.

Just herself.

Sitting beside him when he woke. A blanket around her shoulders. Two cups of tea in her hands. No makeup. No mask.

Just her.

“You stayed,” she said softly.

“I did.”

“I think I want you to keep staying.”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He reached out, hesitant, and touched her hand.

She let him.

___

They sat beneath the trees where they first met. Spring had leaned into early summer. The air was warmer now, the ground dry.

Bucky lay back against the grass, hands behind his head.

Y/N stretched beside him, close enough to feel his warmth.

“You ever think we were supposed to find each other?” she asked, voice light.

“I think we weren’t supposed to survive,” he replied. “But we did. So maybe that’s something better.”

She looked up at the sky.

“Do you still have nightmares?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“You ever see me in them?”

He turned to face her.

“Not anymore.”

____

That night, she sat at her desk and looked at the small stack of letters she’d once written in rage, grief, and aching hope.

She placed them in a box.

Not to forget.

But to begin something new.

When Bucky stepped inside, eyes tired, arms soft around her waist, she leaned into him without hesitation.

“You ever write letters now?” she asked into his chest.

He kissed the top of her head.

“Only to you. But I think I’d rather speak them.”

She leaned back, just far enough to look into his eyes. “Then speak,” she whispered.

“I want to touch you,” he said quietly, reverently. “Not just because I’m drawn to you. But because… I need to remember what it’s like to be gentle. To be wanted. If you’ll let me.”

Y/N brought her hand to his cheek, guiding his mouth back to hers in answer.

It started slow—sweet, lingering kisses that deepened as his hand slid around her back, drawing her closer. She could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying in the way he kissed her, like each brush of his mouth against hers was an apology, a promise, a plea.

She tugged his shirt up and off, breath catching at the sight of him—broad shoulders, strong chest, and skin crisscrossed with scars, memories etched into muscle. Her fingers trailed over the metal where it met flesh, her touch light but certain.

“You don’t need to hide from me,” she whispered.

He nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I don’t want to.”

She kissed the seam between metal and skin, a gesture so soft and intimate it made him shudder.

He helped her out of her sweatshirt, then her tank top, hands grazing over her ribs, reverent. His mouth followed the path of his fingers, kissing her skin like it deserved worship. When he reached her breasts, he paused—eyes locked with hers—waiting.

“Please,” she breathed.

He kissed her softly, his mouth warm and open over her nipple, tongue flicking gently, hand kneading the other breast. She arched into him, her breath catching at the careful intensity of him—so strong, so controlled, yet unraveling only for her.

“Bucky…” she sighed, fingers sliding into his hair.

He groaned into her skin, the sound low and broken with want. “You feel like something I dreamed and never thought I’d touch.”

“You’re allowed,” she whispered, pulling him back to her mouth. “You’re allowed to want. To take. Just… stay with me.”

They shed the rest of their clothes slowly, like each layer was a weight being cast aside. When they were bare, skin to skin, he paused—hovering above her, his body trembling with restraint.

“I haven’t…” he said, his voice raw, “in a long time. Not like this. Not with someone who sees me.”

Y/N brought her hand to his cheek. “I see you, James.”

He kissed her like her name was salvation.

When he entered her, it was with a groan that sounded like release and reverence all at once. She gasped, her body arching, welcoming him.

He moved slowly at first—deep, steady strokes, his eyes never leaving hers. Every thrust was a question, and her moans, her nails digging gently into his back, were answers.

Her hips rolled to meet him, her breath catching on every exhale.

“You feel—” he rasped, “God, you feel like coming home.”

Her hand slid down between them, touching herself where she needed friction most. He saw, cursed softly, and took over with his thumb, circling her clit in time with his thrusts.

“Bucky—” she cried out, her body tightening around him.

He felt her shudder beneath him, watched her fall apart with eyes wide and lips parted in ecstasy, and it undid him.

He came with her name on his lips, spilling into her with a sound that was almost a sob.

Afterward, he collapsed beside her, panting, arms wrapping tightly around her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like he couldn’t get enough.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.

“You deserve this,” she said softly, threading her fingers through his hair. “You deserve peace. And if you can’t believe it yet… stay until you do.”

They lay there, tangled and spent, the room still and silent around them. Outside, the forest rustled in the wind. Inside, nothing moved but the steady rise and fall of their chests.

She kissed the scar on his shoulder, and he held her tighter.

No more letters tonight. No more ghosts.

Only skin, breath, and the quiet place where they’d begun again.

-the end

you or nothing (fic)

bucky barnes x fem!reader | thunderbolts spoilers!!!

content warnings: mentions and descriptions of trauma and physical v!olence; implied m solo pleasure; self-loathing :(

word count: 8k. words.

blurb: when the Thunderbolts enter the void, Bucky goes missing. You take it upon yourself to find him, venturing into his deepest pockets of his shame.

“Where’s Bucky?” 

Your chest is heaving, breath catching in your throat, refusing to fill your lungs. This whole place is a mangled maze of nightmares. A psychedelic trip that you unwillingly flung yourself into, after sharing one last knowing glance with the other misfit teammates. Somehow, you’d found yourselves together, footed inside of one of Alexi’s rooms: it looks like his house, covered in filth, unkept and unhomely. He’s sitting on the sofa, eating three-day old pizza, methodically avoiding the mold spores. Every other bite is washed down with lukewarm beer. His gaze is half-focused on the television screen, illuminating the otherwise dark room with memories of his past. Memories of his glory days. The Alexi of the past sits harmless on the sofa as the four of you pant and look around in search of the missing super solider. 

“Where’s Barnes? Has anyone seen him?” your repeat, louder, more desperate. Ava shakes her head. 

“He must still be in his rooms,” Walker replies. He speaks with conviction but there’s a weariness to his eyes, telling of the horrors he relived to try and fight his way to a common ground. “We need to find Bob and Yelena, and put an end to this shitshow.”

“Not without Barnes,” you snap. You look around and take a shuddering breath. “I’ll go find him.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” Ava asks. Her British accent almost sounds sardonic. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. You study every window, every mirror, every reflection. You need a passageway to his psyche. Shaking your head, you murmur under your breath, “come on, Bucky. Gimme a clue here.”

A raspy, Russian laugh has everyone jolting. Your head darts to the Alexi on the sofa, half-collapsed in his seat. He’s pointing at the screen, applauding seemingly himself, a chunk of pizza crust catching in his beard. The glorious Red Guardian, nothing more than a washed-up has been. The present-day Alexi cringes, head bowing slightly at the insight into his ‘secret life’. But then something glimmers. It catches your eye. You take a step forward to a framed picture. The glass almost sparkles in an inexplicable phenomenon. Somehow, something in your gut knows. Bucky. You take a breath and swallow. You know Bucky’s life is scattered with shadows. Warping, melting black holes of guilt and shame and terror. Stepping into his mind might shatter yours. But if he’s lived it and survived, you can take a pass through to find him. With that, you let your fingertips reach out to the glass. They slip through it like parting water, giving way to a portal of kinds, and your eyes slip shut as incomprehension overwhelms you. When you open them, you’re no longer in Alexi’s living room . 

It’s cold. Water drips in the background, monotonous and repetitive. Drip, drip, drip. You’re standing on concrete, damp with puddles of water, stained with what looks to be oil and something darker. Blood. Metal walls built atop of cinderblocks surround you. Grey and dying. Lifeless. Fluorescent overhead lights dangle from the ceiling, lighting the facility like a morgue. You swallow your dread as you take in the view. It’s easy to denominate where you are without looking at the emblem shining proudly on the wall, like a hunter’s buck head mounted. Hydra.

Movement behind you has you turning, startled. You suddenly miss the company of the others. Of the Alexi sat slouched on the sofa. Your eyes fall on phantoms of Hydra, men dressed in white lab coats as if pretending to be doctors, dishonoring the name of scientists. That isn’t what makes your stomach drop though. What is, is the sight of the man between them. The man whose legs are dragging limply on the floor, arms slung over their shoulders. The man whose chest is barely moving, life barely flickering in his body, soul barely alive. Bucky. But not your Bucky - not the Bucky you know now, the Bucky you have the honour to call your closest friend and deepest confidant. No, a Bucky from the past. A Bucky whose mind was splintered into fragments, forced together to form the image of a Hydra. A mind that was wired to know only one thing: compliance. 

Bucky’s sometimes shared bits from his past with you. Back when you were in Wakanda together, he’d sometimes find it therapeutic to share snippets of his nightmares that had awoken him. You’d talk over glasses of whiskey or tea, sitting before a bonfire, swatting away mosquitos, absorbed in the noises of nature. The pictures you’d paint in your mind from his stories were like stills from horror movies no director would even dream to make. You’d listen, allow him to free himself from the clutches of them by sharing the load, if only slightly. It brought the two of you closer. A friendship no longer forged out of happenstance but instead out of trust. Understanding. 

But seeing it here, before you, played out like some twisted theatre, was different. This was almost a torture of its own. 

You feel bile scratch at your throat when they force him into the chair. They’re careless with his body as though he’s nothing more than a thing. A weapon with the inconvenience of organs. And like all weapons, he needed to be cleaned. 

The headpiece whirs to life, slowly inching down towards the frontal lobes of his head, as if taunting him with what was to come. You shake your head as if that might stop what’s about to happen. When the power whizzes to life, your hand clutches desperately at your thigh, clenching the thin, form-fitting fabric of your suit in a pathetic attempt to ground you. Blood draws from how hard you bite your lip. Tears sting your wide eyes. It’s like watching a car crash: you can’t look away. The human mind frozen in shock, gluing your vision to the horrible, detailed recreation of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes being scrubbed into the Winter Solider. His cries are the worst part. You never imagined them before. Your mind wouldn’t allow you to. Everytime it tried to conjure a picture, his mouth would open with soundless cries. But here, they echo off the walls. Bounce off each hard surface, shattering your eardrums, cracking your heart. They’re guttural. Feral. Something almost inhuman, primal that one would never need to tap into. 

The words. Those Godforsaken words that held Bucky prisoner for years. The Russian sounds jagged like rocks on the soldiers tongues as they speak them. Demand them into his head, for him to comply. For him to be theirs. He’s heaving, forehead sticky with sweat, hair thick and greasy. Uncared for. Nothing more than a means to an end. The shiny silver metal of his arm is near unrecognizable. You’re so accustomed to the sleek black Vibranium one that it’s hard to recall this former appendage. The memories it held. The history. There’s a twinge of guilt when you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to witness anymore. It’s a luxury to close your mind to it - a luxury he never had. But you know Bucky. He wouldn’t want you to see this. Wouldn’t expect you to stand there and subject yourself to his torture. He was considerate like that. Sympathetic in a way you endlessly envied. 

There was a job to do. 

Bucky wasn’t here. That means he must be lost in another room. A room shrouded in shame.

Shame.

What was shameful about this memory? Maybe all memories of Hydra came with that gnawing guilt, that he was their fist for so long. But as the scene continues to play, you realise why this particular reawakening. The briefing begins once The Winter Soldier confirms his compliance to the soldiers: Two people. Murder. Make it look like an accident. Steal the serum from the vehicle. No witnesses. 

Tony Stark’s parents. 

The scene before you hazes like you blinked, and then resets. Bucky is no longer in the seat, the soldiers and so-called scientists no longer gathered around him. Instead, he’s being dragged over, hauled into the chair. There was no time to dwell, not when Bucky needed you. God knows where he is. You look around you, searching for something - anything - that might pull you into the next place. No glimmer. No reflection. Nothing. 

“Bucky!” You yell. You cup your hands around your mouth and try again. “Bucky!” 

It echoes off the walls of the base. Nobody pays you any mind. Then, Bucky’s own yells shadow your own. You whimper, clenching your eyes, turning your head away. You can’t bear to hear it again. Your hands twitch as if to go help him, but you know it’s futile. You learnt that from your own rooms. After what feels like an eternity, the cries stop, and the room falls silent. Completely silent. There’s no dripping of water, no utterance of Russian words. Nothing. Your eyes hesitantly blink open and–

It’s daylight. You’re outside. It looks like…a park? You frown, glancing around and taking in the surrounding view. Trees. Lots of trees. Bushes and shrubs and plants. A long, stretching field of grass. Some schoolboys kick a soccer ball between them, calling at each other to pass! Pass to me! There’s a couple sharing a picnic. Children playing in the playground, chasing each other from the slides to the climbing-frame, chattering as they swing side-by-side. Parents sit on the bench and observe, chatting amicably between themselves. A dog-walker here; a duck-watcher there. It’s peaceful. Serene. 

“Mommy look,” a little girl whispers. Your ears prick and you turn your attention. She’s tugging on who you assume to be her mother’s sleeve of her coat. A small finger points over at something. “Look at that man.”

You remember where you are. Bucky’s rooms, resembling his shame. Your face crumples as you reluctantly follow the line of her finger. Bucky is walking, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other exposed. It’s only for a flash: he’s brushing some hair off his face. It’s cut short. It must have been from after the Battle of Thanos. The black metal of his hand catches the sunlight. It’s mesmerizing, the way the golden lines shine. You finally place where you are. Central Park. 

“Isn’t that–”

“Don’t look at him, dear,” the mother interrupts. She sounds alarmed. You clench your teeth. 

“But isn’t that–”

“Yes, dear. It is,” she hisses. She tugs the child protectively behind her legs, as if Bucky were to lunge for the child. Your patience wears thin. Bucky pauses his walk. He heard them, no doubt. He hears most things, whether he likes it that way or not. The mother gathers her daughter’s hand in hers and guides them away from the park. “That’s a dangerous man, Millie. A murderer. He should be ashamed, walking around a park near these children. There’s no damn justice left in this country.”

The mother leads them away from the park, the daughter in tow. The little girl spares one last glance at Bucky. He’s staring at his feet. His metal hand slips into his jacket pocket. You can practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him. He nearly shrinks into his frame. You begin to make your way over to him, to comfort him in the way you know best: a pat on the shoulder, to test the waters, then a hug, if that’s what he needs. Touch - gentle and caring in a way that he hasn’t known for so long. But he flashes out of sight before you can reach him. You glance around frantically. He’s reset, back to where he was before. You remember what’s happening. Remember the goal, the target, and shake your head. 

Looking around, you search for something that might lead you to the next space, but once again, nothing gives a tell. You break out running into the distance, towards the park, and the futherer you get, the sooner you realise it’s a mock-up. Walls painted like trees and people. You brace yourself, raising your arms up to your face to soften the impact, and force yourself through the walls. They shatter around you, breaking apart like drywall and paper mache, and you tumble forward. It’s reflexive, the tuck and roll you catch yourself with. You return to your feet, panting lightly, hands raised and ready for battle.

You’re inside. No, not inside, but in an object of some kind…Wind rushes through your hair, nearly knocking you off your feet. There’s something tonally different to the park, and to the Hydra base. It’s tense. Hairs prickle on the back of your neck and you scan the area for threats. Force of habit, with so many years working for Shield, and later as a vigilante. The price to pay for helping Captain America. You finally recognise where you are. It’s the helicarriers. The ones from…

Oh no. 

You know this memory. You know it well. It’s seared into your hippocampus, stained with blood, and no matter what you do to dispel it, it remains. You can understand why. It’s hard to force yourself to forget the day you nearly shook hands with death. 

It smells like jet fuel and fresh air. You frantically look around in search of the two bodies you know are here. On the thin metal bridge opposite to the one you stand on, you make out your figure. It’s strange seeing yourself, almost hard to recognise it as you. But you know it is: can tell by the hair and the suit. You’re determined, face stoic, as you race forward to the motherboard of the ship. The chip is in your upper legging pocket. You can almost feel the press of it against your skin now, as you watch. Then, your eyes land on something you never saw that day. They spot The Winter Soldier climbing up soundlessly onto the metal bridge. They spot him following you with measured footsteps, moving fast but with deadly quiet, like a fox stalking prey. You’re unaware of him, eyes focused on the target. Watching on, your throat turns dry as the Soldier retracts a knife from his belt. 

“Helicarrier two is nearly secure, Cap,” you inform the team through your earpiece. You pause to pull out the chip, and that’s when he gets you. 

The soldier loops an arm over your shoulder, tightening it around your neck. You stumble backwards, gasping out painfully as your air supply suddenly cuts off. A hand scrambles to his arm only to find hard, unmoving metal. You can still feel the pulse of dread that ran through you in that moment. You’d seen him before, fought him on the bridge with Sam and Nat and Steve. He’d done a number on Natasha and she was three-times the agent you were. He was quick, relentless, free from remorse. Your other elbow jams into his ribs and it’s just enough to have his grip loosen. You waste no time, whipping a leg around his ankle, tilting him enough off balance that you both stumble backwards. Another elbow, this time to the nose, and he grunts, falling away from you. You pivot and raise your fists, only in time to dodge his swing. You’re not as lucky the second time: he catches you on the brow. A fist-fight follows, of jabs and ducks. You land a few but they hardly affect him. It’s like he’s made of brick. Then, he sucker-punches you in the chest. The air flew out of you, winding you, and you catch yourself on the railing of the bridge with a pained gasp. He lands another to your ear and you whimper out, head falling forward. Blood trickles slowly from the lobe. You watch the scene from afar, but something shifts in you when the soldier raises the knife. 

“No!” you scream. You sprint ahead and collide with the soldier. You grab for his wrist and he looks at you. There’s pure ice in his gaze, no trace of Bucky in his eyes, and your blood runs cold. His metal hand locks around your throat and you gasp out. The ground slips away from you as he slowly lifts you. And then, you’re tossed onto the floor. Gasping for air, you scramble for purchase, desperate to stop the inevitable. You turn your face in time to see the Soldier plunge the knife into the side of your former self.

The scream she lets out has tears springing to your eyes. Her hand quivers as it hovers by the hilt of the knife, body immediately spiralling into shock. You can still remember the feel of metal piercing through skin and muscle. Tearing through the fragile casing of your organs. He twists the weapon and she cries out in agony, eyes clenched shut, drool falling from her lips. As you watch on helplessly from the floor, eyes wide in horror, you shake your head as if to plea for the Soldier to stop. But he doesn’t. He signs the death certificate as he pulls the knife from her body. Blood quickly seeps through her clothes. It pushes through her fingers as she desperately tries to force pressure on her own wound. The chip is forgotten by both you and the soldier. His mission is complete, for now: eliminate you. The soldier turns heel and strides away, ready to take down the next member of the team, to keep Hydra’s empire from falling. You rush over to the body of your former self, hands shaking as you check her over. Blood. So much fucking blood. 

“Please,” she gasps. You realise then, that she’s not looking at you. She’s looking at him. You forgot this happened. The pain mostly blacks out the memory, after he removed the knife. 

The soldier freezes. He heard you. 

Your voice sounds powerless, raspy as you struggle to intake air. “Please,” you try again, half-whimpering. “Please help me.”

He hesitates. You see it. It’s a flicker. Nothing more than a twitch of one of his metal fingers. But it’s something. A sign that he was still in there, fighting to come out, to help you. 

But he doesn’t. He has a mission. He walks away. 

The warm body in your hands vanishes. It’s as if you hallucinated her. That is, until you see her running towards you, past you, for the motherboard. It reset. 

“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. Your eyes press shut, taking a beat to calm yourself. 

The two of you had discussed that moment more than enough. You’d forgiven Bucky long before he even knew who you were. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have a choice. You never held it against him. Never blamed him for those months spent in hospital, in and out of surgery, tiring yourself out in physical therapy. And yet, it seems that despite those restless nights of talking it out, of you listening to his apologies and accepting each one without hesitation, it seems the moment still haunted him. You could understand why, the same way you understood why it still remained in your brain. It can’t be easy, letting go of the thought that he nearly ended your life. You just wished he wouldn’t blame himself for it. 

Before you open your eyes, you feel the ground beneath you change. It warps into something squishy and plush, and your knees give way slightly at the feel. Carpet. You blink your eyes open into warm, orangey lamp light. You recognise this place like an old friend. It’s your apartment. Your brows furrow. No, that doesn’t make sense. 

Bucky was your friend. Ever since Wakanda, the two of you had made some wordless pact to stick together. He understood you in a way that didn’t need verbalising. Could read you like a book from childhood, well-versed in your tells, your wants and fears. That’s what made him such a wonderful friend. You never had to perform with him. There was no need for filters, no room for embarrassment. You’d complain about your crappy dates over take-out; binge watch corny movies whilst sharing beers; try and bolster him up at bars when you went out with Sam and Jouqian for a drink; listen to him practice his speeches for his run for congress. There was no room for shame in your friendship. So…why were you here?

“You sure this ain’t too much trouble?” Bucky asks you. Your attention quickly pivots to you and Bucky. He’s hovering by the bookshelf, arms folded over his chest, dressed in sweatpants and a vest. You’re straightening a quilt over the sofa-bed that resided in your living room. 

“Would you stop whining already? You’re worse than Wilson, y’know that?”

Bucky chuckles at that, bobbing his head. You straighten, hands landing on your hips, and nod to yourself as you take in your handy-work. 

“That should be good. You want an extra pillow?”

“I think I’ll survive with three,” Bucky replies, humour evident in his voice. You roll your eyes and cross the room to him, pinching his cheek chidingly. 

“Just trying to be a good hostess,” you sing-song, walking past him and into the kitchen. Curious, your eyes remain on Bucky. He’s watching the past-version of you. A smile rests on his lips. One that you’ve never noticed before. It seems almost secretive, because the minute you turn to ask him something, it’s fading into a different kind of smile. One you now recognise. Your brows furrow at the picture. Weird. “A’right, here’s your water. You think you’ll need anything else?” 

Bucky shakes his head. He takes the glass from you  as he replies, “this is perfect, doll. Thank you.”

“Course. Me casa est su casa,” you smile, stumbling through disjointed Spanish. You cringe at your former self. Bucky chuckles, as if it might be endearing. 

“It’s es, not ‘est’,” he corrects. Then, he utters the phrase in perfect, fluent Spanish. The other you rolls her eyes mirthfully at him. 

“A’right, we get it Mister ‘I can speak twelve languages’.”

“Thirteen if you count–”

“--Hey! Keep rubbing it in my face and you can sleep in the bathtub,” you warn, pointing a finger at him. He raises his hands in surrender, laughing quietly. You then melt into a smile, easing up the act. Crossing the room to him, the you of the past tosses her arms casually over his shoulders in a warm embrace. “G’night, Buck. See you in the morning.”

You never noticed before, too caught up in the act of doing, but watching it unfold now, you realise Bucky’s reaction. He seems startled, which is strange, considering you hug him rather often. His arm slowly loops around your waist, holding you to him, and you watch that smile return. His eyes slip shut and he presses his chin gently against your shoulder. 

The moment shatters when you pull away, oblivious. You wave farewell as you leave the room, closing the door behind you. 

You stand and watch, befuddled, as Bucky finishes getting ready for bed. This is bizarre. What the hell is so shameful about crashing on his friend’s couch for the night? He does it rather often, especially when he moved back to New York. The nightmares caught up with him then, after the pocket of peace in Wakanda was sacrificed. People knew who he was. The government had burdened him with a pardon that he always felt was undeserved, and that seemed to trouble his psyche more than anything. Couple that with the ghosts of his past, from a lifetime ago before the war, back when things were more simple and familiar, and Bucky was knocking on your door with an apologetic smile. You’d always welcome him in, would never turn him away. The two of you would watch a movie or show, talking over most of it with mindless commentary, before you’d set up the sofa for him. It got to the point that you decided to invest in a sofa-bed. 

Now, watching the scene play out, you wonder if he feels ashamed for reaching out. For needing company and comfort of another’s home. You wonder if Bucky felt as though he should shoulder the burden of being alone. Men often felt shame for their mental health, so it would be wrong to assume that Bucky was different. 

The lamp remains on. You glance around the room in search of something that might be the root of the room. Maybe you left a pair of panties drying on the radiator, and he was ashamed of seeing them? That seemed rather tame compared to the other horrors embodied in this maelstrom of pain…

Bucky shifts under the sheets. Looking over to him, you watch, intrigued, realising the scene isn’t over. His eyes are shut, metal arm whirring as he brings it up towards the pillow, messing with it until it’s how he likes. He’s rather…cute. Sweet as he tries to get comfortable. An unseen side to him, human and regular, that’s weirdly endearing. You begin to smile. Then, your brows furrow slightly. He presses his nose into the pillow - your pillow - and inhales, slow and deep through his nose. He isn’t just taking a breath. He’s smelling the pillow. Your stomach twists tight, as if trying to knot itself. A small groan pushes through his closed lips, muffled into the case, and your eyes widen. Is he…

He takes another deep breath in. His eyes squeeze, lips purse, and something akin to…pleasure twitches his features. He rolls onto his back, the blanket shifting with the movement, and then you watch, alarmed, as the silhouette of his arm inches below the sheets. You can’t seem to look away from his face. His brows twitch together, teeth catching his lower lip, and then–

He hums, deep, guttural.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, quickly turning your back to him. Your hands fly up to your burning face, lips agape, eyes wide, stupefied. The sheets rustle behind you and he groans, quiet enough to go unnoticed by other you, who lays unaware in her bed. You squeak, hands flying up to your ears, mortification flooding over you like a bath of cold water as you accidentally intrude on a very private moment. 

A private moment, which happened in your living room. 

A private moment, which sparked from Bucky smelling your pillow. 

A private moment, which began from the mere smell of you. 

He rasps your name, no louder than a breath. You only just catch it. The way your name sounds on his tongue...It's hotter than sin, and you let out a startled breath. You’re ashamed at the arousal that pulses through you at the sound. Shaking your head, you straightened yourself out. You can’t listen to this any longer. It feels wrong. No, it doesn’t just feel it - it is wrong. Bucky has spent his whole life having his humanity stripped away from him, as if he didn’t deserve it, and you refuse to be another name added to that list of people who didn’t treat him like a person. You rush to the door of the living room and swing it open. You don’t look as you step forward. Rookie error. 

A scream rushes through you as you fall down, down, down. 

You nearly bounce back up when you land. It’s soft, softer than the carpet, and gives easily under your weight. A mattress. Thank God, you think to yourself, pushing up onto your knees with a huff. You look around the room, searching for the man you’ve been chasing through each twisted, turning memory. Returning to your feet, you straighten your suit. 

“Bucky?”

There’s no reply. You sigh, rubbing your forehead. Where the hell is he? Worry curls in your gut. What if something went wrong? What if his rooms were too heavy for him? What if he–

“Come on, doll. One more step.”

It’s his voice, but it isn’t him. You startle when the bedroom door opens. It’s only then that you register your surroundings. It’s his bedroom, the one from his old flat back when he lived in Brooklyn. God, that place was like a prison. He was punishing himself when he lived there. A sofa made of stiff leather sat before a flat-screen television. A kitchen barren of appliances or plants. The fridge was only filled with necessities. No art on the wall, not even a clock. The bedroom was just as desolate. A wardrobe organised with too much precision, almost display-art in its meticulousness, and a desk without any books or computer. The bed was comfortable at least, not that Bucky used it much back then. He preferred the floor. Would sleep on it in the living room with nothing more than a blanket, the hard wood cradling his body. 

You take a step back as if to make way, as Bucky and this former version of you step into the bedroom. You’re hanging onto him, nearly blackout drunk, practically dragging his sturdy frame down like a heathen. You can’t help but cringe at the sight, bringing a hand up to your forehead. It seems your legs are rather useless as you practically trip over yourself. Bucky catches you, keeps you steady. 

“Easy there,” he chuckles. 

You groan, flopping onto the bed face-first. Bucky stands, watching, hands on his hips, and laughs to himself. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” you slur into the bedsheets. You raise a finger in the air, arm wobbling as you do so, and Bucky laughs harder. He struggles to stifle them. He’s pretty when he laughs. Sounds young, carefree. It makes you smile as you watch. 

“Come on, party animal,” Bucky chuckles, grabbing your hand to help twist you onto your back. He kneels by your feet and undoes your heels, metal fingers meddling with the tiny clasps. You smile to yourself, unable to place the memory in your own mind. You couldn’t remember this moment, just the incredible hangover you were met with the next day.

Once again, the question begs: why this memory? Bucky is a perfect gentleman as he helps you get ready for bed. You can barely keep your head upright. Your body rattles with hiccups, eyes half-closed, make-up smudged under your eyes. It’s not a good look, to say the least. Bucky eases your heels off one by one, placing them neatly by the wardrobe. You watch as he hesitates, unsure whether to offer you more comfortable clothes to sleep in or leave you in your dress. He stands, glances to his wardrobe, and runs a hand over his head, fingers brushing through his hair, as he thinks. 

Your eyes catch a moving figure on the bed. You watch, mildly amazed that you even have the strength and coordination to do so, as you rise to your feet. Bucky hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy weighing up what to do next. He nearly jumps out of his skin when your hand lands on his shoulder. He turns his head quickly, body following soon after. One of his hands instinctively reaches for your waist to steady you on your feet. He’s confused and concerned, brows furrowing as his eyes scan over your squiffy features. 

“Doll, what’re you–”

Your mouth presses against his in a heated kiss. You gape at the sight, mind drawing a complete blank at the supposed moment you lived. Bucky’s hands fly up, hovering, frozen like statues, by your sides. His eyes are blown wide. Your hands cradle his face, holding him close, turning his face just-so as you kiss him with unexplained fever. Shaking your head, you watch on, mortified, as drunk-you forces Bucky into a kiss. 

And then…his eyes slip shut. One of his hands slowly lowers to rest against your waist, a shadow of a hold on your body, sinking into your skin like rocks on wet sand. He turns his head, chasing your taste, your tongue. Then, you listen as other-you sighs against his lips. That seems to flip a switch in Bucky’s head. He quickly pulls away with a gasp. His hands take you by the shoulders, holding you away from him, arms outstretched. He looks horrified, staring at you with damp lips and a heaving chest. You feel yourself wither with embarrassment and shame at the thought of forcing yourself upon him like that. Drunk or not, it was no excuse. 

But then he’s closing his eyes and shaking his head. It hangs, low, defeated, and he takes a slow, almost sad, breath. 

“Not like this, doll. I– You’re drunk and…It’s not…It ain’t how I pictured it…” he murmurs. Drunk you hardly seems to hear him. She takes a step back and melts down onto the mattress. Bucky helps you into bed with a distracted mind; guiding you under the covers and ensuring you lay on your side. Then, he heads for the door. He lingers in the doorway, finger hovering over the light switch, and watches you. A smile tries its way onto his face - that smile from before - but it is chased away by his frown. You recognise the shadow that casts over his face. You’ve seen it in the dead of night, when he’s awoken from a nightmare. You spotted it in Wakanda, when he pieced together who you were and what he did to you. You remembered it from the funeral, when Bucky realised that he’d never be able to apologise to Tony for what he did to his parents. Shame. One of his metal fingers lifts to his lips, as if he’s recalling the feel of yours on his. The room becomes engulfed in darkness. 

It’s only for a moment. You’re left alone with your thoughts, trying to organise them into some sort of coherent system. Guilt, for kissing him; embarrassment, for, well, all of it; sadness, for not even remembering it; and…longing. Was that what that was? That odd twisting feeling in your gut, reaching out like vines, clutching at your heartstrings. Sadness, maybe? You can’t make sense of it. The one thing you can make sense of is the recognition that not one part of you is angry at him. Not even remotely. If anything, you’re curious about his moment of weakness. About that brief half-minute, when he allowed himself to kiss you back. About the way he looked at you before leaving the room. Had he looked at you that way before? Did you never even notice the way he–

The light flashes on and it nearly blinds you. You groan, rubbing your face, and you can make out muffled voices down the hall. The scene is resetting. Bucky still isn’t anywhere to be found. 

It’s becoming exhausting, wading through these memories, confronting these pockets of Bucky’s conscience without him even knowing. Would he be mad at you, when you do find him? Or will he understand? There’s only one way to find out…

You slip out the bedroom door after you and Bucky make your way inside. To your surprise, instead of stepping into another memory or room, you simply enter his living room. You freeze. There’s a silhouette sitting on the floor, staring at the TV. Bucky. His knees are brought up near his chest, arms wrapped around them. Despite his large frame, body mostly muscle, he looks small. Fragile and scared, like a child trying to self-soothe. You glance around and wonder if this is another memory. But as your eyes adjust to the scene before you, you recognise his tactical suit from before you stepped into the void. His hair is longer, nothing like how it was in the memory, and his black vibranium arm glimmers in the flashing colours of the TV.  He’s watching a soccer match. Although, something tells you that he isn’t actually watching. You swallow and take a step forward. 

“Bucky? Is that you?” you tentatively ask. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He refuses to look at you, it seems. “Buck?” 

His head hangs. Relief consumes you and you let out a sigh, clearing the rest of the distance. You drop to your knees and throw your arms around him, grateful he’s in one piece. 

“Thank God you’re okay. I was so worried when you didn’t find us in Alexi’s–”

He’s stiff, still like a statue, unmoving like a corpse. Your words die on your tongue as you pull away, a hand lingering on his back. 

“Bucky?”

He swallows. His voice is hardly more than croak as he asks, “how’d you find me?”

“I uh…” You hesitate, unsure whether you should be transparent or not. It doesn’t take you long to decide. “I went through your rooms until I found you.”

His eyes press shut as if you’ve delivered news of death. His silence unsettles you. Your hand rubs his back and he leans forward, out of your touch. A pain stabs through your chest. 

“Bucky?”

“If you went through them…Then you saw it, right?”

Your lips move but no words come out. Instead, you swallow. Bucky isn’t looking at you but he must be able to catch you nodding your head in his peripheral, because his face becomes twisted with agony. 

“Oh God,” he mumbles. Balling his hand into a fist, he presses it firmly against his forehead. “I’m so fucking sorry…”

You shake your head, going to touch him again before freezing. Your fingers hover half a centimetre from his back. 

“Look, we…We need to go help the others and stop whatever the hell is going with this…thing that Bob’s become but…” He looks up at you then. Bucky’s eyes are damp with unshed tears as he holds your gaze, and you know you can’t bring yourself to look away even if you tried. “But I promise you, you don’t ever gotta see me again after that, yeah? I promise you that.”

Your stomach opens with a pit of dread. “Bucky, I–”

“--I’m so sorry, okay? You gotta believe me when I say that. I…” He gasps, trying with all his might to keep it together, “I tried so hard not to want you, I really did. I tried so fucking hard but I…I couldn’t help it…”

He clenches his eyes closed and grits his teeth, jaw going taut. He presses further into his fist, knuckles turning white. A single tear slips down his cheek. Your heart splinters and you fight the urge to wipe it away. 

“I couldn’t help it,” he whispers, as if admitting a sin to God himself.

You shake your head slightly, mouth moving uselessly. A small, shaky breath escapes you. Tears prick your waterline as everything you’ve seen hits you like a freight train. It barrels through your mind and tears your hippocampus open, flooding you with memories. A new light is shed on them. A perspective you never allowed yourself to see before. The unexplainable serenity and safety you felt in his company, despite the start of your friendship. The kind of safety that enabled you to share stories of your life with him without fear of judgement or rejection. The kind of safety that you sought out after a hard mission or a nightmare haunted you. The kind of serenity you craved when you were bored out of your mind on a mission, and Bucky’s off-handed quips were your only company through a cracked phone screen. The kind of serenity you were consumed by during the nights spent by his side, laughing as he teased you, raving over your favourite shows and sharing the theories and backstories to each storyline. Never afraid to be too much or too little. No, it was always just right. 

And now you see it. The longing glances. The tenderness in his gaze when his eyes landed on you. The extra layer of panic when you were in battle, scanning over your body to make sure you’re alright. The smile that you kept catching sight of as you ventured through his shame that was reserved just for you, when you weren’t even looking. And how couldn’t you look, because he was right there, all this time. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you breathe. 

Bucky frowns. His brows furrow, mind struggling to parse together your words. You shake your head, slow then fast, and swallow your anxiety because this was much more important. 

“I don’t want you to leave. I don’t…I don’t care about any of that, I just…I don’t…” You can’t find the words. Every sentence is weak, sandcastles in rain, and you shake your head and grunt, annoyed. Bucky looks at you, addled, and you wipe the tears from your cheeks with an aggressive sweep of your hand.

That’s when the answer comes to you.

Pushing to your feet, you extend a hand down to him. He blinks at it, then up at you. “Do you trust me?”

It takes less than a second before he’s lifting his hand and guiding it into yours. You help ease him to his feet. Then, you turn and face the door to the bedroom. As you begin to move, Bucky holds the two of you in place. You look back at him. He’s reluctant to meet your eyes. 

“I don’t…I can’t see that again,” he admits. Your heart squeezes. You gently clench his fingers in your hold. 

“Trust me, yeah?”

He takes a shuddering breath before nodding. His feet give way as you guide the two of you to the door. You turn the knob and close your eyes, steeling yourself for what you’re about to face. 

The only room you couldn’t bring yourself to face before, instead fighting your way to Alexi’s horrors. 

The door opens to a well-lit room. It’s modern, with floor-to-ceiling length windows lining one of the walls, and a sleek, silver bartop busied with guests and party-goers. Streamers decorate the ceiling, twinkly lights looped around pillars. Music plays from speakers in every corner of the room. Classic hits that everybody knows. Some people are dancing, others tapping their feet along and drinking, good-natured. There’s sofas which are occupied by chattering groups of friends and co-workers. A pool table crowded by primarily men, likely congratulating themselves on being the masters of the universe for another year. 

“Where’re we?” Bucky asks after a beat. You take a small breath before looking at him, forcing a smile that you know he’ll tell to be fake. 

“One of my rooms.”

Bucky frowns. You slowly let his hand slip from your hold. You know this evening well. It’s a repressed memory that enjoys making a guest appearance, most often when you’re around Bucky. The evening you realised that there was something more there, something deeper under your skin, but that you refused to touch. 

Dressed in a floor-length gown, you saunter up to the bar, sadling by the side of the present-day you. There’s no need to look at Bucky to know he’s watching.

You order a drink and toy with the olive skewered on a cocktail stick, sloshing it in and out of the martini. You take another glance over for the millionth time that night, eyes landing on Bucky. Not this Bucky, but the Bucky from the party. The one dressed in a suit that was designed for him to wear it. The suit that ruined all other men for you, because nobody else could possibly make it look that good. The Bucky that was currently talking to a gorgeous, tall blonde lady, with eyes that could bewitch and thighs that could kill. The Bucky that was talking to his date for the New Year’s Eve Party. 

“I don’t…” Bucky’s words fade into the rhythm of the song currently playing. He glances at you - you see it in your peripheral - but you keep your eyes trained on the phantom of your memory as she drinks. You know there’s bigger things at stake, an entire city in peril, but this feels a thousand times more pressing and important. If you don’t have Bucky, you have nothing. It’s a terrifying but simple conclusion. So you need him to see. 

You take a sip of your martini and let out a sigh. Your head hangs and you purse your lips, and for a long while, just stand there, alone, thinking. Then, your head darts up. You toss back your drink, leaving the olives neglected in the glass, and stride back into the party, eyes set on a random former-Shield agent who has been occupying the pool table for the larger portion of the night. You watch as you shake his hand, smiling all pretty at him, before the scene flickers and resets. Bucky shakes his head, looking at you. 

“I don’t understand,” he murmurs. “What’s so shameful about that?”

“It’s not what I did,” you tell him, unable to look away from the Bucky in the distance, talking to his date. He’s smiling. You think that’s what had bothered you the most. That he wasn’t smiling at you. “It’s what I was thinking.”

“What were you thinking?”

You chuckle humourlessly, dropping your head and gaze. A moment to still yourself, then you face him. 

“That I hated your date. That I hated everything about her, and wanted to fucking gut her in the middle of the party, and rip her hair out of her head, and scratch up her face. I was thinking that I hated her because…Because I could never be her. And I wanted to be her so bad, because I realised - at that stupid New Year’s Eve party - that I wanted to be the only person you looked at like that. The only person you wanted to see. I realised I wanted to be the best thing at the party, to you. And I wasn’t…And I hated her for that and I…” You take a gasping, short breath. The words that follow are guilt-ridden, your body shrinking with shame, “I hated you for it too. But most of all, I hated myself, because I’d…I’d let myself...want you.”

Bucky stares at you. His eyes dance over your face, searching for some lie, some sign that this itself was part of the mind games you’d both been thrown into. But instead, he just saw you. Saw it plain and simple, written across your face in big, black ink. 

“Why were you ashamed, of those things? The things in your rooms?” you quietly broach. 

Bucky grunts, shaking his head. “It was wrong. You were my friend - you are my friend - and I…I let myself fucking…” He shudders at the memory. You think you know which one is playing in his mind right now. Then, his expression deepens. Sadder. “I kissed you back. You were drunk, and you trusted me, and I took advantage and I let myself kiss you back, when I knew it was wrong.”

“Only for a second,” you tell him. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, quick, like he’s rehearsed this apology a thousand times before. You wonder if he’s thought of confessing, to clear his conscience. Wonder how long he’s let himself rot under the shame of harbouring feelings for you. Because that was what this was, right? 

“I don’t even remember that night.”

Bucky doesn’t seem to like the sound of that. His eyes close and he tries not to wince. 

“I wish I did though,” you whisper. “Cause that was the first time we kissed, I don’t even remember it.” 

He’s hesitant when he opens his eyes, as if waiting for you to take it back. But you don’t. You stand there, a shadow of a smile on your lips, and shrug. 

“I’m sorry I did that to you, but I’m not sorry I…I’m not sorry I…”

“You’re not sorry you what?” he pushes, wide eyes staring at you. It’s as if his whole world hangs on your next words. 

“I’m not sorry I have feelings for you. No matter how hard I’ve tried to be.”

Bucky gazes at you, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His hand twitches, fingers reaching out towards yours, and you meet him halfway. Loosely intertwine your digits with his. He shuffles a step forward, and his forehead slowly eases down until it rests against your own. You let out a small huff and he takes a breath in, and the two of you stand in the room of your shared past. 

“I’m not sorry I have feelings for you, too,” Bucky admits in a low rumble of his voice. 

Your hand lifts to his face, cupping his cheek in your hold, cradling his jaw. He finds your lips like ships returning home in the night, guided by the glow of a lighthouse. It’s sweet, and tender, and wistful from years of wanting. His tongue darts across your lower lip and you gladly give way, sinking into the taste of him as his hand wraps around your waist, tugging you closer, holding you near. Eventually, the two of you break apart, but you refuse to step out of his orbit. His nose nudges yours in a silent kiss, and you smile. A strand of his hair curls around your finger and he sighs, content. 

“What say we go save the world now, huh?”

“Only if you’re there too,” Bucky replies, tone lighter than you've known it to be before. 

You realise then that your absolute truth is the same for Bucky: if he didn't have you, he didn't have anything.  

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Interstate Love Song

Summary : Bucky tells the team he saw his Hydra days in The Void. You are the only one who knows him well enough to know he is lying.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Best friends to lovers. Fluff,  bit of angst, reader is mentioned to be an ex-cage fighter. Reader is part of the team. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. The title is inspired by the song of the same name by Stone Temple Pilots.

Requested by : anon (the ask is very spoiler-y so I have not answer that yet!)

Word count : 4.6k

Note : Please keep the post-thunderbolts* requests going! If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Before the Blip, you were just another number in the system. You were just another fighter in a concrete box, thrown into illegal cage matches as entertainment of the rich and corrupt. 

You weren’t there by choice. 

You’d been taken young, trained to fight, to break and survive. 

You, like many that ended up in the ring, had no family. For as long as you could remember, the only love you knew of was crowds that screamed for blood.

When Thanos snapped his fingers, half your captors turned to dust.

The door was unlocked, and for the first time, no one came to stop you.

You ran.

You later spent the next few years working in the shadows: Bounty hunting, private contracts, smuggling. 

You had no real allegiances, just a reputation: you always got the job done. 

You’ve assisted Sharon Carter with her art smuggling, helped Xu Xialing train fighters in her more ethical, opt-in cage fighting endeavours, and ironically, some of the same people you used to fight besides turned to crime when the world lost structure, so you started hunting them for cash. 

Others had taken to more righteous but extreme causes—like the Flag Smashers. You tried to keep your distance until Sam Wilson showed up at a bar you get your bounties from and dropped a name you hadn’t heard in years. And then Bucky Barnes sat down beside him and said, “We could use someone like you. Sharon Carter gave you a pretty good reference.”

The mission was to track down an old cage mate of yours who was loyal to Karli Morgenthau.

So you took the job. Then the next. And the next.

Working with Sam was easy—he had a leader’s clarity. Getting to know Bucky, however, was a bit of a slow burn. He was distrusting at first, he had little words to say for strangers.

You didn’t push, but the more you went on these missions, the more you started noticing the way he always kept you in his eyeline, the way he started covering your flank, and the way he actually laughed at one of your dry jokes on a mission in Beirut.

Over time, it stopped being just a job. You started grabbing takeout with Sam and Bucky. You stuck around their shitty motel rooms talking about music and how weird the world felt now. Joaquin started joining in, too, and somewhere along the way, you became friends. 

By the sixth joint mission with Joaquin, you and Bucky had inside jokes. By the tenth, he was texting you first when he was lonely— not Sam. 

It wasn’t that he intended to spend less time with the new Cap and more with you— but when Joaquin became his de facto second-in-command, it made sense for Bucky to seek companionship in you. 

Then came the day he told you he was thinking about running for Congress. You blinked and laughed. He shrugged, saying something about “making amends on a bigger scale.” And when you stopped laughing long enough to realise he was serious, you listened. You offered advice, telling him he’d need to hire a security team to keep his campaigns safe.  

“That’s why I want you to oversee it,” he said that day.

“Are you kidding me?” you chuckled, sipping on your beer in the bar he had chosen to hang out in, “I’m not a fucking secret service agent.”

“Exactly,” he gave you that infuriatingly charming grin— the one you were sure would win him votes. “I don’t trust those people. I trust you.”

So that’s how you became head of security for his campaign. And it wasn’t just work. Those nights often ended in long conversations. Sometimes you’d find him on his balcony after an event, and you’d just sit with him. 

By the time the campaign was over, you began working private security gigs around D.C., your apartment only ten minutes from his. You both stopped pretending it was coincidence when he started showing up with food or you’d crash on his couch after staying out too late. Somewhere along the line, you’d become his closest friend.

After everything you’d both been through, it just made sense.

—

Post-void New York, 2027.

Bob had just quite literally been dragged out of a personal hell of his own making and nobody at the table came out unscathed. Not really. Not after that.

But at least you all were alive. And starving.

Especially after Val ambushed you with that press conference. 

The five of you had decided on the dingy pizza joint. It was a miracle the place was even open considering what had happened to the city, the old red-neon “PIZZA BY THE SLICE” sign buzzed overhead like it was short-circuiting from your collective trauma.

Yelena had chosen the booth closest to the back. She claimed it was strategic—"less visibility from the windows"—but Alexei knew she just liked to sit with her back to a wall. She had a slice of extra cheese, grease dripping down her fingers as she methodically peeled off the mushrooms.

Alexei was next to her, cutting his slice with a plastic knife and fork like it was a fine steak. “I’m civilized,” he announced when Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Ava was perched on the end of the booth, chewing through two slices stacked on top of each other, sauce smeared across one cheek. Her tactical suit. had one broken buckle that kept slipping open.

John sat across from them with his boots up on the chair next to him, leaning so far back in his seat it creaked like it was about to break. He had a half-empty cup of soda and two untouched slices in front of him.

You were tucked into the booth with Bucky beside you. He hadn’t said much. Neither had you. But you kept elbowing each other every few minutes, like some kind of private Morse code. He could tell you were spiraling; you could tell he was deflecting. Classic.

The pizza in front of you was a crime scene of pepperoni and pineapple, but it was food, and no one had eaten in hours. The last time you'd all stopped was... hell, who even knew? Between the vault and New York, you probably haven’t eaten in more than half a day. 

Bob sat at the far end of the table, happily munching through the single marinara in front of him.

You tore off a piece of Bucky’s crust (because he didn’t really like the burnt bits) and popped it into your mouth. “Okay,” you said, loud enough to cut through the clatter, “Void Talk. Let’s go. Everyone cough up your horror visions.”

Everyone around you let out a chorus of groans.

“Nope,” said John, around a mouthful of dough. “Absolutely not.”

You narrowed your eyes and smacked him upside the head — not hard, just enough to remind him who was in charge of emotional vulnerability tonight.

“Ow! What the hell!”

“Johnathan,” you said, sliding into your Serious Voice. Bucky turned toward you slightly, recognising the tone immediately. “We are a family now. Families communicate. Have you learned nothing from all this shared trauma?”

“I learned you’re annoying,” John almost snapped, rubbing his head. “Also, don’t call me that. You’re not my mom.”

“You wish I was your mom,” you shot back. “You’d actually be emotionally stable.”

“And get your horrible taste in pizza?” he snapped, but kept earring anyways. “No thanks.”

“Rude,” said Yelena, pointing at the pie with righteous indignation. “This is quality dollar-slice. Best in New York. Kate Bishop said so.”

“Oh, well if Kate Bishop said so,” Ava deadpanned, finally skewering an olive. “Let me just re-evaluate my whole palate.”

“She has good taste,” Alexei defended, somehow sipping from two sodas at once.

You laughed. For once, you felt warmth in your ribs. You felt Bucky’s elbow nudging yours again, this time a little more gently. He still hadn’t really spoken, but when you glanced his way, he gave you that half-smile, the one he reserved just for you.

“Come on, then,” you said, “Trauma-sharing time.”

Bob’s smile faltered, the small in his eyes dimming in his eyes a little. “I have a feeling you all saw me in there,” he said, though he aimed it mostly at Yelena.

She didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for another garlic knot and tore it in half with more force than necessary.

Ava smiled, softer than usual, then said, “No shit.”

Yelena exhaled through her nose, like it took effort just to stay seated. “Mine was Red Room,” she said with a shrug. “All of it. The smells. The punishments. Everything.”

Alexei’s hand tightened around his soda. The can crinkled slightly.

“I saw the day I sent you and Natasha away,” he said, with a deep breath. 

Yelena glanced at him, eyes still unreadable, but her mouth curved just a little. Forgiveness, maybe. Or just understanding.

Ava poked at the toppings “Pain. Again. Thought I was over it, but apparently my brain missed the memo.”

You looked over, met her eyes. She offered a crooked smile and nudged your ankle under the table. 

John cleared his throat, rough like gravel. “Lemar,” he said, knowing everyone could put two and two with just the name. “And… my kid. You know the rest.”

You reached over and bumped your shoulder against his. This time, he didn’t flinch. 

Then the attention turned, inevitably, to you. 

You rolled your shoulders, and looked down at your grease-stained napkin on the table like it was about to reveal the location to the fountain of youth. “Cage match. My opponent was new. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen.” You picked at the crust in your hand. “I didn’t have a choice, it was kill or be killed.”

You heard murmurs of understanding around the table— sympathy, but not pity. Even John, who had the emotional bandwidth of a concrete wall most days, sighed.

No one noticed how Bucky’s eyes darted to you. No one noticed how his shoulders went just a bit tighter. 

Then Bob turned, casual and curious.

“What about you?” he asked Bucky. “You saw something, right?”

For half a second. Bucky looked like he might actually answer.

His eyes met yours briefly.

He looked away too fast for you to read it clearly and stood up from the booth abruptly. “You know what? This was fun. I’m gonna go… clean up,” he said. “Or get ice cream. Probably both. Anyone want ice cream?”

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed. “Oh, come on, Buck.”

He shot you a look — that subtle one that said not here, not now. The one that always left you guessing.

John snorted. “We know what you saw anyway.”

Bucky froze. “Do you?”

“Hydra, right? Gotta be.” John shrugged, still a little too smug. “It’s your Greatest Hits playlist.”

“Yeah,” he said, his pinky finger twitching as he looked away. “Sure. That’s all it was. Wouldn’t want to bore anyone.”

He grabbed his jacket, eyes flicking to you one last time. You watched him go and said nothing, for now.

The team went back to eating, like the moment had passed. Jokes began to be thrown around again. Slices were being grabbed left and right. 

But you didn’t move.

No one noticed how your smile faded into a worried frown.

No one noticed the twitch in Bucky’s human pinky as he stepped out.

But you did. You always did.

—

Later that night. 

Val spared no expense—meaning she booked seven rooms in a hotel that had more broken vending machines than working elevators. Still, after dragging the entirety of New York back from the void, even a spring-poked mattress felt like luxury.

Yelena had already claimed the room with the least stained carpet. Ava was currently phasing her hand through a vending machine to get free Hot Flamin’ Cheetos. John passed out with a half-eaten bag of pistachios in his lap somewhere in the lobby. Alexei was arguing with a front desk clerk about how he clearly deserved the king suite because of his "reputation."

Bob didn’t go to his room right away. You caught him sitting in the hallway for a while, back against the wall, head down like he was trying to recover. You passed him a granola bar without a word and walked away. 

That’s what he needed. 

Not pity. 

Just a constant reminder he wasn’t alone.

You and Bucky had been given rooms side by side. Which was always interesting. 

—

You unlocked your hotel room door with a dull click, the metal groaning like it hated being disturbed. 

You kicked off your boots—one landed upright, the other flopped on its side—and shrugged your jacket off with a sigh, letting it fall haphazardly over the armchair that should’ve been retired ten years ago.

The beige ceiling loomed above you as you stared up and nothing. You did your rounds. You showered, changed, and drank a bottle of water. 

Then you heard it.

The unmistakable thud from the hotel room next door. 

He was in.

You didn’t hesitate. 

Still wearing your pajamas— plaid pants and an oversized shirt—you slipped out into the hallway. 

You knocked, once, twice. 

He didn’t answer. “Bucky,” you called, your voice just above a whisper. “Open up.”

You heard nothing, but still waited. Then knocked again, harder this time. 

This time, the door cracked open.

Bucky was in his dark shirt, the fabric clinging to his shoulders, hair damp and curling slightly at the end. He was wearing a hoodie that was zipped only halfway, and his dog tags glinted faintly beneath the fabrics.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice frayed.

You matched it with a small smile. “Hey.”

Bucky stepped aside, inviting you in.

The room was dim, washed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. You climbed onto his mattress, sitting cross-legged at the foot like you’d done a hundred times before. 

Bucky stayed by the window, staring out like the skyline might offer him answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his hoodie,

You picked up a pillow and lobbed it at his head.

It hit him squarely in the side of the neck, making him flinch.

He chuckled. “Seriously?”

“You were brooding too much again,” you said, already reaching for another. “I had to restore balance to the Force.”

He caught the second pillow mid-air, tossing it lightly back at you. “What balance?”

“I’m the charming one. You’re the grumpy one,” you grinned, “It's the dynamic. We have to maintain the ecosystem.”

He rolled his eyes— but the corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile that softened all of his sharp edges.

And then, for a second, it slipped—just a flicker. Something must’ve crossed in his mind, because you caught the furrow of his brows. 

“You okay?” you asked, your voice lower now.

He didn’t answer, but sank down beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm brushed yours, and he didn’t pull away.

“Just tired,” he said, though it sounded like something he’d practiced saying. 

You nudged your shoulder into his. “You know I didn’t buy what you said at the pizza place, right?”

Still, he didn’t look at you. But you saw it. That twitch of his pinky finger— his right hand. 

Yeah. You knew.

“Why not?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing. 

“Because you’re lying,” you said gently, without sounding like an accusation. 

Bucky didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what you meant. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. He stared at the carpet like it might split open and offer an escape route underground. 

“I told you,” he said, the words slurred by exhaustion, as his finger uncontrollably moved again. “It was Hydra. Red and black nightmare sequence. All very on-brand.”

You just raised a brow. “Pinky twitch.”

“What?”

“It’s your tell. That’s how I know you’re lying.” You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. 

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching on stubble. “You are so fucking annoying.”

You smirked. “Says the guy who keeps inviting me in.”

“You showed up to my door in pajamas,” he said, half-laughing as he turned to face you. “And you just barged in.”

“I did not,” you insisted, shrugging, “and even if I did, you wouldn’t have stopped me.”

He shook his head but didn’t deny it. 

He let the silence fester in place before offering answers. “You really wanna know what I saw?”

You nodded.

He swallowed hard. You could see the muscles in his neck working. Still, he didn’t look at you.

“You remember that mission in Munich?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. It was a recon mission that went sideways. 

“You jumped in front of a bullet for me,” he said, like it still didn’t make sense to him. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I…” You furrowed your eyebrows. “I didn’t know you saw that.”

“I didn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Not at the moment. I was behind you. All I saw was you hitting the ground.” Then he looked at you, his eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, “That’s what I saw in the Void,” he said, voice shaking like a tightrope. “Over and over. I felt… useless. I– I… for a second. I thought I lost you..”

His hands clenched into fists on his knees and admitted, “I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

Your chest tightened. “That was your worst memory?” you whispered, almost in recognition. “Thinking I died?”

He flinched like the words had teeth and had sunk its fangs into his legs. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it means something,” he said, voice breaking at the edge. “And I’m not supposed to—” He cut himself off with a ragged breath, dragging a hand through his hair like it might help. “God— well you know what? Since we’re on this, what about you?” he asked. “You were lying, too.”

You gasped, only a little. “Excuse me?”

He gave a sad smile. “You don’t think I know your tell?”

You squinted. “I don’t have a tell.”

“You do.” He insisted, shifting a little closer. “You look down when you lie. You did it earlier.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but all that came out was a strangled noise of offended denial. “That is not—”

“It is,” he said, interrupting you. “So. What did you actually see?”

You looked away, then back at him again.

Because he deserved that much.

Because you didn’t want to lie anymore, either.

“Do you remember,” you said carefully, “when you got stabbed on that mission in Rabat?”

Bucky nodded. He frowned, confused.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I remember. Back alley. Guy with the gold tooth. You iced him before I even hit the pavement. Why?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice.

“That’s what I saw,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You, bleeding on the ground.”

He froze.

“The story I told—about the kid in the ring,” you added, your voice more hoarse now, “was true. All of it. It just… wasn’t what I saw in the Void.”

The air between you thickened, like the seconds had turned to diamonds and trapped you both inside them.

“I remember thinking I was too late,” you continued, words spilling before you could second-guess them. “I remember thinking I couldn’t get you to safety in time.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

Because now he knew you’d both seen different sides of the same coin in there.

Your worst memory wasn’t the ring. 

His wasn’t the Hydra orders.

Once, it might have been. But not anymore. 

The worst thing—for both of you—was thinking you had lost each other.

Not cages.

Not torture.

It was each other.

You exhaled, the edges of your eyes brimming with tears. He looked back at you like he was seeing you through an entirely different lens— like something had cracked open and the sunlight was finally getting in after a century of darkness. 

He studied you for a long time —eyes narrowed slightly, lips parted like he might speak but wasn’t sure if he should. 

Then he said it. 

Like he’d just thrown a grenade in the room.

“Are you in love with me?”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“What,” he echoed flatly, like he hadn’t even processed the question himself, as if the words had slipped out of his mouth without permission.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering in your throat like it wanted to escape. Heat warmed up your neck, your ears, your face. “Bucky—”

He leaned back slightly, like your flustered cheeks had just confirmed everything. “You are,” he said, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. “You are, aren’t you?”

“I am not,” you snapped to quickly. Without meaning to—you looked down. 

Fuck. 

“Oh my god,” Bucky breathed. “Your eyes—”

You scowled, half in horror, half in deflection. “You’re one to talk! Why was your worst memory thinking I died, huh?”

“Yours is too, dumbass! So what? ” he shot back, arms flaring in exasperation. “You want me to say it?”

“I don’t know!” you fired back, your voice rising. “Do you want to say it?”

Silence settled again. But this time, it wasn’t brittle—

“Fine,” he finally said, a lot quieter now. “I’ve been in love with you since that stupid night in Prague when you made me carry your three-foot-tall duffel bag full of grenades and gummy worms and said, ‘Trust me, it’s all essential.’”

Your voice came out barely audible, cracked around the edges. “Oh.”

But he wasn’t finished.

“And ever since then,” Bucky went on, “I’ve been more scared of the future than the past.”

Your breath hitched. “What does that even mean?”

He leaned in slightly, his eyes locked on yours, 

“It means,” he said, like it cost him something to admit it, “that my nightmares are less about Hydra and more about losing you.”

It hurt. God, it hurt, in the way truth always does. You could feel it echoing in your chest, splitting you down the middle— because you were friends, right? And just friends weren’t supposed to have these unbearable feelings. What was this going to do to your relationship?

Because everything had changed.

And now there was no going back.

His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, like the confession had physically cost him stamina. 

And you— You couldn’t breathe.

“You…” The word barely made it out. “You’re in love with me?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

You didn’t answer.

Your body stayed frozen, your mind reeling, spinning, flipping through every moment you could’ve known. Every time he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in a world that had never betrayed him. Every time you’d ignored what was right in front of you because it was safer to pretend it wasn’t real.

“But it’s okay,” Bucky whispered, eyes dipping to the floor once again. “I know I might be wrong about what you feel, so you don’t have to say anything. I know I’m—”

Enough.

Your hands grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, clinging on to it and bringing him ever closer 

“Shut up,” you whispered.

His breath hitched in his throat like you’d just knocked the wind out of him.

“Just—don’t say anything,” you said, your voice trembling. “Because if you do, I’m going to say something I can’t unsay, and then we’ll ruin it, and I can’t—I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

His hands rose slowly, palms open. He cupped your face, fingertips brushing along your cheekbones.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he promised. “You can’t.”

Your forehead stayed pressed against his. You could feel his breath against your lips.

So close.

“I’m in love with you too,” you breathed out

Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, just for a second. You felt the tremor in his body ripple through yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

Your voice was barely steady. “I’m in love with you, dammit,” you laughed a little. “I’ve been in love with you since Sam sent us on that mission to that cramped motel with one bed and no hot water. Since you patched me up in Munich. Since before Munich. Since always.”

Fuck. 

He didn’t wait.

He kissed you.

Not carefully.

But like hellhounds that had been caged too long had finally broken loose.

It was desperate. It was breathless. Mouths crashing, bodies colliding like you’d done this in every dream you hadn’t dared speak of. His hands slid into your hair, holding you close like he was terrified you’d vanish. And yours gripped the back of his neck, pulling him in like you were afraid you’d wake up.

By the time you pulled apart, you weren’t sure whose heart was beating faster. But you stayed close—foreheads pressed, noses brushing, sharing oxygen.

For a long moment, you didn’t move.

Then Bucky’s hands slid down from your face, fingers tracing along your jaw, your neck, and your shoulders like he needed to relearn you. Like he needed to prove to himself this was real.

“You’re shivering,” he pointed out, brushing his thumb over the hollow of your throat. 

“I’m not cold,” you said, breathless.

He chuckled. “No. You’re not.”

His lips brushed yours again, slower this time, like a promise instead of a question. And when your mouth opened under his, when your hands slid beneath his hoodie and found bare skin, the heat roared to life like it had just been waiting for permission.

The kiss deepened—a little reckless, all tangled need and pent-up frustration. His hands found your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him, and God—you’d felt his strength before, on missions, in training, but this was different. This was personal.

This was want.

“You always smell like gunpowder and cinnamon,” he muttered against your jaw, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.

“I just smell like gunpowder,” You laughed—half-dazed. “You smell like cinnamon.”

“Hmmm,” he said, trailing kisses down your neck, “whatever.”

You sighed, tilting your head to give him more space, your fingers tugging gently at the waistband of his sweatpants.

He groaned as his hands slid under your shirt, palm flat against your lower back. You gasped at the contact and he froze, just for a second.

“You okay?” he asked. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

You looked at him—his hair was mussed, lips swollen. He had a familiar crease between his brows that said he was afraid of wanting too much.

So you kissed it.

“We’ve survived everything else together," you whispered, "Don’t you think we can survive wanting each other, too?”

He backed you toward the headboard slowly, lips never leaving yours, hands exploring like he’d been dying to touch you for two years and finally had the courage. You fell back with a breathless laugh, legs tangling instinctively around his hips.

Bucky settled over you like he belonged there—which he did. Every inch of him was familiar and new all at once.

“Still in pajamas,” he complained, grinning against your collarbone.

“What, don’t like em’?”

“Never,” he said, mouth sliding lower, “but they’re in my way.”

You gasped as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your pants, his eyes locking on yours. You nodded as he peeled them off.

This wasn’t just chemistry. It wasn’t just lust.

This was two years of friendship, late-night missions, teasing over meals, arguments that always ended in laughter—this was trust.

This was love, finally allowed to want.

-end.

​​General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125

@buckybarneswife125 @wingstoyourdreams

From This Time, Unchained

jackson!joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: joel doesn't know why, of all the people in jackson, you've chosen him.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), BIG age gap (20s/60s) (does it look like igaf), smut, begging kink, praise kink, oral (f. receiving), breast play, dacryphilia, hurt/comfort, soft!joel, insecure!joel, fluff bc my dying man deserves it💔 #joelmillerapologistclub

word count: 8,554 words

side note: joel miller widow club where u at??? i wish i could write a fix-it fic but my heart is too heavy even after a week lol and my ass too people pleaser-ish to write allat. (i haven't seen last night's ep yet bc this weekend has been ass!!) so, instead, have this piece because peepaw deserves love and a good fuck with his glasses on! (shout out to my joel miller playlist, u saved me girl) (also girl why did i battle with this like for four days lmaoooo not me posting it 9 seconds before midnight)

Joel Miller is a busy man.

All of Jackson seems to need him. Be it his neighbours, with a broken faucet or be the council, for his skills in construction, or even Maria and Tommy, when they wanted some time alone and he got to be the fun uncle for a couple of hours. Even Ellie, who didn't need him, as she liked to remind him, yet he still found himself in her garage, where she moved despite his reluctance, dusting off shelves or the forgotten guitar in a corner, all to feel useful for the one who he cared for the most.

That spot was debatable, thought. There was his brother, his niece, maybe Maria, Ellie, recently Dina and well, you.

You. Sweet you. Town's favorite girl. A complete dream. The girl next door embodied. Looks that aim to kill. It killed him. So damn perfect he can't help but wonder why, of all Jackson, you'd choose brooding old Joel Miller.

The one you'd give your smiles to, because even if you shared it to the world, your reserved your best for him only. His patrol partner, the beauty of the snowed-in landscape barely rivaling your own. Who you'd give your hours, always appearing when he needed you most, eyes open wide with that shine of theirs it was impossible to resist, not to trust. He had been a faithless man for too long, wandering in the dark. Eyes closed. Then came Ellie, and it was gone, coming back the days when Sarah was his babygirl. But it returned when she pushed him away, but you had stepped in, not as a replacement but as an oath. Something to hold on.

To believe.

In anything. In you. In the us, silent but strong. Watchful, like the stars shinning above in the sky, twinkling as the sound of your laugh when you and him would watch them, sitting on his roof. He let this things happen, let his guard down and allowed himself to be childish and soft, even if his joints ached when he got up and he could fall. But you were there, and falling... It didn't sound bad.

(He knew you'd be there to catch him, anyway. Even if you weren't that strong and he wasn't exactly... well, featherweight)

Right now, he's working. Not for Jackson, but or you. Furrowed brow and shoulders slumped over his table at the workshop, concentrated, his glasses perched on his nose. He hates them, another reminder of the time passed by, yet there's no option. At least not if he wants to give you the very best.

Ah, yes. His latest project. A little wood carving. Doesn't have a shape yet, like your relationship. He chuckles to himself, feeling silly. What where labels anymore in this world, anyway? Still, he can't fanthom the nature of it. It sounded more like a perverted old man's fantasy, if he's being honest, the glances thrown his way from townsfolk a little cruel reminder. You're no good, you'd jokingly sing that one song and, despite the judgment, he'd smile. For you, anything.

Like the figurine. Joel finally sees it take shape. And then there's a knock in the door. Sharp. Same as yesterday, and as the year before ever since he's had you like this.

"Come in" he says, not looking up as you enter.

He's too focused, voice sounding gruff for the long hours of silence since he sat down with an idea in mind; pounding heart, trembling hands.

"Hey, Joel"

He takes his glasses off, placing them on the table, before standing up to greet you. He crosses the short distance and wraps his arms around you in a tender hug, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. He smells like wood and sweat. His musk lingers, so does his tight embrace. As if you'd dissappear if he didn't.

"Missed ya', sweet girl" he mumbles, voice muffled.

You giggle a bit. "I was gone for an hour. Are you getting clingy on me, Miller?"

You loved to tease him. Bad habit of yours. He lets out a low chuckle that rumbles on his chest and against your skin. He pulls back from the hug, yet his arms now drop to your waist, because he's addicted to keeping you close.

"Too damn long" he protests, carrying his southern accent within.

"I love when that Texan drawl slips in" you sigh, poking his cheek. He leans into your touch, like a touch-starved puppy. You then look at him, pouting your lips with a small frown. "Hey, and your glasses?"

"Huh?" he looks at the pair, sitting on the table. Forgotten. "Over'ere. For?"

You shrug. Joel shoots you a suspicious look. "Darlin', why you so interested in my glasses?"

You avert his gaze. The floor is more interesting now.

"Honey... Look at me. S'okay if you don't wanna-"

"I like how you look when you wear them" you finally blurt out, too fast and too quiet.

He's taken back by that. Eyes wide, probably written all over his face. Yet you refuse to look at him. He tips your chin up, so you can meet his gaze. It's soft, making your legs wobbly.

"Is that so?" he asks, teasingly. He still can't believe you actually like them. "You like when old men wear them glasses, baby?"

"Hhm, yeah" you hum. "More if it's you"

His heart skips a beat at your response. Fuck. He's gone soft, too soft. He feels his face heat up, chuckling in an attempt to cover it. Then, runs a hand through his hair, letting it rest on the base of his neck, a tell-tale sign he's feeling awkward. Flustered, even.

"You gon' give me a heart attack, honey. 'M too old for ya' to say things like that"

"Aw, old man can't take a compliment?" you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck. Then, you stand up on your tiptoes to whisper on his ear. "You're cute when you blush"

Joel's sure his face has gone redder, breath hitching as well. Still, he manages to put his arms around your waist, holding you close.

"You're real bad" he grumbles, though there's no bite on his tone. He hides his face again in the crook of your neck. "And I'm not blushing"

You giggle, patting his head lightly as your fingers trace his now long hair. If it didn't drive you wild...

"Then stop hiding"

Joel relaxes under your touch. "You're trouble. I'm serious 'bout the heart attack"

"No" you exaggerate, rocking him slightly. "Don't die"

He looks up at you, smirking as he groans with fake annoyance.

"If you keep that up, I might do"

"Then who will I bore with my failed recipes and gossip?"

"Thankfully, not me"

You groan. "Oh, shut up you old man"

You're always calling him that. Not that he minds, he knows you're not doing it with malice, but sometimes it annoys him. For example, today.

"Well, you chose 'tis old man so don't go complainin', honey"

You huff. "Unfortunately, I love this old man with his old-man ways. Like your woodcarving"

After saying so, you take a small peek over his figure, still drapped over your chest and neck, to the table behind. "Speaking of, can I see what you're doing?"

He looks back, where he's left the figurine unnattended after your arrival. Lets go of you, taking a step back so you get a better look.

"Sure, darlin'. Go'head"

Joel thinks he's good at hiding the nervousness in his voice as you approach the table. He crosses and uncrosses his arms, anxiously.

"Your glasses" almost in a reflex, passing them to him before seeing what's on the table. "Can you wear them, Joel? Pretty please"

He takes the glasses from your hands, fingers brushing. It may be that or your request that make his heart jump. You can see some hesitation on him before he puts them on. Looking down at you, smirking, Joel smiles.

"There ya' go, sweet girl. Happy now?" he asks, a hint of huskiness in his voice.

"So much better" you tap them lightly, "and so is your vision"

Joel let's out a small chuckle, grinning like a fool. Honestly, he loves the attention.

(He's never going to admit it out loud, though)

"You do know how'da flatter an old man, huh"

You smirk, moving to the table again. "Oh, I love flattering him. Now, show me what you're working on"

There's a block of wood on the center. Cut sharp. Perfectly. He's been obssesive with it, maybe. There's a sketch, and the figurine only has been carved at the bottom, where a tail begins to take shape.

"I know am not an artist, but I tried"

You remain silent, making him a little nervous.

"S'a deer" he explains, gruffly, looking into your eyes for a reaction.

"A deer? Like, Bambi?" you ask in awe, softly tracing the wood. Your words get stuck, like honey. Sweet but sticky. "Joel..."

His heart swells a bit at your tone, expression soft as he recognizes admiration in your tone.

"Yeah, like damn Bambi" he murmurs, hands itchy. First, he shoves them on his pockets, just to take them out and place them on his hips instead, his jacket now open, the silhoutte of his tummy under his shirt showing, the flannel stretched on the middle. He watches you closel as you face him again.

"Is it- Is it for me?" you ask in that voice that, goddamn it, makes Joel want to give you the whole world if he could.

He slowly nods, a sheepish expression on his face.

"Yeah" he admits, voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "S' for ya"

Then looks away, feeling vulnerable for some reason. But your lips quiver, and before he can register, you throw yourself at him, hands around his neck, body practically swinging. He stumbles a bit, yet manages to catch you alright.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" you gush, peppering his cheek with kisses. "I know it's not even done but, wow. Thank you, Joel!" an adorable squeal leaves your mouth, and as soon as that is out, your lips find his to leave a sweet kiss on his mouth. When you calm down, your voice goes soft. "It's... No one had ever done something like this for me"

He's clearly taken by surprise by your affection outburst, his heart swelling at your reaction and giddyness. He's also a bit overwhelmed, kissed cheeks now a pretty flushed pink. There's something so warm and fond on his eyes as he looks down on you, cupping your cheek after your final kiss.

"S'nothin', sweet girl. You're welcome"

"You're so special, Joel. Did you know that?" you whisper, leaning into his touch while closing your eyes.

Good. He's probably a mess right now, his heart clenching on his chest, a mix of emotions washing over him. God, he hates getting compliments, but yours always stirred things he long ago thought dead.

"Special, huh?" he grumbles while sporting a half-smile. "I reckon that's you"

You smirk. "We can both be special, then. There's always room for two"

He runs his thumb over your cheek, chuckling a bit. "Deal. But you're a bit more"

"Oh, you want to compete?" you tease.

He smirks at the challenge, pulling you closer with a tight arm around your waist.

"Damn right I do. Y'know I like winnin'. 'Sides, 'm more than willin' to play if it means ya' get competitive 's well. You're cute when you challenge me, baby"

You feign hurt. "I'm always cute, how dare you"

"Oh, forgive me" he chuckles. "At this age I tend to forget"

"Don't worry. I'll beat your ass so bad, you won't forget it"

He archs an eyebrow, amused. "Now you abuse the elder? Bad girl"

Your face flushes and core pulses.

"I can be a bit of a brat if I want to" you tease, fingers roaming over his warm chest. "Will you punish me for that?"

Joel's eyes darken on an instant. There's a shadow of desire coating his brown when a low rumble escapes his throat. The air feels charged with a new found tension suddenly.

"Careful, sweet girl. You ain't know what you playin'"

He closes the gap between you, his body pressing against yours. His hands move from your waist to grip your hips, holding you against him.

"You're quite mouthy tonight, aren't 'cha?" he growls, his voice carrying a rough edge.

"Just to get what I want. Besides, your little project tug at my hearstrings" you quip. "And something else"

"Oh, yeah? You gon' tell me what's that?"

You smirk. "What do you think it is?"

He hums. "I'd rather hear you say it"

"That's not fair" you pout your lips.

He chuckles, "Nothin' ever is fair, I reckon. But you're a troublesome little thing, ain't ya'?"

You send him a little flirtatious wink.

"I am looking for some trouble tonight"

He's not amused by your words. You're a greedy insatiable little thing sometimes. So far, Joel's been able to deflect all of your attempts. The farthest you'd ever made it was when you straddled his lap on the old couch of his workshop, and even then, he limited his reactions to grunts and seeing you come. God. It had been tortuous waiting for you to go so he could piston his aching cock to the memory of your little sounds.

"Ain't that interesting?"

"Oh, but it is" you're quick to counter, "and I take you and your little friend are into it"

His breath hitches, eyes and cheeks burning alike with intensity. The heat travels down his spine, straight to his throbbing dick, the reason he's been caught red-handed.

"You surely are looking for trouble" his voice reduced to a rough gasp.

Joel's struggling to maintain the control he so prided himself in, you not making it any easier with your teasing. "Y'a temptress, doll. Know that?"

"Is my magic working?" you ask, batting your eyelashes.

He's resolve is quickly crumbling, self-control tossed to the bin in the corner. Joel loves as much as he hates your big innocent yet teasing eyes. No wonder he was carving you out a deer.

"Damnit, sweet girl. Y'know it's. You gettin' me all worked up in'ere"

"Take me upstairs, then. I'm sure we can find a solution"

He can feel the heat radiating off of you, eyes darkening at the invitation.

"Doll, you're playing with fire here" he warns, despite the obvious effect your words are having on him.

"It's fine. I don't mind the burn"

He knows he's done, Joel's growl an indicator of his control snapping completely.

"Damn it" he mutters before his lips crash against yours. It's heated. Desperate. His hands grip your hips, holding you tighlty against him while he devours your mouth like a starved man, as if you didn't kiss just this morning, before going on your patrol.

You moan into the kiss, Joel swallowing your sounds as if they were his own. Fuck. His mind goes fuzzy when you grab his face with both of your hands, deepening the kiss. He thinks he's backed you against a wall, by the small Thud sound. He's lost: on the way your lips move, on the way they taste, in the sounds they make.

You pull out first. Joel thinks you belong in a museum: with your lips, swollen and parted. It's too your dilatated eyes and chest, rising and falling. He can't resist and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused fingers tenderly brushing your soft skin.

"Aren't you the prettiest man in Jackson?" you blurt out, adoring.

He's not used to being praised like this. Not even by you, even after months of doing so. Always feels like the first time. And then, he feels stupid: for blushing too much, heart skipping too many beats, chest clenching too hard. Like a damn highschooler. Joel's as embarrassed as content that you make him feel all sort of ways.

"Easy, sugar" he mutters, voice gruff. "You gon' give 'tis old man an ego"

"No need to blame me when you can look at yourself in the mirror" you're quick to reply. "I believe that's enough reason to give you some ego"

He's smirking at your response. Yeah, he definitely loves when you stroke his ego. Especially as of late, where he feels... rather, old.

"Oh. Oh" you begin to tease through giggles, playfully hitting his chest. He huffs, catching where this is going. "Do you like it when I call you pretty?"

Joel's cheeks flush a little at your question, his stoic nature faltering a bit at your teasing.

"Maybe" he mumbles, eyes avoiding yours. "But don't let it get to your head, doll"

"Too late" you murmur, wrapping once more your hands on his neck. "You're pretty, Joel. Especially when you flush"

Pretty isn't exactly a word he'd used to describe himself. But when you call him pretty, out of that sweet mouth of yours, his name along as well? You can call him however the fuck you want.

He can feel his body reek out vulnerability, and he hates himself a bit for getting weaker. He tried, really did, but his walls had been down for a while. His defenses had crumbled. He was pathetic, lonely, and sad. Yet here you were, looking at him with your big adoring eyes like he was the only thing that mattered. Joel lets your words sink for a moment, letting out a small sigh, not being able to deny it feels good. Maybe it does matter.

"You're too damn sweet, sugar. Y'know that?" he mutters, finger tracing lightly your hip.

You smile, sickenly saccharine. "I'm aware. Trust me, I have a cute grumpy boyfriend to remind me so"

His expression softens even more at your easy loving. He's so fucking putty in your hands, Tommy would laugh in his face.

"Y'got me wrapped 'round your damn finger, sweet girl" Joel whispers in his usual gruff voice, but it's laced with affection.

You raise a finger, moving it in front of his face like one would with a bone and a dog.

"You mean this?"

Joel watches your finger with amused eyes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. It scares and excites him how easy it's to fall under your spell. With soft movements, he reaches and captures your hand, bringing it to his mouth. He then presses a gentle kiss to your finger, eyes never leaving yours.

"Yeah, doll. This one" his voice is husky, "All of 'em. Y' got me good"

You gulp under the intensity of his gaze. "Don't do that..."

He smirks at your reaction, finally feeling like he has some leverage. He raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes as he holds you even closer, your chest pressing against his. You even feel the soft curve of his stomach over your own.

"Don't do what?" he asks, playing coy. "We're not backin' down now, are we, sugar?"

At your lack of answer, cheeks bright, he huffs, hand moving to gently cup your chin. Joel's brown eyes lock with yours when he speaks again.

"So, what now? Or did y' just come by to check up on your ol' man?"

"No. That's not what I want"

His smirk grows as the dark shade on his eyes. He's not dumb, of course he knows what you want. Just wants to hear you say it.

"What'da ya' want, then?"

You pout your lips, whining.

"Joel... Just give me what I want"

He leans in a bit closer, voice gruff and filled with desire. His thumb strokes your chin softly.

"Depends" he grumbles. "You gon' ask nicely?"

"On my very best behavior" you raise your hand, "I swear it"

He smirks, letting go of your face. "Good girl"

You stand on your tiptoes, leaning against his ear. His heart skips a beat, a small shiver running down his spine at your lips ghosting his skin.

"I am" you kiss his earlobe. "For you. Just you" you leave a little bite on it. A low rumble escapes his throat. You lick the red little spot to soothe it. "Your best girl"

"My only girl" he's quick to reply. You're up in the air in a minute, his hands supporting you as he carries you, your legs dangling at his sides. It amazed you how strong he continued to be, despite his age. Strong men make good times, you suppose.

You giggle a bit. "Oh, Joel. I'm so lucky"

His heart races at your words. All this banter fills him with a warm fondness, making him feel young again.

"I reckon that's me, doll"

Your noses brush after his comment, in silence. You close your eyes, as so does he. You break the aphony first.

"Joel"

"Yes?"

"I want you to have me"

Joel's heart skips a beat at your words, his chest swelling with a mixture of emotion. No one has ever spoken to him with such tenderness, even with what your request implies. It's overwhelming.

"Ya' want me?" he asks gruffly, his voice hoarse with desire and emotion.

Fuck. It's happening. What he avoided so badly, but right now? His mind has gone blank, and when it starts working again, it's filled with lewd images of sweet you. Jesus. If he had doubts he was going to hell before, now he's certain. At least, he got heaven on Earth with you.

"Y' sure 'bout that, sugar?" he asks gruffly, his voice husky. "You're so damn young, deserve someone better"

You nod, slowly, caressing his cheek, your voice just barely above a whisper.

"I've never been more sure"

He takes a small moment to gather himself, his eyes never leaving yours. He's suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable, and it scares him as much as it excites him.

"I mean, would've I done all this if I didn't?"

Joel lets out a small laugh. "You little devious minx. I'll give ya' that"

"Give me what?" you tease.

His lips crash into yours as your hands find his face, holding as you deepen the kiss. His fingers dig in your thighs, making you moan and a spark of electricity run through his spine. He lets out a low moan in response to yours, pulling away from your lips momentarily, his eyes darkening with want. Joel looks at you for a moment, taking in your flushed cheeks and parted lips.

He lets out a low rumble, his voice gruff and rough.

"Yeah" he mutters. "Keep talkin' like that, and you'll get more than a kiss"

"So, I'll keep talking then"

"Y' little brat" he grumbles, voice dripping with frustration. "If ya' don't stop, I'm gonna..."

Joel trails off, his eyes dark with promises left unspoken.

"Say it" you challenge. "Or are you backing down?"

He takes a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of self control, despite loving your teasing and how it's driving him wild. He lets out a small laugh, his mind swirling with desire and frustration.

"Y' gon' pay for that later, darlin'" he threatens gruffly, his eyes locked on yours.

"How about now?"

Joel's heart skips a beat at your question, the idea sending a surge of desire through him. He can feel his self-control slipping away, your words pushing him closer to the edge.

He lets out a low, gruff chuckle, his hand tightening around your chin. His eyes lock onto yours, a mix of desire and anticipation in them.

"Sure you wanna know, doll?" he asks gruffly, his voice rough with barely restrained desire.

"All of it" too eager. He can't help but smile, resolve unraveling. "Don't spare any details"

"And you gon' be a good girl?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"Didn't I promise so?"

Those simple words are all it takes for Joel's resolve to finally crumble. Fuck what other people think. Fuck his own fears. He can't resist you any longer, the desire within him reaching boiling point.

"Shit, doll" he rasps, voice rough. "With words like that I'm just gon' give y'anythin' you want"

"Please, Joel" you utter his name in a little whimper.

"Please what?"

Loves to see you beg. Has imagined you squirming, like you did when his fingers would drift too close to your aching cunt. Straddling feels so stupid now, when he could've have sweet you like this a long ago.

"Fuck me"

The sound of your whimper goes straight to Joel's throbbing dick. He's completely undone, powerless against your desires.

"That's right, good girl" he rasps, his voice gruff and rough. You let a little whimper at the praise. "I'll give y'anythin' you want, angel"

He carries you upstairs while you giggle at his huffs, teasing him when his knees creak like the old wooden stairs. Still, he insists on carrying you when you offer to walk, maybe trying to prove his strength to you or something. When his face turns a deep shade of red, you can't tell if it's out of shame or effort.

"Taking me to your bed? I've never seen your bedroom" you muse out loud, once he reaches the final stair.

Despite the intensity of the moment, a small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"There's always a first" he rasps.

Your nose brushes against his cheek. "Can't wait"

The door opens when Joel kicks it lightly. It's very him, you think, as soon as it comes on view. There's a guitar in the corner, you notice too.

"It's very you" you say out loud now. He drops you on the bed, making you giggle. "It's simple and cozy"

He's still trying to calm his racing heart, but it's difficult when he's hovering over you, so close to your body, he can feel the heat of it. Can even smell your arousal in the air.

"'M not sure simple's a nice thing t' say 'bout someone"

For a moment, the room goes quiet. He hesitates to continue.

"There's just... somethin' I need to discuss with ya' before we get carried 'way"

Your doe eyes look up to him. "Yes?"

Joel takes a deep breath.

"I've... It's been a while, y'know, since... I'm just used to bein' alone. In that sense. And I... I haven't been with someone in a long time"

His voice trails off, a vulnerability settling in his expression.

"Joel..." you whisper, sitting as he backs up a bit.

"'M not good with people" he admits gruffly. "I tend to scare 'em off"

You extend your hand to softly trace over his stubble. Joel leans into your touch, his expression softening, your presence providing a sense of comfort. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

"You're not scaring me. I'm here"

His mouth tastes like sand when he swallows.

"Yeah, but I-"

"Yes?"

He pauses for a moment, a hint of vulnerability in his expression.

"'M not exactly young anymore, sugar"

"And what's bad about not being young?" you look at him, voice soft. "Are you afraid your knees will crack when you go down on me or what?"

He lets out a clipped laugh. The tension in the room lightens a little, and he's grateful for your attempt to lighten the mood.

"Oh, very funny, sweetheart." he grumbles, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And no, 's not that. I can eat ya' just fine" Joel spits, making you laugh at his cocky demeanor. But then he goes quiet again. "It's just... 'M not as young and good lookin' as I used to be" he finally blurts out.

Why is he even saying this things out loud. He didn't care before. He thought about himself better before. Yeah, before. What is it about the now that he cares, worse, admits out loud his insecurities?

Your expression morphs into one of sympathy. God, he hates it. Looks away from your warmth and pity. No, not pity. Compassion, like Joel was some sort of wounded old dog.

"Joel" you close the distance, tracing his face tenderly, drawing little heart shapes over his stubble. "That's not true. You're as handsome as back in the day, baby. I didn't meet you then, I know that, and this may be biased, but I'll choose the old you always, my pretty boy"

Joel's heart skips a beat at your words, his expression softening even more. He's not used to such tender affection, and it's overwhelming.

He takes a moment to process your words, his eyes never leaving yours. He can see the sincerity in your eyes, and it touches him more than he can express. Words were never his thing, anyway.

"Y/n" he mutters gruffly, his voice rough with emotion. He even used your name. "You're too good fo' me"

"I just... I think it's because I love you"

He's taken back, almost falling in top of you, yet quickly regaining his posture. Still, his heart jumps into his throat, dangerously close to falling out from his mouth at your sudden confession.

It's been almost a year of being his and him being yours, yet those three words hadn't even been close to being said. Joel never thought he'd get to hear them again from the lips of a lover. Yet here you were, so damn young and sweet, letting them roll off your tongue in a soft echo of your loving. Safe. Like a home. You were his home.

He looks at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and vulnerability.

"Y'... Y' love me?" his voice rasping a bit as he questions you.

"It's okay if you don't say it back" you laugh quietly, probably to make him feel better. Always thinking about the others, you pure thing.

He looks you in the eye, his hand still cupping your cheek. There's a warm tenderness in his expression, despite his gruff tone.

"No. Don't think that" he goes quiet for a moment, as if the weight of your declaration was sinking him. He lets out a shaky breath, as if unsure if the world around him was real, his eyes locked on yours. "I... love you too"

Your eyes widen, a smile appearing instantly on your face as it lights up. His heart swells immediately at the sight of your happiness, and all he wishes for is to see it everyday. When he wakes up, to be first, and when he goes to sleep, your face the last thing to see. To be there, even as he closes his eyes and dozes off to sleep. Your giddy giggles are so fucking contagious, a rebellious smile creeps up his lips.

"You do?"

His chest tightens, vulnerable. Filled with an affection never known before.

"Yeah, sweet girl" he mutters gruffly. "I do. I love you"

Your smile is probably the most beautiful thing in the world, pleased and vicious like a cat's.

"Now, if you love me so dearly as you say, please" your lips part in a shaky breath, "have me"

So damn impatient. He may have spoiled you too much.

"Ya' want me t' have ya', honey?" he asks gruffly, his voice rough with desire as his hands slide down your thighs, tainting untouched skin.

You squirm, nodding eagerly. "Please. I want you so bad it hurts"

His voice, so soft and low, may have passed as a grunt. But you saw. Heard. Noticed. Like the way his face frowned, eyebrows furrowed as if you just told him you were sick. As if he wanted to be the cure to the disease he gave you.

"Tell me where it hurts"

Demanding in a tender way. Almost benevolent. Not even hurting you, but wanted to take every pain of yours away. You didn't deserve not even a scratch of this angry dirty world ruining your soft heart.

You point to the middle of your legs, parting them slowly open. His eyes turn glassy as he tugs your jeans down, and the first sight he gets, is your underwear, damp with your sticky arousal. He gulps, eyes darkening with desire.

"Please. There" you whimper.

"I've got eyes" Joel lets out a small, gruff chuckle. "You're impatient, know that?"

He cups your chin, eyes locked on yours. His breath is shallow, voice raspy and low.

"Don't worry. Lemme help"

He places himself in between your legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties.

"Gon' show ya' what'a man with experience has to offer, al'ight? Now, spread y'r legs open for me" he commands softly. "Lemme see that beautiful, needy cunt"

He pulls your panties down, his throat dry when he peels the drenched fabric down your legs, revealing glistening folds. He can see how swollen and puffy they were. The sight makes his mouth water and his cock pulse with desire.

Joel lowers his head, knees and bed creaking, inhaling the sweet intoxicating smell of your arousal, his facial hear ghosting over your trembling skin until it tickles. Your nervous giggling get stuck in your throat when Joel buries his face between your thighs, tongue delving into your slick folds to lap up the sweet nectar that dripped from your cunt. He groans at the taste, as if savoring the best meal to exist on Earth.

"So sweet" he growls, voice vibrating against your sensitive flesh. His mouth latches onto your clit, suckling the throbbing needy bud as his tongue flicks over it. "Too damn sweet"

It still hurts. It's across your face.

"Gon' help with 'tis. Just wait" he thrusts two fingers knuckle-deep into your cunt, pumping them in and out, curling them to stroke a spot that reduces you to a quiet muffled mess. "S' right, sugar" he praises. "Wanna see you come f' y'r old man"

The feeling of having you here, so needy and responsive, is doing things to him. Joel's lost on the way you beg, his name out of your parted lips in a secretive manner, as if reinforcing the nature of your desires and needs. How this moment was only yours, a whole new world past his door, creeping up the sweaty sheets, making way to his lonley heart, poisoned by the infectious warmth of your own.

He could feel your thighs trembling around his head, cute cries and whimpers serving as a motivation to bring you to the edge. Joel devours you, sucking like a starved man, flicking and lashing at your gushing cunt mercilessly with his tongue. It's experience, he made damn sure you knew about that. He also pumps his fingers faster, plunging deeper into your clutching heat.

"Come on, doll" he urges, voice a low rumble against your sex, "wanna feel 'tis tight little pussy spasm 'round ma' fingers"

"Joel!" you moan out loud, hands clawing into his arms for support.

He can feel your body tensing, your tight walls fluttering around the digits plunging in and out of you. Joel knew you were close, so he sucks your clit with fervent intensity as he curled his fingers just right, stroking that special spot that made your toes curl.

"That's it, y/n" he growls, eyes flashing up to meet yours, dark and intense with lust. "Drench me, y' sweet thing"

With a keening cry, you feel your body burst. Your back archs as your body quakes and shudders, your orgasm washing over you. Joel feels your pussy clench and spasm around his fingers, hot liquid gushing out to coat his hand and drip down his wrist.

Joel's a gentleman, languidly licking and suckling as you ride out of your high. Once your breathing slows, he withdraws his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth to clean off your essence. He meets your gaze, eyes hooded with the same hunger as your own.

"Like I said" he praises softly, making your spent cunt throb. "You're too damn sweet, sugar"

You giggle. "You're insane"

He leans in, planting a soft fluttering kiss to your quivering lips.

"Just f' ya'"

There's only one thing left to do. You know. He knows. You both know. But the way he takes in your pause, as if you're going to discover the most powerful secret, makes you believe there is so much more. His expression turns curious at your deliberate choice of aphony.

"Tell me what ya' want now. I could give ya' the world if 's what ya' want"

You avoid his gaze, playing with the collar of his flannel.

"I need you"

He lets out a clipped chuckle. "That I know, dirty one"

You roll your eyes, playfully.

"We're both aware. But it's not that, it's just..."

"Yes?"

"Can I see you, please?"

His eyes meet your expectant ones. His voice is gruff but soft, his desire for you mixing with a hint of vulnerability.

"Y' wanna see me?"

You nod as he gulps harshly, mouth tasting like sand.

"Can I take off your clothes?"

Joel's heart skips a beat again at your request, a mix of desire and vulnerability warring within him. It's too revealing and intimate, but God knows he just wants to give you all you want.

There's a hint of huskiness to his vulnerable voice. Unsure.

"Yeah" a beat. "You can"

You start unbuttoning slowly, licking your lips with eager trembling hands and pupils blown wide. Like a child on Christmas, knowing they're opening what they asked for. What they wanted. What they wrote at the top of their list. Your slow, deliberate unbuttoning has him practically holding his breath.

"Joel..." you bite your lip, removing his final button. Finally. "You're...."

Joel's heart stammers at the sight of your eyes on him, your obvious desire heightening his own. Yet, he avoids your stare as you reveal his bare chest, pose faltering a bit as if his strength succumbs to your hungry stare. He gulps under the intensity gaze, feeling so fucking vulnerable. It shakes him to his core, foreign to all this fuzzy things that make him sick.

He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, his voice gruff and raw.

"Yeah…?"

"Perfect" you whisper out loud, his whole world crumbling down.

Joel's heart skips a beat at your words, his chest tightening with a mix of vulnerability and affection. Despite it, he feels self-conscious.

"Perfect…?" he teases, a hint of a dumb smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah" you hum. "So pretty"

A word that doesn't fit in Joel's world. Feels off-putting. He has never been called such, but once it falls past your lips, coated in adoration, it feels as if it's the only truth ever. His heart skips another beat, body responding to your words.

You can tell he can't believe you're saying those words about him by the hint of disbelief in his eyes.

"Joel"

He lets out a gruff huff in response.

"Look at me"

"Pretty" Joel repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't you believe me?"

Joel's heart skips another beat, the vulnerability growing stronger. He's still not used to hearing compliments about his body by you, by anyone at all. It's making his head spin a little.

He can't quite meet your eyes as he responds.

"Take it easy on me, sweet girl. I ain't exactly in m' prime"

"Joel. Look at me" your voice a little firmer this time.

Joel takes a moment, his heart racing. He can't resist your plea, even if he hates feeling vulnerable. Slowly, he meets your eyes.

His voice is almost quiet. "I'm lookin'"

"Good. Do you want me to know what I'm looking at?" you extend your hand to reach his face, brushing a strand of hair that's fallen to his forehead. "Your greys" then, you tug his bottom lip down, "your lips", you circle the wrinkles around his eyes, "your warm eyes" and afterwards, your fingers dwindle on his nose, "just... all of your face: scars, spots and wrinkles. It leaves me breathless"

Joel's heart races as you speak, your words sinking in. He feels seen, in a way he's rarely felt before. Its messing with his mind.

"You describin' what you seein'?" his voice hoarse with emotion. It sounds far away, as if it didn't belong to him.

His lips part as your hand moves down, grazing his neck and his chest before landing on his belly. The sincerity in your eyes is making him feel even more vulnerable, and Joel can feel himself crumbling under your intense stare and firm hands.

"No, I'm describing what I love"

He looks at you, eyes filled with vulnerability and uncertainty.

"Y/n"

It was like being peeled, layer by layer. He hated how he was built now. Rough. Too sharp around edges. Soft on ones he wished he wasn't.

"All of you"

He chuckles, but it's a defeated dying sound. Almost bitter.

"That's impossible, honey"

"What's impossible is not to love all of you"

He gulps, throat raw but unable to say anything.

"Please. Let me love you"

As if he hadn't already hand you his soul. Swallowed all of your words with a feverish desperation, placed them inside a space that had gone cold with time, now feeling like a warm home where he finally belonged.

"My sweet girl..."

You feel Joel pressing you up against the mattress, his bigger body pinning you in place with a hunger that takes your breath away. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your naked curves with a fevered intensity, a low growl of frustration escaping his lips when you break the kiss to take some air.

"You can do with me anything you want"

Joel's breath stops. With a trembling but sure hand, he reaches out, his calloused fingers skimming over the swell of your breasts, teasing the sensitive flesh until your nipples strain against the cloth of your bra. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as you feel the hard length of him pressing insistently against your stomach.

Joel leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispers. 

"Anythin'?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire as you nod, desperate. 

But then, he's laughing, as if pleased with your eagerness. Amused.

"That much? Oh, baby, you that desperate for 'tis ol' man? That bad you want me?"

You whine, at loss for words, the throb too painful to think straight. Joel laughs again, but it's devoid of malice.

"No, don't just nod. I wanna hear you say it, y/n. Wanna hear ya' beg fo' me like the desperate sweet little thin' y'are"

You've never been one for begging, but something about the way he's looking at you, the raw, unbridled hunger in his eyes, makes you want to give him everything he wants and more.

"Please, Joel" you breathe, voice reduced to a needy tremor, "I need you so bad, Joel, please. I need you inside me. I want you filling me, claiming me, in every way possible"

"My sweet girl" he coos, followed by a flurry of heated kisses and desperate groping. You barely have a chance to catch your breath before he's pressing you up with more insistence, his body pinning you in place with a hunger that leaves you desperately aching for more. "S'pretty"

Joel's eyes darken with lust as he takes in the sight of you, drinking in every inch of your glistening skin. He smirks at the desperation written all over your face, something wicked and tender circling inside his brown eyes.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers huskily. "Ts' it, doll. Keep on beggin'. Lemme hear how much y' need ma' cock 'nside 'tis tight little cunt"

You gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily as you feel his fingers slide down to brush against your sensitive clit, a wave of arousal coursing through you.

"Please, please, please, Joel" you whimper, your voice high and needy as you grind yourself shamelessly against his hand. "I'm so wet for you. Please, I'm begging you, make me yours"

He growls. "S'eager, huh? Who would've thought ya' were such'a dirty girl for 'tis ol' dick? Just had ya' bein' all lovey dovey a second ago and now y'are beggin' fo' me to ruin 'tis pretty pussy, baby?"

He quickly sheds what's left of his clothes, revealing to your wide eyes the thick, hard length of his cock, springing free and bobbing heavily against his soft belly. Alright, you had some thoughts about dating a much older man, even if Joel seemed the type of guy to be doted, given his energy. You're glad to be proven wrong in the very best way.

"Fuck, Joel" you breathe, licking your lips as you imagine the taste of him on your tongue. "You're so big"

His cheeks color a pretty pink, sweat beads adorning his forehead. The heat of his body envelopes you like a furnace.

"Now I truly believe ya' like what ya' seein'" he chuckles, "such'a greedy little thing" a beat. "S' fucken hungry for ma' cock. Don't worry, baby. 'M gon' give it to you, nice and slow, until you're screamin' fo' me to let you come"

Joel settles between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance as he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, effectively swallowing your needy whimpers.

"M' gon' take real good care of what's mine" in that southern drawl that drives you crazy. Hungry. Poisoned with a ravenous desire to possess every inch he can reach of your body. For everyone to see. Know. For all the prying stares. Judgeful. To appreciate in secret under the watchful gaze of the weak sunrays that filter through the courtains of his bedroom.

He then leans to take one of your nipples on his mouth, suckling and teasing the rosy peak, lapping the sensitive bud with his tongue, his hand kneading and squeezing the soft flesh of your breast. You arch into his touch, a symphony of moans and whimpers falling from your lips as he works your body.

At the same time, Joel begins to slowly, teasingly push forward, the thick head of his cock parting your slick folds and sinking inch by tortuous inch into your tight heat.

"Joel!" you gasp, your nails sinking down on the soft expanse of his broad back as you take in his girth, walls clenching and fluttering around his size.

Joel's breaths come in harsh pants against your skin as he fights the urge to bury himself to the hilt in one thrust.

"Y'are so fucken tight" he grits out, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Don't wanna hurt you, my little fawn. But ya' feel s' good, sweet girl. S' perfect 'round ma' cock."

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, using the leverage to rock your hips up against his, taking him a little deeper with each desperate roll. He's impressed by your hunger, your desire fueling further his consuming own.

"Joel" you mewl, voice breaking with need, "I can take it, please, I promise. I just need all of you, Joel. Please, fuck me hard and deep until I can't think of anything but the feeling of your cock inside of me"

With a feral growl, Joel surrenders to your plea, slamming his hips forward to bury himself to the hilt inside you. A scream that sounds like his name tears from your throat at the sudden, intense sensation of all of him devouring your from inside, your body convulsing with the force of his thrust.

He sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that shake the bed frame and echo through the room. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin mingles with the sounds coming out of your mouths.

"Please, please. I wanna come, please"

Tears well in your eyes at the insistence that rocks your body. Joel's eyes widen, perhaps in surprise, this new and strange, yet, his cock twitching makes this all the more intriguing. Arousing even.

"S' you cryin' over my cock?"

You deny it, but the salty trails have started to pool down your cheeks, your prettu fluttering eyelashes damp. Joel gulps, feeling blood rushing to his cock again.

"Don't worry, little fawn" doesn't know why but his tongue runs across your tear-smeared face, the taste of your damp skin, musk and sweat strong, make his mind go numb. "I think ya' look pretty when ya' cry"

Joel feels your velvet walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning cock, signaling your coming climax. He doubles his efforts, slamming into you with a wild, primal intensity that steals your breath away.

"That's it, sweet girl" Joel growls, voice ragged with lust as he feels your body tensing beneath him. "Come for me, y/n. I wanna feel you comin' undone on ma' cock, screamin' ma' name as I fill you up nice"

You're a sight to savor in, like basking the first rays of sunlight on the morning. Like his bitter coffee on his favorite mug. But you're sweet on the inside and the outside, he thinks as his thumb finds your clit, rubbing merciless circles over the sensitive nub. Joel is lost on you, he's aware, as he leans down to capture your lips in a consuming kiss. He just wants to have all of you, day and night, body and soul, in and out, because just a taste, and he's gone down the deep saccharine trails of your neck and quivering heart.

Your back arches as the pleasure becomes too intense to bear, your body convulsing uncontrollably as your climax crashes over you. You scream his name, you think, lost in a sea of desperate pleas and incoherent whimpers spilling from your lips.

Joel hilts himself deep inside you as your walls spasm and milk his cock, your release triggering his own, followed by a grunt akin to surrender, perhaps. To you, now fully his. This is the end, he thinks. Now, he's truly yours. God help her, the townsfolk say when you tell them Joel's your man, but when a hoarse shout of your name comes out of his mouth, pulses hot and hard as he grinds against you, you think this is all you need.

Fuck it.

This is what it feels like.

Joel collapses onto you, his bigger softer body blanketing you as he struggles to catch his breath.

"My sweet girl" he coos, peppering your face with soft kisses, his hands roaming over your curves with a gentle, reverent touch. You can feel his heart pounding against your own, when he whispers, voice low and sated. "Mine"

You can't help but laugh in awe. "Yes, Joel. Yours"

He props himself up on his elbows, his brown eyes searching yours with a tenderness that makes your heart skip a beat. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on the delicate line of your jaw.

"I know I said I was scared, before. That I've tried to push you 'way. God, y'are stubborn, know that? 'M just glad you ain't a quitter"

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tender kiss that makes your heart leap. It tastes bitter like grains and whiskey, but sweet with love and devotion. It's not only a spark between your lips, another of many, but a promise, burning with the same intensity the old coffee pot heats his coffee in the morning.

"Y'are my everything, y/n" your name pronounced like never before. Now ever since.

A heart. A home.

"So are you, Joel" his name in a fervent whisper. Born to be said like a prayer.

And for the first time in so long, Joel Miller feels the same thing he felt when he held Ellie close. I've got you, babygirl.

Hope.

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @pedgito / dts: @joelscowgirl ⋆˚✿˖°

Summary: Joel was a bad man. Perverted, dirty-minded, and old. He couldn’t keep you out of his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. You were the new neighbor across the way, though he’d made sure you’d never spoken. He kept his distance, kept to himself. Until Dina nearly dragged you into his dining area, forcing you to sit with him as he averted his gaze. And just like that, she got up and left—leaving you to whatever quiet little plan she'd already set in motion. || smut MDNI 18+, peepaw!joel, oldman!joel, big ol' girthy age gap (not specified but LEGAL), soft!joel, the man's obsessed, perv!joel, daddy kink, pinv, f!receiving oral, masturbation, << joel watches you, joel mentions reader's body is 'little' but only because he's a big boy, big dick joel miller, idk what else to put here, this fic lives in a world where creampies ≠ pregnancy, this takes place *before Ellie & Dina get together || a/n: couldn't stop thinking about this all damn night. Ok he’s actually an angel but THINKS he’s a bad man

Just focus on the wires, Miller. The wires.

But the zap bit into his fingers the second he looked, eyes drifting up just for a moment, out the window and onto you.

You were kneeling in the garden bed along the edge of the street by your house, wrist-deep in dark soil, the late-spring sunlight gilding your skin like something out of a goddamn dream. Your shirt had ridden up your back as you reached forward, and he caught the bare curve of your spine, the subtle arch of it with every shift of your hips.

He hissed quietly at the sting in his palm, jerking his hand back from the breaker.

He was supposed to be working. Minding his own business. In his own house. At his own dining table. Just tinkering. That was all.

Wasn’t his fault the window faced the street. Wasn’t his fault you were outside in cutoff shorts and a t-shirt, sleeves shoved up as you planted an unruly bramble of something in the dirt.

God bless late spring, he thought. Then immediately cursed himself for it, trying in vain to look away. But you stretched your arms over your head, back arching. Your shirt lifted with the motion, a sliver of skin flashing above your waistband before falling back down.

He blinked, hard, and dropped his head.

The wires. Focus on the wires.

The breaker sat in his palm, cold and sharp-edged. He adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his nose, trying to reorient himself with the tangled mass of copper and springs he was meant to be working on. His pliers hovered over the rusted coil, but his mind had already betrayed him.

The air inside felt too still. Dust floated through shafts of sunlight that slanted across the kitchen floorboards. A breeze fluttered the thin curtain over the sink. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped. A dog barked. Life, irritatingly, continued.

Then he heard voices. Loud enough to pull him from his head. He looked up.

Dina was out there now, talking to you, animated as ever. You frowned at something she said, then shook your head. He didn’t know why that made his chest ache, but it did. 

He wanted to know what she’d asked. Wanted to know what you needed. If you asked, he’d do it. Build it, fix it, find it. He’d do it with no hesitation.

But asking meant talking. Talking meant being near. And Joel didn’t allow himself that kind of luxury with you.

Because if you saw him— really saw him—you’d see right through the practiced nods and gravel-toned grunts. You’d see the way his eyes trailed a second too long, the way his jaw clenched when you laughed at someone else’s joke. You’d catch the heat of it. The filth of it.

And you’d run.

He wouldn’t blame you.

But God, he wasn’t sure he could take it if you did.

And yet… if you hated him, at least you’d be thinking about him.

As he stared out the window, Dina suddenly gestured toward his house, thumb hooked over her shoulder. Then your eyes followed. You looked right at his place. And shrugged.

Shrugged.

He had to sit back for a second, stunned. What the hell did that mean? Were you talking about him? Dina was, clearly. But you…were you indifferent? Unbothered? That hollow thud behind his ribs wasn’t from a breaker.

He told himself he didn’t care. He tried. But then she was dragging you to your feet.

No.

You resisted at first. Body language stiff, reluctant. But Dina…Dina was not the kind of girl to take no for an answer. Joel knew it well, she was Ellie’s closest friend, after all. And now she was dragging you up his walkway.

“Joel?” Dina called out, knocking.

He scrambled to look busy, heart pounding, thoughts buzzing like flies.

“Yeah,” he called, low and even. “Come in.”

The front door creaked open in the corner of his eye, the sound of footsteps soft and careful as they moved closer. And then your legs came into view. Long, bare, sun-warmed. He had to force himself not to look higher, not to follow the shape of you all the way up to that sweet little body wrapped in tiny shorts and a thin tee, practically begging to be devoured.

The wires, Miller.

“Hey,” Dina said cheerfully.

“Howdy,” Joel replied, short and clipped.

“What’re you working on?” she asked, plopping into the chair beside him.

He kept his tone casual. “Old breaker. They were gonna toss it, but it’s just a spring issue.”

She leaned over the table, inspecting it. “Teach me?”

He grunted in what he hoped passed as agreement. Felt the chair next to her shift. Felt your hesitation fill every inch of the room.

There was a beat, some hushed whispers of Dina urging you again, but Joel still kept his eyes down.

Then the chair across from him scraped, and you sat. Tension spiked in his chest.

“Joel,” Dina said sweetly, “have you met my new best friend?”

Joel lifted his head just enough to look at her. “Thought Ellie was your best friend.”

“She’s in the Hall of Fame. But this one—” she beamed at you “—makes the best apple pie in Jackson.”

“I know.”

Ah, shit. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

You gasped. A soft little breath that made his stomach twist. He still didn’t look at you, but now he could picture it perfectly. The way your lips parted. The way your eyebrows probably lifted.

He wasn’t supposed to know.

You’d left it for him on a rainy afternoon. Knocked once, maybe twice, then stood there for a minute like you were trying to decide if you should wait. But when he didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—you turned and walked away, your footsteps soft against the damp porch.

He’d seen you enough around town, neighbors fawning over your story, your smile, your damn cooking. He didn’t want any part of it. Didn’t want to be another man pulled into your orbit just because you were sweet and sunny and made people feel something.

He told himself he wouldn’t touch it. But later, when the sky had gone pink and the house was quiet, he peeled back the foil, took one bite, and almost dropped to his knees.

It was perfect.

The kind of taste that sent him spiraling back through decades. Holidays at his grandmother’s house. His little hands and floured countertops and the sound of laughter he hadn’t heard in years.

He tried to hate it. Hate you for making it.

But Joel Miller was a lot of things. Stubborn, angry, mean when he had to be.

He was not strong enough to hate you.

Not even close.

Dina leaned over the table, elbows planted, chin in hand. “So listen,” she said, flicking a glance toward you before turning back to Joel. “Ellie told me you’ve been fixing up old stuff again. Thought maybe you could take a look at my space heater—it’s making this really weird buzzing sound, and I’m ninety percent sure it’s not supposed to smell like burnt popcorn.”

“What you need that thing for now? S’warm out now,” he grumbled over to her.

Dina’s brow furrowed at him, “My place is freezing!”

Joel rolled his eyes, grunting, eyes back on the breaker. “Probably just dust. I can swing by later.”

“Sweet,” she said, clapping her hands once. “I told Ellie you’d say yes.”

You shifted in your seat, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Joel could see it in the corner of his eye, the way you didn’t quite know where to look. Your gaze darted from the breaker to the worn tabletop to the window. You didn’t want to be here.

Dina, ever the social architect, didn’t miss a beat. “Anyway,” she said, standing suddenly and brushing her hands down her jeans, “I’m gonna run back and check on Ellie. She’s making me a cassette tape in the garage.

You looked up, surprised. “Wait, I thought we were gonna—”

She cut you off with a little wave of her fingers. “You’re fine. Stay. Learn how to fix shit. Or don’t. Flirt awkwardly. Whatever works.”

Joel finally looked up at that, shooting her a warning glare, but she just grinned and backed toward the door.

“Thanks, Joel. You’re the best,” she said sweetly. Then, turning her back to him, shot you a wink.

And just like that, she was gone.

The front door clicked shut behind her, and silence fell over the house again.

Thick as syrup.

You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely audible over the ticking wall clock and the quiet hum of the fan. Outside, the breeze rustled through the garden beds, and you could still hear the soft creak of Dina’s boots fading down the porch.

Joel didn’t move right away. Just let the silence stretch, long and taut, like a wire about to snap.

Then he finally exhaled, “She can be a bit…”

Your eyes lifted to his face, and he had to remind himself to hold your gaze. Don’t be impolite. Don’t be a scrooge. So he looked up a you.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, lips quirking at the sides.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he said, voice low as he looked back at his hands and quickly busying them, placing in a spring to the small breaker.

“I know…” you said, hesitating, and then, sitting straighter, you added, “Actually, I was gonna ask you…think somethin’s wrong with my water heater.”

His gaze snapped up. 

Anything you needed.

He’d do it. 

Fix it, build it, find it. 

God, he was so screwed.

“Been a few days now,” you continued, rushing the words under his stare. “Water’s comin’ out freezin’, and the pressure’s been real weak. Can you come look at it for me?”

Joel paused, the breaker in his hand feeling like a hundred pounds. 

Don’t, Miller. He told himself. But his mind, his imagination, the unhelpful bastard that it was, already lept at the thought.

You, naked under a stream of frigid water. Shivering. Nipples tight from the cold. Your fingers rubbing at your arms, slick and bare and goose-pimpled. Hair heavy, dripping, clinging to your collarbones. That soft little sound you might make when the water hit.

He swallowed hard, fighting the flush rising under his collar. He couldn’t have you suffering like that. No man in his right mind would leave you to freeze in your own house.

“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. “Yeah. Sure.”

“How’s tomorrow?”

Joel nodded, quick and clipped. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t already planning it out down to the damn hour. He’d come by early. First thing. Get it done and gone before he did something stupid like linger.

But early meant sleepwear. Meant you might answer the door in those tiny shorts he pretended not to notice through his window.

Afternoon, then.

That’d be safer.

“Just, uh,” he said awkwardly, fingers twitching around the pliers. “Maybe don’t be there when I show up.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

His eyes flicked up to yours, brief and sharp, “In the shower.”

“Oh,” you said quickly, “Right. No—of course. Definitely not.”

But his ears burned. And no matter how hard he tried, the image came back anyway.

You. Cold. Naked. Wet.

He was so fucked.

Joel felt sick to his stomach just crossing the street.

Would you know?

Could you tell he’d spent the whole damn night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, your tight little body haunting every inch of his imagination as he tugged at his fist beneath the covers?

He felt filthy. Perverted.

Bad.

He was a bad man, and worse, he knew it.

He probably didn’t need that second cup of coffee that morning—his limbs jittery, his hand aching as he lifted the old metal toolbox from the shed beside Ellie’s garage. His knees popped as he straightened, the ache behind his eyes a dull throb. He was too old for this.

Too old to be thinking about you like this til all hours of the night. Like some teenage, horned-up fool.

Still, he made his way over, the weight of the box not half as heavy as the tension in his chest. At his feet, the little garden bed was already blooming—blackberry bushes nestled in the soil and climbing your freshly painted fence. They suited the house. Suited you. Sweet, wild, a little thorny. He wondered what you planned to do with them. Jam, maybe. Pie, if he was lucky. If he was ever lucky again.

He doubted he’d get the chance, not after today.

Not with the thoughts scrambling around in his head, sharp and dirty and desperate to spill out.

He knocked once with his knuckles, quiet, almost hoping you wouldn’t hear.

Maybe you were out—off at the community garden, like he’d seen you some mornings with a basket slung over your arm. Or off sweet-talking the horses, sneaking carrots to your favorites. Maybe you forgot.

But no such luck. The door opened.

“Joel,” you breathed, eyes widening like you hadn’t expected him to actually show. The sound of your voice—saying his name for the first time—ripped something open in his chest.

Say it again, he wanted to beg. Please. Just once more, so I can keep it locked away. So I can die with it in my memory. 

You smiled, a little sheepish.

He didn’t smile back. Just kept his brow furrowed, his expression hard. He couldn’t afford to let you get close. Couldn’t let you mistake him for someone safe.

“Hi,” he nodded, voice low.

You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Uh, my shower’s just… in here—”

“Need to take a look at the water heater first,” he cut in.

“Oh,” you blinked, hands still gripping the door and its frame. “Right…”

“Can I come in?” he added, one brow raised. A flicker of something like amusement in his voice. Maybe you were just as nervous as he was.

“Course,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Please.”

He stepped inside.

Into your world.

It smelled like cinnamon. Like apples and woodsmoke and something fresh baked—though he saw no tray of anything waiting on the counter. Just your scent, clinging to the walls. Like you lived here completely. Like you’d settled in, made it your own.

Of course you had.

Fresh flowers sat in a mason jar on the table. Little framed paintings dotted the walls—ones he recognized from the barter-and-trade shop, and a few of horses that made his chest ache. One in particular, just a lone cowboy on a mountainside, was his personal favorite.

“The uh… water heater’s down in the basement,” you said, already walking toward the narrow door at the back of the kitchen.

Joel followed, but when you stayed behind, hovering uncertainly near the top of the stairs, he didn’t protest. It was better that way. He needed to get himself under control.

He ducked into the dark, found the breaker box, and the old water heater behind it. It didn’t take long to spot the issue.

The main switch was off.

Just… flipped off. No blown fuse. No leak. No damage.

He stared at it, confused. Then narrowed his eyes.

No.

No, no, no. That wasn’t right.

Had someone messed with it? Played a prank? Messed with you?

But he’d never seen anyone else go in or out of this house. You lived alone. He was sure of it. Which left only one possibility.

His pulse thumped in his ears.

He flipped the switch. Waited for the hum. Then made his way back upstairs, each step landing heavy beneath his boots.

“You should be all good now,” he said as he reemerged.

“Yeah?” you asked, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “That easy, huh?”

“That easy,” he nodded.

Easy. To get him here. To get him to look. To fix it.

Fix it, build it, find it. He was your man. He wanted to be your man.

“Well,” you said, fidgeting, “you sure you don’t need to check it upstairs?”

Joel moved to the sink instead, turned the handle all the way to hot, and waited. Within seconds, steam curled up from the basin. He held his hand under it, felt the sharp bite of heat.

“Good to go,” he said, glancing at you. He wondered if he would’ve noticed it before, but this time he was certain. You turned a little pink under his gaze, pulled your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Oh,” you murmured. “Good.”

He nodded. “Yup.”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t turn to leave.

He didn’t want to.

Not now that he knew, by some cataclysmic star crossed miracle, you’d brought him here on purpose. That you’d wanted him here. But he wasn’t sure what that meant. What he was supposed to do with it.

Still, you let him make his way to the door. Sweet as anything, practically shoving cookies into his hands as thanks.

He refused, hands up in surrender as he backed toward the entryway.

“Really,” he said, voice lighter now, accent thicker as he let his shoulders relax, “I’m fine, darlin’, please. Just—” his hand found the doorknob, “Just let me know if there’s anythin’ else you need. You just holler, alright?”

You smiled, soft and a little playful. “Alright. Well… thank you.”

But, somehow, your water heater broke again only a few days later.

Then the lights went out in your second bedroom. 

And then— his last and final strike—the curtain rod came crashing down from your bedroom window on a Saturday morning.

Joel stood on a small foot ladder beside your bed, boots braced on the tread, hand wrapped around the curtain rod bracket as he tightened the last screw into the wall. The hardware clinked softly against the metal as he adjusted the fit. You sat on the edge of the bed behind him, legs swinging, talking about something—weather, or the community garden, or a dog you’d seen with a lopsided face. He wasn’t really listening.

Not in a rude way. He just liked the sound of your voice more than whatever it was you were actually saying.

He hummed now and then, nodding at the right moments, letting you fill the space. It helped. Gave him something to focus on besides the fact that he was in your bedroom, that even your curtains smelled like you. That your nightstand had a little dish with jewelry in it and a book with a pressed flower between the pages. That your closet door was cracked just enough to show a glimpse of your laundry basket, and his brain, the traitorous thing, kept wondering what might be folded inside.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and gave the bracket one last twist.

“You sure must’ve worked real hard to get this damn thing off the wall,” he said, voice low.

Your words stopped mid-sentence.

He turned his head, just enough to catch the look on your face.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Silent.

Caught.

The silence stretched between you like something taut and dangerous.

Joel straightened up slowly, the curtain rod still in his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asked, voice gentler than it should’ve been. “Or should I just assume you wanted me back over here so bad, you started pullin’ things off your walls?”

“I—” you choked, voice barely above a whisper, the color draining from your face as the words stuck in your throat.

Joel caught the way your fingers curled against the bedsheet, how your knees shifted slightly, like you might bolt. And God, part of him wanted you to. Part of him needed you to.

But the other part, the selfish part, couldn’t bear the thought.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he said softly. “I like your company too.”

Your eyes lifted to his, wide and searching.

“You… you do?” you asked, like you didn’t believe it. Like no part of you had expected it to be true.

Joel nodded, slow. “Yeah.” The word came out tight. It took effort, like he had to shove it past all the reasons why he shouldn’t say it.

You stared at him, stunned and unmoving. He stood still for a long beat, then finally stepped down from his stool. The floor creaked under his weight as he crossed to your bed, each step slower than the last. He moved slower than he really needed to, but it kept him steady, until he finally sat beside you. 

Not too close, not touching you, but he could feel the heat of you anyway. He caught the faint trace of your perfume, something soft and warm and inviting, and it nearly knocked him out. He wanted to breathe it in until it lived in his lungs. He wanted it to cling to his shirt, to the collar of his flannel, so he could press his face into it later—alone in the dark—like that might be enough.

Or better, that filthy corner of his brain, the beast that lived inside him wanted you to smell like him. Wanted it clinging to your sheets, your wrists, the hollow of your throat. Wanted people to catch it in passing and wonder why you’d let a man like him get that close. 

But he wouldn’t. He was trying to be good, to have restraint.

His hands stayed on his knees, tense, knuckles pale where they pulled against the denim. This was your room, so soft and warm and clean. The kind of place he could get lost in if he wasn’t careful. 

“Ain’t a good idea, what you’re doin’,” he murmured, “I’m an old man, honey.”

Your eyes tracked over his face as he looked at you, “I like that you’re older, Joel.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, jaw flexing. Christ. You didn’t know what you were saying. 

“I’m old enough to be your daddy, baby,” he whispered. The words came out rougher than he intended.

He heard the way your breath caught. Saw the way your body stilled. Like something inside you had jolted awake.

He should’ve looked away.

Instead, his gaze found yours as he swallowed dryly. When he finally got control of his heavy tongue again, he asked, “That do somethin’ to you, sweetheart?”

You didn’t speak. But the answer was all over your face.

Joel exhaled slowly, leaning back just enough to get a better look at you. Still not touching, but close enough to see the flush rise in your cheeks.

“Gonna answer me?” he asked.

Your voice trembled. “Y-yes.”

His brow lifted slightly.

“Yes, I like… thinking of you that way.”

His stomach turned over. “You think about me, huh?”

You hesitated, lips parting, and for a second he thought maybe you’d lie.

Then your voice hit him square in the chest.

“All the time.”

Joel went still. Your words rang in his head, loud and clear. Like a bell tolling inside his ribs.

Now he knew. You wanted him. You thought about him the same way he thought about you. And if he so much as reached for you, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

So instead, he just looked at you. He let his eyes rake over your face, your body, looking at how your thighs had pressed together. How your breathing had changed. How your fingers twisted in the fabric of your shirt like you didn’t know what to do with your hands now that the words were out.

And then, his voice came low and steady, like it was coming from somewhere deeper than his own body, “Show me.”

Your brows drew together in confusion, your mouth falling open. “What?”

His eyes locked with yours, and he knew you could see it. The way his pupils had all but swallowed the color from his irises, how tightly he was clinging to the last scrap of control he had left. He could feel the sweat at the back of his neck, the pulse in his throat, the ache in his hands from how hard he was trying not to reach for you. Not to ruin you.

He couldn’t let himself slip. Couldn’t let it crack wide open.

“When you think of me,” he said, quieter now, words coming like gravel dragged behind his teeth, “what do you do?”

You looked away for a second, your gaze dropping to the bed beneath you, cheeks heated and mouth parting like you didn’t know how to answer. But then your eyes found his again—wide and shining, nervous and breathless.

“You want me to… to show you?”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded slowly.

That was all he needed. Just to watch. That was the line. That was what he could live with. He wouldn’t touch you. Wouldn’t lay a single hand on your sweet, perfect, young body. He’d sit still like a good man, like a gentleman, and let it wreck him quietly. He’d carry the memory of it back across the street like a loaded gun and bury it deep where no one would ever find it.

You hesitated, breath shivering, legs pressing together as you sat there, body unsure while your eyes held his like they were searching for something—permission, safety, the truth of how far this would go.

“S’alright,” he said again, his voice soft like velvet, “Just lay back.”

He saw your throat bob, and then, slowly, you leaned back onto your elbows, shifting further onto the bed. The mattress dipped with your weight, the sound of your shorts brushing the sheets too loud in the stillness. He swallowed hard as you arched your back just enough to hook your thumbs in the waistband of those tiny, soft little shorts, sliding them down your hips, exposing the smooth skin beneath inch by inch.

“Slow–” he said, voice rough and wrecked. You paused, and nodded, eyes never leaving his face as you gently brought them down your legs. Your hand quickly and gently let them fall to the floor. 

And there you were. 

Laid down on your own bed, your legs bending slightly, thighs pressed together, hiding yourself from his fiery gaze. Joel’s knuckles popped with restraint to keep himself from spreading them for himself.

He tried to keep his eyes on your face, so sweet and flushed and burning with heat. You let out a breath, seemingly collecting your courage as you let your thighs fall to the sides. He couldn’t do it anymore, his eyes dropped almost immediately, giving in. Your precious puffy lips were outlined in the panties, light colored enough that he could see the stain of wetness forming in the cotton.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your fingers slid slowly down your stomach, over your panties, pressing lightly between your thighs.

Joel’s lungs locked. His jaw ticked. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as wire.

This is all I get, he told himself. This is enough.

He could feel his pulse hammering behind his eyes. His jeans were too tight, his hands were trembling, and he hadn’t even touched you.

You moved your fingers again, slower this time, dragging them up and over the damp fabric, letting out the softest sound—barely audible, but to Joel it was deafening. It struck him in the chest like a damn hammer.

He was going to die here. He was going to die right here in your bedroom with his boots on the floor and you moaning into your own palm, and he was going to deserve every second of torture.

You didn’t rush.

Joel thought maybe that would save him. That you’d move fast, try to get it over with. But you didn’t. You took your time. You let your fingers glide softly over the front of your underwear, lazy strokes that did more to him than anything explicit could have. Your thighs shifted, knees bending up and falling open a little wider, and Joel could see the heat of you blooming beneath the thin cotton, darkening it, making it cling.

He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, just to breathe. Just to stay sitting where he was and not reach for you, not grab your hips and tear those panties clean off your body. When he opened them again, you were watching him. Watching the way he breathed through his nose, the way his fists stayed locked tight on his legs, the way his gaze kept dropping down no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

You circled yourself again, slower now, the fabric catching slightly, and your breath caught in your throat. Joel’s heart was pounding so hard he thought you must hear it from where you lay.

His voice came out low, nearly wrecked. “Take ’em off.”

You paused, fingers freezing for a moment, your expression flickering with nerves and something else—excitement, anticipation, the realization that this wasn’t just about putting on a show. This was about him needing it. Needing you.

You slid your thumbs under the waistband and raised your hips off the mattress. He watched, helpless, as you peeled them down your legs—slow, hesitant, like maybe you were savoring the tension just as much as he was—and let them join your shorts on the floor.

Laid bare in front of him, thighs parted, glistening, flushed, and so fucking soft-looking it almost hurt to look directly at you, you looked like a god damn angel.  Joel swore under his breath and dragged a hand over his mouth again, like it might erase the things he was thinking. It didn’t.

His voice cracked when he spoke. “Touch yourself.”

You nodded, barely, and your hand slipped down again. But this time, there was no fabric in the way. Joel watched your fingers move over your folds, the way your hips tilted up to meet them. He could see everything now, every flicker of pleasure across your face, every little tremble in your legs. When you let out that first real moan—low and quiet, almost like you were trying to stifle it—Joel’s body jolted like he’d been shot.

“Jesus, baby,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.

You rubbed slow, steady, getting yourself wet, and his eyes dropped to where your hand moved, slick and glistening, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he wanted to see.

“Put a finger inside,” he said, and it came out lower than he meant it to—rough, almost angry with need.

You looked at him, lips parted, lashes heavy. “Joel…”

“Do it,” he rasped. “Just one, baby. That’s all.”

You hesitated, breath shaking. Then you did it. You brought your fingers lower, traced the slickness, and pushed one inside—slow, stretching, burying it to the knuckle—and Joel’s hands finally left his knees, flying up to rake through his hair as he groaned quietly.

He couldn’t fucking take it.

And neither could you.

Your back arched, mouth falling open with a quiet gasp—daddy—as you moved your finger in and out, your palm pressing down against your clit for more friction. Joel couldn’t even pretend to look away now. He was locked in, watching the way your body responded, the way you started to tremble.

And then he heard your voice again. Small, breathy. Needy.

“Please.”

Joel’s heart stuttered.

“Please, Joel,” you said again, whimpering now, your eyes shining, mouth wet, hips starting to lose their rhythm. “I don’t… I can’t… I need you.”

He clenched his jaw so tight it ached, his whole body bowstring-tense as he leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his thighs, fists clenched again, because if he moved even a little further he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered. “Don’t beg me, baby. I can’t—”

But you did. You begged anyway.

“Please touch me,” you said, breathless, desperate, your hand moving faster now, legs trembling under the pressure building in your body. “I want you, Joel. I think about you all the time, and I—fuck—I want it to be you.”

He shook his head again, slower this time, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. But then your leg moved—bare and trembling—and your ankle brushed against the back of his hand where it still rested uselessly on the bed.

And that was it.

That one small touch, like permission and invitation all wrapped into one. He didn’t think. Couldn’t. His fingers wrapped gently around your ankle, warm and steady, and for a second he just held it. The first time he’d touched you. The first contact after all this time spent trying to keep himself in check.

You whimpered under the weight of his touch, a soft, aching sound that nearly unraveled him. His thumb traced a slow, reverent circle against your skin, and his heart beat so hard it was nearly dizzying.

So soft. So warm. So alive.

He bent forward without a word, still clutching your ankle, and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. The smallest kiss. Barely even a breath. But it was everything.

His lips moved again—just a little higher.

Then higher still.

Trailing up your calf, slow and worshipful, his hand shifting to the back of your leg, guiding it gently as your thigh began to tremble. You were still breathing hard, hand stalled now, frozen against your center as you watched him.

He pressed another kiss to the inside of your knee. Then just above it. Each one a little firmer than the last, like he was testing the shape of you with his mouth. 

And then, eyes locked on your hand still buried between your legs, he grasped your wrist gently, his touch reverent but sure. He pulled your finger from yourself and brought your hand to his mouth and looked at you like he was asking permission, even now, even on the edge of ruin.

You didn’t stop him.

So he parted his lips and took your finger into his mouth.

His tongue circled it first, slow and wet, curling around the soaked digit, savoring the taste of you, dragging it over the pad with aching, deliberate pressure. He sucked it in deeper, lips wrapping tight as his tongue moved along the underside. You watched, frozen in intense rapture, mouth parted and chest heaving. His eyes never left your face, even as he groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering half shut.

You whimpered his name again—breathless, high, barely held together.

He let your finger go with a wet sound, still panting, his voice hoarse and ruined when he finally spoke.

“So fuckin’ sweet, baby.”

You whimpered his name again, breath catching as he released your hand and kissed higher on your leg, faster now, the heat of his mouth so close to where you wanted him. He nudged your thighs further apart with gentle pressure, his hands firm but trembling slightly as they moved up the backs of your legs, his thumbs dragging over the delicate curve of your inner thighs.

He paused just before reaching you. Breathing heavy. Hovering.

“This is what you wanted?” he asked, barely a whisper. “You want me here?”

“Yes,” you breathed, already breathless, already gone. “Please, Joel.”

That was all he needed.

He dipped his head and finally—finally—dragged his mouth over you, slow and sure, tasting you like he’d been starving for it. His tongue parted you, flat and warm, collecting everything you’d made for him. He moaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body, and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open like you were something sacred.

And God, you were.

Joel wasn’t delicate with it. But he was steady, focused. Slow only because he wanted to draw it out. He licked a purposeful stripe up your center, then did it again, dragging his tongue in slow circles over your clit until your back arched off the mattress.

You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting into the graying strands.

Daddy daddy daddy fell from your lips like a prayer, and he groaned into you, tongue pressing deeper, tracing the way you opened for him. He noticed you said it the most when you were falling apart. When your brain was lagging and hazy. 

And couldn’t stop thinking—this is what you taste like when you think of me.

He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, just once, firm and slow, and your legs clenched around his shoulders as a broken sound tore from your throat.

He pulled back slightly, his breath ragged, beard soaked with you.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh again, slower now, lips softer. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You begged again—don’t stop, please don’t stop—and he didn’t. He buried his mouth back between your legs and gave you everything. He wanted you to come on his tongue. Wanted to feel it. The way your body would tighten, the way your thighs would tremble, the way your breath would stutter in that pretty chest of yours before falling apart completely.

He was going to carry the sound of it for the rest of his life.

And still—he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t grind against the bed or reach for relief. This was for you. All of it.

If he could only have this, this taste, this sound, this moment, he’d take it.

And he’d burn for it later.

Joel’s tongue moved with steady, reverent purpose, his mouth open and hungry against you, like this was the only way he knew how to live anymore, by giving you this. His hands stayed firm, keeping your legs open, thumbs brushing softly against your trembling thighs, grounding you even as he pulled you closer and closer to the edge.

You were panting now, moaning freely, head thrown back against the pillow, your fingers tangled in his hair, his name falling from your mouth like it was the only one you’d ever known. He could feel the way your body was coiling, tightening, the way your hips were starting to stutter beneath him, like you were trying to chase that last bit of pressure before it ripped through you.

He sucked gently around your clit again, tongue flicking against it just right, and that was all it took.

You broke.

Your whole body arched, legs tightening around his shoulders, a sharp cry punching from your chest as you came hard against his mouth, your fingers fisting in his hair, holding him there while you rode it out. Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound dark and satisfied, almost possessive as he kept licking through it, gentle now, working you down slowly, coaxing every last tremble from you with his mouth still warm and wet against your skin.

He felt it, all of it. The way your muscles fluttered and clenched, the way your hands shook where they gripped him, the way your breath hitched as you tried to come back to earth.

And still, he didn’t stop touching you. Not yet. His lips moved lower, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, the crease where leg met pelvis, like he couldn’t stop worshipping you now that he’d started. His beard was damp with you, his mouth swollen, his hands still gentle where they rested at your hips.

But then your hands shifted.

You grabbed the front of his shirt, your fingers curling tight in the collar, and tugged.

“Joel,” you gasped, voice high and breathless, chest heaving as your eyes found his, wild and wanting, “Please.”

He lifted his head, eyes glazed, lips shining, chest rising and falling with every labored breath. “What, baby?” he rasped, even though he already knew. Even though his own body was screaming with the need he’d been trying to bury.

You pulled again, harder this time, dragging him up your body with shaking hands, your mouth still parted, your skin flushed and damp.

“Please,” you whispered, again and again, like you were unraveling, like the word was all you had left, “please, Joel… please, I need you…”

Your legs parted wider beneath him, your hips rising, searching, the fabric of his jeans rough between your thighs as he braced himself over you.

“I can’t—I can’t wait anymore,” you whispered, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, your voice shaking. “Please—I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me, Joel. Please.”

And who was he to deny you?

Hadn’t he said it himself?

Anything you needed. Anything you wanted. He’d be the man for you.

He'd said the words and meant them. Even if they were only in his head, he meant them down to the marrow in his bones. And now, here you were, laid out beneath him, skin flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and pleading as you begged for him. Begged with your hands, your voice, your whole trembling body. And something inside Joel cracked so deep it felt like it might never close again.

He couldn’t stop himself.

He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue slipping past your lips so you could taste yourself on him. It was filthy, intimate, perfect. He should’ve been ashamed of how much he needed it, how tender it felt even with the heat still thrumming through him.

He’d always thought that stuff was bullshit—the way books and movies and every sappy romance insisted sparks flew when two people kissed. That it meant something. That it could change you.

But this… this was something else entirely.

This was fire and gravity and truth all wrapped into one aching, perfect moment.

And for a moment, Joel believed every goddamn word.

His hands fumbled with his waistband as his tongue explored your mouth, your sweet cooing noises filling his ears, your breath soft and sweet as honey as you gasped against him. The sound of his belt unbuckling and zipper lowering filled the room, sharp and electric. Finally, he wrapped his hand around himself, freeing his cock as it sprang free, tender, aching, and flushed dark and thick with need. He swore under his breath as the air hit him, the head already leaking for you. 

The idea of being a good man was long gone now. Left back on the floor with his restraint, his better judgment, his self-control. All that was left was you. Your scent, your skin, the desperate way you reached for him like you couldn’t bear another second of distance. Your gasp hit his mouth like a spark to gasoline. You moaned into him, hips lifting, thighs spreading wider around his waist as he rocked forward, lining himself up, his cock dragging through your slick folds.

He groaned deep in his chest, the weight of your heat soaking him instantly, the wet glide of your cunt against the underside of him making his whole body jolt.

And then you whimpered.

Joel pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips.

“I know, honey,” he cooed, his voice low and sweet, like a lullaby wrapped in filth. “I know it’s a lot, but you can take it. You can, baby. I know you can.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your throat, his hands cradling your face like you were something precious even as his cock pressed closer, sliding lower with each slow grind.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispered, barely able to breathe it out. “Knew you’d be so good, so sweet. Just let me in, honey.”

You whimpered, needy and breaking, and he slid forward again, this time pushing the head of his cock inside, slow and careful, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. You were so warm. So tight. Your walls clenched around him instantly and his head dropped to your shoulder with a strangled groan.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked, his voice barely holding. “You feel so fuckin’ good, angel.”

You clung to him, arms around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his hips as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until you were gasping, trembling, completely filled.

Daddy. It was like a siren’s call from your lips.

Joel didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut as he fought the urge to lose himself too fast.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your skin. “You take me so good. So perfect for me.”

And then, finally, he moved.

Slow at first. Measured. Deep, rolling thrusts that pulled back just far enough to make you whimper before he pushed forward again, thick and steady, dragging every inch through your soaked, desperate cunt. He kissed your shoulder as he rocked into you, his voice hot in your ear.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re doin’ so good.”

You were breathless beneath him, hips lifting to meet every stroke, your nails digging into his back, your mouth pressed against his neck as you moaned and gasped and whispered his name like a prayer.

Joel was unraveling with every sound you made, every pulse of your body around his cock. He held your face, kissed your lips, your cheek, your temple, the top of your head. He told you how beautiful you were. How tight. How fucking sweet you felt around him. Told you you were his good girl. His angel. His.

Joel moved inside you like he was trying to memorize every inch—slow, deliberate, reverent. His hands mapped your body like he’d never get the chance again. One gripped the underside of your thigh, keeping your legs spread wide for him, the other braced beside your head, grounding him, holding him back from fucking into you the way his body screamed for.

But he didn’t want to rush this. God, he couldn’t. Not when you felt like this.

So tight, so warm, so wet and fluttering around him with every slow thrust of his hips. Each roll of his body drew a breathy moan from your lips, and he drank them down like they were keeping him alive.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your cheek, his voice rasped and heavy with worship. “Just like that, sweetheart. Grippin’ my cock so good, angel girl.”

Your fingers were tangled in his hair, your body arching into his with each stroke, and every time your hips rocked up to meet his, he felt it—that trembling pulse in your cunt that told him how close you were.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispered, kissing your jaw, then lower. “So goddamn sweet. Feels like you were made for me.”

Your hands slid down his back, clinging, like you couldn’t get close enough.

“Joel,” you whispered, voice soft and shaking, “You feel so good—I don’t want this to end.”

His heart almost broke right there.

“Baby,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours, hips rocking slow and deep, “don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” you whimpered. “I—Joel, I think I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you. I used to dream about this. About you.”

Joel groaned, low and guttural as he kissed you. Not hard or frantic, just deep and warm, letting you feel every bit of how much that meant to him. How much he wanted to give it back.

He rolled his hips slower, deeper, angling just right until he felt your legs tense around his waist again, your body tightening, that little gasp he was starting to crave spilling from your lips as you tipped your head back against the pillow.

“There she is,” he whispered, voice rough and desperate. “You’re gonna come again, ain’t you? Gonna let me feel her squeeze my cock, huh?”

You nodded, mouth open, breath catching on each thrust. “So close—oh my God, daddy, daddy—”

“Come for me, angel,” he said, his voice shaking now. “C’mon, baby girl. Be my good girl and come.”

You cried out as it hit you, body seizing under his, thighs trembling, your walls fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses. You clung to him, your fingers locked in his hair, your mouth gasping out his name again and again. 

He kept moving, kept fucking you through it, slow and steady, letting you ride it out, watching the way you shattered so beautifully for him. He held you through every wave, every twitch, every soft sob of pleasure.

And then he couldn’t hold it anymore.

Your cunt still fluttering around him, soaked and tight and perfect—Joel’s control finally snapped.

His hips stuttered, breath coming in short, punched-out gasps, and he buried his face in your neck.

“Fuck—oh baby, I’m gonna come—Christ, you feel so good—I can’t—I can’t—”

He gripped your thigh tighter, pulled you flush against him, and thrust deep one final time as his release hit him hard, spilling into you with a broken groan. His whole body shook, teeth gritted, face buried in your skin as he came in long, slow, pulsing waves that left him shaking above you.

He didn’t move right away.

Just stayed there. Still inside you, just breathing with you. His hand smoothing softly over your ribs, then your belly, then your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispered finally, voice barely there.

You nodded, turning your head just enough to kiss his jaw. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. Your skin was warm and glowing, your eyes heavy, dreamy, dazed in the way he hoped he’d be seeing again and again. You looked happy. Content.

He’d wait ‘til tomorrow to let the guilt creep in.

PEEEEEEE PAAWWWWWWWWWW

Tommy Buries His Sorrows in… You 

(Past) Joel Miller x Reader, then Tommy Miller x Joel’s Girlfriend!Reader, Post Joel’s Death

Word count: just under 6k

Warnings: Female reader, Dead Joel, Reader Gets w/ Tommy, Grief, Submissive Tommy if you squint, but also Dominant Tommy if you squint too, smut (duh), p in v sex, oral (female receiving, iktr), fingering, angst (there’s no getting out of it, i’m sorry), unprotected sex (use protection irl pls), only proofread a little

a/n: for the girlies who want to heal over joel's death in their own sick and twisted way ;)

tagged some lovelies who said they were interested: @venus-written @mmmunson @xodilfluvr @hillaryfluff @endurexxsurvive @pascalslilpunk

It had always been complicated with Tommy.

Back before everything was official with Joel, there had been moments- small, dangerous moments- where Tommy would linger a little too long, smile a little too much, let his hand brush yours in a way that felt like it meant something more.

You hadn’t been with Joel then, not really. You two were still dancing around each other, too stubborn, too scared to admit what you both wanted. And maybe that's why Tommy thought there was a chance.

You remembered one night at the Tipsy Bison, after a few too many beers, when Tommy had leaned so close. Too close, his words slurred and almost as gentle as the hand he had draped around your waist. 

His breath had been warm and minty, and you'd felt the tickle of his mustache brush against the shell of your ear when he spoke your name, soft and low, almost reverent. It had sent a shiver down your spine back then, a shiver you hadn’t dared to acknowledge.

You hadn't let him finish what he was going to say. Not because you weren’t flattered, but because Joel had been watching from across the room, his stare heavy, a warning. Because even then, even before Joel had claimed you, some part of you had known you weren’t meant to be Tommy’s.

You were Joel’s girl.

Because when Joel looked at you, really looked at you, it was like you were the only steady thing left in a world built on ash and ruin.

You remembered the night it all changed. It was cold, a brittle sort of chill that bit through your jacket and scraped across your skin. The two of you were standing just outside the town’s walls, where the broken street lamps cast long, crooked shadows over the cracked pavement. You’d been laughing about something, some stubborn argument you had while on patrol, some petty thing that didn’t even matter now, when Joel suddenly fell quiet.

You can still remember the way he looked then: hands jammed deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a blow. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened-  something raw and desperate bleeding through the cracks.

“I ain’t good at this,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel. His breath fogged in the air between you, curling and disappearing into the cold. You’d barely gotten out a confused, “Good at what?” before he closed the space between you.

He kissed you like he was starving for it. Like he’d been holding himself back for too long and something inside him had finally snapped. His mouth was rough and searching, his hands hesitant at first, then surer- one curling around the nape of your neck, the other splaying against your lower back, pulling you closer until there was no air left between you. He smelled like leather and cedar and that stubborn, earthy scent that was just Joel.

When he finally pulled back, his hand came up to cradle your cheek, calloused thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. His touch was clumsy, almost too careful, like he was afraid he might break you.

“Saw the way Tommy was lookin’ at you,” His voice was hoarse, and he let out a slow, shaky breath, almost a laugh. “Knew if I didn’t do somethin’, someone else would. And I couldn’t stand the thought of losin’ you before I ever really had you.”

You didn’t need him to say the rest. You’d felt it too-  all those glances, all that tension wound so tight between you it could snap at any second.

So you kissed him again, and that was the end of it. You were his.

Everyone knew it, including Tommy. He backed off after that. Kept his distance. You caught him looking, once or twice- not in the way he had before, not with a teasing smile or a lingering touch, but with something quieter, something sadder. Maybe he’d been a little surprised that Joel had finally made a move. Maybe, if he was honest, a little jealous too. But at the end of the day, Tommy had always been loyal to the people he loved.

And so he smiled that crooked, awkward smile when Joel pulled you close in public, and clapped him on the back like he was proud. The flirting stopped, replaced by an awkward politeness that never quite seemed natural.

It had been easier that way. Cleaner.

But now Joel was gone. And everything clean and easy had died with him

____

It was late- too late for visitors, but Tommy didn’t seem to care. You were sitting by the window, staring out at the darkened world, feeling the weight of the night more than ever. The loss of Joel still stung, a raw ache you couldn’t shake, and every sound seemed to echo louder than it should.

A knock on the door startled you, sharp and insistent, but when you opened it, there was Tommy, standing there with his shoulders hunched, his gaze a little too guarded.  He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there in the doorway, like he wasn’t sure why he’d come, or maybe too afraid to say the reason aloud.

“You alright?” you asked, your voice quiet, unsure if you even wanted to know the answer. The words felt strange between you- almost like a question you both already knew the answer to, but neither of you could admit.

Tommy’s eyes flickered to the ground, then back up to meet yours. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped, like the words weren’t quite ready to leave his lips. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, and his stance was defensive, like he was bracing for something.

"I... I don’t know what I’m doin’ here," he admitted finally, his voice low and rough, the words feeling more like a confession than an explanation. "I just- "

You could see it, the uncertainty in his eyes, the same confusion you felt creeping up on you all the time. What were you supposed to do after everything had been torn apart? What were you supposed to feel when the man who was supposed to keep everything together was gone?

"You don’t have to explain," you said, stepping aside to let him in. "Just- come in, Tommy."

He hesitated, looking over his shoulder, like he was trying to convince himself this was the right thing to do. Then, with a grunt, he stepped inside. He didn’t seem to belong in the small, quiet space, his presence too big for the room, too loud in its own way.

“I like your outfit,” Tommy tried, a weak smile on his face

You looked down at your pajama ensemble, which consisted of a baggy t-shirt and athletic shorts, and looked back up at him, an eyebrow raised

"I wasn’t sure if you’d wanna see me," Tommy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Figured you needed space, y’know?"

You didn’t answer immediately. The last few days had been a blur of grief, silence, and confusion. You’d expected space from everyone, even from him, but there was something about Tommy that felt different. He wasn’t just Joel’s brother- he was one of the few people who understood what it meant to lose him.

Tommy’s gaze flickered down to the floor again, and when he looked back up, there was something different about him- an edge of need, of something barely held back. The space between you was still there, but it felt like it was closing, pulling you both closer even though every instinct screamed to stay apart.

"I didn’t think I’d want to see anyone," you crossed your arms, voice barely above a whisper. "But here we are."

Tommy took a slow step closer, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It was a dangerous proximity, but you couldn’t bring yourself to step back. His presence, though so different from Joel’s, felt like the closest thing to comfort you’d had in days. Maybe that’s why you didn’t back away.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Tommy muttered, almost to himself, but it wasn’t regret- at least not the kind that would stop him from moving forward. There was something darker behind the words, something that tugged at you both. "But hell, it feels like this is all we’ve got now."

Tommy let out a low, shaky breath. The air between you two was thick with everything unsaid, and he shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, like he didn’t know where to put himself in this new, empty world. He glanced at the chair next to you but didn’t sit.

“You’re still… still here. After everything,” Tommy said, voice cracking, tears forming in his eyes. "Don’t know why that matters, but... it does."

There was a strange, fragile honesty in his voice, and for a moment, the grief in his eyes matched your own. But there was something else there too, something that neither of you could name.

"I’m not going anywhere," you said, the words soft but firm, as if to convince both of you. “Not yet.”

That was all it took. Tommy staggered two steps towards you, then fell to his knees with a strangled cry, burying his face into the fabric of the t-shirt at your stomach, his hands resting on the backs of your legs, clutching at you like you were the only thing left in the world. 

Your hands instinctively moved to his head, your fingers threading through his thick hair. It felt like Joel’s.

It felt like Joel’s.

You gasped, pulling your hands back like you’d been burned, guilt crashing over you like a wave.

Tommy felt you start to pull away-  his grip on your legs tightened in a silent plea, grounding himself there, refusing to let you go. He mumbled something against you, too broken to lift his head.

“What did you say, Tomm-”

Before you could finish, he shifted- slid his hands up from the backs of your legs to your hips, desperate, almost clumsy with it. The movement made you stumble a half step back, heart thundering in your chest.

“Help me,” the words barely escaped his throat.

"Help you?" you breathed. "Wh-"

"Help me forget," he choked out. "Help me feel better, help me-" He broke off, his voice catching, as if he couldn't even put words to the ache tearing him apart.

Still, he couldn’t look away.

Still, you couldn’t either.

You stood frozen for a second, heart hammering against your ribs so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Tommy still knelt there, broken, at your feet, clutching onto you like you were the only thing left holding him together.

"Joel woulda never… I’m sorry," Tommy began, his voice thick with guilt, the words snagging in his throat, a single tear streaming down his face. His eyes dropped to the floor, shame flickering over his features. "Never wanted this. I can’t… I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t” he sputtered out. 

The weight of it crushed your chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Maybe that's why I haven’t sent you away," you whispered, the confession burning your tongue. Tommy froze at your words. It felt like betrayal- to Joel, to yourself- but the hollow ache inside you roared louder than your guilt. "Maybe I need this. Maybe... I need something I’m not supposed to have."

Tommy’s eyes darkened, his hands still fisting the sides of your shorts like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Without thinking, you sank down, knees pressing into the worn wooden floor. You were level with him now, close enough to see every crack in the mask he was trying so hard to wear. Tommy sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of you kneeling in front of him, like it shattered the last bit of restraint he had left.

You hesitated- a heartbeat, two, before reaching out and tentatively brushing your fingers against his cheek. His stubble was rough under your touch, grounding you in this awful, beautiful mess.

His forehead dropped against yours with a shaky exhale, his body trembling from the force of everything he was trying to hold back.

"Fucking god, Tommy,” you shuddered, “We can’t," you whispered against him, your breath mingling with his. Spearmint. 

"I know," Tommy muttered, “I fuckin' know,” but the words didn’t stop him. His hand locking around the back of your neck to hold you in place, he surged forward without giving either of you another moment to think.

His mouth crashed against yours- rough, needy, almost clumsy- but you answered him without hesitation, your hands grasping at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

There was nothing careful about it. No permission asked. No forgiveness given. Just grief, aching and the feeling of being alive between your mouths, pulling you undone. Tongue and teeth and Tommy’s mustache scratching your face, the smell of leather, soap, and sweat, his smell, surrounding you. 

Without warning, Tommy pushed off of you, and the sudden space between you two felt unbearable. 

​​Tommy’s breath was ragged, his forehead still pressed against yours, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to will himself back under control.

"I’m sorry," he rasped, though he didn’t let you go. His hands still clutched your waist like he thought you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

You shook your head, your fingers untangling from the fabric of his jacket and sliding up his biceps to rest on his broad shoulders. Your chest heaved, your lips burning from the kiss, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to regret it. Not when it made you feel something again.

"Don't be," you whispered, your hands moving to cup his face. "Please... don’t be."

He let out a whimper, becoming putty in your hands. His eyes opened and found yours, glassy and dark, and for a long moment neither of you moved, neither of you breathed.

Your thumb brushed gently over Tommy’s lips, feeling them tremble. His breathing stuttered, but he didn’t pull away-  didn’t even flinch-  just waited, he was putting everything in your hands now.

Slowly, you leaned in, brushing your nose lightly against his. His breath hitched again, but he stayed still, letting you set the pace.

You kissed him.

Soft, sure, and nothing like the desperate clash from before. This kiss was a promise. A surrender.

Tommy made a broken sound deep in his chest- half relief, half wrecked need- and his hands slid up your back, pulling you closer without hesitation.

You shifted without breaking the kiss, moving to straddle his lap. Tommy shifted underneath you, clumsy and desperate, dropping to fully sit on the floor and tugging you into his lap like he couldn't stand another second without you closer, his hands trembling as they guided you into place.

Tommy groaned low into your mouth when you settled over him, the heat of your core pressed flush to his achingly hard cock restrained by his jeans. His fingers dug into your hips through your clothes, anchoring himself to the moment, to you. You ground down on him, drawing a sinful sound from his throat, the denim providing the perfect amount of friction for you both. 

There was no more slowing down. Tommy’s hands were everywhere now, sliding under the waistband of your shorts, gripping your hips as he now manually moved you back and forth over where he needed you most. Every motion was urgent, desperate- like he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. His lips left yours only to trail down your throat, his breath coming out in sharp gasps as you tried to hold onto some semblance of control, but you couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not with him kissing you like he needed you to breathe. 

Tommy’s hands stilled, one on the back of your head, one on your hip, and before you could protest at the lack of motion, he flipped you over. Swift, calculated, and with ease. You gasped, your back hitting the cool floor with a soft thud, the sudden shift in control making your heart race.

He hovered over you, his chest rising and falling with every shaky breath. The space between you two felt heavier now. His lips hovered above yours, torn between control and chaos, like he was waiting for you to stop him, to say something, anything to make sense of what was happening.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His hands roamed over your body, tracing the curves of your waist, your hips, his touch desperate, as if he were mapping you out. You could feel the intensity of his touch, the way his fingers trembled, almost like he was afraid that if he let go of you, the world might collapse entirely.

"Tommy," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, a plea that felt more like a question.

"Shh," he whispered, his lips moving to your neck as his hand slid under your shirt. His touch was hot, but still left a trail of goosebumps on your skin where his fingers had brushed.

His mouth found yours again, this time urgent, his kiss deepening with a rawness that sent a shiver through your entire body. You could feel the weight of everything between you two- the grief, the loss, the hunger for something real- and it only made the kiss more desperate. His hands, once tentative, were now firm, pulling you closer, pushing you further into him like he couldn’t get enough.

The hand under your shirt moved slowly, deliberately, his fingers grazing the soft skin of your breasts as it slid even higher. His hand made its way up to the collar of your shirt, where he twisted the fabric around his fingers. He pulled back from your kiss to straddle your waist, his strong thighs framing you, anchoring him, before his other hand moved to grip the shirt collar from the outside. 

Without warning, he tugged harshly, his knuckles hitting against your skin as the shirt gave way with a rip. The sound of fabric tearing echoed through the room, sending a jolt of adrenaline straight to your chest. The action was raw, animalistic, the urgency in his movements undeniable as he tore the shirt open, right down the front, exposing the skin beneath.

"God, you're-" Tommy groaned, his voice breaking, words barely slipping out of his throat, his fists tightening around the fragments of shirt in his hands. "I don’t... fuck..." He couldn’t finish the thought, but you could hear it all- the desperation, the guilt, the raw, aching need to feel you, even if it was just for a moment. 

He didn’t give himself the time to find the words. His mouth left a hot, wet trail down your torso- over the soft curve of your belly, the band of your athletic shorts. He paused there, nuzzling against the fabric, his breath burning against your skin. He hooked his fingers over the waistband and wiggled your shorts off of your hips, tossing them aside without ceremony, letting out a borderline pained groan when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

"Let me..." he rasped, almost begging, kneeling on the floor between your spread legs, his fingers digging into the sides of your thighs. "Let me take care of you. Please."

You nodded once, almost imperceptible, but Tommy caught it. 

His eyes locked on your cunt, looking at it like it was the answer to all of his prayers. His gaze didn’t falter once as he slowly lowered himself to lay on his stomach on the wooden floor, hooking your legs over his shoulders. He looked like he was starving. 

He pressed a kiss to your clit and finally looked back up at you. His eyes glossed over, hypnotized. 

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, voice nearly unrecognizable, thick with emotion, "And I will. Swear to fuckin’ god, I will."

You didn’t tell him to stop.

"Tommy... please,” tears forming in your eyes “Please just-”

He cut you off by finally giving you what you wanted.

The first sweep of his tongue was tentative, almost cautious- as if he was savoring you, memorizing the taste of you. But when you cried out, your fingers yanking at his hair, something in him snapped.

He groaned against you, digging his fingers into your thighs, and licked into you with a hunger that bordered on feral.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t slow, or teasing, or careful.

It was messy and desperate- needy, frantic. Tommy buried his face between your legs like he was starving for it, tongue moving in sloppy, devastating circles over your clit, moaning against you like he couldn’t get enough.

"Tommy," you gasped, your back arching off the floor, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Oh my god, Tommy-"

He answered you with a low growl, gripping your thighs tighter, dragging you closer, pressing you more firmly against his mouth. His nose bumped your clit with every desperate movement of his tongue, the friction sending you spiraling, unraveling.

Your vision blurred, your breath stuttered, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, Tommy's hand moved. He grabbed your thigh roughly, holding you wide open, and slid two thick fingers into you without warning.

You cried out- half sob, half gasp- and he just groaned against your clit, like he needed your sounds, like they drove him crazier.

"That’s it, baby," he mumbled against your cunt, voice low and ragged. "Give it to me. Let me hear you."

His fingers pumped into you hard, relentless, curling up inside you with devastating precision. Every stroke punched a broken little noise out of you, your body jerking helplessly under him.

Tommy was now propped up on one elbow, with his face and his free hand buried between your legs. Not a comfortable position for him at all, but that wasn’t his focus anymore. He wanted to see you. 

"You’re mine," Tommy growled, rough and possessive, not caring whether the words were true or not. "Always were. Always fuckin’ will be."

The rhythm of his fingers and his tongue was overwhelming- dirty and desperate- grinding you down until there was nothing left but him.

You tried to hold on, tried to make it last, but he worked you over mercilessly, coaxing every gasp and whimper out of you until you were right on the edge, shaking and breathless.

"Come on, sweet girl," he murmured, mouth slick and messy against you. "Wanna feel you fall apart on my fuckin' hand."

He knew you were close. The way you clenched around his fingers, the way your breath hitched and broke- he felt it, heard it- and without another word, he buried his mouth against you again, hell-bent on tearing that finish out of you.

With a final rough curl of his fingers- hitting that spot inside you so perfectly it hurt- you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you hard and fast, your vision going white, your body clamping down around him, your hands fisting helplessly in his hair as you cried out his name like a prayer. Tommy groaned into you, slow and deep, drinking down every last shudder you gave him before finally- finally-  dragging his mouth away.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark and glinting with a filthy sort of satisfaction. Cocky. Proud. Like he’d just won something. He pressed a few lingering kisses to your trembling inner thigh, then pushed himself up, moving to hover over you.

“Fuckin’ knew you'd taste good," he smirked down at you, hair mussed, mouth shiny. His hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in. “Been wantin’ to do that for-”

He cut himself off so fast you barely caught it. For how long? Since Joel died? Before? The words hung between you, heavy and unspoken.

You didn’t let him finish. Didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to think.

You grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him down into a messy, desperate kiss. He sighed against your mouth, kissing you back just as rough, his body pressing hot and solid against yours, grateful that you interrupted his train of thought. You could feel him-  hard and thick in his jeans, grinding against your hip like he couldn’t help himself.

One hand planted on the floor, his other moved down to fumble with his belt, cursing low under his breath as the buckle clinked. He was rushing- hands clumsy, frantic- until he suddenly stilled.

"No," he muttered against your skin, voice rough and wrecked. He squeezed his eyes shut, like he was wrestling with himself. "Not like this,” he said, mostly to himself. 

Before you could ask, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you clean off the floor. You let out a soft, startled noise, arms wrapping around his shoulders instinctively.

Tommy carried you across the room, his hands gripping you tight like he was scared you’d run away if he let go. He laid you down on the bed- gentler now- and took a step back, hands on his hips, staring down at you like you were something holy.

“This,” he smiled, somewhat weak but still genuine, tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it aside, “this ain’t gonna be rushed, sweetheart. Ain't gonna be sloppy.”

He popped the button on his jeans, dragging them down his hips with slow, deliberate hands- his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m gonna take my time with you."

Your eyes raked over his now naked form, drinking him in like he was something holy and forbidden all at once, because he was.

Tommy was solid- broad shoulders, thick arms, a chest dusted with dark hair that tapered down his stomach, leading your gaze lower, making your mouth go dry. He wasn’t perfect- there were scars across his ribs and hips, little stories written into his skin- but god, he was beautiful. Strong, sturdy, built like he could ruin you and hold you together at the same time. There was a kind of roughness to him, a ruggedness- the soft curve of his belly, the way his thighs were thick and powerful, the way his hands were big and rough, but they touched you like you were something delicate. 

And his eyes- Fuck, his eyes.

Dark, wild, hungry- like he was barely keeping himself from devouring you whole.

You’d never been looked at like that before.

You'd never been looked at like that before.

Joel had loved you- you knew he had. You’d loved him back just as fiercely. But there had always been something in the way. Some job that needed finishing. Some danger around the corner. Ellie needing him more than you did. There was always a part of him you could never quite reach, no matter how close you got.

You felt it creeping in now, the old ache, the old loneliness-

You forced it away, pushed it down deep where it belonged. Not now. Not with Tommy looking at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted. Like you were the last good thing in a broken world. Like he’d starve without you.

Tommy was all man, all heat, and all yours. 

You lay there, breathless, skin flushed and buzzing under his gaze, watching him. Watching the way his chest heaved, the way his hands fisted at his sides like he was holding himself back by a thread.

You didn’t want him to hold back.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your legs falling open in silent invitation.

Tommy swore under his breath, low and rough, and crawled over you, his big hands sliding up your thighs, spreading you wider, fitting himself between them like he belonged there. He leaned down, catching your mouth in a bruising kiss- messy, teeth clashing, tongues tangling- and you moaned into it, arching your body up against his. You could feel how badly he wanted you, how close he was to snapping.

"Christ, look at you," he muttered against your mouth, his hand snaking down between your bodies, stroking himself once, twice. "So fuckin’ beautiful like this. So ready for me."

You whined, desperate, bucking your hips up. "Tommy, please."

That did it.

With a ragged growl, he lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing hot and insistent against your slick entrance. He nudged in just an inch, enough to make you gasp, and froze.

"Sweetheart," he rasped, voice thick with something like pain, like worship, "you sure?"

You nodded frantically, fingers digging into his back, pulling him closer.

That was all he needed.

With one slow, devastating thrust, Tommy pushed into you, stretching you open, filling you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. You both gasped- his hands gripping your hips so tight you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow.

“Fuck,” he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. "You feel- Jesus fucking Christ, you feel like heaven."

He gave you a moment, letting you adjust, but you were already clenching around him, greedy, needy, your body desperate for more.

“Move," you whispered against his jaw, biting down just enough to make him groan.

And then he did-  dragging almost all the way out, slow and torturous, before slamming back into you with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

He set a slow rhythm, each thrust hard and deep, like he was trying to fuck the memories out of both of you.

You took everything he gave you- the desperation, the anger, the hunger- and gave it right back, meeting him thrust for thrust, nails clawing down his back, mouths colliding in fevered kisses between ragged breaths.

You didn't know when the rhythm had turned frantic- when Tommy had stopped holding back, when you'd started begging. All you knew was the sound of skin slapping against skin, the desperate little noises breaking from your throat, the thick stretch of him inside you.

"That's it, sweetheart," Tommy rasped against your ear, his voice wrecked, his hips grinding deeper, harder. "I want you to cum with me. C'mon-"

His hand found your clit, fingers rough and unpracticed but perfect, circling you with the same wild urgency he fucked you with. It tipped you right over the edge.

You sobbed his name, clinging to him like a lifeline, body seizing up so tight it sent fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. You broke apart around him, your whole world narrowing to the relentless drag of his hips and the unbearable sweetness of his touch. Tommy cursed low in his throat, feeling you clamp down on him, and he didn’t stand a chance.

He spilled inside you with a hoarse, shuddering groan, burying his face against your neck as he followed you into oblivion. His whole body locked up, muscles trembling with the force of it, his hand still working you through the last waves of pleasure.

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing, the way you both clung to each other like you'd drown if you let go.

Tommy didn’t move at first. He just stayed there, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, like he was trying to catch his breath- or maybe just trying to hold onto the moment a little longer.

His arms slid under you, gathering you up without even thinking, and he rolled onto his back, taking you with him, keeping you perched on his chest. Still joined, still trembling. Still his.

You melted into him, your body boneless and spent, your cheek pressed to the sweaty curve of his shoulder. You could hear his heart thundering under your ear, feel it slow bit by bit as the silence wrapped around you. He ran a hand down your spine, shaky and gentle, tracing your skin like he never wanted to forget the feel of you.

"You okay?" he murmured after a while, his voice rough, almost shy. Like he hadn't just wrecked you. Like he hadn't just stitched himself into you in ways you weren't sure you could ever undo.

You nodded against him. Your fingers found his chest hair and you played with it. 

He chuckled low under his breath- a sound that rumbled deep in his chest-  and tightened his arms around you.

"Good," he said, and kissed your hairline, your temple, anywhere he could reach. "Good, sweetheart. Ain't lettin' you go now."

You hummed, allowing yourself to close your eyes and let yourself drift asleep against Tommy’s strong chest.

_____________ 

Eventually, the cold started to creep in.

Your bare skin prickled against his, the sweat drying sticky between you, and awoke with a shiver.

Tommy felt it. Of course he did. He was wide awake while you were sleeping, not allowing himself to doze off for fear you’d need him for something, monitoring every time you shifted or sighed in your sleep.

He muttered something under his breath- too low and Southern-slurred for you to catch- and shifted carefully, sliding out from under you with a soft, broken sound. You whimpered at the loss, at the overwhelming emptiness he left behind. His hands soothed down your sides, slow and gentle, murmuring, "I got you, baby. I'm right here."

He walked a few steps toward the edge of the bed, reaching down to grab the blanket that had gotten kicked off due to your previous activities. He shook it out, his muscles rippling down his back as he did. 

You caught glimpses of him in the low light: mussed hair, flushed chest, long lines of scratch marks blooming red down his back like some sort of claim. Your mark. You’d done that to him.

He gently spread the blanket over you on the bed, then sank down beside you again. 

You thought maybe he’d pull away. Maybe he’d retreat into silence, into shame.

But he didn’t.

He laid back against the pillows and tugged you onto his chest again, wrapping you up in his arms. You could still feel the wild thudding of his heart, still hear the rasp of his breathing as he combed a hand through your tangled hair.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

You just laid there, bruised and aching and still a little wet between your legs, feeling the weight of everything that had just happened settle into your bones.

Tommy’s thumb traced lazy, meaningless circles over your back. Eventually, you felt him dip his head, his mouth brushing the top of your ear.

"I been wantin’ you for a long time," he whispered, like it was a secret, like he was confessing something he couldn’t take back.

You closed your eyes tight against the flood of emotion, your hand fisting weakly in the blanket.

You wanted to say it back. You wanted to tell him that maybe, without even knowing it, you’d been wanting him too. But the words stuck in your throat.

He noticed.

Tommy’s voice was a whisper as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. "I’m sorry," he murmured, though you could hear the regret mixed with something else- something deeper. "I never wanted it to be like this."

You didn’t answer. Instead, you just held onto him, the warmth of his body against yours the only thing that felt real in that moment.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

lunch break

pairing: jesse/fem!reader genre: smut smut smut w.c.: 5.5k a/n: the first scene of 2x03 had me blacking out and then i wrote this in two days. this is my first time writing for jesse, pls be gentle and i hope you enjoy because i had so much fun writing this <3 ty for my dear lover for enabling me. you can also imagine either show or game jesse for this!

summary: You've been distracted by your boyfriend all morning. Jesse knows you better than you expected.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, post 2x02 but joel lives (!), established relationship, jesse is sexy and reader is horny for his arms, oral sex (f receiving), brief fingering, unprotected p in v sex (lets pretend birth control exists ok), some fluff too

read below or on ao3 here <3

You’re starting to wonder if you’ve gone insane.

Jackson has been somber for the past several months—mourning all the losses after the walls were breached and focusing on rebuilding. The makeshift hospital was still as busy as ever, and every time word spread that another person had succumbed to their injuries, the weight that seemed to blanket over the town grew heavier, quieter.

Luckily, you hadn’t lost anybody you were particularly close with. Even then, you’re not sure if you would even have the time to mourn them with how hard the council was pushing any and all able-bodied people to help in the rebuild. Your body was sore and hands were covered in blisters as you helped carry logs of wood to the main street.

So, you’re not exactly sure why you’re about to start drooling, heart thudding in your chest and pulsing between your legs, as you watch Jesse lift a sledgehammer to pound a wooden pillar into the ground.

You stop in your tracks, arms aching despite the small bundle of wood you’re carrying, as you stare, absolutely transfixed.

Jesse always ran warm, warmer than you, so despite the chill in the spring air, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that showcased his broad shoulders and thick arms. You watch as his muscles bulge with every lift of the sledgehammer, the prominent veins running along his forearms drawing your attention. The buttons of his shirt were undone, providing you a delicious peak of his chest, as if he was teasing you.

Sweat was already starting to form along his hairline, causing a few strands to start sticking to his skin. His pants were tight, unfairly hugging his hips, his thick thighs straining through the fabric. If you strain your ears hard enough, now able to discern the low cadence of his voice through a crowd, you could detect the quiet grunts with every lift of the sledgehammer.

You blame the fact that you both have been too busy with the repairs and Jesse being added to the council for the way molten heat begins to pool at your core, fingers twitching with the rampant desire to get your hands on him.

The only time you’ve been able to spend with Jesse lately was when he would crawl into your bed late at night, usually when you were already asleep. Sometimes you were able to wake up before he had to leave and would only have time to press your face into his chest, inhaling and memorizing his clean scent. Other times he’d already be gone, leaving a short and concise note but with a crooked little heart next to his name.

So you’re a little sexually frustrated, okay?

“You alright?”

You startle out of your thoughts, tearing your gaze away from your boyfriend continuing to grunt extremely inappropriately, to Tommy sitting on the sidelines while he waited for his turn.

He’s watching you with a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips despite the weariness physically weighing on his shoulders.

Tommy’s nice, always has been, and seemed to be around you more lately after he found out you and Jesse were a thing. You’re not exactly sure why, but you had found yourself spending more time with him and Maria, Ellie, and even Joel. You were starting to feel like you had an actual group of people that cared about you.

His question seems to have caught Jesse’s attention. He stops working, resting the sledgehammer onto the ground and leaning against it, raising an eyebrow at you.

Jesse’s protective, always has been, but even moreso in the past several weeks. He says it’s because he knows you and how you’re a little reckless, impulsive, but you know that’s not entirely true.

You feel heat crawl up your neck at being caught ogling, and you don’t even bother to tiptoe around Tommy like you know other people have been doing after Joel’s near-death experience when you mutter a “shut up” and stalk away.

You hear Tommy laugh. The sound makes you smile, your shoulders loosening up because he’s been so stressed lately with the rebuild and worrying about Joel still in the hospital.

You ignore the weight of Jesse’s gaze digging into your back.

-

You’re unfortunately tasked with clearing out some additional rubble from a nearby building, which means your entire morning is spent with Jesse’s grunting and groaning within earshot as he worked only several feet away.

It’s a cruel form of torture, and you almost drop at least 2 pieces of concrete on your feet because you were too enraptured by the way you could see his muscles shift underneath his shirt.

By the time your group breaks for lunch, you’re shifting uncomfortably due to the wetness gathering in your panties and brushing against your thighs. The ache in your shoulders and hips pales in comparison to the ache in your core as Jesse sidles up next to you silently.

“Ready?” he asks, slightly out of breath and brushing his hair away from his forehead with his wrist. He’s so hot, it’s really unfair.

It was Jesse’s suggestion to take a lunch together whenever you could if he wasn’t busy. Your heart had thumped an erratic and concerning pace when he brought it up, his voice low and tinged with an endearing sort of bashfulness.

It had taken you awhile but you’ve come to find out that Jesse was more affectionate in private than in public. He liked to spend time with you, enjoyed being in your presence and sitting in silence. He didn’t have much dating experience besides Dina, who often took the reins in their relationship, so him making an effort to make time for you despite his busy schedule was new to the both of you.

“Yep,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the rasp in your voice, and steps in time with him as you head to your house only a couple blocks away.

Jesse has only been able to join you for lunch a handful of times, often having to give you a regretful smile before being pulled away for an emergency council meeting or to help another person on the other side of town. You didn’t mind, you knew he was busy, knew that this was what to be expected after he had told you that night that he was talking to Maria about being added to the council.

You admired him and his tenacity for wanting to help the people of Jackson. He was undoubtedly the most responsible person in your age group and it only made sense that he got added since he was friendly, even had a golden boy reputation.

You knew that he couldn’t talk about what happened during their meetings, even to you, and you honestly didn’t have much to talk about besides the fact that your neighbor’s dog slept on your porch last night.

So you two walked in comfortable silence, his bare arm brushing against your sleeve every few paces. Even through your multiple layers, the warmth of him still bled through the sweaters and was doing nothing to quell the building heat underneath your skin. The smell of him and his sweat, mixing with the smoky burning of wood nearby, was starting to make you feel faint.

By the time you two make it to your house, you were one second away from falling to your knees and scrambling to unbuckle his belt to tug his pants down and take him in your mouth.

It’s when the front door closes behind you when Jesse asks “You okay?”

You’re toeing off your boots and tugging off your jacket to throw over the rusty coatrack by the door before making your way to the kitchen, already preoccupied by trying to remember what sandwich ingredients you could scrounge together. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just seemed distracted today.”

You have no idea. “I’m just tired today.”

Jesse hums, and you think you’re off the hook and can focus on rushing to make a sandwich because Tommy does not give you guys enough time for lunch, when he’s suddenly pressing up against you, his large hands resting on your hips and mouth inches from your ear as he mutters “So that’s why you kept staring at me today? Because you were distracted?”

You huff out a laugh, setting down your butter knife, because you’re honestly not surprised. Jesse was possibly the most perceptive person you knew, of course he would notice that you were ogling him all morning. You knew at this point, there was no harm in hiding anymore.

You lean back into his chest, sturdy and warm, as he noses at the nape of your neck. “And what if I was?”

“Just making sure.” And then he’s spinning you around until the edge of the counter digs into the small of your back and pressing his mouth to yours.

He’s gentle, always gentle, his hands skimming up your sides reverently, as if worried you were about to disappear into thin air. His lips are unbearably soft, maybe a little chapped, as you kiss him back and part your lips with a sigh. He tastes like the stale coffee from this morning and it’s the best thing you’ve had all day.

You loop your arms around his broad shoulders, tugging him closer until the hard line of his body was pressed up against yours. You card your fingers through the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck, humming at the sensation of being trapped by his body, and experimentally tug.

Jesse lets out a low groan, muffled against your mouth, and then his large hands slide down to your ass to squeeze once before suddenly lifting you up.

You squeal against his lips, causing him to smile, and your legs instinctually come to wrap around his waist despite already being seated on the counter. The coldness seeping through your jeans shocks you and provides a delicious contrast with Jesse’s heated body against yours.

When you separate from each other, you’re panting into each other’s open mouths. Jesse leans his forehead against yours, hands on your thighs, and from this proximity, you’re mesmerized by the fan of his eyelashes against his cheekbones as he catches his breath and the way his hair tickled your face.

When he opens his eyes to peer into yours, your breath gets stuck in your throat along with something else you can’t name at his hungry gaze, eyes dark and pupils wide.

Jesse has always been able to say so much with just his eyes; a sharp warning that Maria was on her way to give you a stern talking to, warm fondness when you were telling him about what you bartered for today at the market, or primal desire whenever you stripped and crawled into bed with him.

“Are you okay with skipping lunch today?” he asks, voice a low timbre that sends a shiver running down your spine. His hands, rough with the day’s work, knead your thighs through your jeans, and the silent strength in his thick fingers and the flex of the muscles in his biceps has you licking your lips. You could feel the heat of his cock, hard and confined in his jeans, against your inner thigh.

“Are you going to eat something else?”

Jesse rolls his eyes, an exasperated smile tugging at his lips that he tries to hide. It has you beaming. He squeezes your inner thighs a bit harder, as if in a warning. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you love me,” you say, before you could think better of it.

It’s slight, but you can tell he pauses by the way his breath catches and his hands falter. A rush of panic rises up your throat and you say, as nonchalantly as you could, “As long as you sneak me something from the food hall later?”

You hope he can’t tell that you’re holding your breath, nearly praying that he doesn’t point out your slip up.

His eyes soften, causing a sudden weakness in your chest, before he’s reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Deal.”

You give him a shaky smile. You know he sees right through you.

But it doesn’t matter, because he’s leaning in to kiss you again, harder, rougher, as if he can’t find the words he wants to say and lets his desire for you to do the talking for him.

You melt into him, you always do, and when you press your palm against his chest to feel the steady rhythm of his heart, you’ve never felt so safe in your entire life.

“I guess we better hurry up then,” he whispers, giving you a slight smirk, before his hands expertly unbuttons your jeans, tugs down the zipper, and then helps you tug them down all the way off your legs.

You nod rapidly, causing him to chuckle breathily. You reach out for him to grab at his arms, pulling him in to kiss you again.

He obliges, because he always does when you peer up at him with glazed over eyes, as if he’s already fucked you.

You hum against his mouth, the ache in your pussy starting to become unbearable. You’re barely aware of his hands running down your bare thighs, causing goosebumps to rise, before he’s lifting your legs up by the knees to prop your feet up on the counter.

The new position has you spread open and exposed, dimly aware of the way you could feel your panties sticking to your pussy. You’re expecting him to rub his thick fingers alongside your seam through the fabric, coaxing a breathy whimper from your lips, before tugging it aside to thrust a finger inside of your soaking entrance.

You don’t expect him to pull away. You definitely don’t expect him to fall to his knees, face achingly close to your center, while his hands squeeze at the flesh of your thighs before prying them apart.

“Oh,” you exhale, eyes wide, as your hands scramble to the dull edge of the counter as your mind reels at the heady image of Jesse, sweet and courteous, on his knees. His face inches from your pussy.

“Fuck, baby, you’re already so wet,” he whispers, as if in awe. His right hand comes to trace the edge of your panties, a plain baby blue color, while he stares unblinkingly at the definite wet spot at the center.

“I was just kidding, you don’t actually have to—”

“I want to,” he says, and when he looks up at you, your chest aches at the tender affection clear on his face. “Is that okay?”

And it’s not like he hasn’t gone down on you before. In fact, it seems like he tries to eat you out any chance he got, which you were definitely not complaining about. You still shivered when you thought about the first time he ate you out, the first time you ever came from another man’s mouth on you, and how your thighs trembled as you squeezed around his head. You swear you had thought you died and gone to heaven.

Now, however…

“We’ve just had a long morning; you know I sweat a lot…” you trail off. It sounds weak, even to your own ears.

Another exasperated sigh, though this time Jesse doesn’t even bother hiding the fond smile. “You know I don’t care about that.”

But he waits. He stays on his knees, thumbs tracing comforting and distracting circles against your inner thighs, and he just waits. For your permission.

You don’t think your heart can swell any further before it’s bound to burst. “Okay.”

Jesse’s smile grows, making him look utterly sweet and boyish, before leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss on your inner thigh, and then another, and then another.

“Don’t worry,” he mumbles, as his kisses begin moving inwards to your aching cunt.

You exhale unsteadily, thighs already starting to shake from holding this position and the sensation of his mouth on you. The scratch of his slightly chapped lips, the damp kisses he leaves that cool as soon as he moves to the next inch of skin, and his hands that have moved to your thighs and taking some of your weight, has you nearly begging for him to hurry up.

As if he can read your mind, he pauses, his mouth hovering over the crotch of your panties that have undoubtedly melded to your pussy.

“Besides,” Jesse whispers, and the barest brush of his lips against the fabric has you shivering. You resist the urge to card your fingers through his hair to tug his face closer. “I have to take care of my girl, right?”

And then he’s pressing his open mouth to your cunt, deliberately nowhere close to your clit, but the action still wretches a gasp out of you. His mouth and his breath are hot as he takes his time, as if warming you up despite the fact that you two do not have enough time for this.

But he just looks so pretty, you think as you glance down at him. His eyes were shut, savoring you, brow relaxed as if he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world besides between your thighs.

“Jesse..” you sigh, slightly frustrated, as you thread your fingers through his hair to push out of his face. Your hips jolt forward, impatient.

He opens his eyes at that and the heat in his expression has you wanting to scoot forward on the counter until your ass was hanging off, if only to get closer to him. He cocks his eyebrow at you and mutters something suspiciously like you’re lucky that I like you so much.

Before you could question him, he’s parting his lips and then laving his tongue over you, flat and over your clit through the fabric of your panties.

You let out a soft moan, your hand on his hair tightening. The action causes Jesse to groan, muffled between your thighs, and then he’s diving in fully, pressing sloppy wet kisses against your core.

It’s heavenly, especially after not being touched for several weeks, but it’s still not enough as your hips shift forward to chase the feeling of his warm mouth.

His hands on your thighs tighten, another warning, before he’s finally dipping his thumb into the crotch of your panties to pull it aside and exposing your soaking cunt to him.

You don’t even have time to gasp at the rush of cool air against your warm skin before his mouth is on you again, tongue parting your puffy folds as he licks a stripe up your seam.

A shaky moan falls from your lips, sheer ecstasy at finally being touched without some stupid fabric in the way dripping into your veins and making you drop your head back. Your thighs begin to shake from where you still have your feet propped up on the counter, spreading you open further.

Jesse has always taken his time with you, steady and focused and knowing exactly what to do to have you unraveling in his mouth. He gathers the wetness increasingly dripping from your entrance, tasting you and groaning, spurring him on even further to press his face harder against your cunt. His strong nose prods at your clit and it has you choking on a gasp as heat begins to curl up your spine.

He traces along your folds with a firm tongue, the lewd noises from his mouth on you filling your ears, before circling deliberately around your clit.

Your mouth drops open, eyes rolling back, and you blame the fact that it’s been way too long since you’ve had his mouth on you for the way your orgasm rapidly approaches.

“Fuck, Jesse,” you gasp, head lolling over your shoulder as you stare, glassy-eyed, as he meets your gaze from where he’s kneeling in your fucking kitchen with his mouth on your pussy. “I’m—"

He closes his eyes and presses his face further against your core, tongue flicking your clit back and forth at a relentless pace, while one of his hands leaves your thighs to pull your folds apart and circle at your entrance. He immediately pushes it in, easily despite how thick his fingers were due to how slick you were, and the pressure has you letting out a high-pitched whine.

Your thighs were absolutely aching, feet starting to slip from the sweat forming all over your body and getting onto the counter, so you finally let your legs fall forward to place your thighs on his wide shoulders.

Jesse takes it in stride, as he does most things, and begins to suck earnestly at your clit while his finger thrusts into you, working and stretching you open so you were ready for his cock.

The thought of him fucking you, bending you over in the open air of the kitchen, has you squeezing your thighs around Jesse’s head and coming hard into his mouth. You writhe on the counter, hips bucking, but his firm grip on your thigh keeps you steady as he works you through it, tongue gentler as he runs it flat against your clit.

He doesn’t let up, that asshole, when your thighs start twitching around his head from the overstimulation. You let out a strangled noise, brain feeling foggy, as you tug at his hair to pull him up and away from your spent pussy.

When he’s face to face with you, the sight of your slick covering the entire bottom half of his face has you clenching around his finger where he still has it slowly fucking in and out of you. His eyes are tender, if not a little wild, and there’s an unbearably sexy smirk on his swollen lips, his tongue coming out to swipe around his mouth. As if he couldn’t get enough of you.

You’re surging forward, capturing his lips with yours, and the taste of yourself on his tongue has you moaning into his mouth, wrapping your thighs around his hips to pull him closer against you.

He eagerly reciprocates, tongue swiping in your mouth while he ruts against your inner thigh. You could feel the heat of his cock and how hard he was through his jeans, and you’re sure if you looked down, you’d be able to spot where his precum has bled through the fabric.

He begins to trail kisses alongside your jawline until he’s nipping at the spot underneath your ear that has your knees weak. Your own slick on his face, smearing against your cheeks, has your face heating up. “Ready to take my cock, baby?”

“God, yes.” And you’re just about to drop down off the counter so you could bend over and wag your bare ass in his face, before he stops you with a firm hand on your thigh.

Before you could ask him, he’s tugging you forward until your ass was hanging off the counter and begins unbuckling his belt. His eyes find yours, ablaze with hunger, as he rasps in a low voice, “I want to see you.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest. You don’t know what to say, what you could say, so you don’t say anything at all and instead lift the hem of your shirt and off, tossing it haphazardly to the floor.

Jesse groans at that, eyes immediately drawn to your breasts and the way your nipples instantly pebble in the cold air. He mutters an expletive before dropping his head to wrap his plush lips around one, as if he couldn’t help himself.

You let out a soft sigh, arousal already starting to flare up so soon after you came in his mouth, and you bring your arms to wrap around his shoulders, your knees to wrap around his waist. He’s so fucking broad, strong, unbearably handsome, yet his warm mouth on you is gentle as he swirls his tongue around your nipple.

He releases your swollen bud with a lewd pop, sitting up straighter so he could lean his forehead against yours as he shoves his jeans and briefs down until they bunch up around his thighs. His cock springs free, slapping against his black shirt and leaving a trail of sticky precum. Your mouth waters when he wraps a hand around the base of his cock, head flushed a pretty pink that was begging to be tasted.

He swipes the head between your folds, smearing his precum around and mixing with your slick that was steadily leaking out of you, before notching at your entrance and glancing up at you. You give him a slight nod, barely a tilt of your chin, and then he’s pushing into you slowly.

The stretch is immediate, his finger thick but not thick enough, and it’s bordering on too much despite how needy you felt, nearly aching for his cock. Your hands grip his shoulders, his muscles tensing a small comfort as he strains not to immediately fuck into you.

“Fuck,” Jesse groans, once he’s buried all the way inside of you. “Been thinking about this pussy all day.”

You let out a pathetic whine, hoping he would get the message you were trying to convey that you were running out of time but also he needed to hurry up and fuck you already.

“I know, I know,” he mutters, tone nearly condescending enough that had you clenching around him. He huffs a laugh at that, a hand coming to rest at the small of your back where the counter was digging into you and hikes your legs up higher on his hips.

The new angle has his cock pushing in deeper, and the low, drawn-out groan that you emit takes you by surprise.

“There she is,” he coos. He draws his hips back, carefully, and then he’s fucking back into you hard, punching a gasp out of your chest.

He finally starts a steady pace, one that has your body nearly going limp in his arms and your eyes rolling back in your head. The flesh of his skin slapping against yours and the lewd noises of your soaked cunt swallowing his cock with each thrust fills your ears, broken with Jesse’s heavy grunts.

You’re not even aware of the depraved sounds you were making—breathy whines and strangled noises each time he plunges into you, filling you up over and over again.

“Fuck, your pussy feels so,” he grinds into you, barely swiveling his hips yet causing you to gasp wetly as your hand comes down to claw at his chest. “Fucking good.”

He shuffles closer to you, his hips flush against the back of your thighs, and you thank God that you conveniently moved into an old house with low counters as he hovers over you, broad and solid.

Jesse’s hair continuously falls into his eyes, causing him to swipe at it several times in annoyance. When you follow his gaze, you notice with a thrill that he’s staring at where your bodies meet, and you don’t blame him.

The sight of his cock, shiny with your slick, as he continued to pump into you, your walls clenching and unclenching with every thrust, was heady. Filthy, even. It has your skin growing hot, pressure tightly building again despite feeling like you didn’t have the brain capacity to come again.

The hem of his shirt flutters in your eyeline and Jesse swiftly tugs at it until the fabric is bunched around underneath his armpits, exposing his abs and the way they flexed every time his hips snapped against you.

You lick your lips as your hand drops from where you were clutching at the fabric of his shirt to skim along his abs, sensing the way his muscles shifted and tightened.

God, was he sexy. Broad chest, strong arms, and a thick cock that he knew how to use that had you nearly drooling every time he walked by? You’re not sure how you got so fucking lucky.

“Always take my cock so good, baby,” he grunts, eyes meeting yours before dropping down to the way your tits were bouncing with each thrust. His free hand comes to grope at one of your breasts, squeezing and thumbing at your nipple, and drinking in the way you arch your back into his touch as best as you could with his other hand still protecting your back.

“Jesse, fuck—” you gasp as he picks up a desperate pace. You could tell he was close, most likely been on the brink as soon as he pushed himself inside of you and felt your walls clench around him, but he was holding back. Waiting for you.

His hand drops from your breast to snake in between your legs, causing your breath to get caught in your chest. The steady amount of slick dripping from you made his thumb glide easily in between your folds before circling precisely around your clit.

It’s nearly instantaneous the way your body locks up, thighs tightening from where they’re still hitched around his hips and your hand stilling where you were lightly tracing the contours of his stomach. Your mouth falls open, eyes glassy as you meet Jesse’s.

He curses and then he’s maneuvering you closer, grabbing a hold of your thighs and pushing them back until your knees were pressed into your chest. If possible, his cock slides in deeper, the weight of him as he hovers you becoming heavier. It’s all so fucking good, you’re nearly dizzy from how fast that familiar tightness begins to coil in the pit of your stomach.

“I always take care of my girl, don’t I, baby?” he pants into your open mouth, face merely inches away from yours. He’s relentless, fucking you and splitting you open over and over, you have no choice but to take it.

“Yes, yes—” you gasp, mind going foggy. Your arms come up to wrap around the back of your knees, hand grasping weakly at his forearm. You were so fucking close.

“That’s it, come on,” he whispers raggedly. The low timbre of his voice, smooth and breathless, and the intensity of his gaze melts into you. “That’s my pretty girl.”

Something cold and sharp was digging into your lower back, and when you blink down, you notice that Jesse’s jeans were still bunched around his thighs. The sight of him still in his clothes while you were completely bare and exposed on your kitchen counter had squeezing your eyes shut, fire burning underneath your skin.

You cry out as your orgasm finally hits you with a particular hard brush of his thumb against your clit. You feel yourself clench around him, causing him to bite out a curse, as your hips stutter against his and your thighs tremble.

That’s all that Jesse needs as his thrusts falter, turning more erratic before he’s burying his face into your neck, jerking forward and coming into you with a low, broken groan. His cock twitches inside of you, making you let out a whimper as you can feel his hot come fill you up and threaten to drip out of your aching pussy.

Both of you lay there for a moment, catching your breaths, before Jesse tilts his head to brush his lips against your jawline. Your hair flutters with every exhale. “Are you okay?”

You nod, still feeling dazed, as your throat swallows from how dry it was. “Never better.”

“Good.” He snakes his arms around you so you’re sitting up alongside him when he leans back, placing you gently until you were sitting with your bare ass on the counter.

When he steps back, hissing as his softening cock slides out of you, you let out a soft moan at the sudden emptiness. He quickly leans over you to grab a fresh dishrag, tenderly cleaning you up before tossing the rag to the side.

When you blink up at him, there’s a slight flush to his neck, sweat gathering at his hairline. He shakes out his hand that was placed behind you, shielding you from the sharp edge of the countertop, and you feel a surge of affection when you notice the red lines adorning the top of his hand.

You take his hand in yours to rub at, the roughness of his skin contrasting against yours. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Jesse leans in, nosing at your hairline before pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

You flush at the words, feeling a sudden spark of arousal between your thighs.

Jesse feels the way you attempt to clench your thighs together, still on either side of his hips, and he laughs softly. He steps back to get dressed, easily, since he literally only needed to pull up his pants, however you stay rooted to the spot, taking the opportunity to admire him.

When he notices you’re making no move to get dressed, he rolls his eyes fondly. He stretches a hand out to you, helping you jump down from the countertop but also because he knew how weak in the legs you get after he fucks your brains out. And he’s right, as you nearly plant face first onto the floor when your knees buckle as soon as you step down.

Of course he catches you with a hand around your waist, his thick fingers warm against your skin. He tugs you in close, nearly tucking you into his chest, and the fabric of his clothes against your bare skin causes you to shiver. He starts to rub his hand up and down your side, naturally assuming you were cold.

Handsome, strong, protective, and affectionate. You’re going to keep him forever.

“Come on you, I still have to get you something from the mess hall.”

Honey-Do [joel miller]

It’s Sunday, chore day, and Joel has a honey-do list item of his own: get his girl pregnant.

my masterlist!

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings: pre-outbreak joel, married!joel, pure fluff and smut, slight au, body worship, some cock worship, handyman!joel, malewife!joel, joel “my wife doesn’t lift a finger in this home” miller, vague daddy undertones, overstimulation, joel miller is a munch, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected PIV (wrap it up unless you’re joel), creampie, breeding kink, actual breeding, talks of pregnancy, pregnancy kink, domestic bliss, joel’s love language being acts of service and by that i mean putting a baby in his wife, competence kink

word count: ~ 10k (someone stop me)

read on ao3!

a/n: hello, lovelies!! i received this ask ages ago and the idea inevitably snowballed because who is self-control?? does she go to a different school? anyway, this fic is pure plotless domestic fluff and domestic smut (is that a thing? yes!), so i really hope you all enjoy! pre-outbreak joel is very special to me xoxo

HONEY-DO

Your shared bedroom looks out over the eastern sunrise. A mutually-assured vigil, keeping one another safe—and timely. 

In the mornings, the golden light spills through the break in the curtains. It will peek slowly inside and gently warm your body awake, testing the limits of its power. When you roll over and make a soft groan of protest in your sleep, seeking more warmth, the little strip of sunlight will widen, directing you. You will find the body next to yours, nuzzling close, your nose bumping his bare chest, and settle happily against it. In return, his body will seek yours, symbiotic exchange, a greedy arm pulling you closer.

In frustration, the sun grumbles it way higher in the sky, shining brighter and spreading wider.

It takes a couple tries to get it right: to shine in just the right way to make you blink rapidly awake, squinting in the glow. You gradually come to life, your lungs sucking in the first deep breath of morning air, your naked body stretching like a cat in the sunspot. Dust hovers lazily in the air, heralding a Sunday occupied by chores. The room is still, silent, and kissed by morning rays. Peaceful.

You examine him in the light: tanned skin sparkling gold, plush lips slightly parted, broad chest rising and falling. His hair is pleasantly tousled from sleep. There are patches of silver beginning to thread through his dark brown beard, and in your self-sustaining state of affection, you gently put your lips to one of the patches of skin where hair does not grow. 

Your persistence grows with every second he refuses to wake. It may be a bit petulant, your lips smattering soft kisses across his jaw, beneath his ear, down to his neck and all its veins, but it begins to work. He stirs, groaning softly, turning onto his side and wrapping both arms around your waist. He does all of this without opening his eyes, resting his head on your belly and nuzzling against you as if he could get any closer—sated, for now, his body knowing nothing but the pull toward you. 

You comb your fingers through his messy hair and listen to him breathe while he listens to your heartbeat. 

“It’s ten,” you whisper.

“Hmph,” he says against your belly. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet; if you didn’t know his breathing patterns like they were mapped out in the lines of your palms, you would think he’s still sleeping. 

“We slept in,” you point out. 

Joel gently bumps his forehead into your stomach as if he were banging his head against a wall. “Shit,” he grumbles. 

You laugh as his moustache tickles your skin. “Do you want to get up now?”

Another grunt, accompanied by a shake of his head. Big, strong arms pull you closer. 

“I’ll make you breakfast,” you coo, stroking his hair away from his face. “Eggs… bacon… coffee…”

Joel presses his lips to your belly. “Don’t go takin’ my job, now,” he says, his voice groggy with disuse. “No girl of mine’s gonna run around gettin’ her own damn coffee.”

“Hmm. Means you have to move, Romeo.” 

This earns a playful smack to the side of your thigh, his big, callused hand kneading your flesh while he wakes himself up with mouthfuls of your scent—linen and vanilla—and gulps down the sunlight glowing on your skin. 

“Never mind,” you sigh, dreamy and complacent under his attention. 

His eyes finally crack open, peering up at you, honey-brown pools touched by the golden light. He rests his chin on your belly and keeps his arms wrapped around your hips. His fingers trace shapes up and down your lower back. “You got a honey-do list?” he asks with a crooked grin.

Your tongue wets your bottom lip. “That depends. Can I get you to mow the lawn without a shirt on?”

“What do I get if I do?” he teases, his hand moving to your hip, contouring his hand to the shape of you. 

You lift a brow, easing your legs apart underneath his body, letting him feel the warmth between your thighs. Like a moth to the goddamn flame, his eyes wide and eager, Joel crawls down your body with his mouth on your belly. Pausing just above your naked cunt, he blows cool air onto your clit and watches you squirm. 

“After,” you gasp. “After chores, honey. We’ll never get up if we start now.”

“Don’t think I can make my woman come in good time?” he challenges, his palms keeping your thighs spread. Your pretty pussy glistens before his eyes, better than any fuckin’ breakfast. He begins to salivate.

Your head falls back into the pillows. “I never said that.”

Joel isn’t listening anymore. He kneads your thighs as he peers at you above your belly, your tits, to the curve of your jaw as you lie comfortably. Good. His baby ain’t about to get herself worked up on a Sunday morning. 

He lowers his face just enough to let you feel his lashes tickling your lower belly, and you giggle his name, the sound pure adrenaline to his blood. You're so soft and supple under his fingers, moulding to his touch, letting him take care of you. You may be in charge of him, but this is where he takes control. 

He presses a soft kiss to your clit and you sigh, your head turning toward the direction of the sun. It warms your face while your husband slides his tongue through your wet slit, lazily and sleepily, as though he's operating on instinct alone. Gathering up your wetness on his tongue, he groans, his fingers dimpling your thighs. 

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ made for me.”

“Oh, God,” you whisper, your eyes fluttering. “Baby…”

That sweet little whine is poison. He cannot do anything but continue to drink you down, flicking his tongue against your clit. He's a sucker and he's always been. Your pretty fuckin’ smile from across the bar that first night; your tight black dress and the too-sweet cocktail you smooth-talked him into ordering that had his adenoids prickling; your instinct for sensing others’ troubles and your uncanny ability to make them feel like they have none at all. He never stood a chance. 

He knows for a goddamn fact every man in the bar that night wanted to do to you what Joel is doing now: lapping up your juices with his tongue, spit mingling with arousal, warming his body between your thighs under the watch of the mid-morning sun. But he got you. Joel. He bought you a drink and he took you on a date. He got to taste your pretty pussy and he got to sit you on his dick—after the second date, that is. 

He's the one who gets to wake up with you, share matching gold bands around your fingers, kiss you freely. As far as he's concerned, he's the luckiest guy on the fuckin’ planet. 

He feels particularly green when your back arches, your lips parting around his name, relishing in the feeling of his mouth on your clit. You're unashamed to take pleasure, never shy about telling him Oh, fuck, yes! Right there, honey! Joel, yes, that feels so good, baby. 

Joel preens with pride. His hot tongue glides over your clit, smooth and wet, easily coaxing you to a languid high. The golden spotlight through the curtains shines on you. You're the starlet and he's the adoring fan. From the first day, he knew he'd do anything to make you notice him. 

“This wasn’t your first bar fight, was it?”

Plucking pieces of glass out of his bloodied knuckles, you looked up through your lashes at Joel, who had been staring at you since you sat him down in the bathroom. Okay—a little longer than that. 

He shook his head. 

You just smiled at him and gently shook your head. About as much reproach as he would get. “This might sting. Just hold on tight if you need to.” 

“Like the sound of that,” he said quietly, and if you heard, you didn't comment. You guided his hand under the warm water and washed the rest of the blood from his knuckles, gently smoothing the pads of your fingers over his rough worker’s hands. Capable, you thought, idly watching the blood swirl into the drain. He barely winced when you put his hand under. 

“Wanna tell me why you did it?” you asked him, your tone soothing and sweet. 

Joel shrugged. Big, broad shoulders. Humbly strong, until someone made him show it. “Ain't manly to touch a woman like that.”

You lifted your brows. “But it's manly to beat the shit out of the guy who touched her?”

Joel studied your face. Cherry-red lip gloss. Gently flushed cheeks from a healthy couple drinks. The instinctual rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, the lighting shifting gently over your collarbones. It was fascinating just to watch you breathe. Even cleaning his bloody knuckles, you slowly circled the pad of your thumb over the back of his hand, like an innate urge to comfort. Your eyes had an old wisdom to them; a particular gleam a person gained when they were familiar with the hardships life had to offer. 

He wanted to ask you. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to do more than beat up some asshole who thought he could get away with pinching your ass. 

But he would earn it. A real man earned what he got. 

“Didn’t beat the shit out of him. Just roughed him up,” he says. 

He watched you bite down on a smile. “You're a little twisted, Joel.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, eyes flicking to your dewy lips, coated with that gloss. “Think so?”

“Yeah.” You licked your bottom lip and he wondered if you tasted like cherries. “But I'm going to ask you on a date anyway.”

Your fingers curl in Joel’s messy hair, making him groan into your pussy. “Oh, baby,” you gasp, cracking your heavy eyes open to watch him lap at you, practically petting his hair away from his face as his big brown eyes remain fixed to yours. 

He purrs, suckling your clit between his lips, his eyes eagerly drinking in the sight of your flushed, tightening body. Making you come is one thing. Watching it is another. Your back arches and your fingers pull on his hair. Scalp prickling, Joel grips your thighs tighter. He’d let you peel away pounds of his flesh if it made you happy. He’d go eagerly to the grave knowing he had put some good into the world, put some light in your eyes. 

“Joel, I’m… I’m coming—ah!” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, your sensitive clit pulsing under his tongue as your pussy contracts around itself, seeking something nice and big to grasp onto. His cock is aching, his hips grinding idly against the mattress for relief, his head fuzzy from the pleasure of making you feel good. Your body slowly melts into the bed, your limbs twitching as the tension in your muscles loosens, your lips parted permanently around his name. 

Eyes drooping and teary, you try to find him between your thighs, gently stroking his hair away from his face as it begins to fall into his big brown eyes. “Need a haircut,” you croak.

Joel hums, his head listing to the side, using your soft thigh as a pillow. He nips you playfully, your skin a golden path he intends to follow to the end. His hands caress your hips, helping you come down to Earth. You admire the delectable convex slope of his nose, the way it curves deliciously against your skin when he kisses, bites, inhales. He’s freckled and indented with the signifiers of a lived-in life; a good life. His is a likeness you could trace with your eyes closed. 

It’s eleven o’clock, and your stomach begins to grumble. 

Joel chuckles, pressing a long kiss to your belly. “Gettin’ up now,” he says. “Promise.”

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, tucking his hard cock away to be dealt with later. Padding down the stairs, Joel is quick to tend to your needs, putting on a fresh pot of coffee. After so long together, his mind operates on autopilot, steering him from the cupboard to the refrigerator and back to the steaming pot, occupied with the menial task of making a good cup. The gentle clinking scrape of the spoon as he stirs your milk into the cup wakes him up until he feels practically revitalised. He keeps his coffee black.

He hears the soft tread of your feet behind him, feels the warmth of your body as you crowd his space, smiles at the way you smooth your palms over the planes of his muscled back in unadulterated admiration. His shoulders are wide, tapering down to the soft belly you’ve nurtured through years of cooking. He’s sturdy and strong and all yours. The sight of him always makes you a bit giddy. 

“So handsome,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your face between his shoulder blades. The buffed claws of his woodsy pine scent hook into the spaces between your ribs. 

Joel lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses the wedding band on your finger, the engagement ring above it. “Sit down, baby. Coffee’s ready.”

You grin against his back, nudging your nose into his tanned skin. “Mmm. That sounds good. But I wanna stay here. ‘s nice and warm.” 

“Girl of my dreams,” Joel murmurs, reaching around his back and patting your ass. “C’mon, I’ll keep you warm.”

You grumble your way to the little circular table in the kitchen, tucked into the alcove at the front window. It’s a souvenir from your parents' garage sale when they decided to sell their home and move to Austin. As a girl, you’d draw, scratch, and paint on that table, endlessly entertaining yourself by marking things up. Even now, there are remnants of your childhood in the worn grooves and chipped varnish. It fits nicely into your home, perfectly suited to two. It could even fit one more. 

You ruminate as you watch Joel carry two mugs to the table. He knows which cup is your favourite: green ceramic decorated with tiny flowers, perfectly contoured to the shape and size of your hands, warming your palms just nicely between sips. Joel’s mug shows its age: white but slightly yellowed from years of use, bigger than yours. The steam of the coffee gently curls into the air, a dance of silvery ribbons in lock-step. They twist together as you purse your lips and blow. The rich, smooth caramel hue of your coffee contrasts the tar-black of Joel’s. 

Since you dragged yourself out of bed on shaky legs, you shrugged on the navy T-shirt he tossed aside last night to give his greedy wife access to his chest. You'd carved some decent marks into his skin, now that you're properly looking: tiny bruises sharpening to purple, faint pinkish scratch marks that you don't remember making. 

“Baby, I don’t mind,” he says, watching you scan his chest with a frown creasing your brow. 

“But it looks painful, honey. You should let me—”

“You don’t gotta do anything,” says Joel, “‘cept come over here.”

Your brows lift coyly, your body sliding out of the chair and into his lap, legs bracketing his strong thighs. His hand finds a home on your lower back, bunching the hem of his shirt up to find your ass bare, your wet cunt sitting nice and pretty on his hard cock. You gasp when the generous length meets your puffy clit with heavy pressure. “Joel…” 

Your voice is a mere whimper, a soft little plea for more, or for mercy. Joel’s always had better restraint than you. 

“Warmer now?” he asks, like a real arrogant asshole, slipping his hand under the shirt on your body and splaying his fingers over your ribcage, thumb grazing the underside of your breast. 

You do feel warmer, crushed up against him like this. You reach behind you and grab your coffee mug, taking a small sip. Your other hand winds around his neck and scratches the tousled hair at the nape of his neck. Joel hums, leaning close, nuzzling his face between your tits. 

“Gimme the list,” he says, voice muffled. 

You keep on stroking his hair and drinking your coffee between list items. “Mow the lawn. Clean out the eavestrough. Fix the sink.”

“Hmm, easy work,” he says, his other hand sliding up and down your back. It makes you melt into him even more, giving him the chance to tease a nipple between his teeth through the fabric of your shirt. You huff, wiggling your hips, but he's a brick wall. He does not budge. “Gimme yours, baby.”

You recall the items on your own list. “Vacuum the house. Go for groceries. Touch up the paint on the front door. Do the laundry. Cook dinner. Cut your hair,” you add with a playful smile. 

Joel frowns against your chest, pulling back to look up into your eyes like a grumpy, needy dog. “You put all that down for yourself?”

You try to placate him with a kiss on his nose. “You work so hard, sweetie. I could use some hard labour once in a while.”

Joel shakes his head. “You aren’t doin’ all that by yourself.”

“No?” You lift your brows. “Wanna buy it off me, Mr. Miller?”

“I’ll win ‘em from you,” he says, tilting his head back to kiss your jaw. “Name the price.”

You bite your lip and chase his mouth, plush and soft under that dark moustache. “I’ll think on that. Meantime, you can get to work on that lawn while I watch from the comfort of the front porch. That sound fair?”

Joel’s old Southern values rear up every now and then, imparted by his mother and his father’s mother before. Putting in an honest day’s work will make his wife comfortable and happy. He doesn't want you lifting a finger around this home if he's perfectly capable of doing the job himself. He works with his hands all day, gets dirty and sweaty. You shouldn't have to—not when you work so damn hard every other day of the week. 

Joel nips your chin. “Fine. But I ain’t gonna forget that I owe you.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, baby.”

Joel finishes his coffee, but you take your time with yours, changing into a short blue sundress while Joel, regrettably, puts a pair of jeans and a shirt on. Curling your legs up on the porch swing, you watch your man start the lawnmower, enthralled by the rippling of his back muscles with every pull. You know that some of it’s for show—knowing you're watching makes him want to impress you. Sometimes, he's still the man with the teenaged crush on the girl, doing everything he can and going out of his way to make you smile. It works. 

He’s methodical: making lines up and down the lawn, shearing away the too-long blades of grass under the motor. As sweat begins to bloom under his collar and his brow, he wipes his forehead with his forearm and you lick your lips, saliva pooling in your mouth at the thought of running your tongue all over his strong, naked body. Jesus. You finish off your coffee and force your eyes away from your husband for a moment. It isn't too hot from where you sit on the wraparound porch, but your chest feels sticky. 

You rush inside to fill up a glass of water for him, hastily scrubbing your mug clean and putting it back in the cupboard. Maybe you should be occupying yourself with your chores today; you worry nothing will get done if you continue to watch him work in the Texas sun. 

He’s just finishing when you shoulder your way back outside, his neck glistening with sweat and golden noon-hour light, warm and tempting. You set the glass on the railing and wait for him to come your way, squeezing your thighs together as your eyes trail up and down his body. 

He's always been a capable man, broad and tall—so good at his job that he was offered a promotion after a few months. But it isn't just his strength or his doggedness when it comes to getting his work done. It's the way he’s so eager to finish things, to check off the items on your list, to please you. He frowns at the idea of you doing too much work. He parades you around town with a puffed-up chest, as if to announce, This is my wife. I’m her husband and I’m fucking proud. He takes your pleasure so seriously that it feels like a competitive sport—always outdoing himself, always striving for more. He loves selflessly, and yet he loves just selfishly enough to make sure the world knows you're his. 

He’ll be a good daddy.  

You glance down at your belly and let yourself picture it: swollen and round, ballooning big enough to fit a new life inside. You imagine smoothing your hand over a growing bump, Joel’s warm palms feeling the undulating kicks of a little baby inside, half of him and half of you. You picture back aches and swelling feet and insatiable cravings and expended energy. And not a part of it deters you. Not a speck of your willpower wavers, the way it would have mere months ago. 

Something has changed. It may have been gradual and it may have been sudden. But it's new, all the same. It’s been this way since a week ago, when you looked in your nightstand at your little pink pill organiser labelled by weekday, and decided: No more.

Watching Joel make his way back to you, shielding his eyes from the light, you idly place your hand on your belly. Something new. A welcome change, you think, to have someone new sitting at our little table. 

Joel climbs up the steps to the porch and gulps down the glass of water. “Thank you, baby,” he says, wiping his mouth. Your lips part as if to taste the air around him, to chew, to savour, relishing the richness. 

Your pupils expand, taking in more of him, and Joel notices, placing a rough hand over yours where it rests on your belly. “You’re lost in thought, honey. Wanna tell me what's in that pretty head?”

“Just…” Your tongue wets your bottom lip. “Thank you for doing that. I know it's a big job.”

“Ain’t nothin’,” says Joel, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Got any idea how I can win those chores off you?”

Hands grasping your hips, sliding over your sweat-slick spine, saccharine noises slipping from your throat onto your tongue and out into the open air. Fingers imprinting permanent fixtures into your ribs. The heady weight of his big, fat cock wrenching you open, as it always does, slow until it isn't anymore. Desperation kicking in, a switch flipped, pummeling and brutal and unforgiving. Uncompromising. Hips pressed flush to your ass, nothing spilling out. Not a drop. 

Everything sealed in tight as promises are exchanged as whispers in the dark. 

“I want you to put a baby in me.”

All right. You could have been more delicate about it. Not precisely how you wanted to approach the topic, but it seems to get the job done. 

Looking down at you, Joel slowly lowers the empty glass, mouth opening as he searches for words. “What?”

There’s no point in shyness or hesitation. You know your body, your mind, your heart. You thread your fingers through Joel’s and let them stay connected over your stomach. “I want you to give me a baby, Joel Miller,” you say softly, your gaze locked to his. “That's my price.”

Joel swallows thickly, his mouth still gaping. “I heard you,” he rasps. “Just… you… you mean it?”

You try not to melt over the tone of his voice: low, bordering on desperate, wanting. There’s hunger in the sound of it. “We’ve talked about it,” you offer, conciliatory. “Lots of times.”

“Yeah, we have.” Joel steps closer, his eyes dipping from your eyes to your mouth, your throat and collarbones, to your belly. His hand flexes. “You gotta be sure. You gotta know it's what you want.”

You cup his face and give him your best smile. It's the sort of smile he remembers from the very first night you met. The sort of person who is unashamed to show their joy on their face. “Honey, I want it all with you.” Your fingers squeeze his. “We’ve waited so long and I don’t want to wait anymore.”

His ears are ringing. All Joel can do is sweep you into his arms and grin into your throat, his hand firm on the back of your head, curling around a fistful of hair. “Girl of my fuckin’ dreams,” he mumbles against your skin. “I’ll make you a momma. Give you just what you want. Everything you want.”

As you close your eyes and open your ears to his ramblings, your erratic heartbeat settles. Serenity finds the pair of you, locked together on your front porch, and the next part of your life begins. 

“Don’t think this gets us out of doing chores,” you tease. 

“You aren’t gonna lift a goddamn finger,” says Joel fiercely, his lips still littering kisses all over your neck. “You’re havin’ a baby.”

“Honey, I’m not pregnant yet,” you laugh. “I don't need to get all lazy right away.”

“Yeah, you do, and you will. I’m gonna make you the laziest momma in Texas,” says Joel, smiling into your throat, the scratch of his moustache making you dizzy with laughter. “Gonna look so fuckin’ beautiful with a baby in you. Gonna glow like a goddamn firefly. Shit, we need to paint the spare room. I need to build a crib, get time off work—”

“Joel,” you coo, scratching your nails up and down the back of his neck. “We’ll have time to do all of that.”

He pulls back to look down at you, eyes so buttery-soft in the shade of the porch that you impulsively reach for his cheek and run your fingers through his patchy beard. “What’s next on my list?” he asks, holding you around the waist. 

You tap your fingers gently against his cheek as you recite each item over again. Joel’s arms tighten, pulling you closer, pupils widening. 

“And then what?” he says gruffly.  

You beam, and he's so fucking in love that he may keel over, doubled by the intensity of his affection. “And then, you're going to take me to bed and put a baby in me.”

This phenomenon should be studied: how quickly Joel Miller speeds through his chores when he has enough incentive. The anticipation of bending you over on the mattress and wringing every drop of cum from his balls until your stomach swells drives each flick of his hand as he touches up the forest-green paint on the front door, weathered slightly by morning sunlight over the years. The image of his hips pressed flushed to you as he grinds deep, spilling his cum into your womb and forcing it to take, motivates every turn of the steering wheel as he drives you to the grocery store in his clunky Chevy. 

He’ll need to drive to Benny’s, get the suspension fixed up; no way in hell he's going to let his pregnant wife sit on the old bench of a bumpy pickup truck, not with the speed bumps dotting the neighbourhood. At least there's a good preschool nearby. He pictures taking his baby to school and he preemptively feels the inevitable first swoop of dread into his gut knowing he'll have to watch his little girl disappear behind those doors. He knows, somehow, that it’ll be a girl. There's not a doubt in his mind. 

“What are you thinkin’ about?” you ask him, playing with his fingers as he holds your thigh. Joel is a great driver; he steers so easily, one palm sliding smoothly over the wheel, his eyes alert and his speed under control. It’s a little sexy, and it makes you antsy from where you sit on the bench. Sure, there are chores to do and there’s dinner to make, but it’s getting harder to push your innate needs to the back of your mind. You don't know if you can wait all day to get him inside you. 

“Names,” he says. “Got lots of ideas.”

“Yeah? Fire away.” 

“Well, I like Eleanor. Good, strong, classic name, y’know? Little wordy, maybe. Then there's Mary, Marie, Hannah, and I can tell you don't like any of ‘em,” he finishes with a laugh, squeezing your thigh. Your silence has always been a tell.

“They're very sweet names,” you concede, “but they don't feel like my baby.” 

Joel’s hand slides up to your belly and warms you beneath your dress. “Maybe we’ll feel it,” he says, “when we make her.”

“Think it’ll happen on the first try?” you wonder aloud, watching the scenery whiz by outside. It's a sunny, temperate day for Austin. You think about taking your baby for a walk, lounging lazily in a stroller while you say words that fall on deaf ears, but will resonate in due time nonetheless. You think about a little girl that will cling hard to her daddy’s leg when she gets scared of the storms outside, the way you did when you were little. You think about long nights shushing your sweet baby girl to sleep, about those same nights spent nestled into Joel’s body, the three of you dozing idly on the sofa. A unit. 

“If it doesn’t, I’ll just have to try again.” You watch his fingers creep back down between your legs and snap the waistband of your panties. 

You smack his hand. “If you keep playin’, Mr. Miller, you're gonna have to take me right here, in this truck. You want to give your wife a bad back?”

Joel grunts, patting your thigh. “Dirty play.”

“That's what I thought.”

Back at home, Joel vacuums the house while you manage, some-fuckin’-how, to convince him to let you do the laundry. He fishes debris and runoff out of the eavestrough, then gets down on his bad knees to tighten the plumbing underneath the sink. 

“Let me help, sweetie. At least hand you a wrench or something. You'll hurt your back again.”

“I got it,” he grunts from under the sink. “Just a loose pipe. I’m peachy.”

You just sigh and let him carry on, the stubborn bastard. When he stands, the job done, he lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and you get a generous glimpse of his belly, the trail of dark hair directing your gaze down, down—

“Joel?” you squeak, wringing your hands together. 

He drops the shirt back over his abdomen and steps closer. “Yeah, baby?”

“Are you, um… Are you hungry?” 

He understands the particular glint in your eye, the telltale widening of your pupils, the hollow of your throat dipping as you swallow, your lashes fluttering gently. Blood surges down to his cock and it begins to fill out his jeans at the thought of taking what he's waited for all day. “No,” he says, licking his bottom lip. You eye every minute movement with meticulous precision. “Think dinner can wait.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” you say, crowding him and tugging at the hem of his shirt. He watches you prowl slowly toward him, gaze locked to the heady pull of your eyes. His cock twitches with a vested interest in the body now pressed up against him. Joel cannot look away from the siren now calling him to sea. 

“That so?” he rasps, bunching the fabric of your dress so it rides up your hip and gives him a good look at your panties. “You dressed up all pretty today. For me?”

You're as coy as a flirtatious schoolgirl, trailing your fingers up and down his muscled bicep. “Always for you.”

“That’s right, baby. You like me lots, don't you?”

“Mmm, I do,” you purr, your hand sliding up his abdomen to his chest, admiring the hard planes of his strong body. “So handsome, strong, generous…” You get lost in your exploration, eyes dipping to his throat, your lips instinctively seeking the delectable vein that pulses with every beat of his heart. “Such a good man. Gonna be such a good daddy.”

Joel’s breath shudders out of him when he feels your soft, warm mouth on his neck, indulging in the taste of him. “Jesus,” he croaks, gripping your hips hard. “Jesus, honey, you gotta go easy on me. Lemme take it slow—”

—or I swear to God, I’ll blow a load in my jeans. 

“You wanna undress me?” you say, like a real fucking tease, pulling away and tugging playfully at the straps of your dress. Joel’s nostrils flare, and he’s walking you back into the wall, cupping the back of your head to protect it, and slanting his mouth over yours. 

He’s salty with the sweat that drips from his temples and he still smells of fresh-cut grass. He’s all Joel, all yours, the first gulp of air you breathe in when you wake and the last sigh you exhale before you sleep. 

You moan into his mouth as he parts your lips and dips his tongue between them to taste yours. You taste like mint and coffee and he clutches you tighter, wrinkling the fabric of your pretty little dress in his fist. The sunlight filters through the windows, intrusive, bleeding into the moment as if taking a snapshot. Joel kisses you so deeply that your throat feels stained with the gasps of breath you exchange. 

You're sweet enough that it makes him ache, bending your back to fit you to him, craving more. Closeness is not enough—he needs possession. 

Joel’s kisses are bruising, unforgiving, merciless, but they are also slow, careful. He isn't sloppy; he does precisely what must be done to get you riled. And when he breaks away, his forehead resting against yours, you tug his hair with a pitiful whine. 

“I wasn't done,” you tell him. 

Joel pouts, mocking. Fingers pull at the straps of your dress until you're watching it pool at your feet. His big hands find your tits immediately, squeezing out all his frustrations, tweaking your nipples and lowering his mouth to your throat. 

Your fingers curl into his hair, glueing him to you while he marks your throat, sucking blood to the surface, retribution for the hickeys all over his chest. His warm palms explore your tits the way he likes, and you curve into him, giving him all the access he wants. “Joel, honey—”

Your voice is nectar, warmth from a fire on the Fourth of July, the stomach-cramping laughter around the flame. Joel groans, blindly searching for your hand with his face still nuzzled in your throat, sucking a particularly aggressive bruise that you’ll scold him for later. But he threads his fingers through yours and feels the cool kiss of your twin wedding bands, and your sweet, wispy sighs have him grinding absently against your thigh. You don't have half the mind to get mad at him for a goddamn thing. 

He pulls away with a great yank of his self-restraint, still holding your hand. “C’mon, baby.”

You follow dutifully, staring up at your husband with the same moony eyes you gave him on your wedding day. The third stair creaks a bit, the way it always does. The bedroom door is first on the left, and it's a good fucking thing, because Joel can't wait any longer. 

He walks you to the edge of the bed, stalking, a predator on prey, focused solely on his task. “Goddamn beautiful,” he says to himself, scanning your mostly-naked body and feeling his eyes droop in arousal. 

“Think so?” Your hand drops between your bodies and palms his erection over his jeans. “Yeah, you really think so.”

His nostrils flare. “Sit.”

You lower yourself onto the mattress, primly placing your hands on your thighs and straightening your spine. Joel hums appreciatively, approaching you and slotting himself between your legs. There's a dark wet spot pooling in your panties. “Sweet thing. So needy all fuckin’ day.”

“So were you” is your retort, packing little punch due to the way you push your tits toward him like a fucking whore. 

Joel presses his big, warm hand to your sternum. “Remember what you said to me the first time I got you in bed?”

“‘Let’s go again’?”

“The other thing.”

“'Let me suck your dick’?”

“Try again, baby.”

“‘Wrong hole’?”

Joel snorts, shaking his head. “Goddamn smartass,” he mutters. “Told me you wanted me from that first night. Told me you woulda let me fuck you against that bathroom mirror.”

His hand begins to move, rolling your nipple between his fingers like a cigarette, playing with you the way he likes. “Said you’d let me do whatever I wanted,” Joel says quietly, not meeting your eyes, transfixed by the way your body seeks the touch he gives you. “That still true?”

“I meant it then, and I mean it now,” you tell him, pulling your lip between your teeth. “I’m yours, Joel Miller.”

He tilts his head slightly, satisfied. “You got somethin’ you wanna ask me?”

You hook a finger in his belt loop. “Can you get naked now?”

He laughs, guiding your hand to the buckle on his belt. “Go on. Do what you wanna do, baby.”

He belongs to you. He’s yours to mould the way you want. 

Your fingers do away with his belt, whipping it out of the loops and hanging it around your neck. Joel’s hands flex at his sides as you toy with the hem of his shirt, bringing it slowly up his torso with your palms flat to his tanned skin. 

You imagine you're sculpting him like clay, bringing your hands over the contours and admiring the work when all is done. It’s the artist’s pride of finishing the work and none of the self-reproach when something comes out wrong, because it’s Joel, and wrong becomes negligible. 

You bring the shirt over his head with his assistance, lifting his arms for you, tossing the thing aside with little care. His eyes haven't once wavered from you. Next are his jeans, the scrape of his zipper and the delectable anticipation of hooking your fingers in the waistband and guiding them slowly down his hips. 

His cock springs forward, thick and heavy and so hard it must ache, as you shuck his jeans down with his boxers. He grunts above you, his cock bobbing at the sight of your pretty lips parting. But you don’t take him into your mouth. You grasp the base of his cock and gently nuzzle your cheek against his length. Something like a strangled whimper leaves his throat. 

“Baby,” he chokes. 

“Yes, honey?” you say sweetly, looking up at him through your lashes. 

“Jesus,” he says through his teeth. “You’re so fuckin' sexy. Fuck.”

You hum, slowly stroking your hand up and down as your tongue darts out to lick his balls. Joel’s hips stutter, his hand flying out to catch himself on the bedpost. “Goddamn. Jesus—”

Your coy smile knocks him askew, your lips pursing as you spit on the head of his cock, spreading your own saliva around the tip with your thumb. “I just wanna thank you”—a soft kiss to the tip has a rumbling groan crawling out of his throat—“for everything you do for me. I just want you to know how much I love you.”

Joel exhales hard, struggling to remember how breathing works when he's got his wife playing with his cock like it's your favourite toy. “How much do you love me?” he demands. 

You wrap your fingers around the head of his cock and twist your hand up and down his shaft in a couple slow strokes. You're driving him fucking crazy. His vision is whiting out. 

“I love you,” you purr, licking a broad stripe up the underside of his length. Joel’s chest is heaving with the effort of holding back. “Love you so much. Love you enough to make you a daddy.”

Joel caves, threading his fingers through your hair at the nape of your neck and stroking his thumb along your jaw. “Fuck, baby. Please…”

“Do you love me?” Batting your lashes, you scatter measured kisses from his tip to the base, teasingly licking his balls. 

“Christ, I—” His hips jut forward instinctively. “I love you. Fuckin’ love you, baby.”

You flick your tongue against his slit and relish his groan, revelling in the sight of his flushed chest, his pink cheeks, the sweat on his brow. His jaw is tense, his nostrils flaring. He’s trying not to take control. 

You slap his cock twice on your tongue and finally take it past your lips, sealing your mouth over the head. Joel moans, white-knuckling the bedpost, his other hand now stroking your hair. You fondle his balls in your free hand while the other grips him at the base, and he’s going to come embarrassingly soon if you keep looking up at him this way. 

Your tongue swirls around the head of his cock while your lips seal tight, greedily suckling at his tip. Oversensitive, skin prickling with salty sweat, Joel practically breathes through his teeth. “Gonna kill me,” he manages. “You’re gonna kill me, honey.”

“Mmmm,” you reply, happily taking him deeper, his length sliding along the warm wetness of your tongue. Joel’s fingers tighten in your hair. 

“Fuuuuck. You love this cock.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Love takin' me into your mouth like a little slut.”

“Mmmmph,” you agree, pushing your tits out. 

His hand drifts down to the belt hanging around your neck and he wraps his fist around both ends, tugging so you’re forced to take him deeper. You splutter, breathing hard through your nose, your arousal dripping onto the mattress. 

The sloppy sounds of your mouth working his cock send his head spinning. Drool dribbles from the corners of your lips, your eyes squeezing black tears from dewy lashes. And when you take him down your throat, the sound of your choked moan leaves Joel with little choice but to pull out before he comes. 

You whine, squeezing your thighs together. He swipes his thumb underneath your eye and shows you the black smudge from your mascara. “Doesn't take much to get you cryin’. You like me that much?”

You bite your bottom lip and beam up at him. “Did I do okay?”

Your faux-innocence makes his dick twitch in your face, and you flick your tongue out to lick at the tip once more. Joel grunts, grasping his belt and tossing it away. 

“‘Did I do okay,’” he murmurs, tweaking your nipple between his fingers. “Got no idea after all these years. No idea what you do to me.”

“I just wanna take care of my man. He works so hard, you know, keeping me safe and happy.” You run your hand over his soft belly, the trail of hair that leads down to his cock. “He’s always liked to give me things.”

Joel backs you farther up the bed and crawls over your body, lowering his head to bury his face in your throat. You smell fresh and sweet as vanilla, and when he playfully bites into your skin, your saplike laugh has him grinding helplessly against your thigh. 

He loves to give—always has. It’s all he knows. It took a long while for you to get him to unlearn some of his blind selflessness, to let you take control sometimes and care for him instead. Your Joel provides; he does not take. And the prospect of getting to give his wife a baby is turning him to putty in your hands. By the time he gets to work, he’ll be dead-set on his task, hard-pressed to pull out of you. He’ll want to get the job done on his first try, refusing to see you upset if the test comes back negative, but the id will still scratch and claw for another chance to fill you up. 

Joel sucks a hickey into your neck and soothes the mark with his tongue, the slow, soft pleasure compounded by the way his warm body covers you, your fingers carding through his locks. 

Your voice oozes, honeyed, down his spine. “I love you, Joel.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and crushes his nose in your throat, his hand smoothing down your hair. “I love you.”

“You want to make a baby?”

He rears back slightly, his nose bumping against yours. “Yeah. I really fuckin’ do.”

You grin, lacing your fingers together at the back of his neck. “Will you fuck me? Please?”

Joel brushes his thumb across your chin. “Use your words.”

“I want to be a mom, Joel.” You give him a long, gooey stare, eyes warm and soft as running water. A look like that will make a man give you the goddamn galaxy. 

He nods, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth. “I know, baby. I’ll help you. Hands and knees, now.”

The gentle direction moulds your body to the shape of the words. You go easily, your back arching as you rest your weight on your forearms and spread your thighs. The bed dips behind you as Joel settles in, his hands grasping your ass and making you jump. 

Your body trembles with excitement. You’re going to be a mom. He's going to get you pregnant. You feel dizzy, bending deeper at the hips and shaking your ass at him, deluded with your own arousal. 

But Joel doesn't fuck you right away. No, he bumps up against the backs of your thighs, warm hands branding your skin, and rubs two fingers over the wet spot darkening your panties. 

“I do this to you?” he says smugly. 

“You know damn well—”

“Wanna hear you say it.” The no-nonsense command triggers a submissive response. “Who did this to you?”

Your body melts against him, presenting your pussy to him like a needy whore. “You, Joel. It’s you, baby. Only you.”

Your babbling makes him squeeze handfuls of your ass, spreading your asscheeks apart to get a good glimpse of the way your pussy drools into your panties. Shuffling backward and lowering himself to his knees on the floor, Joel’s tongue darts out and licks you through your underwear. 

“Ohh, fuck!” you gasp. “Joel…”

He hums, tasting your tang through the fabric and finding your puffy clit, sucking gently. You cry out, your fingers grasping the sheets, and Joel moves your panties aside to slather his spit all over your dripping pussy. The languorous movements of his tongue are indulgent, achingly slow; he loves the taste of you as much as you enjoy having his mouth on your cunt. 

“Oh my God, Joel… fuck, honey, please—!”

Your thighs are trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up, the strokes of his tongue turning your muscles to soup. He stops to take your panties off, guiding them off your legs, and by now, you're so wet that your juices glisten halfway down your thighs. Joel dives back in and licks up the rivulets of arousal from your skin, all the way back up to your weeping hole. 

“So goddamn sweet,” he grumbles, kneading your ass in his hands as he flicks his tongue over your clit a few more times. 

“Joel, I’m…” You’re drooling, grinding pathetically into his face, already close to an orgasm, and he isn't fucking letting up. 

He wants you as wet and needy as possible, his own cock leaking onto the bedsheets at the prospect of sliding into your creamy pussy. 

Your cheeks burn and your muscles lock as Joel makes out with your pussy, his tongue laving over your pearl in slow, aching circles. He drowns in the pleasure of making you feel good. He soaks himself in kerosene and lights the match. 

“Oh, fuck!” Your thighs shake around his head and your toes curl, ears ringing with the force of your high. Grasping feebly at the bedsheets, you try not to list, but Joel isn’t fucking stopping, cleaning you up with his tongue like you're a piece of goddamn pie. 

His fingers dig into your ass, rapacious as his mouth, and you climb high to a space that transcends the sky, feeling nothing but the linen underneath and the man above, softly kissing your poor, used clit. 

He doesn’t let up until you reach back and gently shove his head away, grasping his damp curls. “Baby, let me rest,” you gasp, “just for a second.”

Regretfully, he pulls away, pressing a kiss to each knob of your spine, dragging his nose up your back. “‘m so fuckin’ lucky,” he murmurs against your skin. 

“Lucky you didn’t kill me.” You laugh breathlessly, your hips already sore from keeping your ass in the air. 

“Makin’ sure you’re ready,” he says innocently, sliding his thick fingers through your slit. You gasp, trying to escape his grasp despite yourself. He just clicks his tongue in reproach. “Nuh-uh, baby. You're gonna stay right here, let me make it good for you. Hmm? Wanna feel good?”

You nod your head frantically. “Yeah, yeah, I do. Wanna be good.”

“Mmm, now, you know that ain't your job tonight,” he says in a mock scold. In the meantime, his fingers soak themselves in your wetness. “Don't think you're ready for me yet.”

“No! No, I’m ready,” you pant, grinding against his erection. Joel grunts, holding your hip in place. “Baby, please, I’m ready for you. Need you so badly.”

“Shhh, sweetheart. I'll give you what you need. Just be patient.” Hands smooth over your ass, between your thighs, and then two fingers are teasing your hole. Joel tilts his head to watch the way he spreads your folds wide. “Gonna fill this up.”

A strangled noise spills from your mouth, your cheeks burning hot at the way he exposes you so tenderly. “Please,” you croak, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow. 

He grasps himself and teases the already-wet head of his cock over your pussy, spurting precum onto your hole. “You want a baby?” he asks, low and dark. You luxuriate in the velvet-soft tone. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want a baby,” you whisper, “please. Please give me a baby.”

He readies himself at your tight cunt and the excitement briefly overcomes him, forcing his hips forward and pushing past the wet, gummy seal of your pussy. You gasp, held in place by his hand on your hip. 

“What. Do. You. Want?”

“I want to make you a daddy!” you sob. “I want to have your baby and make you a daddy.”

“You want to be a momma?” he says through his teeth, tunnel vision narrowing his focus to the way he slowly guides himself into you, wrenching you open. At this angle, with how wet you are, the glide is delicious, white-hot, his balls heavy with the need to empty inside you. “That it? Want everyone to know who put a fuckin’ baby in you?”

Your husband is so fucking big, so strong, and the way he pins your body down feels close to primal. “Yes! Yes, Daddy, yes! I want to be a momma. Please give me a baby.”

The words put a chisel to his self-restraint and crack down. He’s gone, baring his teeth, pulling your hips toward him and impaling you on his cock, relishing the give of your tight walls and the way he sits snug against your cervix. You mewl, reaching back to find a purchase on his hip. “Joel, fuck…”

He establishes a punishing pace, driving your body farther up the bed with every thrust. “That’s it,” he groans, sliding his palm up your spine. “Gonna look so goddamn beautiful with a baby in you. You were fuckin’ made to take this cock.”

Your moan is syrupy and pitched low, your cheek buried in the mattress, letting him fill you up again, again, again—

“I’ll get you fuckin’ pregnant,” continues Joel, panting through his words, sweat beading on his brow as he runs his hands over your skin. “Stuff you so goddamn full you'll always feel me.”

“Uhhh!” you moan, fisting the sheets, your body practically folded in half to accommodate your husband’s huge body, his thick cock.

Joel wants this, too—has for a long time. It’s hard not to notice the little details. He places his hand on your belly when he isn't even paying attention, his lips finding the soft skin there when he first wakes in the morning. You knew he would have dropped everything to give you a baby the second you demanded it, but you realise you may have underestimated his need. 

Joel is growling like a dog, sweat dripping from his temples and back pinching with effort as he holds your body close, glueing you to him, his cock reaching deep, deliberate, mind going numb, intent the only tangible feeling he can grasp onto. Intent and the white-hot drag of his cock against your walls. 

You’re going to grow swollen and round with his baby. He will watch your tits grow heavy, your belly bulge, your cheeks take on a ruddy, dewy glow, the telltale mark of his success, his devotion. He’ll wake up every morning wrapped in the scent of your body, your hormones, his palm finding sanctuary on your soft, warm belly. He’ll bury his face in your throat and you’ll smile and the sun will warm the golden spot where a new life grows. 

Fuck, he’ll never let you do laundry again. You could hurt your back. 

Your head spins at the wet slap of his balls against your clit, the obscene squelch of your pussy around his impressive length, the way he grabs at you. He’s greedy, hands mapping each rib, each vertebrae, every curve and contour that makes you. 

Your pussy sucks him in, just as needy, breathless moans and squeals punching out of your throat as you croak out pleas: Joel, baby, please. I want a baby so badly. Wanna have your baby. Please, please, fill me up! And Joel listens, his palm sliding around your waist and down your belly, rubbing your sensitive clit with two fingers. 

A real man gives his wife everything she wants. 

He moans at the feeling of your cunt squeezing him, his fingers wet and insistent against your little clit, coaxing you toward your climax. “C’mon,” he grunts, “come for me, baby. Fuckin’ choke me. Wanna feel it. Come and I’ll give you the baby you want so goddamn bad. C’mon, baby.”

His words seep into your bloodstream, an uncontrollable tremor racking your body, your arms giving out as he bends over you and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. “Ohhhh, God! Oh my—!” 

Joel’s hands squeeze your tits, his entire body covering yours, a warm, protective blanket, slick with sweat and heart thundering against your back. His lips are on your skin, feverishly kissing and nipping. You can’t breathe, can’t move, and it feels so fucking good. You soak his cock, muscles seizing, pinned down by his strong body. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Goddamn, keep on squeezin’ me like that. Not gonna leave this tight pussy until you're fuckin’ pregnant.”

“Joelllll,” you whine, your orgasm prolonged by his words, his unrelenting thrusts, the jolt of his balls slapping your clit. “Want it so bad. Wanna give you a baby. Come inside me, please. Please give me your cum, oh, God—”

The broken sound of your voice, weak and raspy, goes straight to his dick, and his balls are pulling up, his head bombarded with the smell of sex, perfume, linen, you. He rests his forehead between your shoulder blades as you milk his cock, turning his thrusts sloppy and desperate. He needs to come. He needs to make it real. 

Your orgasm leaves you pliant and loose in his arms, and he fondles your tits, squeezing them hard in his hands as he pictures them growing, swelling heavy with milk he’ll feed your baby. His baby. Idly, you moan, letting him use your body to get off, his teeth grazing your neck. 

“Gonna come. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, give you a baby. Gonna—Jesus, goddamn—”

Maybe it's the pent-up frustration of not having come all day. Maybe it's a renewed sense of purpose, knowing he's got a job to do, keeping every drop safe inside you. Maybe it's the sheer fucking excitement of getting to give his wife what he's wanted to put in you for so long. But when he comes, hips flush to your ass, he comes so much, for so long, that the rapid rush of blood from his cock back up to his head has him nearly keeling. 

Kissing your cervix, the head of his cock spurts rope after rope of hot cum inside you, and you mewl, your back arching to deepen the angle, luxuriate in the liquid warmth. Joel isn’t so loud now, not so cocky. He’s reduced to strained groans and whimpers as your body depletes him, greedily taking every drop of cum he has to offer. 

It feels like minutes before it finally stops, but with your ass up in the air, none of his cum spills out. Your hips are sore, your ass bruises from his hands, your tits still sitting warmly in his hands. The cool kiss of his wedding band soothes the too-hot press of his body on top of yours, your doubly-slick skin meeting indecently. His lips are on the back of your neck and he thrusts shallowly, wringing the last of his cum from the tip until he's wholly empty and bordering on oversensitive. 

You're the first to speak, your throat clogged with drool and some of your own tears. 

“Thank fuck I was at the bar that night.”

Joel’s laugh scrapes down your spine along with his beard as he drags himself upright, knowing he’s crushing you. “Never would've had to patch me up”

“Mmm, you're sexy when you're mad,” you point out, your thighs twitching as he carefully guides you onto your side, back to his chest, his cock still acting as a plug for his cum. You’re deliciously full, and you hum happily at the feeling of his warm belly against you, his big arms cradling you close. 

“Shouldn't enable violence,” he grumbles. His lashes flutter against your shoulder. 

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He chuckles. “You feel okay?”

“I feel good,” you muse, running your fingers along his forearm, the prominent veins under his skin. “I feel excited.”

His grin curves against your skin, the scratch of his moustache sending a shiver up your spine. Outside, the sun begins to dip, and your twin golden rings glimmer in the fiery light. 

“Me, too,” he whispers, and you lace your fingers through his, squeezing, both of you practically giddy. 

There’s a lull, and for a moment, you think he’s fallen asleep. The sun creeps behind a home across the street, and its watch ends for another day. 

“Hey, Joel?”

His mouth meets your throat in a sleepy kiss. “Yeah, baby?”

“I like the name Sarah.”

THE END.

tags: @cavillscurls @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @cupofjoel @northernbluess @tieronecrush @joelmillers-whore @bastardmandennis - thank you all so so much for showing excitement for this fic!! kisses for you all 🫶

WILL POULTER, KIT CONNOR & CHARLES MELTON Los Angeles Premiere Of A24's "Warfare" March 27, 2025

WILL POULTER as Bobby Jones in Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? 1.01

What he did to his hair???!!! 😲

PEDRO PASCAL Who Makes Who Laugh More | The Last Of Us Season 2

Will Poulter as Billy Culter | Dopesick (2021)

no thoughts just will poulter in the bear… it feels criminal that I barely see any fics/oneshots for Luca yet this man is so fine omfg THE TATS like LOOK AT HIM

Danny Ramirez

"I am such a 'True Detective' fan. I was anticipating it each Sunday as it came. I'm kind of a sci-fi fan. I was really hooked on the 'Battlestar Galactica' series. I think I owned every box set of 'Battlestar Galactica.' I also really love 'Bob's Burgers.'"

Summary: You’ve never felt fully at home in your own skin, but that has never stopped Joel from showing you just how much he wants you. One night, you gather the courage to show him what you’ve been too afraid to share, and he shows you exactly what it means to be wanted, worshipped, and seen.

|| smut MDNI 18+, Joel is down bad in love, self conscious reader, no physical description (except 'soft belly') but reader is insecure of their body, no specific timeline, age gap mentioned but not specified, pinv, f!receiving oral, little bit of (f!receiving) ass play, dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, soft!joel, he calls you like every pet name in the book. some aftercare || notes: joel miller in reading glasses hello? dont kill me for being a little bit of a cornball in here. joel is a cornball when he's in love. Yes I know I wrote the word pretty a lot! That’s the point!!! Inspired by this request

Joel’s bed became home long before you were ready to admit it.

It’s where you feel safest. It’s where he tugs you into his chest first thing in the morning, rough hand splayed over your back like it belongs there, murmuring something low and sleep-thick against your temple. It’s where you read curled into his side at night, him propped up against the headboard in that worn old Henley, eyes flicking lazily over the pages of whatever book you handed him, while yours is gripped a little tighter, the latest thriller mystery that has your heartbeat ticking up by the final chapters.

He had told you to stop reading them before bed once, but he didn’t really mean it. Not when you curled tighter into him, not when your hand slid across his stomach and stayed there gripping him like you needed to be close to something steady, something warm. Something like him.

Joel loves you like this. Warm and soft and pliant in his bed.

It’s one of his favorite places. Not just for pressing you down into the mattress and filling you, not just for the pretty, breathy sounds you make when you’re too far gone to think about what you look like or where his hands are. No—he loves the quiet moments, too. The ones where your limbs are tangled up with his, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, your skin still carrying the ghost of his touch.

And every now and then, when you’re asleep on his chest or laughing at something dumb he said, he still finds himself wondering how the hell he ended up with a girl like you.

You’re so much younger. So much softer. He doesn’t know what you see in a man like him—older, rougher, carved from all the years you haven’t had to carry yet. You could’ve had anyone. But you chose him. 

You’ve been together a few months now, and he still hasn’t wrapped his head around it. Still doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, your sweetness, your sharp quick wit when he least expects it.

He tried to keep his distance at first. Tried not to look too long when you smiled, not to follow the sound of your voice like a damn tether every time you were in the room. Told himself it wasn’t right. You weren’t for him. You were good. But you kept coming closer.

And once you started to pursue him—sweet and fearless and so goddamn certain—his resolve didn’t just crack. It collapsed.

The years between you didn’t matter to him anymore. The guilt didn’t matter. The voice in his head that told him to stop, that warned him he was too old, too jaded, too broken to ever deserve you—it all went quiet the second you looked at him like he was worth wanting.

He had to have you. To feel you, hear you, know you. So he gave in.

But there was still something there he didn’t quite understand, even now. Something that never quite leaves him.

Because every time he takes you to bed with the singular thought of getting you naked, of taking you until he gets his fill, until you’re trembling and wrecked and crying out his name—every single time, he sees it.

That flicker of hesitation.

He watches your shoulders shrink inward. Watches the way your hands move to cover your belly the second his fingers slip beneath your shirt. The way your breath stutters like you’re already bracing for something—even if it’s just his eyes.

You never say it out loud. You don’t have to.

And every time he settles over you, broad chest looming, palms sliding down your sides with reverent slowness as he lays you down on his bedspread, you ask him in that sweet, uncertain voice:

“Can we turn the light off?”

And Joel… hesitates.

Just for a second. Just long enough to take one more look at your face—flushed and perfect and lips swollen from letting him kiss them until they’re bruised. He always obliges. Always reaches over and clicks off the bedside lamp without a word, even if something in his chest aches as the room goes dark.

In the low moonlight, he can still see pieces of you. The softness of your belly. The curve of your thighs. The arch of your back when you start to melt beneath his touch. And he reveres it. All of it.

Worships you like you’re something holy.

But even in the dark, he notices everything.

The way your breath hitches when he kisses down your body—not with pleasure, but with discomfort. The subtle tension in your limbs when he trails his lips past your ribs. The way you squirm when his mouth lingers at the tender skin between your stomach and mound. Not because it’s too much. But because you don’t want to be seen.

And it kills him a little every time.

Because he wants to see you. All of you. Wants you to know that there is not a single inch of your body he doesn’t adore.

But still, like many nights before, he obliges you tonight and reaches over to turn out the light at your request.

The room falls into darkness.

Joel wakes to the warm and golden light of the morning, the kind where sunlight filters through the blinds in soft, slatted beams, pooling across the hardwood floor. The kind where the world outside feels far away, like it can wait a little longer while the house stays quiet.

His mind fully catches up to the scent of coffee and the soft creak of floorboards.

The bed is empty beside him, blankets still warm, your pillow carrying the shape of your head. He rubs the sleep from his face and swings his legs over the edge, the weight of last night still humming low in his chest.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re at the counter, barefoot, wearing nothing but his t-shirt—one of those older ones, soft and stretched out, the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair’s a little messy, skin still marked in places from where his mouth had worshipped you in the hours of the night.

You’re so focused on pouring coffee into your favorite mug—the pink one with the little chip at the rim, just big enough to catch your lip if you’re not careful—that you don’t hear him come in.

He steps in behind you, silent as ever, warmth radiating off his chest before you even feel his hands.

One arm slips around your waist, the other gliding up beneath the hem of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—until his hand splays flat across your stomach. His lips find your neck a second later, soft and unhurried, brushing along your skin as he breathes you in.

You stiffen, just a little. It’s not resistance, you could never resist him, but your body goes still beneath his touch, that automatic flicker of self-consciousness rising to the surface like it always does when he touches you in the daylight.

Still, you don’t move away.

Joel’s voice is low and rough in your ear, all gravel and morning warmth, “‘Mornin’, darlin’.”

You smile, small, a little sheepish, but it’s there. “Morning.”

His hand drops lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, then sliding up again, slow and lazy. His other arm tightens around your front, keeping you pulled against him as his lips trail from your neck to your cheek.

“Joel—” you murmur, half a protest, half a laugh, squirming under his touch.

“You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice thicker now, rougher with sleep and want. “So sexy in my shirt, honey.”

You go quiet. Not because you don’t like it. But because it still hits that spot—the part of you that flinches at being seen. You press your lips together, focus on the coffee in your hand, as if the words might disappear if you just don’t look at him.

But Joel sees it. Feels the shift. The way you tense ever so slightly when he calls you nice things. Like the words don’t fit, not yet. Like you still haven’t figured out how to wear them.

He kisses your cheek again, slower this time.

“I mean it,” he adds softly.

You nod once, a breath catching in your chest before you murmur, “I know.”

Joel leans in and kisses the back of your head, just behind your ear, then murmurs against your skin, “Put the coffee down for a second.”

You glance over your shoulder, suspicious but smiling. “Why?”

“Just do it, baby.”

With a soft sigh, you set the mug back on the counter. Before you can ask again, he’s turning you in his arms, hands firm but careful on your hips and over the shirt, as he spins you to face him.

He steps in close, real close, until the backs of your thighs press against the cabinets and his hands come up to cradle your face. Big, warm palms on your cheeks, thumbs brushing the softness there like he’s memorizing the way you feel under his touch. 

Then his hands squish your cheeks between his hands, just enough to puff your lips out like a fish.

Your brows furrow as you try in vain to pull away. “Joel—!”

“Say it,” he says, dead serious despite the ridiculous hold he has on your face.

Your eyebrows knit further as you still. “Say what?”

He smirks, dipping his head until your noses bump. “Say: I’m pretty.”

You groan, giggling despite yourself as you try to wiggle free. “Joel, oh my god—”

He holds on, pressing exaggerated kisses to your squished face—your cheek, your forehead, your nose and your puffed out top lip. “Say it. Go on. I’ll wait all day.”

“Fine!” you huff, lips barely moving from the way he’s still holding your face. “I’m pretty.”

He grins, loosening his hold just enough so you can speak properly, though he keeps his hands right where they are. “Didn’t hear you.”

“I’m pretty,” you repeat, cheeks heating as you say it, soft and unsure but not sarcastic. Not deflecting.

Joel beams, eyes crinkling at the corners, kissing your lips as he loosens his hold on your face. “Damn right you are. Prettiest girl I ever saw.”

You can’t help but smile now, wide and a little bashful. You duck your head, but he catches you again, presses a kiss to your lips again, sweet and unhurried.

And when he backs away and you finally reach for your coffee again, cheeks still warm, he’s watching you like he’s already counting the seconds until he gets to do it all over again.

That night starts like any other night.

Late, quiet, the house dipped in soft shadows. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the evening breeze, the hum of cicadas drifting in with the warm air. Joel’s in bed already, reading glasses sliding down his nose, thumbing through the same page of his book he’s read three times without taking in a single word.

He’s waiting for you to join him, your book is still closed on the side table. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom before you could even cuddle up in bed beside him. You had said you needed two minutes.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

He figures you’re brushing your teeth. Or lost in one of your little bedtime routines—rearranging things on the counter or doing your 10 step nightly skincare. He doesn’t mind. He’s gotten used to your rhythms the more you stayed over. Grown to love them, even.

But then he hears the bedroom door open, and when he glances up, expecting to see you in one of your usual pajamas, his breath catches. You’re not wearing one of his big T-shirts or those soft cotton sets you like so much.

You’re standing in the doorway in white lace, delicate and sheer and almost ethereal in the low glow of the lamp light.

It damn near knocks the air out of him.

He forgets all about the book in his lap—doesn’t even feel it fall to the mattress as his gaze rakes over you, slow and disbelieving. His jaw goes slack as he removes his glasses and sets them on the side table.

The bra—he doesn’t know what it’s called, not that it matters—looks daintier and more delicate than anything he’s ever seen in his goddamn life. Feminine in a way that hits him right in the chest. It wraps around you like it was made for your body, hugging your curves in all the right places. The straps are thin, dipping into the softness of your shoulders, and the lace cups give just enough to let his imagination blur with what’s already in front of him.

The matching bottoms sit high on your hips, scalloped lace tracing the tops of your thighs, giving him a perfect view of the skin he’s only ever touched in the dark.

Your hair is pulled back behind your shoulders—intentionally, he thinks, like you wanted him to have the full view.

Your lip is tucked under your top teeth, and your eyes flick down for a second, uncertain—then back up again.

But then you smile.

Shy, but proud. Like you’re showing him something precious and a little terrifying. Like you finally believe, even just a little, that he might actually mean every word he’s ever said about you.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed, jaw tight with restraint as he beckons you to him. Slowly, you make your way over, and he soaks in the look of your thighs as you move, the way your body is begging to be marked and taken. His hands curl against his own thighs like he’s afraid to touch you too fast, too hard, and shatter the moment.

But when you move to stand between his knees, and he lifts his eyes up to meet yours, you don’t flinch.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. Then his hands lift slowly, reverently, palms brushing along the outside of your thighs, up to your hips.

His voice is low, almost reverent. “Christ, baby… look at you.”

You let out a nervous laugh, eyes dropping for a second—but you don’t cover yourself. Don’t twist away like you usually do. You stay right there, between his knees, close enough for him to smell the soft scent of your lotion and whatever little perfume you’d put on just for him.

Joel lifts his hands, slow and sure, and holds your hips, warm, steady, splayed wide like he wants to cover all of you. His thumb strokes gently over your skin where the lace ends, just above your hipbone.

“You did this for me?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod once, eyes still shy but glowing with something soft. “I wanted to. I…I know I usually…”

“I know,” he says quietly, thumbs stroking your skin under his touch. “Don’t gotta explain nothin’ to me.”

His voice is gentle, but there’s something else beneath it now. Thicker. Hotter. Like he’s barely keeping a lid on what he really wants to say.

You bite your lip again, tucking it under your top teeth as you gauge his reaction. Joel leans in, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss between the valley of your breasts—slow, open-mouthed, just wet enough to make your breath stutter.

You exhale, body already leaning into him, melting under the heat of his mouth, the drag of his stubble, the way his hands are rubbing slow circles along your thighs. His fingers toy with the hem of the lace between your legs, pinching the delicate fabric between them, like he can’t decide whether to rip it off or worship it.

“You know what this does to me? What you do to me, angel?” he rasps, voice rough now, filthy and unfiltered. “You got me starin’ like a damn animal. Don’t even know where I wanna taste first.”

He kisses the underside of your breast, and even though it's covered by lace, he bites softly at the curve, tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. His hands move to grip your ass tightly now, pulling you closer, positioning so your stomach and hips are flush against his chest.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, you go and give me this?”

His eyes flick up, hungry and reverent. You squirm, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips, but Joel doesn't back off. He presses another kiss to your stomach, then just above your belly button, murmuring into your skin.

“Timid little thing—but deep down you like it, don’t you? Like when Daddy talks like this?”

Your thighs twitch under his hands and you nod.

He grins, feral and soft all at once. His hands slide up your sides, palms hot and steady against your ribs, thumbs brushing the edge of lace as his mouth follows—slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing higher, tongue flicking against the fabric covering your breasts. His tongue pokes out over the lace of your bodice right where your nipple would be, teeth grazing over the hidden but pebbled skin. Your jaw falls open as you watch him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, breath catching against your sternum. “You wore this just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

One hand lifts, fingers tugging gently at the strap of your bralette, sliding it down your shoulder. Then the other. His movements are careful, almost reverent, as he peels the lace down and away, baring you inch by inch.

And when your breasts spill free, his breath catches audibly.

“Jesus Christ.”

He sits back just far enough to look. Just for a moment. Just to see you.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he murmurs, thick with awe and heat. He brings his hands up to grip the flesh of your breasts, kneading them together, “Bet you don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”

You bite your lip again, that flicker of shyness still dancing across your face—like you have to physically restrain yourself from trying to cover the revealed skin. But no. Not this time.

Joel leans in and licks a slow stripe over one nipple, making you gasp. He drags his tongue in a lazy circle, then sucks it into his mouth, groaning low in his throat like he’s tasting heaven.

You whimper, your hands flying to his shoulders, fingers gripping him as your back arches on instinct.

“That’s it,” he growls, pulling back just to press a kiss between your breasts before taking the other into his mouth, this time sucking harder, leaving it damp and peaked from his tongue. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear every sound you make when I touch you like this.”

Your hips roll against him, thighs trembling as you stand between his legs.

“Sensitive little thing,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Just needed someone to show you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

He kisses lower, down the underside of your breast, then back up again, licking softly, sucking just enough to leave the faintest mark.

“M’gonna take good care of you tonight, baby,” he breathes, dragging his mouth back to your nipple. “Gonna take my timeand take every fuckin’ inch of this sweet body. You gonna let me?”

You nod, breathless, voice caught somewhere in your throat,“Y-yeah.”

Joel looks up, eyes blazing, lips slick from kissing you.

“‘Yeah’, what? Tell me, honey.”

Your begin to squirm as you tell him, “I want you to, Daddy. Please.”

Joel groans like it physically knocks the air out of him. His hands trail back down your sides, slow and reverent, fingertips grazing the lace waistband still hugging your hips.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower. 

He kisses down your stomach, tongue peeking out to trace the little dip of your navel, his hands smoothing down your hips and behind to cup your ass again, fingers squeezing tight. The lace panties are all that remain, soft and delicate, slightly damp already with your arousal. He noses along the waistband, breathing you in.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he growls, teeth catching gently at the fabric. “Bet you taste even better.”

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging gently as he tongues over the lace, not pulling it down yet—just feeling you through it, his mouth wet and hungry over your hips and tummy.

You moan, your hips grinding against him again as he teases you, his one hand reaching down to drag his fingers over your clothed mound, the slick of your folds soaking through. He groans at the feeling before pulling back with a sharp exhale, looking up at you with wild eyes.

“On the bed. Hands and knees. Now.”

You blink, heart leaping, but you don’t hesitate. You scramble onto the mattress, crawling forward on shaky limbs until you’re positioned right where he wants you—on all fours, back arched, breath quick and needy.

Joel groans behind you at the sight, pulling his shirt over his head before dragging a hand up your spine, slow and heavy.

“Goddamn, baby. Look at you.”

Once he’s climbed onto the bed behind you, spreading your knees a little wider, he kneads at your ass with both hands, reverent and gentle. He settles his body lower, shifting on the bed until his face is level with your center. He drags his thumbs along the backs of your thighs, spreading them a little wider, groaning low when he sees how soaked the lace of your panties is—slick and clinging to your folds, a perfect puffy outline of everything he’s about to taste.

“Look at this,” he breathes, like it’s something sacred. “Fuckin’ drenched for me.”

You gasp when you feel his mouth again—not on your skin, but over the lace. A slow, deliberate kiss right to the center of you, hot and wet and perfectly placed. His lips part, tongue nudging against the fabric, teasing your clit through the sheer barrier.

It’s maddening.

He hums, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby… I could spend all night like this. Kissin’ you through these pretty little panties. Smellin’ you. Feelin’ how worked up you are for me.” He nuzzles in deeper, breathing hot against you, licking a wide, slow stripe up the center of your heat—through the lace—then mouthing at it, sloppy and wet, soaking it even more.

You sob, spine arching, thighs quivering where they try to stay upright. Joel groans against you.

“Can’t believe you wore this just for me,” he mutters, dragging his tongue back down. “So fuckin’ soft. So sweet. Pussy’s beggin’ for it, ain’t she?”

You nod frantically, already breathless. “Yes—God, Joel, please—”

He chuckles darkly, biting gently at the fabric. “Please what, baby?”

“Take them off,” you gasp. “Please—need you.”

Joel pulls back, and you feel the shift in the air before you feel his hands—rough palms curling under the waistband of your panties, fingers brushing the skin of your hips as he peels the lace down slow. Agonizingly slow.

“Anything for my girl,” he says.

Joel’s broad, warm hands palm at your ass, kneading every inch as he situates himself behind you. He dips lower, mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses into the flesh of your left cheek, then the right, before his teeth sink down into the soft meat.

You yelp, hips jerking at the sharp nip.

“Prettiest noises too,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing the sensitive mark he left behind. His hands spread your cheeks, thumbs firm as they open you up for him—and when you peek over your shoulder, you find his eyes locked on your center, gaze dark and fixated, the pupils blown wide.

When he catches you looking, his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“She’s flirtin’ with me,” he says, grinning like the devil.

Your face burns, and you let your head drop into the pillows, hiding from the embarrassment that curls through your belly—hot and helpless, tangled with molten want.

Joel’s lips find your skin again, slower now, more reverent as he holds you open. His tongue drags between your cheeks, a deep, teasing stroke that makes your whole body tense. He kisses your slick folds with a wet, lewd sound that makes you gasp.

He hums, low and satisfied, then laps at your dripping arousal like it’s his first taste of water in weeks.

“And the prettiest pussy,” he rasps, lips brushing your folds. “You know that, darlin’?”

You moan, unable to answer, as his tongue pushes deeper. He flattens it and licks slow, wide strokes up your slit before circling your clit. His nose bumps your entrance, barely prodding, teasing you as his tongue works your clit in tight, filthy circles.

Your hips start moving without your permission, grinding into his face, seeking more.

Joel groans like you’re his favorite meal, tongue flattening again, letting you push into him.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, eyes fluttering shut. “Ride my face.”

You mewl, your body bucking, wild and desperate, grinding into him like a goddamn bronco at the fair. Your walls flutter, your core pulsing with pressure as it builds, and builds, and builds.

Your thighs begin to shake.

Joel’s grip on you tightens as he takes over, tongue working your clit with expert flicks, fast and relentless.

The pressure in your belly snaps like a pulled cord, your spine arching as your orgasm crashes over you. You cry out, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as you come, loud and wrecked, your fingers gripping the sheets.

Joel moans into you like he’s the one coming undone, tongue never faltering, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your trembling body. Even as you start to come down, breath catching in your throat, he doesn’t stop. He just slows, letting you twitch and gasp and shake through it.

Then, you feel it. The warm, wet pressure of his tongue pushing up past your folds, over the skin between, then circling your tighter hole. You jump at the intrusion, a sharp gasp breaking from your lips—but the haze of your orgasm makes your body soft, receptive, already melting for him.

You whimper, hips twitching. Joel just groans again, closing his lips around your sensitive rim, suckling gently.

“F–fuck,” you whisper, unable to think, to move, to breathe.

He licks you there once more before planting slow, open-mouthed kisses up your spine, up to the small of your back, your shoulder blades, and finally your neck.

Then he’s curling over you, beard scratchy against your skin, his lips brushing your cheek.

“Turn around,” he whispers, voice low and rough, "Wanna see your face when I stuff you full a'me,"

You can’t help but giggle at the tickle of his scruff against your neck, still dazed, still boneless, but do as you’re told—twisting under him until you’re on your back, staring up at him.

Joel’s eyes, though dark with hunger, hold something else too. Something deep and aching. Something sweet.

And then, with that same steady tone he uses when talking patrol routes or fixing fences, he says, “Now. Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart.”

His lips brush your jaw, then your ear.

“I’m gonna fill you up so deep, fuck you so full of my cock, my cum, me, that when you look in the mirror tomorrow, all you’re gonna see is how fuckin’ beautiful you are—‘cause you’ll still be wearin’ what I did to you tonight.”

Your chest heaves, the words settling deep in your stomach, curling there like heat and honey.

“Joel, I—” you start to say, only to gasp when you feel the hot, thick head of his cock nudge at your entrance.

“You feel this, honey?” he murmurs, pulling back to look down between you, voice rough and reverent. “Feel how bad he wants you? How bad I want you?”

You nod, gripping his forearms tight, your thighs falling open even wider for him.

He notches just the bulbous tip inside you and hisses at the wet heat.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “I feel it, Joel, I—I… pleasepleaseplease—”

“I know, angel, I know,” he pants, his thumb stroking your inner thigh, grounding you. “Now I wanna hear you say it.”

Your brain lags, thick with need, swimming in lust and love and the ache to just feel him.

“W-what?”

Joel watches you, eyes burning into yours.

“Say, ‘I’m pretty, Daddy.’”

Your whole body flushes, lips parted in disbelief, already whining at the way he just knows how to unravel you.

You groan wordlessly, bringing your hands to your face to hide. He is so on your shit list for this.

Joel chuckles darkly, pushing in another inch, and you whimper behind your hands.

“I’m waitin’, darlin'.”

You squirm under him, thighs trembling, skin turning hotter and hotter by the second. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him to move, to fill you, to do something.

But Joel waits. He always waits—until you give in, until he gets what he wants.

You lift your hands from your face slowly, eyes hazy, cheeks heated, lips parted. He’s watching you like a man possessed, one hand gripping your thigh, the other wrapped around his pulsing member with agonizing patience.

“M’pretty,” you whisper.

Joel’s brow arches, lips curling, “Not quite, sweetheart. You know how I want it.”

Your chest heaves. Your pussy clenches around just the tip of him, and even though you see the twitch in his jaw, he still waits.

So you gather your courage, heart pounding in your throat: “I’m pretty, Daddy.”

Joel’s smile breaks across his face, so bright and full of something so tender it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It almost pulls you out of the heat of it, the haze of arousal, until your core clenches and he sinks into you just a little deeper.

You gasp, the stretch sharp and perfect.

He leans down slowly, hands braced in the pillows beside your head, lowering himself onto his forearms until his chest is flush with yours, until there’s no space left between your bodies.

He’s still not fully sheathed in you.

“Again.” 

“I… I’m pretty, Daddy,” you breathe, voice shaky as your pussy tries to adjust around the thick stretch of him.

“The prettiest,” he nods, and his lips mold to yours as he finally pushes all the way in. Your mouth falls open with a gasp, the sound swallowed by his tongue slipping between your lips, hot and hungry, as he bottoms out. His balls press firmly against the slick, wet crevice of your ass, and the mess between your thighs is obscene—your arousal dripping, sticky and hot, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Joel groans into your mouth, loud and wrecked like its been trapped in his chest for hours. His hands come up to cradle your head, keeping you right there beneath him as he begins to move, slow at first, pulling out a few inches before rolling back in, the full weight of him rocking your body with every deep thrust.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “Pussy’s so damn tight.”

He pulls out slowly again, then drives back in hard, enough to jolt you up the bed, the sound of it lewd and perfect. His brow furrows, eyes fluttered shut as he focuses on the way your walls cling to him.

“Fuckkkk,” you mewl as he continues sawing into you, filling you and stretching you around him, buried to the hilt.

Joel grins, feral and hungry, sweat starting to bead at his brow.

“Sound even prettier when you take my cock.”

He sets a rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that hit all the way up, filling you to the brim. His body covers yours, chest brushing your nipples, beard scratching your throat as he nips and kisses every inch he can reach.

“Been thinkin’ about this for so long, baby” he grits out between thrusts, hips slapping against yours. “The way you’re always hidin’ yourself from me, coverin’ up like you’re not the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

“I got you, honey,” Joel pants, head dropping to your neck as his arms wrap around you, pulling you into him even tighter. “And you’re gonna start seein’ it for yourself,” 

His pace picks up, rougher now, slamming into you with the kind of need that’s barely human.

“Gonna fuck you so full you forget every goddamn lie you ever told yourself in a mirror. Gonna make sure the only thing you remember is me—how you sounded, how you looked, when I wrecked this perfect little body.”

You’re gasping, whimpering, shaking beneath him, stars flashing behind your eyes as he pounds into you like he’s never going to stop.

“That’s it, baby. You take it,” he growls. “Take my cock so good, like the good girl you are for me. Fuckin’ made for me.”

“Joel—” you cry, voice breaking.

He lifts his head, eyes wild and tender all at once.

“Say it again, sweetheart. Tell Daddy how pretty you are.”

“I—I’m pretty,” you choke out. “I’m—fuck, I’m so pretty, Daddy—”

He loses it.

His hand slides under your thigh, hooking it up, opening you wider, deeper. His hips slam into you harder now, the rhythm filthy, brutal, perfect.

“I know, baby. I know. Look at you. My good girl, look so beautiful takin’ it so fuckin’ well.”

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you forward as he sits back—craning your head up so you can look down, see exactly where you’re joined. 

Your mind barely registers the softness of your belly, too focused on the thick stretch of him splitting you open, the obscene way you take every inch. You both watch as he drives into you, slick and deep and devastating, a ring of your last orgasm glistening around his cock. The pressure builds again, white-hot and unbearable.

And Joel knows—he feels it in the way you clench, the way your voice goes high and desperate, the way your hands grip him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

“You gonna come for me again, sweet girl?” he pants, fucking you into the mattress. “Gonna let Daddy feel you pulse around his cock?”

“Yesyesyes—Joel, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he snarls, “give it to me.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm crashes through you with a scream as he releases your neck, letting you arch your back, trembling as you milk his cock with spasms so tight it makes Joel curse, a broken sound from deep in his chest.

And then he’s coming, hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, filling you just like he promised. His voice breaks on your name as he grinds through it, hands gripping you enough to leave bruises, breathing ragged.

Neither of you move for a long moment. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled and uneven. His chest heaving against yours. Your legs shaking around his waist.

His hand slides up, cradles the side of your face. His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, even though you’re not crying—but something about the touch makes you want to. Makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice all gravel and reverence. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes still fluttered shut, heart pounding. “Y-yeah.”

Joel presses a soft kiss to your lips—barely a touch, like he’s afraid of ruining you more than he already has. Then another, and another, until you're giggling quietly beneath him, too dazed to hold it in.

He smiles, the kind of smile he doesn’t show anyone else. The kind that barely reaches his eyes, because he’s still looking at you like you’re a dream that might disappear if he blinks too hard.

“Look at me, baby.”

You do. You always do when he asks.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, voice low and rough with what sounds almost like awe. “You know that?”

The words hit you deeper than they should. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to even out your breathing, but your lungs don’t cooperate. Your eyes dart away, suddenly misting and too overwhelmed by the intensity in his gaze—by the sincerity written all over his face. It's too much. Too close. Too real.

But Joel’s hand is already there, catching your chin gently, tilting your face back toward his. His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, soft and steady.

“No,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Don’t do that. Not tonight. Not after everything you just gave me.”

Your chest stutters, emotion building so fast and so sharp you feel like you might spill over with it. Your fingers twitch against his back before finally settling, drifting across his damp skin in slow, absent circles. You take deep, calming breaths to settle yourself. Breathe in, breathe out.

He’s still inside you, still heavy over you, like neither of you are ready to let go just yet. Your limbs are tangled, the air still thick with sweat and heat and something quieter—something softer.

The room is quiet now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Just your shared breaths, slow and unsteady. The low thump of his heart where his chest presses to yours.

Joel shifts only slightly, just enough to press a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then your temple. The way he moves is unhurried, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s kissing more than just skin—like he’s kissing the pieces of you he’s afraid to speak out loud.

It makes your chest ache.

“You’re being so sweet,” you whisper, throat tight almost like it’s a secret.

His lips hover at your lips, pressing gently but not fully,  “I don’t know how not to be,” he says softly. “Not with you.”

You close your eyes, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. His scent wraps around you—salt and skin and something warm and comforting that’s just him. The warmth blooms under your skin again, curling around your ribs, spreading down your spine.

“I love you.” he says, like it’s always been there, waiting. Like it’s not a confession so much as a truth that finally found its way out.

Your breath catches. Not from fear, not from panic, but from the sheer weight of it. The gravity. The sound of those words, spoken into the low light of the room while he's still buried inside you, holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Your eyes flutter open. You don’t move. Not yet.

Joel doesn’t either. But his voice dips low, softer now. A hint of uncertainty laces the edges. “Too much?”

You shake your head instantly, and your hands rise to cradle his face, looking up at him, fingertips brushing his temples like you need to anchor both of you in this moment.

“No,” you whisper, a tear finally escaping your eye. “No, not too much.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently as you pull him down and press your lips to his. And when you pull back, your words are trembling but sure.

“I love you too.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.Then he kisses you—slow and deep and home, his mouth moving against yours like he’s sealing the promise between your bodies.

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal, @anxiousscribbling

#he was insane for this

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live! | March 24, 2025

wintersummer

PEDRO PASCAL on the set of ‘Someday’ directed by Spike Jonze

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live | March 2025

HES SO SLUTTY & IM ON MY KNEES YESS SIRR 😩🫦

in love with whatever this is

PEDRO PASCAL in Austin, Texas | via _jrmx

your camera roll dating Pedro Pascal

danny ramirez , subwayoracle .

Heyo/

I've been away from my socials and just saw the valentine chalenge... but there is no Sam Wilson T^T

Could I still request a Long Distance Relationship between Sam and a female reader pretty please?

Something like she's currently working on a huge project, like opening her company and she needs to be abroad, in Europe, to get a diploma or something? Maybe she's a pastry chef and she's in Paris.

They've been friends for a long time, maybe not seeing eachother much but they used to talk on the phone or text a lot, but now, with the time difference they keep missing each other, not being able to connect and they both realize on each side of the world that there is more to their relationship than just friendship?

Thank you✒️

HOME

⤷ SAM T. WILSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Sam T. Wilson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst but fluff

ᯓ★ Word count: 7k

ᯓ★ Summary: you and Sam are close friends, and you try to make your friendship survive even as you move to Paris to follow your dream...Will things between you two be okay?

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing

ᯓ★ I should definitely add more sam to my games...

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You stand at the edge of the airport terminal, your luggage at your side, feeling the weight of the moment settle in your chest. It’s a strange feeling, this kind of departure, one that’s both thrilling and heartbreaking. You’ve spent so many years building up to this, a chance to work under one of the best pastry chefs in the world, a chance to hone your craft in Paris, and yet, leaving behind everything you’ve built here—especially the friendship you’ve built with Sam—makes your heart feel heavy.

You glance at your phone, the clock ticking closer to your flight time. Sam is still nowhere to be seen. You try not to let the nervousness eat away at you, but it’s hard when you know that this could be the last time you see him for a while. You’ve tried to pretend that it’s no big deal, that it’s just a job opportunity, but deep down you know the truth: it’s not just about the job. It’s about leaving the one person who’s always been there for you, who’s always had your back, the one person who’s made you laugh when you thought you couldn’t anymore.

A shadow falls over you, and you look up to see him standing there. Sam. His smile is warm, but there’s something about the way his eyes flicker between your face and the ground that tells you he’s trying to hide his feelings too.

“You made it,” he says, his voice a little too casual. He rubs the back of his neck, the familiar gesture that lets you know he’s nervous.

You can’t help but smile, despite the lump in your throat. “Of course, I made it. I’m not backing out now.”

Sam chuckles, though it’s not the usual laugh you’re used to. It sounds like he’s trying to cover up something. You’ve always known when Sam’s hiding something, and right now, he’s hiding the same thing you’re hiding—the way this feels.

“I’m really proud of you, you know?” he says, his eyes softening as they meet yours.

You blink, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. You know that Sam has always supported your dreams, but hearing it right now, just before you leave, hits you in a way you didn’t expect. “Thanks, Sam,” you reply quietly, your voice thick. “That means a lot.”

A brief silence falls between you two, neither of you quite knowing what to say next. The finality of the moment is settling in, and neither of you seems ready to face it.

“So, this is really happening,” Sam says after a beat, trying to lighten the mood, but there’s an edge to his voice now, one you recognize from the past. It’s the edge that comes when he’s trying to mask his vulnerability with humor.

You nod, trying to sound confident even though your heart is beating so hard you think it might break through your chest. “Yeah, I’m going to Paris. It’s just for a year, Sam. I’ll be back.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his brows furrowed. “A year’s a long time,” he murmurs, the quietness of his voice striking you.

You bite your lip, not knowing how to reassure him. You want to tell him that everything’s going to be fine, that it’s just a temporary thing, but there’s a voice in the back of your head telling you it might not be. A year could turn into longer. You could fall in love with Paris. You could fall in love with the life you’ve dreamed of.

And then there’s Sam. Your best friend. The one person who has always been there for you through thick and thin. The one person who’s never judged you, even when you’ve made mistakes. The one person who knows you better than anyone else.

“I’ll miss you,” you finally say, your voice so soft it almost feels like you’re saying it to yourself.

His gaze sharpens, and he steps a little closer, his presence grounding you in a way only he can. “I’ll miss you too,” he replies quietly, his voice almost unreadable.

It’s the way he says it that gets to you, the way it makes your chest ache, like he’s holding something back. Something more than just friendship.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Sam continues, his voice low, but there’s something in it now. A vulnerability you weren’t expecting. “But I know this is your dream. I just… I don’t want things to change between us.”

You swallow hard. You’ve always known that your relationship with Sam was complicated. There were moments when the lines between friendship and something more blurred, but you’d never dared to cross them. Not with Sam. Not when everything between you two felt so natural, so easy. But now, with him standing here, his words hanging in the air between you like a heavy fog, you can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was something more there all along.

“You know things will change,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the buzz of the airport. “We can’t pretend like they won’t.”

“I know,” Sam says, his voice tight, “but I don’t want to lose what we have.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your heart racing. There’s something in the air now, something that’s shifted, something that feels almost fragile, like if either of you say the wrong thing, it will all break apart.

You open your mouth to say something, but your flight is called over the PA system before you can speak. You glance at the screen, and then at Sam. He’s standing there, his eyes wide, his body rigid as if he’s afraid of what will happen if he lets go. He’s afraid of what comes next.

“I guess this is it,” you say, feeling a lump form in your throat. Your fingers twitch at your sides, desperate to hold onto something, to hold onto him, but you don’t know how.

Sam steps forward, then hesitates, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I don’t want it to be.”

His words catch you off guard, and you find yourself blinking rapidly, trying to fight back the tears that are threatening to spill over. You look away quickly, not wanting him to see how affected you are. Not wanting him to see how much you’re struggling with this too.

“Well, I’ll be back,” you finally say, your voice wavering. “I’ll be back, Sam. I promise.”

Sam doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel his gaze on you, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you before you leave. “Yeah,” he finally mutters, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, and you have to swallow hard to keep yourself together. You nod quickly, backing away as your flight time gets closer.

“Take care of yourself, Sam,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does, it’s with that same familiar warmth. “You too.”

You turn to leave, but before you take more than a few steps, you hear him call your name. You glance back over your shoulder, your heart racing.

“Yeah?” you ask, your voice unsure.

Sam’s face is a mixture of emotions, a little sad, a little unsure, but most of all, he looks like he’s holding onto something—something he’s afraid to say.

But instead of words, he just reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. He walks toward you quickly, holding it out between you two. It’s a simple wooden box, nothing extravagant, but it holds a weight to it that makes your breath catch.

“What’s this?” you ask, surprised, reaching for it.

Sam hesitates for a moment, like he’s debating whether to give it to you or not, before he presses it into your hand. “Open it when you get there. If you need a reminder of home,” he says, his voice thick with meaning. “A reminder that I’ll be here when you come back.”

You open the box slowly, your hands trembling. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a small charm bracelet. It’s simple but elegant, with a few charms on it—one of a plane, another of a heart, and a third of a small pastry bag. You stare at it for a moment, your mind racing, your chest tight as you realize the meaning behind each charm. The plane for your journey, the heart for the love and friendship you share, and the pastry bag for the dream you’re about to pursue.

You look up at Sam, your eyes filled with gratitude and something else—something you’re not ready to face. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sam replies softly, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Just promise me you’ll wear it, okay? That way, no matter where you are, I’m with you.”

You nod, unable to speak, feeling the tears welling up in your eyes again. This moment is harder than you ever thought it would be. Sam looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching you, his expression a mix of pride and sadness.

With one last glance, you turn and make your way to the gate, the charm bracelet warm against your wrist as you leave. You’re not sure what the future holds—whether you’ll return the same, whether things between you and Sam will change—but one thing is certain: no matter where life takes you, Sam will always be a part of it.

And with that thought, you step forward, into the unknown.

The moment you step out of Charles de Gaulle Airport, the Parisian air greets you with a crispness that feels unfamiliar but exhilarating. The city moves at a different rhythm than what you're used to—faster, more purposeful, yet somehow effortless. People pass by in elegant coats and scarves, their conversations a mix of rapid French and laughter. The scent of fresh bread lingers in the air, mingling with the faint chill of early morning.

This is it. You're really here.

Your apartment is small but charming, tucked away in a quiet street near your new workplace, a prestigious patisserie that has been on your dream list for years. The first few days are a whirlwind—meeting your new colleagues, adjusting to the kitchen’s pace, getting lost on the metro more times than you care to admit. You should be exhausted, overwhelmed, but instead, you feel alive. Like you're exactly where you're meant to be.

But no matter how busy the days get, there’s always a moment when your thoughts drift back to Sam.

Your phone buzzes while you’re unpacking, and you don’t even have to check to know who it is.

Sam: Landed yet? Sam: Wait, of course you landed, that was hours ago. Are you alive? Have the French kidnapped you? You: Yes, I’m alive. No kidnappings. Just settling in. Sam: Good. I was about to hop on a plane and rescue you. You: From what exactly? A really good croissant? Sam: Hey, you joke, but I’ve seen some pastries that look too perfect to be trusted. Be careful.

You laugh, shaking your head. It’s only been a day, and already, he makes the distance feel smaller.

As the week progresses, your routine falls into place—early mornings at the patisserie, long hours perfecting techniques, late-night walks along the Seine when the city is quiet and glowing with golden light. But no matter how much Paris tries to pull you in, there’s always a part of your day reserved for Sam.

At night, when exhaustion weighs down your limbs, you prop your phone against a stack of cookbooks and video call him. The first time you do it, he picks up immediately, his face appearing on the screen with that easy smile that always makes you feel at home.

“Hey, look who survived their first week in Paris.”

“Barely,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “I think my chef wants to kill me. But in an elegant French way.”

Sam chuckles. “What does that mean? He insults you with a fancy accent?”

“More like he stares at me in deep disappointment while saying mon dieu under his breath.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

These late-night calls become your anchor. No matter how far you are, how much the city around you changes, Sam is always there, steady as ever. Some nights, you talk for hours about nothing—about the old lady who scolded you for ordering coffee wrong, about how Sam nearly fell off a boat during a mission, about the latest dumb thing Bucky said. Other nights, it’s quieter, just the two of you existing in the same space, even through a screen.

One night, as you sit on your tiny Parisian balcony, overlooking the rooftops, he asks, “Do you ever get lonely over there?”

You hesitate, watching the flickering lights of the city. “Sometimes,” you admit. “It’s amazing here, don’t get me wrong. But… yeah. It gets quiet.”

Sam’s voice softens. “Wish I could be there.”

Your heart clenches a little, the weight of those words heavier than either of you are ready to acknowledge. “Yeah,” you whisper, “me too.”

—

Months pass, and Paris starts feeling less foreign. Your French improves—at least enough to order coffee without embarrassing yourself. The chef yells at you slightly less. You’ve even made friends with some of your coworkers, sharing late-night meals at tiny bistros after grueling shifts.

But no matter how full your days are, Sam is still your constant.

Your text thread is endless—updates, jokes, random photos. You send him pictures of beautifully plated desserts you make, and he replies with exaggerated emojis of awe. He sends you pictures of whatever chaos he’s dealing with—usually involving either a superhero crisis or Bucky doing something dumb.

One night, after a particularly tough day, you text him:

You: Tell me something good.

He replies almost instantly:

Sam: I just saw a guy on the subway wearing a full Spider-Man costume. No context. Just sitting there, scrolling through his phone like it’s normal.

You snort, already feeling lighter.

You: Please tell me you took a picture. Sam: Would I ever let you down?

A photo comes through—a blurry shot of the Spider-Man impersonator looking very invested in his phone.

You: You’re my favorite person.

The moment you send it, you realize what you’ve just said. It’s not untrue—Sam is your favorite person. Has been for a while. But saying it out loud, even through text, feels dangerously close to something else.

The typing bubble appears. Your stomach knots.

Sam: Yeah?

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But before you can think too hard about it, you reply:

You: Yeah.

There’s a pause, then another text comes through.

Sam: Good. You’re mine too.

You stare at the screen, your heart pounding harder than it should. The conversation shifts after that, back to easy jokes, but something lingers beneath it. Something unspoken.

—

It happens during a video call one night. You’re in bed, wrapped in a blanket, your hair messier than usual after a long shift. Sam is lounging on his couch back home, a game playing on his TV in the background.

“I can’t believe it’s been six months,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “Feels like yesterday I was freaking out about moving here.”

“Still freaking out?”

You sigh dramatically. “Always.”

He chuckles, but then his expression shifts, turning softer. “You’ve done good, though. I knew you would.”

Warmth spreads through you. “Thanks, Sam.”

There’s a pause, a hesitation in the way he looks at you. Then, quietly, he says, “I think about you a lot.”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that. Or maybe you were, but you never let yourself hope. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “More than I should.”

Your fingers tighten around the blanket. The line between friendship and something more has always been blurry with Sam, but now, it feels nonexistent.

“I miss you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Sam’s expression shifts—like he’s relieved you said it first. “I miss you too,” he says, his voice rougher now. “A lot.”

The silence between you is loaded. There are a hundred things you could say right now, a hundred ways you could push this forward, but before you can figure out how, he sighs.

“When are you coming home?”

Your heart aches at the question. “I don’t know,” you admit. “My contract is for a year. Could be longer.”

Sam nods, but there’s something in his eyes that looks like he wants to ask you to come back sooner. He doesn’t, though. He just exhales, running a hand over his face.

“Guess I’ll just have to wait for you, then,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. “Guess so.”

Neither of you say what you’re both thinking. That maybe, just maybe, waiting isn’t enough anymore. That maybe, it’s time to admit what’s been building between you for longer than either of you realized.

But for now, you let the silence hold it. Because even across an ocean, Sam still feels close. Like home. And you’re not ready to let go of that just yet.

The late-night calls become less frequent.

It’s not intentional at first. Your shifts at the patisserie get longer, your responsibilities grow, and exhaustion settles into your bones in a way that even Sam’s voice can’t always shake. Some nights, you fall asleep before you can even send a goodnight text. Other times, you wake up to a missed call from him, the timestamp mocking the time difference that keeps stretching the space between you.

You try. You both do.

Some nights, you fight sleep just to talk to him, propping your phone against a pillow as his voice soothes the ache of missing home. Other nights, he’s the one pushing through his own exhaustion, calling you from some late-night debriefing, his voice quieter than usual, edged with something unspoken.

But then the calls start coming at the wrong times.

You’ll be in the middle of preparing delicate pastries, fingers dusted in flour, when your phone vibrates with Sam’s name. You’ll glance at it, stomach twisting, but you can’t answer. By the time you get a free moment, the call has ended, and a simple text waits for you instead.

Sam: Guess you’re busy. Call me when you can.

And when you finally do? He doesn’t always pick up.

Sometimes he’s off on a mission. Sometimes he’s just tired. Sometimes the timing is just wrong.

One night, after a particularly grueling day, you send a message:

You: I miss you.

You wait. Minutes pass. Then an hour.

Sam: I miss you too.

There’s nothing else after that. No joke to lighten the mood. No attempt to keep the conversation going. Just those four words, sitting heavy on your screen.

The distance isn’t just physical anymore.

The night you find out your contract has been renewed, you don’t call Sam right away.

You should be excited. This is everything you wanted. A year in Paris was the dream, but now they want to keep you longer. You’re making a name for yourself. Your work is being noticed. This is the kind of opportunity people spend their whole lives chasing.

So why does your stomach twist uncomfortably at the thought of staying?

You stare at your phone, Sam’s contact open. You know the time difference is working against you, but you don’t care. You press the call button.

It rings. Once. Twice.

Voicemail.

You let out a slow breath, then hang up.

You try again the next day, timing it better, but he doesn’t answer.

It’s late when he finally calls back. Your phone buzzes against your nightstand, jolting you awake. You blink blearily at the screen, then swipe to answer.

“Hey,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“Hey,” Sam says, but there’s something off. He sounds tired. Distant. “Sorry I missed your call. Things have been… hectic.”

You push yourself up, rubbing a hand over your face. “Yeah, I figured. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just the usual. What about you?”

You hesitate. “I, um… I got offered an extension on my contract.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“…Oh.”

That’s all he says. Just oh.

You wait, hoping he’ll say more. Hoping he’ll tell you what you need to hear. That he wants you to come home. That he misses you too much for you to stay away any longer. That he—

“That’s great,” he says, but his voice is forced. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

You swallow hard. “Yeah. I mean… yeah, it is.”

Another pause.

“Then I’m happy for you.”

The words feel hollow.

“Sam,” you start, voice softer now, “are we okay?”

He exhales. “I don’t know. Are we?”

Your throat tightens. “We barely talk anymore.”

“I know,” he says, and for the first time in a long time, there’s frustration in his voice. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t miss you?”

“Then say that,” you snap, before you can stop yourself.

“I am saying it,” he fires back. “But what do you want me to do, huh? Fly to Paris every time I miss you? You’re the one who’s staying longer, so tell me—what are we supposed to do?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you don’t have an answer.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you admit quietly.

Sam’s voice softens. “Me neither.”

But neither of you say the most important part.

Is this enough?

Because right now, it doesn’t feel like it is.

The next few weeks are a blur of long shifts and forced smiles. You bury yourself in work, telling yourself this is what you wanted.

And maybe if you tell yourself enough times, it’ll feel true.

But Sam’s calls become even less frequent. The texts grow shorter. The conversations feel careful, like you’re both afraid of saying too much or not enough. Like you’re both waiting for the other to make a decision neither of you want to make.

One night, you get a text from him:

Sam: Got called away for a while. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Just… take care of yourself, okay?

Something in your chest tightens painfully.

You: Be safe.

You don’t hear from him for weeks.

And that’s when you realize—

Maybe you’re already losing him.

You can’t keep doing this.

The silence, the unanswered texts, the growing space between you and Sam—it’s all becoming unbearable. You’ve spent months pretending that your work is enough, that this distance isn’t pulling you apart piece by piece. But after weeks without hearing from him, something inside you snaps.

You need to see him. To talk to him. To fix this.

So you do something impulsive. Something reckless.

You take a few days of leave, book a last-minute flight, and before you can overthink it, you’re on a plane heading home.

The entire flight, your mind races. You imagine all the possible ways this could go—he could be happy to see you, or he could be angry that you showed up unannounced. Maybe he’s moved on, maybe he’s decided this isn’t worth it anymore. The fear sits heavy in your chest, but underneath it is something stronger.

Hope.

Because despite everything, you want this. Him. And if there’s even the slightest chance that Sam feels the same way, you need to fight for it.

You land late at night, exhaustion clinging to you, but you don’t waste time. You take a cab straight to his place, hands trembling as you clutch your bag.

And then, you’re standing at his door.

You hesitate only a moment before knocking.

There’s shuffling inside. A pause. Then the door swings open, and Sam is standing there, eyes heavy with sleep, hair slightly messy like he just rolled out of bed. He’s in sweats and a t-shirt, and for a second, he just stares at you, like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming.

“…What the hell?” His voice is rough with sleep and something else—something unreadable.

“Hi,” you say, breathless.

He blinks, then shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “What—what are you doing here?”

“I needed to see you.”

He exhales sharply, his jaw clenching. “And you just—what? Flew halfway across the world in the middle of the night?”

“Yes,” you say simply.

“Jesus, Y/N.” He lets out a humorless laugh, stepping back to let you in. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you admit, stepping inside. The air between you is thick, heavy with everything unsaid. “But so are you, so I figured it evens out.”

He shuts the door, turning to you, arms crossed. His eyes search yours, and for the first time in months, there’s no screen between you. No static. Just him.

“Why are you really here?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You swallow hard, nerves twisting in your stomach. “Because we need to talk.”

Sam lets out a slow breath, then gestures toward the couch. “Alright. Talk.”

You sit, trying to collect your thoughts. Sam watches you carefully, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw tightens. “We’ve been losing each other for months.”

“I know.” The admission stings. “I hate it. I hate how things have been. And I know it’s not just because of the distance. I should’ve—we should’ve tried harder.”

Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “I did try, Y/N. But every time I called, you were busy. And when you called, I was halfway across the world. It’s not like we didn’t care, it’s just—” He stops himself, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just hard.”

“I know.” Your throat tightens. “But I do care, Sam. More than I should, probably.”

His gaze snaps to yours. “What do you mean?”

You exhale shakily, your hands gripping your knees. “I mean I miss you. Every day. Every time I see something funny and reach for my phone, only to realize you’re not there. Every time I wake up wishing I could just walk over and see you instead of checking a stupid screen. I think about you constantly, and I hate that I let it get this bad before saying something.”

Sam watches you, something flickering in his eyes. Something dangerous. “You think I don’t feel the same?” His voice is lower now, rougher.

Your breath catches. “Do you?”

His hands clench at his sides. “Of course I do.” He exhales, shaking his head. “Damn it, Y/N, I don’t think there’s been a single day I haven’t thought about you. But I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel that way. If you—” He stops, his gaze searching yours. “I didn’t know if you felt the same.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs. “I do.”

The space between you crackles with something electric.

Sam’s jaw clenches like he’s holding himself back. “Then why did you take the contract extension?”

You wince. “Because I thought I had to. Because it’s everything I worked for. But none of it feels the same without you.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand over his head. “So what now? You quitting and coming home?”

You bite your lip. “I don’t know.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“I want to be with you,” you say firmly, leaning forward. “But I also don’t want to ask you to wait for something that might not change anytime soon. That’s not fair to you.”

Sam steps closer, shaking his head. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Your breath catches. “Sam—”

“I’d wait,” he says, his voice steady, sure. “If it meant being with you, I’d wait. But we have to actually try this time. No more half-assed calls. No more avoiding things. If we’re doing this, we do it right.”

Your chest tightens. “Even if it means a long-distance relationship?”

He exhales, then nods. “Yeah. Even if it means that.”

A beat of silence passes. And then, without thinking, you close the distance between you.

Your hands cup his face, and before either of you can second-guess it, your lips crash together.

The moment his mouth meets yours, everything else disappears. The distance, the doubts, the time spent apart—it all fades into the background. All that matters is this. The way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. The way his lips move against yours like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. The way he exhales against your skin, like he’s finally breathing again.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, your breath mingling.

“I don’t want to let this go,” you whisper.

“Then don’t.” His hands tighten around you. “We’ll figure it out. I don’t care how long it takes.”

You smile, a real, genuine smile. For the first time in months, you feel light.

Because no matter how far apart you are, you know one thing for sure.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

And that’s enough.

The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. The sheets are tangled around your bare legs, the warmth of Sam’s body pressed against you keeping the chill at bay. His arm is draped over your waist, his fingers splayed against your stomach like he’s afraid to let you go.

For a moment, you let yourself stay there, soaking it in—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft warmth of his breath against your neck, the feeling of his skin against yours. It feels fragile, like something that could disappear if you move too quickly.

You don’t want to move.

But reality is waiting.

Your flight leaves in a few hours, and soon, you’ll have to pull yourself out of this bed, out of his bed, and get on a plane that will take you thousands of miles away.

Sam shifts behind you, pulling you closer, his lips brushing lazily against your shoulder. His voice is rough with sleep when he murmurs, “What time is it?”

You sigh, twisting slightly to glance at the clock. “Too early.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck. “Then let’s go back to sleep.”

“Sam…”

His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing softly against your skin. “Just a little longer,” he murmurs.

And God, you want to. You want to stay wrapped up in him, forget about flights and goodbyes and distance. But you can’t.

You shift in his hold, turning onto your back so you can see him. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, but there’s something else there, too. Something that makes your chest ache.

“You don’t have to go,” he says softly, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach.

Your throat tightens. “You know I do.”

He sighs, resting his forehead against yours. “I hate this.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But the world doesn’t stop just because you don’t want to leave.

Eventually, you force yourself to get up, the loss of his warmth making you shiver. You gather your clothes, moving around the room in silence as you get dressed, feeling the weight of his gaze on you the entire time.

By the time you’re ready, he’s sitting up in bed, watching you with an expression that’s impossible to read.

“You sure about this?” he asks quietly.

You swallow hard. “No.”

It’s the truth.

You don’t want to leave. But this is your dream, and Sam knows that. He wouldn’t ask you to give it up—not really.

But damn, if it isn’t tempting.

You step closer, cupping his face in your hands. “We’re gonna make this work, right?”

His hands settle on your waist, grounding you. “Yeah. We are.”

You kiss him, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of feeling into it. It’s not enough. It never will be. But for now, it has to be.

And then, before you can second-guess it, you grab your bag and head for the door.

Sam follows you to the car, his fingers lacing through yours, holding on tight. He doesn’t let go, not even when you reach the airport.

Not even when it’s time to say goodbye.

—

The airport is crowded, the low hum of conversation and the distant crackle of announcements filling the space around you.

Sam stands by your side, your hand still tucked in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. Neither of you have said much since arriving, both knowing that anything you say will only make this harder.

You steal a glance at him, taking in the way his jaw is clenched, his expression unreadable. He’s trying to be strong, but you know him too well.

“I hate goodbyes,” you admit softly.

He exhales sharply. “Then don’t say it.”

You offer a weak smile. “Not much of a choice, is there?”

Sam looks down at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, suddenly, his grip on your hand tightens. “Come here.”

Before you can react, he’s pulling you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that makes it feel like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in, trying to do the same.

“Last chance to run away with me,” he murmurs against your hair.

A choked laugh escapes you. “Tempting.”

He leans back, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs brush over your cheeks, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love you.”

The words hit you like a shockwave.

Your lips part, your heart slamming against your ribs. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeats, his voice steady, sure. “I don’t care that this is hard. I don’t care that it’s long-distance. I love you, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to make this work.”

Tears sting your eyes, your throat tightening as you let the words sink in.

Then, without thinking, you surge forward, crashing your lips against his.

The kiss is desperate, full of everything you want to say but can’t. When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, your hands fisting the fabric of his jacket.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

The overhead speaker crackles with your boarding announcement.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to stay strong.

Sam presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Go,” he murmurs. “Before I change my mind and steal your passport.”

A watery laugh escapes you. You take a shaky step back, then another, your fingers slipping from his grasp.

And then, with one last look, you turn and walk away.

—

Long distance is hard.

There are days when it feels impossible—when the time zones refuse to line up, when all you want is to feel Sam’s arms around you but all you have is a screen and a bad connection.

But you try. You both try.

You make time, even when it seems like there is none. You send voice messages when calls don’t work. You plan visits, counting down the days until you’re back in his arms.

Some nights, you fall asleep on the phone together, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. Other nights, you video chat for hours, Sam cooking dinner while you sit on your tiny Parisian balcony, both of you pretending the distance doesn’t exist.

There are fights, of course. Frustrations. Moments where it feels like too much.

But there are also the little things.

The way Sam texts you good morning, even when it’s the middle of the night for him. The way you send him pictures of every pastry you make, knowing he’ll pretend to be impressed even when he has no idea what half of them are. The way he tells you about his day, his voice warm and familiar, grounding you no matter how far apart you are.

One night, months later, as you sit curled up in your apartment, your phone rings.

It’s Sam.

You answer immediately, smiling as his face fills the screen.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, grinning.

“Hey yourself,” you tease.

He shifts, his smile turning softer. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I booked a flight.”

Your breath catches. “You—wait, really?”

“Yeah,” he says, watching you carefully. “Figured it was my turn to come to you.”

Tears prick your eyes, a laugh bubbling up in your throat. “Sam…”

“I know,” he says, smiling. “I miss you too.”

And in that moment, despite the distance, despite the months apart, you know one thing for sure.

You can do this.

Because love like this?

It’s worth fighting for.

The moment you spot Sam at the arrivals gate, the months of distance, the countless video calls, and the ache of missing him all fade into the background. He’s here.

He’s real.

You barely have time to process it before you’re running toward him, weaving through the crowd without a second thought. His eyes lock onto yours, his lips curling into a grin just before you crash into him, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice warm and familiar.

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him—the scent you’ve missed for far too long. “You’re actually here.”

His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing against your temple. “Told you I’d come.”

You lean back just enough to look up at him, your hands fisting the fabric of his jacket. “I missed you.”

His thumb brushes over your cheek, his expression soft. “Missed you too.”

And then, because you can’t help yourself, you pull him down into a kiss.

The weeks apart melt away as his lips move against yours, his hands steadying you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You feel the tension in his body, the need, the relief. When you finally pull back, breathless, he presses another quick kiss to the corner of your mouth before murmuring, “So, are you gonna show me around or what?”

—

Bringing Sam back to your apartment feels surreal. You’ve pictured this moment a hundred times, but nothing compares to the way he actually looks here—his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes flicking around the space with quiet curiosity.

“Nice place,” he says, tossing his bag onto the couch.

You grin. “It’s small.”

He shrugs. “It’s you.”

Warmth spreads through your chest. You watch as he moves through the apartment, running his fingers along your bookshelf, pausing to inspect the small collection of photos on the counter—pictures of your family, your friends, one of you and Sam from before you left.

You step beside him, nudging his shoulder. “Hungry?”

“I could eat,” he says, smirking. “Jet lag’s kicking my ass, though.”

You laugh. “I warned you.”

Before you can pull something together for dinner, your phone buzzes on the counter.

You glance at it, frowning when you see the name on the screen.

Chef Lemoine.

Your stomach twists. He’s the head of the pâtisserie where you work, one of the most respected pastry chefs in Paris. If he’s calling you after hours, it has to be important.

You exchange a look with Sam, already apologizing with your eyes. “I have to take this.”

Sam waves a hand. “Go ahead.”

You answer, keeping your voice steady. “Oui, Chef?”

“I need you to come in,” he says without preamble. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

You blink. “Now?”

“Yes.” There’s no room for argument in his tone. “It’s important.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance at Sam, who’s watching you carefully, clearly reading the shift in your expression.

“I’ll be there soon,” you say quickly, then hang up.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, already grabbing your coat. “I think so?”

He tilts his head. “Want me to come with you?”

You hesitate. As much as you want him by your side, you have no idea what this meeting is about. The last thing you need is for Sam to sit around awkwardly while you talk shop with your boss.

You press a quick kiss to his lips. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

Sam’s hands settle on your waist, holding you in place for just a moment longer. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, sweetheart.”

You grin. “Promise.”

—

By the time you arrive at the pâtisserie, your nerves are running wild. You step into the quiet office, finding Chef Lemoine seated at his desk, scanning through a file.

He gestures for you to sit without looking up. “You’ve done well here, Y/N.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Thank you, Chef.”

He finally looks at you, his sharp gaze assessing. “You have ambition. Talent. And more importantly, you understand the craft.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap. “I appreciate that.”

He exhales, folding his hands together. “I have an offer for you.”

Your breath catches. “An offer?”

“We are opening a pâtisserie in New York,” he says simply. “And we need someone to run it.”

Your brain stutters to a halt. “You mean—”

“You’re from New York, are you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then it only makes sense. You understand the culture, the clientele. You’ve proven yourself here. I believe you would be the best choice.”

Your heart is pounding.

New York.

Home.

A thousand thoughts race through your head, but one stands out above the rest.

Sam.

You don’t even hesitate. “I’ll do it.”

Chef Lemoine’s lips twitch in approval. “Good.”

You barely remember thanking him before you’re practically running out the door, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You don’t care that it’s late, that you’re breathless by the time you reach your apartment. You don’t care about anything except the fact that this changes everything.

Because now, you’re going home.

—

You burst through the door, chest heaving, eyes immediately locking onto Sam. He’s sitting on the couch, flipping through a book he must’ve found on your shelf, but the moment he sees your expression, he sits up straighter.

“What happened?” he asks, setting the book aside.

You rush toward him, barely able to contain yourself. “I’m coming home.”

Sam blinks. “What?”

You grab his hands, squeezing them tightly. “They’re opening a pâtisserie in New York,” you say breathlessly. “And they want me to run it.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right. “You’re serious?”

You nod, grinning so wide it hurts. “Dead serious.”

The disbelief slowly melts into something else. Something softer.

“New York,” he murmurs.

“New York.”

Sam exhales sharply, then suddenly you’re being pulled into his arms, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that steals your breath.

When he pulls back, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours. “So no more long distance?”

“No more long distance,” you confirm.

He grins. “I think I can live with that.”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Good.”

Sam tugs you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

Your chest tightens. “I love you.”

His arms tighten around you. “Love you too.”

And just like that, the months of distance, the late-night calls, the ache of missing each other—it all falls away.

Because now?

Now, you’re finally coming home.

SUNDAY DINNER

pairing: sam wilson x reader || requested

summary: you invite your friend sam over for sunday dinner. 

warnings: lots and lots of fluff!! nervous!sam

word count. 2k || masterlist

You had rearranged the pillows on the couch three times and you were in the middle of contemplating a fourth time until your friend approached you, sipping a glass of wine curiously. 

“Does this look right?” you asked, tilting your head as if they would help make the pillows look different. 

Your friend, Max, shook her head with a light laugh. “It’s a dinner party. No one is going to be judging your pillow arrangements.” 

“I know,” you said, abandoning the couch and fixing the display of magazines on the coffee table. “But I want everything to look nice.” 

Amusement took over Max’s face. “Any particular reason you’re extra stressed about your monthly dinner party?” 

Sunday dinners were a tradition you had established with your friends. You had the most space in your apartment and no roommates, so you hosted while everyone brought dishes, wine, and the latest life updates. It was a surefire way for you to visit with your friends, at the very least, once a month with everyone’s busy schedules. You loved it. As the tradition grew, spouses, partners, and new friends were added, crowding your apartment with delicious food and love. 

“What? No,” you answered quickly, too quickly. 

“Oh? So your current rampage has nothing to do with you inviting Captain America to dinner?” 

You froze, in the middle of moving around some kick-knacks on your shelf. Heat rose to your face, but you ignored it in favor of checking over your plants by the window. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said. 

Your friend laughed. “Sure you don’t. But if you were totally freaking out, I wouldn’t.” 

Turning around, you faced Max with a mix of confusion and curiosity. “Why?” 

“Because he was on the news last night in California having busted up some crime ring with alien tech or some shit. And he hasn’t texted or called you to take a rain check. Which means he flew all the way across the county just to come here to see you. I’d say that’s a pretty big gesture.” 

You were hesitant to believe that. Not because Max had ever lied to you, but because it sounded ridiculous. If you had to take a flight cross country, without having taken down criminals the night before, you’d cancel any plans and opt to sleep off your travels. You were simply hosting a silly little dinner with some friends, not anything groundbreaking. 

Yet, at seven-thirty, Sam arrived at your apartment.  

You opened the door with a smile and the same flutter in your chest that always showed up when you were around him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said before you could even greet him. Holding out his hand, he presented you with a bouquet of different flowers. “The lady was lecturing me at the flower stand for not knowing your favorite flower, which is definitely my bad.” 

“You’re not late,” you said, taking the flowers. They were a beautiful arrangement, matching the quiet chaos of your apartment. “And you didn’t need to get me flowers, but thank you. They’re perfect.” 

You stepped aside and let Sam in. He kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat along with the others. “My grandma said to never go anywhere empty-handed. If I do, I’m afraid she’ll find out and there’ll be hell to pay,” he joked. 

You led him into the kitchen, where some of your friends and friends of friends lingered, snaking on appetizers and chit-chatting. They paused their conversations as you introduced Sam, though most of them already knew who he was. 

You stood back in slight awe by how quickly he took to your friends, easy conversation flowing like he had been at the dinners since the beginning. You weren’t nervous that Sam or your friends would make a bad impression on one another, but you couldn’t help but worry that the meshing of two different parts of your life wouldn’t go well. But you were quickly proven wrong. 

After everyone ate, the conversations continued. Max sat down beside you on the couch, a smirk on her lips. “Well, still worried about ‘Cap fitting in with your non-superhero friends?” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, but you didn’t deny her words. “No.” 

“Good because Aaron already invited him to the next one and to catch some pretentious film with him next weekend. Sam agreed but I could sense the dread in his answer. You may have to same him before Aaron books Captain America’s itinerary for the next year.” 

You looked over your shoulder to where Sam stood in the kitchen with Aaron. He must’ve felt you looking because he met your gaze and smiled. You couldn’t help but smile too, which your friend clocked with a light groan and a punch to your shoulder. 

“What was that for?” 

Max sat down her wine glass and leaned in close with a seriousness in her gaze. “What is keeping you from pouncing on that man?” 

“Oh, my god! What are you talking about?” 

“If he showed up at my door with flowers and that smile, I’d be down on one knee with a ring. Are you kidding me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sam and I are just friends,” you said. Sam seemed miles out of your reach. He was a big shot, Captain America himself. It wasn’t even something you let yourself entertain for the sake of keeping yourself sane. 

Max threw herself against the back of the couch with a dramatic groan. “You’re killing me.” 

You laughed it off, but Max’s words hung in your head for the rest of the night. Every time you found yourself in a group conversation with Sam, your attention lingered on him a little longer, wondering what it would be like if the two of you became more than friends. Sam was one of the best people you knew, there was no doubt he’d be a great boyfriend too. But you hated crushes, getting your hopes up only for them to fall flat when reality didn’t mirror your imagination. 

Slowly, people faded from your apartment until it was just you, Max, and Sam left. She had entertained him with a plethora of embarrassing stories of you before she, not so subtly, left with a plate of leftovers and a wink. 

You thought Sam would leave as well, but he insisted on helping you clean up. He stood at your sink with his sleeves rolled up, washing dishes before passing them off to you to dry and put away. The soft hum of your playlist filled the comfortable silence for a while. 

“Thanks for inviting me tonight,” Sam said. 

“Thanks for coming. I would invite you back, but I heard Aaron’s already extended that invite.” 

Sam chuckled. “He did.” He paused, handing you a clean cup. Your hand brushed against his as you grabbed it and his gaze caught yours. “But I’d like to do this again if you’ll have me.” 

A smile graced your lips. “Are you kidding? You’re always welcome here.” 

With a raise of his brow, he said, “Careful, I might take you up on the offer. You won’t be able to get rid of me.” 

“I’d be okay with that.” The words fell out of your mouth with a light-hearted intent, but they hit the air with more weight. You meant it, of course, but you hadn’t expected it to sound so vulnerable, borderline flirtatious. 

And Sam being Sam, clocked it as he finished up the last plate. He handed it off before turning off the water and facing you. “Yeah?” 

You adverted your gaze downward, taking a little extra time to dry the plate before crossing the kitchen to put it away. “I mean, I like having you around. I like having all my friends around. That’s why I host this dinner.” 

Your back was to Sam so you didn’t see his reaction to your words, but you heard a short intake of breath before he spoke. “Right.” You thought maybe it was your brain misinterpreting his tone, but to you, it did sound disappointed. 

The flowers he had brought you were in a vase on your counter and Max’s words were still circling your mind. 

“Were you in California yesterday?” you blurted out, spinning around to face him once more. Confused, Sam nodded slowly. “You flew in, today?” He nodded again. “But you still showed up. Here. I mean you, could have rain-checked but you didn’t.” 

“Of course not. I told you I’d be here. I’m a man of my word.” He was so sincere, so serious. It was just dinner, not saving the world. “Hey, is everything all right?” 

You tried to shake yourself out of the weird feeling you were sinking in to. You didn’t want to make Sam feel weird too. It was late and you were tired and your mind was being an asshole, thinking too much. 

“Yeah,” you quickly replied. “Sorry. Max just said something earlier and got it my head.” 

You thought it would be left there, but Sam crossed the kitchen to stand in front of you, concern in his pretty eyes. Sam was the kind of person who was almost too easy to talk to. Just looking at him made you want to spill your guts. 

“What’d she say?” 

You hesitated, an awkward laugh forcing itself out. “She, uh, just said that if she were me and you showed up being so…so you she would’ve proposed already.” 

Sam’s eyes widened for a moment before he chuckled almost nervously, tugging at the neckline of his sweater. “So...me?” 

“The flowers and still showing up despite saving the world the night before. She thinks that’s some kind of gesture, like a…a romantic one. But I told her we’re friends and you’re just that wonderful, you know?” There was a beat of silence that passed between you in which Sam seemed to digest the words you rushed out. You felt hot panic rise within you. “Sorry,” you said before he could say anything. “That was a lot, and probably weird. I just-” 

“How would you feel if she was right?” Sam said, tilting his head to the side in question. 

You felt a wave of confusion spill across you, cold and unnerving. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. 

He gazed at you with a soft hesitation in his gaze, stepping a little closer but not invading your space. “Come on,” he said with a hint of humor somewhere in there too. “I like my friends, but I wouldn’t do that for just anyone. I was kind of hoping the flower would be enough to tell you that.” 

“To tell me…” you trailed off, your hopes starting to rise with each pounding beat of your heart. 

“That I’d like to be a little more than friends.” Sam’s voice was quiet almost like he was nervous. It all sounded too good to be true, you thought you were hallucinating the whole conversation. He mistook your silence for rejection and started to shrink into himself, dejected but still his kind, charming self. With a shake of his head, he said, “But if that’s not something you want I-” 

“What?” you cut him off, bewildered. “You want to be more than friends with me?” As self-deprecating as it was, it was just a crazy thing to hear from the man you’d grown so fond of but thought nothing more than a friendship would ever bloom from. 

“Pretty damn badly if I’m being honest,” Sam admitted. 

There were so many things you wanted to say but you didn’t feel like any would amply explain just how bad you wanted to be more than friends with him too. Instead of trying to string anything together, you pushed yourself off the counter you’d been leaning against and wrapped your arms around him in a sudden, tight hug. 

He was warm and smelled like fresh cologne. That wasn’t the first time you’d hugged him, but it was different that time, an admission of your hidden feelings and affection. It took Sam a moment to recover from his surprise before he hugged you back, letting out a breathy laugh in your ear. 

“Me too,” you whispered. 

He pressed a sweet kiss to the side of your head in the nightly glow of your kitchen, empty of your friends but still buzzing with love and laughter, coating it in a warmness only made greater by Sam.  

PLATONIC ➵ S. WILSON

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Bucky has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic.

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Warnings: FLUFF (some angst if you squint), mutual pining, mentions of Riley (CA:TWS), Bucky meddling in your relationship, mentions of the Blip, alcohol consumption, Reader and Sam being two oblivious idiots in love, no use of y/n

Word Count: 3.8k

Song Inspo: "Platonic" by Ryan Hurd

Author’s Note: So, I saw Brave New World in February and haven't been able to stop thinking about Sam Wilson since. The x Reader tag for my boy is absolutely lacking so I decided to write something for my cap. Hope you guys enjoy some good ole Sam Wilson fluff. Let me know what you guys think and if you have any Sam Wilson x Reader recs on tumblr. Please, I'm desperate.

“You know you could just ask him out, right?”

You choke down your beer, nearly spitting it out as Bucky speaks up beside you. The two of you have been quietly sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the shitty, hole-in-the-wall Irish pub that Sam insists on frequenting whenever all three of you are in D.C. at the same time. The little tradition had started as a coping mechanism after the three of you were blipped back into existence. You remember Sam begging you to accompany him to O’Malley’s the first time. And you remember sitting between your best friend and Bucky Barnes — it looked almost comical, an ex-Hydra assassin, a former Air Force pilot, and the newly named Captain America drinking a beer together. At first, you thought that Sam had asked you to come as a way to get you out of your house after everything that happened, but as the three of you sat in uncomfortable silence together, you realized that Sam brought you as a buffer. In all the years you’ve known the charismatic Sam Wilson, you never met someone he couldn’t talk to.

And then you met James Buchanan Barnes. 

Unlike Sam, you quickly fell into a cordial friendship with Bucky once you broke the ice. He’s both headstrong and cocky but also observant and aloof. People who meet him in passing might comment on how quiet he is, but you know he’s incredibly opinionated — hell, you made the mistake of commenting about baseball during your trio’s second outing together and had to listen to the man complain about the Brooklyn Dodgers moving to LA for a good thirty minutes. But what really bonded you with Bucky was Sam. You know that when Bucky looks at Sam, he sees what Steve saw in him — the man that Captain America decided was worthy of his mantle. 

He reminds you of Riley in many ways, and that’s why Sam had a more challenging time getting on board with the three of you hanging out together at first. Because for so long, it was just you, Sam, and Riley. You met Sam at boot camp, and then you met Riley shortly after. The three of you ran pararescue missions together — Sam and Riley clad in Exo-7 flight suits while you manned the C-130, which, thanks to a big government contract with Stark Industries, integrated cloaking systems and environmental blending. Then, on a routine mission, Riley got shot out of the sky, and suddenly it was just you and Sam. Sam became a PTSD veteran counselor, you got a piloting job with SHIELD stationed in D.C. to stay close to him, and then the two of you became regulars at O’Malley’s due to its proximity to both of your apartments. A part of Sam was afraid that he was replacing Riley by inviting Bucky into the space you share with him, but he had made a promise to Steve before he’d gone back in time with the infinity stones. And slowly but surely, the two became close friends, bonding over shared military stories, their musical tastes, and their deep respect and adoration for you. 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bucky scoffs at your question before taking another swig of his beer. He knows you’re playing dumb — the two of you have been participating in this same song and dance for the better part of a year now. Two months into regularly drinking with Sam and Bucky at O’Malley’s, you drunkenly confessed to Bucky that you harbor feelings for your best friend. He pretended to be shocked, but he knew about your little secret after first meeting with you and Sam. Bucky may be a tad out of touch with new social norms — the man hasn’t participated in the dating scene since the 1940s — but the act of pining hasn’t changed over the decades that have passed. 

“We’re just going to pretend you haven’t been brooding all night after Sam got whisked away by those girls?”

You roll your eyes at Bucky’s question. The annoyance weaved into your expression doesn’t come from a place of malice but instead draws from your frustration at how well Bucky understands you. Sam will always be your best friend, but Bucky has become something like a brother to you over the past year — an empty role in your life since Riley passed away. And after all, Bucky is an older brother — a protector — at his core. He may have lost his little sister a lifetime ago, but the instincts were still there, buried deep down until you and Sam showed up in his life.

“Brooding is your thing, Buck.”

“Exactly. So, can you stop stepping on my shoes?”

A smile tugs at your lips as Bucky playfully nudges you with his elbow. You know he’s trying to lighten the mood, and his humor has made you feel a little lighter; however, there’s still a gnawing in the pit of your stomach as you watch one of the girls slowly slide their hand down Sam’s arm. Bucky follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh.

“Seriously, kid. What’s stopping you from just asking him out?”

“He’s my best friend, Buck.”

Bucky arches a brow at your reasoning. You say it as if it’s the answer to all of your heartache — as if it’s a valid excuse to hold yourself back from happiness. He has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic. He’s been trying to intervene, but whenever you think about confessing your feelings to Sam, you immediately talk yourself out of it. And Sam isn’t any better. Bucky’s tried to talk some sense into him at least a dozen times, but he’s sure you don’t feel the same way about him.

“I could always set you up with one of my friends.”

“I’m fairly certain you only have two friends, and they’re currently at this bar, Buck.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he finishes his beer. 

“Believe it or not, I do have a life outside of you and Sam.”

He places the empty bottle on the counter along with a five-dollar bill before layering his leather jacket over his long-sleeve t-shirt. It’s a mild spring day, but you know he doesn’t wear the extra layers for warmth. They’re worn for the same reason as his leather gloves — security that his shiny, metal arm is covered. Bucky spares Sam one last glance before turning his attention back to you. You’re nursing the beer in your hand, simply waiting for Sam to notice you again. He gently grabs your shoulder with his good hand, and Bucky’s heart breaks in his chest as you look up at him with sad eyes.

“Just think about it, okay?”

You nod at his question, and Bucky releases his hold before heading home for the night. With a sigh, you finish your lukewarm beer and order another while waiting patiently for your best friend. Sam Wilson has always been the life of the party — the man who shines like a ray of sunlight even on the darkest days. But the Captain America mantle came with a newfound attention that Sam seems to revel in. You, however, find yourself struggling with it — it had been just the two of you for so long, and now you feel like you’re sharing him with all of America. 

But little do you know that even now, with the entire bar vying for his attention, Sam feels drawn to you like some invisible string is pulling him back. His eyes scan the crowd at O’Malley’s until they find you. He gives you a bright, genuine smile — the kind that leaves you grinning from ear to ear. You watch as he excuses himself from the lively conversation and approaches you. He slides into the seat beside you, shoulder bumping against yours as he leans into your space to grab the beer in front of you. You shoot him a playful glare as he takes a drink out of your beer bottle, and he winks at you in response. He places the bottle back in front of you before speaking.

“Bucky already left?”

“You know the old man — has to be home before bedtime.”

Sam laughs while throwing an arm back across your chair. You don’t even think twice about the action; Sam’s done it at least a thousand times at this point.

“Are you ready to get out of here?”

You give him an eager nod, desperate to get some fresh air. Sam laughs at your reaction before paying both of your tabs. Like in the bar, you don’t think twice as Sam slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you walk down the streets of the nation’s capital. Not even as he walks up the five flights of stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages ago. Not even as he moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there. Not even as Sam falls asleep on your couch again after a night of talking for hours. You don’t think twice because this is how it’s always been between you and Sam — it’s always been comfortable, domestic. 

But, for some reason, tonight is different. As you sit on your kitchen counter, finishing your beer, Sam’s loud snores from your living room are drowned out by Bucky’s words from earlier this evening ringing in your ears. This is what your life has always looked like, but is this all it will be — waiting for your slice of Sam’s increasingly divided time? You’re happy for him. Truly. Sam deserves everything that the mantle of Captain America comes with — the attention, the popularity, the spotlight. You’re overjoyed that the world is finally seeing what you’ve seen in Sam all along, but a small part of you is jealous. And that jealousy is starting to eat you alive. 

You sigh, downing the last of your beer before sliding your phone out of your pocket. Scrolling through your contacts, you find Bucky’s name. You listen to the phone ring twice before Bucky answers your call. Concern is evident in his voice as he says your name. You rarely call him this late, but you know you’d talk yourself out of this in the morning. 

“I’ll do it, Buck. Set up the date.”

“It’s about time, kid.”

You spend the rest of your agonizingly slow week second-guessing that phone call. Hell, you almost call Bucky at least a dozen times to cancel the date altogether — to simply state that Bucky’s advice is ridiculous and you’re perfectly fine with your current situation. But, ultimately, you decide this is for the best. If your goal is to get over your absurd crush on Sam Wilson, then you actually need to start working on it. So, even though you’ve managed to worry yourself sick on Friday, you still manage to get yourself ready that evening and leave your apartment. A small smile pulls at your lips as you stand outside the address Bucky texted you several days prior. You’re thankful he chose a casual ramen spot for the blind date. It makes the whole experience a little less high stakes — like you could leave at any time with limited consequences. 

With an exasperated sigh, you finally bite the bullet and pull open the door to the small establishment. The bell above you rings, and you’re greeted by a friendly man behind the counter, telling you to sit wherever you want. You turn towards the quaint dining room and, to your surprise, see a familiar figure sitting at one of the tables. Sam Wilson looks just as surprised as you feel. Your feet move on their own accord as you approach your best friend. He looks nice — clad in a maroon polo and his nicest pair of jeans. 

“What are you doing here, Sam?”

You found it strange that you never received your weekly text from Sam asking you about your Friday night plans. But you concluded that either Bucky told him about your blind date or Sam planned a date for that evening as well. But this was an outcome you never expected.

“Bucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.”

Your brow furrows at Sam’s confession.

“Bucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.”

Sam looks at you as if you’re speaking a different language, and embarrassment washes over you as you realize that you’re right: Bucky Barnes only has two friends, and they’re currently looking at each other stupidly in a family-owned Ramen joint. Anger rushes through your veins as the realization sets in, but Sam still looks dumbfounded.

“So, Bucky set us up on a date.”

“Oh.”

You wait for him to continue, but he just sits at his empty table, at a loss for words. Usually, the silence between the two of you is comfortable; however, right now, it's excruciating. You suddenly feel about two inches tall as you stand before Sam. As the room gets twenty degrees warmer and the walls begin closing in, you decide it’s probably best if you get out of here. 

“This was a stupid idea.”

You turn away from Sam, but before you can take a step towards the door, he grabs your hand. The contact causes you to look back at your best friend, whose gaze is surprisingly tender. Your body relaxes ever so slightly, and, against your better judgment, your hand tightens around his. 

“It doesn’t have to be.”

His tone is genuine, but there’s still that voice in the back of your head gnawing at you. There’s no way that your best friend suddenly wants to go on a date with you. That shit doesn’t happen in real life. This isn’t a movie — he hasn’t been waiting almost two decades for this exact moment to express his feelings for you. You keep your expectations low because although Sam is a superhero, this isn’t a fairytale. Still, you let him gently tug your body into the seat across from him. 

“You don’t have to do this, Sam.”

Sam’s brow furrows, and a look of genuine confusion washes over his features. He studies you for a moment before speaking. 

“You think I don’t want to go on a date with you?”

You roll your eyes at his question. This whole conversation is ridiculous, and it’s beginning to feel like Sam and Bucky are pulling a practical joke on you right now. But Sam looks at you expectantly, waiting for your answer, so you play along even though you aren’t happy about it.

“C’mon, Sam.”

Sam simply arches a brow at you with a bewildered expression, and for a moment, your resolve falters. What if this is real? What if this isn’t some stupid joke between Sam and Bucky? What’s the harm in just letting this moment play out? With a sigh, you look up at Sam, who is still studying your features. 

“Sam, I’m pretty certain that if you were interested in me at any point in the last twenty years, you’d have asked me out by now.”

Sam huffs out a laugh at this, and suddenly, he looks embarrassed. This reaction confuses you. Sam is a confident man — he’s rarely self-conscious about himself or his decisions. 

“Yeah, about that…”

Your heart lurches in your chest as he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he tries to find the right words. And as he meets your eyes, there’s an emotion in his gaze that you can’t quite place. 

“What is it, Sam?”

Sam sighs before speaking.

“This isn’t just platonic for me.”

Suddenly, your world comes to a screeching halt. This feels like an out-of-body experience — like some sort of dream — and you’re pretty sure if you pinched yourself right now, you’d wake up alone in your apartment. But that doesn’t happen. You’re really here with Sam, having this conversation.

“How long have you felt like that?”

Sam looks away from you as he thinks for a moment, wanting to give you an accurate answer.

“After we helped Steve with Hydra in D.C., seeing you in the hospital put things into perspective.”

You were working as a SHIELD pilot for almost two years when Sam went missing with SHIELD’s two most wanted fugitives: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Because of this, it didn’t take much convincing for you to ignore your orders and help Steve stop the launch of the helicarriers. Bucky, acting as the Winter Soldier at the time, had taken out most of SHIELD’s air support; however, you and a group of four other pilots managed to get your birds into the air. Although the stakes were high, a part of you felt like it was old times — watching Sam soar through the air in his Exo-7 flight suit from the cockpit of your F-35 Lightning II. The fight was going well until Bucky nailed your left wing with a large piece of debris, causing you to go into a downward tailspin. You attempted to stabilize your aircraft but ran out of time. So, you decided to pull your parachute, but to your horror, the cord was stuck. Sam, grounded due to his broken wings, watched helplessly as your fighter slammed into the Potomac River. You were found by search and rescue after the helicarriers were destroyed and woke up in a hospital bed three days later. Recovery was agonizingly slow, but Sam never left your side — except to check on Steve every so often in the room next to yours. The memory brings a small, sad smile to your face.

“That was ten years ago, Sam. What stopped you from telling me?”

“Other than everything that happened after that? You’re my best friend — I didn’t want to risk that.”

You suppose he’s right. There was rarely a moment of downtime after you recovered from your fall into the Potomac River. The two of you immediately threw yourselves into helping Steve track down Bucky, and just two years later, all four of you were wanted fugitives due to the Sokovia Accords. Between the years you spent living on the run and the years you lost to the blip, there was rarely a quiet moment until Thanos was finally defeated — until now. 

“For me, it was after Riley.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up at your confession, obviously not expecting for you to have fallen first. But, despite his excitement at this revelation, he stays quiet, letting you continue if you want.

“After losing him, I couldn’t help imagining it being you who got shot down that day. The idea haunted me in my nightmares, and I realized that if I lost you, it would be a different kind of grief.” 

Sam’s face softens, and he reaches across the table for your hand. He wraps his hand tightly around yours, grounding you back into this moment before speaking.

“You never have to worry about losing me.”

You scoff at his words, giving him an incredulous look.

“You’re Captain America, Sam. Running head first into danger is your job.”

“Okay, fair. But I have a very compelling reason to stay alive.”

You laugh, attempting to cover up how flustered you feel due to Sam’s words. It doesn’t work. Sam smiles as he notices the effect his words have on you. He could get used to this — flirting with you until you’re bright red and stumbling over your words. It’s undeniably cute, and he can’t believe it’s taken him this long to do it. 

After your emotionally charged conversation, you both need something to eat. The two of you both order ramen, and Sam doesn’t let go of your hand until two bowls are set down on the table. You enjoy your meal while Sam occasionally nudges his knee playfully into yours under the table before offering you a flirtatious smile. The conversation that flows between you doesn’t feel forced or uncomfortable — it feels both familiar and somehow brand new. The two of you had been navigating the grey area between romantic and platonic for so long that it feels almost liberating to look at Sam and know his true intentions. 

After Sam pays the bill, giving the establishment's owner a generous tip, the two of you fall into step with one another as you walk toward your apartment. The walk isn’t drastically different from the thousands you’ve taken before. Sam still slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side — except this time, you move your hand up and intertwine your fingers. He still walks up the stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages again — except this time, he leads you by the hand up all five flights. And he still moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there — except this time, as he places the beers behind you, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he keeps his hands on the counter, one on either side of your body, caging you in. His expression is soft, illuminated by the lone fluorescent light in your small kitchen. And there’s an adoration in his gaze that makes you feel lighter than air.

Steve’s words, from what feels like a lifetime ago, ring in your ears as you look up at Sam Wilson, who stands just a breath away: "As the world's expert on waiting too long, don't."

Tired of waiting, you grab Sam by the front of his polo and pull him into you, locking your lips with his as your chests bump into each other. It’s not a picture-perfect kiss; it’s a little sloppy and frantic, but it’s the type that makes up for the twenty years you spent dancing around your feelings for one another. Eventually, you break away from each other. Sam rests his forehead against yours, and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen graces his face — the man looks like sunshine incarnate as he studies your features.

“I should have done that ten years ago.”

The laugh that escapes you is melodic — a goddamn symphony to Sam’s ears. And he can’t help but kiss you again. And again. And again. In an attempt to make up for lost time and to prove to you, this was never just platonic. 

LOVE YOU, MISS YOU, MEAN IT ➵ S. WILSON

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: It’s been five years since you heard from Sam Wilson — the longest you’ve gone without speaking since you met him at sixteen years old. You've tried to move on, but six words still weigh heavy on your heart. You're certain you'll never hear those words again until you get a phone call from upstate New York.

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Warnings: angst with a happy ending, high school sweethearts, mentions of Riley (CA:TWS), mentions of loss and grief, spoilers for Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame, mentions of the Blip and its repercussions, no use of y/n, use of pet names (ie. "honey" and "baby")

Word Count: 3.5k

Song Inspo: "Love You, Miss You, Mean It" by Luke Bryan

Author’s Note: So, apparently all of us are desperate for more Sam Wilson fics. I promise I don't also base my fics on songs, but I was listening to this one recently and couldn't get this idea out of my head (maybe Sam Wilson fics based on country songs is just my niche now lol). Like always, I hope you guys enjoy this one and let me know what you all think. Also, my inbox is open to any ideas for Sam Wilson fics. I'm not promising to write them all, but I'm desperate for my Sam content and if it has to be done by me then so be it.

“What about Craig from book club?”

You furrow your brow at Sarah as you wipe down the counters during a lull in the afternoon lunch rush. You’ve worked at Wilson Family Seafood since your family moved to Delacroix during your sophomore year of high school. Your father suddenly lost his job and, by pure happenstance, reconnected with his old childhood friend, Paul Wilson. Within a week, your family packed up your entire lives and moved across the country to help at the Wilson’s family-owned restaurant. It was a drastic change, but the transition was helped by Sarah Wilson, who quickly became your closest friend. The two of you spent your days in classes together at the local high school, your afternoons working at the restaurant, and your evenings working on homework by the docks. You were sure that your life couldn’t get any better than this.

But then you met her older brother, Sam. 

You’d seen him in passing a few times; however, basketball season kept him busy for the first few months you spent in Delacroix. Once his team was knocked out of the playoffs, Sam also spent his afternoons at the restaurant. To Sarah’s dismay, Sam took an immediate liking to you. At first, you brushed off Sam’s attention as playful, meaningless flirting. But, to your surprise, Sam asked you to the junior prom while the three of you sat at the docks after your shifts. Sarah pretended to be disgusted by the idea of her older brother and best friend dating, but, in reality, she couldn’t be happier — after all, she’d never seen her brother so smitten. 

“I don’t need a date, Sarah.”

“You deserve to feel loved.”

A sigh escapes you as her voice softens. When Sam enlisted in the military after high school, you were confident that was the end of the line for the two of you. However, Sam went above and beyond to make things work. You received letters from him twice a month while he was deployed, and every single one ended the same: love you, miss you, mean it. He visited home whenever he could, and the two of you were happy. But then his wingman got blown out of the sky during a night operation, and Sam slowly withdrew from everyone in his life: his friends, his family, and you. His letters started showing up only once a month, then every two, until eventually they stopped altogether.

It all came to a head when you heard from Darlene that Sam got honorably discharged from service, and instead of coming back home, he chose to stay in D.C. after accepting a job with the Department of Veteran Affairs. You remember the phone call that followed when Sam told you he just couldn’t face living in Delacroix right now without his father — that he couldn’t handle adding that grief to his plate right now. He didn’t try to convince you to join him. Sam knew that you couldn’t leave his mother and sister like that, and although he knew he was making a selfish choice, he didn’t want to drag you and his family along with him during his recovery process. You’d drop everything to help him, but that’s not what you deserve. You’ve already spent over a decade assisting the Wilson family — starting full-time at the restaurant after high school, providing funds from your savings account for numerous doctor appointments and procedures when his father got sick, and opening up your home to Sarah and her new husband after they lost theirs. Sam couldn’t ask you to put your life on hold, yet again, just for him. And even though he knew he was losing you, he still ended the call with the words he only ever said to you: love you, miss you, mean it. You remember wanting to be angry with him, but, in reality, all you felt was a deep, profound sadness — because you could tell just by the sound of his voice that this wasn’t the same Sam who left for the Air Force all those years ago. This isn’t the Sam you fell in love with. So, even though it was the hard thing to do, you let him go. 

You didn’t see Sam again until Darlene passed away two years later. After the funeral, Sam asked if you wanted to grab a drink. And even though your brain was screaming at you to stay away from the man who broke your heart — you couldn’t say no. He was surprised to hear you weren’t seeing anyone, and you were just as surprised that he wasn’t dating. Conversation flowed easily between the two of you, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as you realized that, although the Sam sitting in front of you was a little bit older and a little bit wiser, he still had the same boyish charm that made you fall in love with him all those years ago. And your heart almost stopped in your chest when he said the six words you haven’t been able to stop thinking about: love you, miss you, mean it. 

“I do feel loved.”

“It’s not enough to just feel it in your dreams.”

The words made you stop in your tracks. It’s been five years since you heard from Sam Wilson — the longest you’ve gone without speaking since you met him at sixteen years old. After the two of you reconnected after Darlene’s funeral, you and Sam kept in touch with the hope that one day, this tender, unspoken thing between the two would turn into something more permanent; however, for now, you both had responsibilities — Sam was the head of PTSD counseling at the Department of Veteran Affairs, and you were now a co-owner of Wilson Family Seafood. But then Sam met Steve Rogers, and his whole world seemed to turn upside down. You remember watching the news, clutching Sarah’s hand as the anchor explained that there was now a global manhunt for three men after a bombing in Vienna: James Buchanan Barnes, Steve Rogers, and Sam Wilson. And suddenly, your little dream life together seemed to slip right between your fingers — after all, your high school sweetheart was now a wanted fugitive. Sam couldn’t risk contacting you while on the run with Steve and Natasha. And even though all he wanted was to call you and explain his side of the story — explain that he only did what he knew was right — he didn't. It wasn’t until they ended up in Wakanda with Thanos on their heels that he finally reached out. He was pretty sure that this was it for him — he wasn’t a super soldier, he wasn’t magical or enhanced, he was just a man with metal wings. So, Sam sent you a message before he was thrown into another war because even if it was the last time you heard from him, he needed you to know that six words were still weighing on his heart: love you, miss you, mean it.

“Sarah…”

You trail off because you’re unsure how to respond — because you know she’s right. Sam sent that message five years ago. You didn’t believe he was gone until Steve Rogers showed up on your doorstep with a box of Sam’s belongings. There weren’t many items, but Steve thought it was best that you received them — after all, missing you was all he talked about during their time on the run together. After Steve left, you opened the box and pulled out Sam’s old pararescue sweatshirt, a few unsent letters, his father’s watch, and a handful of photos: one you had taken of Sarah, AJ, and Cass on an old fishing boat, an old picture of Riley and Sam in full tactical gear while on deployment, another of Sam standing between Steve and Natasha at some sort of party, and lastly one of you and him sitting side-by-side on shiny bleachers together after his senior year championship game. With misty eyes, you put the photos on your refrigerator and pulled on his sweatshirt — desperate to feel close to your lost love in any way possible.

“He’s gone, honey.”

You know her words come from a place of love — from a place of understanding. Sarah understands the grief you're experiencing better than anyone else. She not only lost her brother in the Blip but also her husband a year before due to a sudden car accident. Everyone else in your life told you to move on, but Sarah knows that six words keep you securely planted in the past. She watched as you threw yourself into your responsibilities to cope: draining your savings account to keep the restaurant afloat while moving in with her to help raise AJ and Cass. But she also noticed how eager you were to slip away when things were quiet at the end of the day. She knew it was so you could see Sam again. You relive your favorite moments in your dreams: kissing him for the first time while parked in your driveway, Sam surprising you at work during his deployments, dancing all night together at Sarah’s wedding. It’s not the same — it’ll never be the same — but it’s the closest you’ll get to having him back. 

“I’m not ready to move on yet.”

You’re not sure if you’ll ever be ready to move on. You’ve loved Sam Wilson since you were sixteen years old. Through life’s highs and lows, through steadiness and imbalance — it was always Sam. It will always be Sam. Sarah gives you a gentle, knowing smile. She knows. Of course, she knows. She’s confident that if Sam were in your place, he’d be just as distraught because the hardest years of Sam's life were the ones after he pushed you away after Riley passed. Even though he was sure everyone in Delacroix was better off without him, Sam would call Sarah once a month to check in with everyone. She could hear the pain in her brother’s voice every time he asked about you — no matter how much time passed, you were an open wound that never seemed to heal. But even though Sam was hurting, all he wanted was for you to be happy — even if it was without him. 

“And that’s okay. Just know that Sam would want you to be happy.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Your chest suddenly feels like it’s about to cave in under the weight of your grief. Luckily, you’re saved from the conversation by the sound of the door opening. The lull in the afternoon lunch rush ended, and so did your discussion. Still, you spent the rest of your shift thinking about it. Sarah offers to close up for the night, and you’re grateful. You desperately need to go lay down — you feel absolutely drained after your shift, and Sarah’s words are still rattling around in your brain. The air is thick and sticky as you walk the empty streets of Delacroix. Even though it's halfway through October, the pervasive southern humidity has yet to disperse. A wave of relief washes over you as you enter the small, air-conditioned home you now share with the remaining members of the Wilson family. You kick off your shoes at the door, toss your keys on the kitchen counter, and collapse onto the couch in your living room. AJ and Cass are spending the night at a friend’s house, so your home is uncharacteristically quiet — that is, until your phone starts ringing. You pick it up off the coffee table with a deep sigh, and your brow furrows as you recognize the area code: Upstate New York. Usually, you’d send it straight to voicemail, but your finger hesitates on the decline button. Against your better judgment, you accept the call.

Your heart stops as you listen to a nurse explain the situation on the other end. Sam Wilson was just admitted to their hospital after taking one hell of a beating with his fellow Avengers, and you were contacted since you’re still listed as his emergency contact. You thank the nurse for the information before hanging up. Your hands tremble as you place your phone back on the coffee table. For a few moments, all you can do is focus on breathing in and out. A part of you thinks this is a dream — that any moment now, you’ll wake up alone in your living room with an aching in your chest. But that moment doesn’t come. You simply sit on your couch, staring at your phone while time slowly passes until Sarah eventually comes home. She’s concerned when you don’t answer her question as she opens the door, and panic rushes through her veins once she spots you sitting in the living room — your expression holds an ocean of emotions fighting for dominance as you stare at the coffee table.

“What’s wrong?”

“I got a call. Sam’s at a hospital in Upstate New York.”

“What?”

Sarah collapses next to you on the couch. You both sit in silence for several moments. Sarah’s at a loss for words, and you’re still not sure this is real. But what if it is? What if Sam is really lying in a hospital bed in Upstate New York right now? You have to chance it, right? Sam would. 

“I need to go.”

Sarah finally looks at you. Tears are streaming down her face, but her expression is one of unbridled joy. After everything she’s lost — after praying every single night to a God she stopped believing in long ago — she finally received a miracle. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug.

“I know.”

You’re out the door in under five minutes after haphazardly throwing clothing into an old backpack along with your essentials. You give Sarah one last hug before tossing the bag into the passenger seat of your car. The ride is torturously long. It takes you a full day of driving to make it to the address the nurse provided, but you refuse to stop. You can rest when you get there — once you see Sam with your own eyes. Your hands shake as you enter the hospital and approach the front desk. You feel idiotic giving Sam’s name when the lady behind the counter asks who you’re here to visit, but she simply smiles at you before writing down a room number. Exhaustion has settled deep into your bones, but you push yourself forward, putting one foot in front of the other until you find yourself outside room 335. You knock your fist against the door, and your heart lurches as you hear a response from the other side. After taking a deep breath, you open the door, and you get the wind knocked out of your lungs — as if you’ve been sucker-punched in the chest.

Lying in a hospital bed, looking a little worse for wear, was Sam Wilson. There is a long line of stitches on the left side of his face, a deep purple bruise is forming under his right eye, and his toned abdomen is wrapped in bandages and gauze, but it’s undeniably him. 

“Sam?”

His face immediately softens, and if he could, he’d cross the room in a heartbeat just to wrap you up in his arms. Tears well up in his eyes as he takes in your appearance. You know you look older, but he looks exactly the same beneath the injuries. Still, he looks at you as if no time has passed — as if you are still the bright-eyed, naive sophomore falling in love with the dangerously charismatic basketball captain. 

“Hey, baby.”

His voice sounds like home. And in this moment, even though your mind is foggy and your knees are on the verge of buckling, you thank whatever higher power sent him back to you. Sam’s brow furrows as he clocks the noticeable fatigue in your movements.

“Come here.”

He gestures to a chair next to his bedside. You immediately do as he says, and your muscles breathe a sigh of relief as you sit down. Sam painfully repositions himself closer to you and immediately reaches out. You melt into his touch as he brushes his knuckles against your cheek. 

“When was the last time you slept?”

A laugh escapes you due to the absurdity of his question. He’s currently lying in a hospital bed after five years of being presumed dead, looking frailer than you’ve ever seen him, and yet, he’s only worried about you. 

“You’re ridiculous, Sam.” 

A smile spreads across Sam’s face as you catch his hand and intertwine your fingers. You hold onto him with a tight grip — afraid that if you let up, he’ll slip right between your fingers again. His smile fades at the realization, and Sam’s gaze is brimming with concern.

“How long was I gone?”

“Five years.”

You don’t look at him as you answer, but you can feel his body shudder in response. He takes a shaky breath, attempting to process that information as you rub your thumb across his swollen knuckles. You’re the only thing grounding him in reality at this moment. 

“Is everyone okay? Sarah, AJ, Cass?”

You nod, finally meeting his frantic gaze. 

“Everyone’s fine. They’re back in Delacroix looking after the restaurant. I took care of them.”

“Who took care of you?”

Sam’s face falls as you press your cheek to the back of his hand, avoiding eye contact. That’s enough to answer his question. You’ve been strong your whole lie. Stronger than you ever gave yourself credit for — stronger than him. While he ran off to war, you stayed and fought to keep everything together at home. He realized long ago that he left you with the toughest battle, and he promised himself while on the run that he’d help relieve your burden once he cleared his name — he promised himself that he’d finally come home to you. But then Thanos snapped his goddamn fingers, and everything after that was a blur. Apparently, he has to add going MIA for five years to his long list of things to make up for. And there’s no time like the present to start making amends. 

“I wanted to call you every day after Hydra — after Vienna. I hope you know that I never stopped thinking about you. I tried to get a message to you before everything…”

Sam trails off, and his eyes glaze over as a faraway look sweeps over his expression. Your hand tightens around his as you realize you have no idea what he’s done— what he’s witnessed — since you last spoke to him. You’ve both been through hell, but somehow — some way — you made your way back to each other. That has to mean something.

“I got the message.”

Sam’s face twists into confusion as you let go of his hand and pull four photographs out of your backpack. You offer them to him, and Sam grabs them with trembling fingers. A small, sad smile spreads across his face as he recognizes them from his locker at the Avengers compound. 

“How did you get these?”

“Steve.”

Sam should have known that Steve would seek you out after the dust settled — after they counted their losses. He was a soldier, after all; he knew the protocol. He nods as he admires the old photo of you and him: what he would give to go back, to have that time with you again.

“Listen, five years is a long time. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through or what you’ve done to get by.”

There’s a heaviness in Sam’s tone, and as he avoids eye contact with you, you realize he’s trying to ask if you’ve moved on. He wouldn’t fault you for creating a life without him — but little does he know, you’ve been waiting for him against all odds in Delacroix the whole time.

“Sam…”

Hope reignites in Sam’s chest as you wrap your hand around his again and drag your chair closer to him. It’s the first time he’s felt that old, forgotten emotion since he kissed you beneath the fairy lights of that bar by the docks. And just like that night, six words burn in his chest as he looks at you with pure adoration.

“I love you, miss you, mean it, baby.”

A bright smile spreads across your face as the words grace your ears. You never thought you’d hear them again. 

“Still?”

His smile rivals your own — and the sight jumpstarts the process of stitching your shattered heart back together. His gaze is incredulous as he cocks his head at your words — as if it was the most ridiculous question he’s ever heard. 

Still? 

Sam could never dream of loving someone else. His heart has been yours since he was seventeen years old.

“Always.”

And then you close the gap between you. As you press your lips against his, the years of loss and longing melt away. And even though every muscle in his body aches, Sam holds you like his life depends on it. He has a lot to apologize for — a lot of time to make up — but, for right now, this tender moment with you is enough. Because it’s just you and him. It always has been, and it always will be.

The Future’s Overdue

Summary : A year after breaking up with Sam Wilson, he shows up at your doorstep.

Pairing : Cap!Sam Wilson x ex-avenger!reader (written with she/her in mind, but I don’t think there’s gendered language in this) 

Warnings/tags : mentions of violence and trauma, cursing. Mild alcohol consumption. Angst with a happy ending. 

Word count : 3.7K

Note : This fic was inspired by the song ‘Overcome’ by Nothing but Thieves. And of course the Brave New World trailer. That flight suit? Phew. When he sliced that truck in half?? Have mercy on me my god. I do have a couple of other requests for Sam but I have so many WIPs and series so please bear with me. Enjoy!

You first met Sam in Washington, when Steve realised Hydra was growing inside of S.H.I.E.L.D.

It was the day three helicarriers got shot out of the sky. 

You and Sam were initially just two operatives thrown in the mission together by coincidence— and a little persuasion on Steve Rogers' part. 

When the dust settled, you found a strange comfort in each other, a kind of trust that only comes from people who've survived the same battles together. It was a friendship— one you had with Steve and Nat, too.

But Sam was unlike anyone you’d ever met. He was compassionate without being naive, funny without sacrificing his strength, and fiercely loyal without ever being overbearing. Everyone in your line of work fought with anger or a sense of duty— and Sam did, too. But he also fought with his heart, with a passion and a clarity of purpose that earned an incredible amount of admiration from you. 

But it wasn’t until after Sokovia fell from the sky that you realised just how much he really meant to you. 

The battle against Ultron had been brutal, a mission that left you questioning everything you’d come to believe. 

You stood among the rubble, surrounded by your teammates, and yet you felt more alone than ever.

The realisation hit you: time was fleeting. You didn’t have forever, and you didn’t want to keep ignoring the one thing that had started to matter more than any mission you’d ever had.

So that night, you sought Sam out. The rest of the team had been decompressing, recovering, but you pulled Sam into a quiet spot away from the others, somewhere under the night sky, where the stars glimmered faintly against the smoke. You didn’t say much, just let the silence and the closeness speak for itself.

When he looked at you, something like affection flickered in his eyes, a hope that maybe he meant as much to you as you did to him. It was then that you closed the space between you and kissed him—gently, like he was made of glass.

In a way, he was. This life was fragile, and his was one you couldn’t bear to lose.

After that, you spent as much time together as you could manage. Between missions, you’d crave moments of normalcy. Walks in quiet parks, stolen weekend getaways, breakfasts cooked together in your shared apartment. 

These small, simple moments began to feel like home, like the life you’d never thought you could have. 

Then came the Sokovia accords. 

When you and Sam sided with Steve, you didn't realise how everything could go so wrong. 

Your world turned upside down again. You became a fugitive, a person without a country, constantly on the run, evading governments, ducking the scrutiny of former allies. Sam stayed by your side, fighting the same battle as you.

Despite the danger, despite the sacrifices, the exile only strengthened your relationship. He was your safe haven, the one person you trusted wholly. 

One night, as you sat together in some safe house with peeling wallpaper and torn furniture, you dared to voice the thought you’d been carrying for so long. 

"One day,” you said, almost hesitantly, “when we’re done running, when all of this is behind us… I want a real life, Sam. With you.”

He looked at you then, his smile one of equal parts sadness and hope. “Tell me more,” he murmured, smiling just a little. 

“I want to marry you,” you confessed, voice trembling. “I want a house. Somewhere no one can find us. I want a family, Sam.”

For a moment, he was silent, his thumb brushing along the back of your hand. “One day. When the world stops chasing us,” He pulled you close, his words a quiet promise against your ear. “I’ll give you all of that.”

For the first time in a long time, the future felt like something worth looking forward to. It felt like something you could actually touch, something just out of reach but waiting for you. 

His promise lingered: that once you were free, once you weren’t running anymore, you’d be able to build that life together.

But then came the Battle of Wakanda, and the life you had both fought so hard for vanished in an instant as you were both erased from existence, dusted away by Thanos’s snap. For five years, you were gone.

When you returned, everything had changed. The world was broken and scattered, When you looked at Sam, you saw it, too— the realisation that so much of everything was gone. How much of the world needed fixing.

And you knew your Sam. He would want to fix it.

You saw the responsibility that had been thrust upon him. You watched him take the shield, watched him step up in a way that was brave and selfless. Everything about this was so unmistakably Sam. Your Sam.

In that moment, you knew that the life you’d dreamed of, the one you’d whispered about in the dark, wasn’t possible— not when the world still needed him.

It broke you, knowing you had to leave, to walk away from the man you loved. But you both knew that your paths were diverging. You wanted peace, family, a quiet life that had no place in the shadow of Captain America’s legacy. And Sam, with Steve’s shield in his hands, couldn’t turn away from the fight. 

It happened on a quiet evening, back in the small apartment you shared. The shadows were long, stretching across the worn wood floors, as the last light of the day reached through the windows. 

Sam was sitting across from you, his hands folded on the table, and his face was set in an expression you’d come to recognize—the one he wore when he was carrying something too heavy to keep inside. You saw it in the slump of his shoulders, the way his usually loving gaze couldn’t quite meet yours. You reached out, caressing his arm.

Finally, you broke the silence. “Sam,” you said, voice wavering. “Are we okay?”

He looked up then, his eyes meeting yours, and the sorrow there was enough to make your chest tighten. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if… if I can give you the life you deserve.”

The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, until finally, you pulled your hand from his. “Then we have to let this go,” you said, voice cracking with finality. “I can’t keep waiting for a life that isn’t going to happen.”

The look in his eyes was almost unbearable—regret, pain, and love all tangled together, raw and unguarded. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick. 

“I’m sorry, too,” you replied, your vision blurred

The first tear drawn came from him. “I’ll always love you,” he said, his voice a quiet, broken promise. 

You looked at him, feeling the truth of those words resonate in your lungs. You would always love him too, but love alone couldn’t bridge the gap between the lives you wanted. It was heartbreaking, knowing you’d finally found something so good, only to have it slip through your fingers.

You stood up, needing to move before you changed your mind, before you broke down completely. “Goodbye, Sam,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

“Goodbye,” he murmured, holding back everything he couldn’t say. He didn’t try to stop you, didn’t reach for you as you turned and walked toward the door. 

You both knew that if he did, you wouldn’t have the strength to walk away.

–

In the weeks after the breakup, you tried to convince yourself it would get easier, that the pain would fade. But the truth was, every day only sharpened the ache. It was clear that your lives were leading in opposite directions now, that Sam was destined for something larger than either of you had once imagined. 

He had the shield, the responsibility, the weight of a legacy that he hadn’t chosen but that fit him as naturally as if it were always meant to be his. 

And you? Well, after retiring, you finally had the quiet, the simplicity of a life you’d always craved, but it felt hollow without him.

You still loved him, of course. 

That was the hardest part.

There was no switch to flip, no way to undo the love that had grown in the depths of your heart. And he loved you too— you knew that as surely as you knew that the sun would rise tomorrow, the kind of knowledge you felt deep in your bones. 

But you both recognized that clinging to each other, seeing each other, would only deepen the hurt. So you made the hardest choice, cutting contact to give yourselves space to move forward, even if it felt like cutting out a piece of your heart.

You would go through your days thinking about Sam, feeling his absence as a phantom weight by your side. Sometimes, you’d catch yourself reaching for your phone, feeling the urge to share a thought, a joke, a memory— only to remember he was gone from your life now.

It was a loneliness harsher than any pain you’d felt before, and you've been shot at and stabbed multiple times. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too— if he missed you as much as you missed him.

Months went by, and the world kept turning, but you could never fully escape him. And then one day, you saw him on the screen. It was in the news, footage of Sam at the Smithsonian, standing before the shield as he laid it down, offering it back. You watched in stunned silence as he walked away from the legacy Steve had entrusted to him. He looked so different from the man you’d known—tired, torn, and full of questions only he could answer. 

Still, you knew he’d only given up the shield, not the fight. There was still that fire in his eyes, that drive you knew he would never fully let go of. He was still your Sam, the man who couldn’t stop helping others even if it meant losing himself in the process.

Then came reports of his work with Bucky Barnes. You caught glimpses here and there: videos of Sam fighting, speeches to crowds, images of him standing strong and proud, still doing the work he believed in. Each clip, each mention of him in the newspapers you read was like reopening the wound, bittersweet in a way that only true love could be.

And then, one day, you saw him on the screen again—but this time, he was wearing the Captain America suit.

The shield sat on his back, the way it once had been with Steve.

His face was calm, resilient, and he carried himself with a confidence that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time. As he stood before a crowd, addressing the nation, his voice rang out strong and clear. He spoke of unity, of justice, of how much work still lay ahead.

There was something fiercely proud and unmoving in his stance, as if he had finally found a purpose that felt right, a cause he was willing to fight for as himself. 

The people around you could hardly believe it.

But you did. You always did.

As you watched him speak to the world, you felt your heart swell with pride. He finally stepped into a role he was born for, embracing everything that came with it— the good and the bad. You felt a deep, overwhelming admiration for him— the same one you had felt all those years ago. 

The man you love had found his calling. He had finally stepped into the legacy he’d once doubted. And though he was miles away, speaking to millions of people, it felt as if he was speaking to you. It felt as if he were telling you, Look, I made it. I found my place.

—

It had been over a year since you’d last seen Sam in person. But then, you heard a knock—a familiar rhythm, one you'd both come up with in those times of hiding, a signal you’d memorised to mean ‘it’s safe to open the door.’

Suddenly, all those buried memories resurfaced. You took a deep breath and walked up to the entrance, fingers trembling ever so slightly. 

When you opened the door, he was there. 

He stood tall, carrying an air of quiet confidence that you had missed.

“Hey,” he said softly, that deep warmth in his eyes settling on you like it always had. “I know you’re retired, but I… I need your help.” He hesitated, shifting his weight, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. “This mission… there’s something I just can't figure out. Tactical consulting, just advice, you know.”

Your heart gave a painful thud, torn between the part of you that had finally let yourself step back and the part that had always been drawn to Sam’s gravity. There was something in his eyes, in the way he looked at you—was it hope? Regret?

“Come on in,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady.

Once inside, you cleared space at your kitchen island, pulling out blueprints and maps from him and laying them between you. The small counter seemed even smaller with Sam standing across from you, leaning close as he unfurled more documents. The scent of his cedar aftershave filled your home in a way that felt so heartbreakingly familiar. You poured the both of you a glass of wine.

It didn't take long for you to settle into the rhythm. Soon, you were bouncing ideas back and forth, memories and laughs slipping through the cracks as you strategized, just like old times. You caught yourself chewing on the back of your pen—an old habit that Sam had always found adorable—as you debated where each exit and entrance might be. When it came time to relay the guard rotation, Sam scrunched his nose in that familiar way that always meant he was uncertain. You couldn’t help but smile, reminded of countless memories just like this one.

As the hours passed, you felt yourself relaxing, dropping your guard bit by bit. You found yourselves laughing over old missions, sharing stories of close calls and narrow escapes. When Sam’s hand brushed yours as he reached for a pen, there was a tension there that you couldn’t ignore, something that had always been effortless between you.

Then, as he raised his glass for another sip, his gaze landed on the roses on your counter— a fresh vase of red roses, bold and out of place in your otherwise grounded kitchen. He paused, frowning slightly.

“Red roses?” he asked, glancing back at you, a surprised smile lifting his lips. “You don’t like them. You always preferred pink ones.”

You felt a small pang of sadness, realising that after all this time, he remembered that small detail, one that even you’d almost forgotten. 

“I didn’t buy them,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual. “A date brought them over. A couple of days ago.”

The words fell into the awkward silence between you. For a second, you saw the surprise flicker across his face. “You’re… dating again?” he asked, almost in disbelief.

“Yeah, well…” You gave a light laugh, trying to brush it off, “had to fill the void you left somehow.”

It was meant to be a joke, but the words cut deeper than you’d meant it to.

He looked down, fingers trailing the edge of his glass, lost in a thought he wasn’t ready to voice.

You wanted to break the tension, you had to. “What about you?” you asked, forcing a smile. “I mean, look at you. You’ve got to be dating, Sam. Come on. You’re still the most handsome man I know.”

But he shook his head, his expression solemn. “No,” he said, his gaze fixed on the wine swirling in his glass. “I guess I just haven’t moved on.”

The words struck you like a lightning strike, filling the room with a tension neither of you could ignore. For a moment, the breaths you took felt too thick, too charged. You watched him, studying his face, seeing a quiet pain etched into his expression as he finally looked up to meet your eyes.

He broke the long silence, his voice low. “Is he… good to you?”

You let out a shaky breath.  “He’s… he’s alright. We’ve only been on a couple of dates. It's not like we’re… exclusive or anything.” You paused, trying to find the words to explain. “He’s a nursery teacher. Sweet, good with kids.... But nothing serious.”

Sam nodded, a faint, bittersweet smile touching his lips. “Good with kids, huh?” his voice was filled with an ache that twisted in your chest. “Just like you always wanted.”

You felt a wave of frustration and sadness rise up. “Yeah,” you replied softly, almost to yourself, before you could stop. “But he’s not…”

The words caught in your throat, but Sam didn’t let you off easy. He leaned closer, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that took your breath away, “He’s not… what?”

“He’s not you, Sam,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could take them back. And you didn’t want to.

Something broke in him— relief, pain, and longing all at once. Without a word, he reached across the counter, his fingers finding yours. He walked around the kitchen island, sitting on the stool next to yours. His skin was warm as he closed the distance between you. His hand moved up, cupping your face as his eyes traced over you, like he was taking in every detail, every piece of who you were now.

You were still you. But you had grown without him. You had found your peace, just like you always wanted.

He leaned in, and his lips brushed yours in a  trembling kiss.

The moment he felt you return it— the moment he felt the familiar force of your kiss, he deepened it. His hands slid into your hair, pulling you close, desperate to feel you, to make up for all the lost moments he had to go through without you.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your skin. 

The kiss had left both of you shaken to your core.

Sam’s hands were still on your face, his thumbs brushing along your cheeks, making sure you were real, and that this wasn't just one of his dreams about you. He searched your eyes, looking for something to reassure him this was more than a moment of weakness.

“We can do this,” he whispered, his voice raw, almost frantic. He believed now, he needed to make you believe, too. “Clint—Clint made it work, right? A family, a life— he did it. He’s raising kids and still comes back when we need him. We’ll talk to him. I’ll ask him, I’ll ask him anything, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He swallowed, his breath shallow, his desperation pulling him closer to you. “If that’s not enough, if this— if me being Captain America is what’s in the way, then I’ll… I’ll give it up. Just say the word. I swear, I’ll give it all up if that’s what you need. None of this—none of it means a damn thing without you.”

The words hit you hard, more sincere than anything else you’d ever heard him say. You saw the same unwavering love in his eyes, but this time it came with a willingness to do anything, sacrifice anything, to make room for you in his life.

It terrified you because you knew he meant every single word. 

You closed your eyes, finally feeling the burn of tears that you barely managed to hold back. You reached up to hold his face, your fingers brushing along his jawline.

“No, Sam,” you said, your voice shaking but unbreakable in its resolve. “You’re not giving up the shield for me. I’ve seen you out there. I’ve watched you bring people together. And I… I can’t be the reason you walk away.”

He shook his head, his eyes pleading. His breath came quicker. It was moments like this when you realised that he was human. Not a super soldier. Not enhanced. 

He was human with an unnatural resilience.

“But if this is the only way to have you—”

You can’t help but interrupt him, before he dug himself a fantasy so deep that he would struggle to get out of it. You closed the small gap between you, kissing him again. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, holding you like he never wanted to let go. You could feel the tremor in his hands, the way his breath hiccuped, so close to breaking. When you pulled away, you pressed your forehead to his, calming his silent pleas.

“Listen to me,” you whispered. “You are Captain America. That’s a part of you, and I would never forgive myself if I took that. But that doesn’t mean we have to give this up,” you added, willing him to understand. “I want to try again.”

He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. For the first time in a year, he was letting himself hope again. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, vulnerable in a way you’d never heard before.

“Yes,” you said, your voice steady, filled with a conviction you hadn’t felt in years. “I want you back.”

The relief on his face, the gratitude, was like sunlight breaking through a storm. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and then another to your lips, softer, filled with a tenderness you had missed so damn much.

“I’m all in,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care what it takes. We will make this work.”

As you nodded, he lifted you into his arms, spinning you around. For the first time in a year, your giggles filled your quiet kitchen. When he set you down, his gaze landed on the flowers once again.

“First on the agenda,” he said, smiling mischievously, “we’re getting rid of those damn red roses. I’ll get you pink ones tomorrow.”

You laughed through happy tears as he pulled you to the couch, the mission he had come to consult you for forgotten, even if only for tonight.

You watched him leave the blueprints behind to spend time with you, when he would’ve been obsessing over a year ago. This time, you felt a conviction that he was right— that it would work.

This time, he was willing to compromise. And so were you.

-end.