Summary: You’ve Never Felt Fully At Home In Your Own Skin, But That Has Never Stopped Joel From Showing
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
More Posts from Madsolivia1114 and Others
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.
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.
taglist (please let me know if you want to be added/removed, or if you want to be in the jj maybank only or bucky barnes only taglist!) : @abslvrs13 | @s0phreakingfunny | @mayanneaa | @stevesstranger | @thisismysafeescape | @nooneshallfindme | @pastelbabygirl19 | @araunahj | @lmaowhatt | @raineshua | @darlingchronicles | @jjsfavgirl | @vampiriito | @love-at-first-sight-23 | @delusionalxreader | @bee-43 | @zoroforlife | @yujyujj | @brie-mode-activated | @goldengubs | @sebastians-love | @panbotter | @writingunderneathawillow | @buckybarneswife125 |
"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.'"
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.
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.
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
'Landed too hard'
outbreak!joel miller x f!reader
Summary: You save Joel's life from raiders but instead of thanking you, he gets mad at you.
or
You get hurt and you are forced to be vulnerable with each other.
wc: 7k
warnings: age gap, established relationship, angst, fluff, miscommunication, insecurities, mentions of blood, and fluff
a/n: i'm slowly coming back to this with this baby here that was on my drafts. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌
The forest was too quiet for your liking. No birds, no wind—Just the soft crunch of the snowy ground beneath your feet as you followed Joel who was ahead of you and Ellie. There was something in the air this day, eerie silence pressing on your chest, tension, and Joel had been on edge all day, his broad shoulder seemed tense under his jacker, his grip on the rifle tighter than usual.
It felt like the premonition of something bad coming on your way. So, you kept your knife close and your gun pressed under your hand.
“We’ll set up camp soon,” Joel muttered, his voice low without looking behind to you and Ellie.
Ellie groaned. “Finally. My feet feel like they’re gonna fall soon.”
You gave her a tired smile at her remark, but your eyes stayed on Joel. His jaw was tight, the scar above his brow crinkling deeper. You knew him well enough to read the signs—he was worried. More than usual.
That’s why you didn’t even hear them coming.
One second, you were walking behind Joel, and the next, chaos broke out. Shouts echoed through the trees. Five, maybe six men, all armed came out from nowhere. Joel shoved you and Ellie behind an overturned log.
“Stay down,” he growled, pressing his rifle into your hands. “If anyone gets close, you shoot. Don’t move unless I say so.”
“Joel—”
“Stay.”
You swallowed your fear and nodded, grabbing Ellie and pulling her down. Joel stepped out, drawing their attention, firing a shot that took one of the men down, then another and so on.
But the rest came fast. Through the cracks in the log, you watched Joel fight. He moved like a man who’d done this too many times, but even then, it was too much. One of the raiders tackled him, and suddenly, Joel was on the ground, with one of those men’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.
the man’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.
“Shit,” you whispered, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear Ellie’s panicked breathing next to you.
Joel clawed at the man’s wrists, his face turning red, veins bulging in his neck. He wasn’t going to get out of it and you couldn’t just sit there watching the man you loved die in front of you.
“Stay here,” you told Ellie, voice shaking from rage.
“Wait…what are you doing?!” she whispered.
Your body moved before your mind could argue. You were already running before Ellie could have the chance to stop you.
You tackled the man strangling Joel, knocking him off balance, but before you could finish him, another set of hands grabbed you from behind. You struggled, kicking and clawing, managing to land a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs before twisting free. The first man lunged again, but you dodged, feeling the burn of a knife slicing across your cheek. The pain barely registered as you drove your own blade into the man’s neck, then turned and plunged it into the second attacker’s chest before he could recover. Warm blood splattered your hands as the man crumpled, gasping his last breath.
You stood there, panting, adrenaline rushing through your veins.
Joel coughed violently, rolling onto his side, his face pale and drenched in sweat. You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands hovering uselessly. “Joel? Hey—hey, are you okay?”
He didn’t answer right away, still gasping for air. When he finally sat up, his brown eyes locked onto yours—not with gratitude, but with pure, burning rage.
“The fuck were you thinking?” he rasped, voice raw.
You blinked, the adrenaline still rushing through you. “I—I had to. He was going to—”
“You didn’t listen to me!” Joel slammed his fist into the dirt, his whole-body trembling with anger. “I told you to stay hidden! What if he’d killed you?!”
“Well, he didn’t” you stated, “I saved your life!”
“And you risked yours doing it!”
His voice echoed through the trees, sharp and unforgiving. You felt your chest tighten, heat rising in your throat.
“I’m not some helpless girl you can just shove behind a log, Joel! I did what I had to!”
Joel stood up, wiping the blood from his hands. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything else. The space between you felt impossibly wide.
He ran a hand over his face, stepping back like he couldn’t even look at you. "You put yourself in danger. You could’ve been killed. Do you even get that?"
"I get that I just saved your ass!" You shot back, the weight of the moment crashing over you. "And all you can do is yell at me?"
He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists before he turned away. "I ain't doin' this."
"Fine," you bit out.
The air between you felt thick, suffocating. You glanced at Ellie, who stood off to the side, arms crossed, her expression tense.
You lifted a hand to your cheek, your fingers coming away sticky with blood. The cut burned now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and you sucked in a sharp breath. Ellie’s eyes flicked to the wound, concern flashing across her face, but she didn’t say anything. Joel still wasn’t looking at you, his back rigid as he adjusted his pack.
"We should get moving," he muttered, voice low and strained.
You nodded, swallowing down the ache in your throat. Without another word, the three of you fell into step, the silence stretching between you like an open wound
That night, you found a small clearing tucked between dense trees, far enough from the road to feel safe. The cold had settled deep, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself as you sat near the weak glow of the fire. Joel had barely spoken a word since the fight, his focus set on keeping watch, his back to you.
You weren’t hurt by his words or the outburst he had, but by the idea of him willingly die and feeling at peace with it. How easy would be for him to left you behind and in your own.
You dismissed your thoughts as you dug through your pack for a rag, pressing it against the wound on your cheek. The sting made you wince, and you cursed under your breath.
A quiet shuffling caught your attention, and you looked up to see Ellie kneeling beside you, her brows furrowed.
"Here," she said, pulling a small bottle of alcohol from her pocket. "Let me help."
You hesitated for a moment, then gave her a small nod. She dampened the cloth with the antiseptic and reached for your face. The touch was gentle, but the sting made you hiss.
"Sorry," Ellie murmured, concentrating as she cleaned the cut. "You’re lucky it’s not deeper."
You let out a small chuckle, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "Lucky isn’t exactly how I’d describe this day.”
Ellie huffed, finishing up before pulling a bandage from her pack. "Well, you’re not dead, so that counts for something."
You smiled faintly, glancing toward Joel. He still hadn’t turned around. You sighed, looking back at Ellie. "Thanks, kid."
She just shrugged, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Anytime."
As the fire crackled softly between you, you finally felt a small sense of comfort—at least, from Ellie. Joel, on the other hand, was still a storm brewing on the other side of camp.
Joel sat a few feet away, his gaze drifting to you as he kept watch. He noticed the way you shivered, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, but still, you slept. He hesitated, jaw tightening as he debated with himself. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and carefully draped it over you.
You stirred slightly at the added warmth, a small, unconscious sigh escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake. Joel lingered for a moment, watching you, before settling back down next to you as if he needed to remind himself you were still here.
The fire in your camp had burned down to glowing embers, the scent of smoke mixing with the cool morning air. Joel sat near it, his hands wrapped around his termo, sipping coffee our from it, his eyes occasionally flicking over to where you slept.
Your back was to him, your body curled slightly, the jacket pulled high over your shoulder. The cut ran along your cheekbone from the fight the day before—a fight that left you and Joel in a tense, suffocating silence. Reminding him how you always put yourself in danger for him.
He hated himself for it. How he had came to the point where he felt useless.
Now, in the morning light, you looked peaceful despite the frown that creased your forehead. Joel knew that look. He knew you too well.
Ellie stirred next to him, stretching before getting to her feet. She glanced at you, then back at Joel. “Should I wake her up?” she asked, rubbing her tired eyes.
Joel shook his head. “Not yet.”
Ellie raised a brow. “Why?”
Joel sighed, glancing at you again before taking another sip of coffee. “She’s got a frown.”
Ellie blinked. “Yeah, ‘cause she’s mad at you. Even in her sleep.”
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, but there wasn’t much fight in it. “No. It’s different. She gets that when she gets a migraine.” He ran a hand over his beard, glancing at you again. “Let her sleep a little longer.”
Ellie’s teasing smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer. “You really pay attention, huh?”
Joel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took another slow sip of coffee, staring into the fire. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “When it comes to her of course I do.”
Ellie sighed, dropping back down onto the log next to him. “So… you gonna fix this or what?”
Joel tensed, setting his cup down beside him. “She doesn’t wanna talk to me.”
“Yeah, because you yelled at her.” She reminded him.
Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “She shouldn’t have done what she did.”
“She saved your ass, Joel.”
Joel’s jaw clenched. “That ain’t the point.”
Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, it kinda is. She did what you would’ve done for her.”
Joel was silent, his gaze dropping to the ground.
“Do you think she would be fine if you were dead?” she pressed on, sighing.
Instead of answer, Joel reached for his bag, unbuckling the strap. He knew exactly where to look, tucked inside one of the side pockets were the pills he always carried for you, just in case.
Ellie, who had been watching with quiet curiosity, tilted her head. “Wait… you carry her pills?”
Joel didn’t look up as he pulled out the small bottle, checking how many were left. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff, like he didn’t think it was something worth mentioning.
Ellie crossed her arms. “Huh.”
Joel finally glanced at her. “What?”
Ellie smirked. “Nothin’. Just—you act all tough, but you’re, like, secretly the softest person ever for her.”
Joel rolled his eyes, muttering, “Keep it to yourself, kid,” as he moved toward you.
You stirred slightly as he knelt beside you, brushing your hair back from your face with a careful hand. The sight of the cut on your cheek made his stomach twist again, but he pushed the feeling down. He had already failed to keep you from getting hurt once, he wouldn’t fail you now.
Gently, he set the bottle of pills down next to you, along with a canteen of water. He knew you still weren’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop taking care of you.
As he sat back, Ellie watched him with something unreadable in her expression. “Still mad, huh?”
Joel sighed, rubbing his thumb over the strap of your bag.
Ellie nodded. “Well… you’re doin’ the right thing, at least.”
Joel wasn’t sure about that. But as he sat there, keeping watch while you slept, he figured it was all he could do for now.
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the dull ache in your head. The second was the soft sound of the fire crackling nearby. You blinked against the morning light, your body still heavy with exhaustion.
And then you saw the canteen and the small bottle of pills sitting beside you. You didn’t have to ask who put them there.
Your gaze flickered to Joel, who sat a few feet away, his back turned slightly toward you. He was sharpening his knife, the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone filling the quiet space. Ellie sat across from him, kicking at the dirt with her boot, sneaking glances at you like she was waiting to see what you’d do.
You swallowed, your throat dry. Carefully, you pushed yourself up, wincing as your muscles protested. Your fingers brushed against the bottle of pills, and you hesitated before finally picking it up.
Joel’s voice came before you could say anything. “Drink some water with that.”
It was quiet. Gruff. Like he wasn’t sure where the two of you stood after yesterday.
You pressed your lips together, debating whether to respond, but you didn’t have the energy to fight again. Instead, you obeyed, twisting the cap off and dry-swallowing the pill before chasing it with a sip of water.
Joel didn’t look at you, but you saw his shoulders drop just a little.
Ellie, of course, didn’t stay quiet for long. “Sooo… does this mean you guys are done being mad at each other?
You shot her a look. “Ellie.”
“What? I’m just saying’—”
Joel cut in; his voice flat. “Eat your breakfast.”
Ellie huffed but dropped it, tearing off a piece of jerky with her teeth.
You sighed, rubbing your temples before stealing a glance at Joel. His eyes were still fixed on his knife, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the handle a little too tightly.
He was waiting. For you to say something. For you to forgive him.
You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples in a weak attempt to ease the pressure in your skull. It wasn’t working. Nothing ever really worked, except for him.
Joel had a way of grounding you when the pain got bad. He didn’t always have the right words, but he never needed them. He had his own way of taking care of you, of letting you know he was there. And right now, all you wanted was for him to kiss your temples the way he used to.
The way he always did when you were hurting.
But things weren’t the same. You had fought, you had pulled away, and he had let you. And now, even though he was right there, he felt miles away.
You swallowed hard and shut your eyes, trying to push down the disappointment twisting in your chest. It was stupid to want that from him right now. After everything, you shouldn’t need him like that.
Except you did.
Joel shifted, and you felt him move closer, his presence clear even before he spoke. “Did you take the pills?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
There was a long silence, and then, so softly you almost missed it— “Still hurts?”
You hesitated. Your pride screamed at you to say no. To brush him off and keep that last little bit of distance between you. But you were tired.
“Yeah,” you admitted.
Joel exhaled slowly. And then, finally, finally, you felt his fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head just enough so he could lean in.
His lips pressed against your temple, warm and steady, lingering for just a second longer than they needed to.
You closed your eyes, breathing him in.
“Get ready, we have to go now” he spoke, still closer to your face.
You nodded, your throat tightening at the sudden shift back to reality. The moment was brief, fleeting, just like every soft thing between you and Joel seemed to be.
He pulled away first, his hand dropping from your face like he hadn’t just touched you like you meant something to him. Like he hadn’t just kissed you the way he always used to when you were hurting.
You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up slightly, ignoring the dull ache in your chest "Yeah, okay," you muttered, rubbing at your face as if you could wipe away the lingering warmth of his touch.
Joel stood up, already shifting back into that closed-off version of himself, the one that had been there ever since your fight. The one that didn’t know how to bridge the gap now.
Ellie walked in just as you were attempting to stand, her eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys look weird," she said, frowning. "Like... extra weird."
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now, Ellie."
She just smirked, clearly entertained by whatever tension was hanging in the air. "Whatever you say, lovebirds."
You rolled your eyes, reaching for your bag to distract yourself. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the straps, but you pretended not to notice. Joel pretended too, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you, watching you too closely like he always did.
The road stretched ahead, cracked and broken, nature reclaiming what once belonged to people. You walked in silence, the weight of the morning still pressing against your chest. Your head ached, but you bit down on the pain, refusing to let it slow you down.
Joel was beside you, his steps steady, his presence solid as ever. But something about him felt distant. He was looking at you, you could feel his gaze flickering toward you every few moments, but it wasn’t the same. Not like before.
Before, his eyes had been filled with something warm, something certain. But now? Now, it felt like he was watching you from behind a wall, like he was making sure you were still there but refusing to let himself feel anything about it.
Ellie, for once, was quiet, kicking a stray rock as she walked ahead, letting the tension settle between the two of you.
Joel’s outburst had been raw, desperate, his voice breaking, his hands gripping yours like he could tether you to him. But now, you saw it for what it was. Fear. Not just of losing you. But of what it meant if he didn’t.
Because Joel didn’t think he deserved to have you. He thought he wasn’t enough, that he never had been. And maybe… maybe he never would be.
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "You don’t have to keep looking at me like that," you muttered, not even turning your head.
Joel tensed beside you. "Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to cry to let you in and forgive you shout at me.”
His jaw ticked, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all. But then—
"I am not," he said, voice rough. A lie.
You stopped walking. Finally, you turned to face him. "Then what is it?" you asked, your voice softer than you meant for it to be. "Because you had been like this for week, something's been different and yesterday you just broke."
Joel exhaled slowly, looking away, his hands on his hips, his fingers flexing. "Nothing’s different."
You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Bullshit."
Ellie stopped a few steps ahead, glancing between the two of you like she wanted to intervene but thought better of it.
Joel shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders stiff, his mouth opening—then closing again. He had no answer. No real one, anyway.
Because the truth was, it had never been about you. It had always been about him. About the way he would rather push you away than let himself believe, even for a second, that he was allowed to keep you. That you would want to stay.
That you would choose him. But you were tired of being the only one fighting for this.
So, you just nodded, setting your jaw. "Alright," you murmured, turning back toward the road, ignoring the way your chest ached. "If nothing’s different, then let’s just keep moving."
He Heard the way your voice broke at the end and he just watched as you joined Ellie.
Joel stood there, hands tightening into fists at his sides as he watched you walk away. He’d done this—again.
He had Hurt you.
He told himself it was for the best, that it was the only way to keep you safe. But that excuse was starting to sound as hollow as he felt.
Ellie shot him a glance, her expression unreadable before she turned her attention back to you. She said something low under her breath, nudging your shoulder. You didn’t look back.
And Joel? Joel just stood there, rooted in place, watching the one thing he was most afraid of slip through his fingers.
Because, deep down, he knew. It wasn’t the world that would take you from him. It was him. It was a matter of time.
A few hours later, when cold still found its way deep down your bones. You followed Joel and Ellie into the old market, the air inside thick with dust and the remnants of a world long gone. The faded signs above the shop windows once advertised fruits and vegetables, but now they were nothing more than silent witnesses to the decay around them.
Joel stepped into the shadows first, scanning the area with ease. His hand never strayed far from the rifle slung across his back. He wasn’t just looking for supplies—he was looking for danger, as always, he was ready to find it. You watched him move with that quiet confidence that made him seem invincible, even though you knew better. The way he held himself, as if the weight of the world was constantly on his shoulders.
He disappeared behind a corner, moving into the heart of the market.
Ellie, always ready for adventure, shifted impatiently next to you. “Think it’s safe?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the market.
You didn’t answer right away, your eyes fixed on the place where Joel had vanished. You could feel the tension coiling between the two of you, that invisible thread that had been growing tighter over the last few hours. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.
“He’ll let us know when it’s safe,” you said quietly, not taking your eyes away from him.
Ellie raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced. “Yeah, but what if-”
You cut her off with a shake of your head. “He’s careful. He’ll check everything first.”
She didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but she stayed quiet. You both waited in silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the building settling.
Then, Joel’s voice echoed from ahead. “Clear,” he called out as he reappeared from behind a row of shelves, his gaze briefly flicking over you before he turned to lead the way deeper into the market. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the wariness beneath it.
His fingers found their way to your shoulders, his touch was brief, just the slightest brush of his fingers against your jacket. A silent reassurance. Or maybe a habit he couldn't break.
You didn’t react, didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, you focused on scanning the shelves, looking for anything useful. Cans, medical supplies.
Ellie was already rummaging through a shelf, muttering under her breath about how people really liked canned beans before the world went to hell. Joel moved ahead, his rifle held tight as he checked the corners, ever cautious.
You bent down, shifting through a pile of toppled boxes, when Joel’s voice came from behind you. “You good?”
It was automatic, the way he asked. Like even when he was keeping his distance, he still couldn’t help but care.
You hesitated, keeping your back to him. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Then a quiet, “Alright.”
But it wasn’t alright.
Not the way his voice sounded. Not the way your chest ached every time he was close but not close enough. And definitely not the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long on your shoulder, as if he didn’t want to let go.
Joel was already moving toward another section of the market, scanning the rows of empty shelves, searching for anything of value. Ellie had drifted further ahead, already rummaging through a crate she found. You stayed close to the wall, the building’s dilapidated structure making you nervous, but you tried not to let the unease show. You knew Joel was doing his best to keep everyone safe, but the weight of everything—of what you had lost, of what you were still fighting for—was starting to catch up with you.
You took a few more steps, carefully picking your way over the cracked floor, when suddenly, the ground beneath you gave way with a sharp, unsettling creak. Before you could react, your foot twisted, the bone snapping like a twig under the weight of the fall.
A sharp, searing pain shot through your ankle as you cried out, unable to stop yourself. The world spun for a moment as you collapsed, hands pressing to the ground to catch yourself, but the pain in your ankle was unbearable. You let out a sharp gasp, fighting the urge to cry out again as you felt something shift beneath the skin, your foot didn’t feel right.
"Shit," you muttered, trying to stay calm, but panic crept in with each breath. Your heart raced as you instinctively tried to pull yourself up, but your foot wouldn’t hold any weight. You couldn’t put it down.
Ellie’s voice broke through the fog of pain, distant but growing closer. “What happened?”
“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice followed almost immediately. You could hear the panic lacing his tone, the urgency in his steps as he turned back toward you. You felt the weight of his presence before you saw him, his figure coming into view, moving fast.
He saw you on the ground, your face twisted in pain, and his heart dropped. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kneeling down beside you with a speed that surprised you. His hands were gentle, but you could hear the frustration in his voice as he assessed the damage. "What the hell happened?"
“I—I fell,” you stammered, gritting your teeth as you tried to hold back more of the pain. You couldn’t focus on anything other than your ankle, the way it throbbed, the way your body seemed to give way under the weight of it.
Joel’s face hardened, his jaw clenching as he reached down to carefully touch your injured ankle. “I’m gonna need you to stay still, alright?” His voice was calm, but there was a warning edge to it. He was trying to hold himself together, trying not to let his worry show, but you could see it in his eyes. His hands worked quickly, checking for anything more serious, his brow furrowed with concentration.
“Ellie, get over here,” Joel called out, his voice low and strained.
Ellie rushed back toward you, eyes wide with concern as she knelt beside you. “Shit, are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to sound stronger than you felt. “It’s just my ankle.”
Joel’s gaze flicked between you and Ellie, his mind clearly racing. “We need to get you out of here, now.” His hand gripped your shoulder for a moment, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if grounding himself in that brief contact.
Ellie was already standing, her expression determined as she took a deep breath. “I’ll go grab what we need.”
Joel nodded, but his focus never left you. He reached down, his hands carefully lifting you as he positioned himself behind you. "I'm gonna carry you. It's gonna hurt a little, but I need you to hang on."
You bit back a hiss of pain as he adjusted his hold on you, making sure not to jostle your foot too much, but you couldn’t suppress the way your body tensed at the movement. The pain was still sharp, but there was something comforting in the way Joel’s arms secured around you.
“Joel…” you whispered, too exhausted to speak louder.
“I got you,” he muttered back, his voice almost a promise. "Just hang in there."
As he started to move, carrying you carefully toward a safer corner, you could feel your heart rate begin to slow, your pulse steadying slightly in the rhythm of his steps. But the ache in your ankle still lingered, a constant reminder of how fragile everything really was.
You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the pain, trying to find some semblance of peace in the way Joel had his arms around you. Because no matter how mad you were, no matter how much you weren’t talking to him, Joel Miller was always going to take care of you.
Joel helped you settle into a quiet corner of the abandoned store, easing you down onto an old crate. He crouched in front of you, his hands steady as he pulled your boot off, careful not to jostle your ankle too much.
Ellie hovered for a second, glancing between the two of you, then rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’m gonna go check the other side of the store. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
You didn’t respond. Joel didn’t either.
Once Ellie disappeared, Joel focused back on your ankle, pulling out a roll of bandages from his pack. He was quiet as he started wrapping, his fingers gentle but firm, pressing just enough to support your injury.
You watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet scoff. “You don’t have to pretend you care about this.”
Joel’s hands stilled. His jaw ticked. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours.
“You think I’m pretending?” His voice was low, rough. Almost offended by the way your voice sounded saying those words.
You looked away, focusing on the peeling paint on the walls. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Joel. One second, you’re mad at me. The next, you’re acting like—like this.” You gestured vaguely at him. “Like it actually matters.”
Joel exhaled through his nose, sitting back on his heels. “It does matter.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “Does it? Because you sure as hell didn’t act like it when you were yelling at me.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was mad because you almost got yourself killed.”
“I was saving you.” You protested.
“I don’t need saving” He replied, rough as always.
Your eyes snapped back to his, anger flashing in them. “And I don’t need you acting like I don’t have a say in whether or not I protect you. You can’t just decide for me, Joel.”
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked exhausted, like he was carrying too much weight on his shoulders. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.
You frowned, your voice softer now. “Can’t what?”
His gaze met yours again, something raw behind it. “I can’t lose you.”
The words hit you harder than you expected. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the faint wind outside, the rustling of leaves.
You swallowed, your throat tight. “You think I want to lose you?”
Joel’s expression softened just a fraction. He sighed, reaching forward, his hand hesitating before resting gently on your knee.
Your breath caught. The fight, the tension, it was still there, but underneath it was something deeper. Something neither of you had the words for just yet.
“You are always so willing to die,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “Like you’re just waiting for the exact moment. Like none of this matters to you. Like I don’t matter.”
Joel’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened, grounding you, but he didn’t say anything.
You sniffed, shaking your head. “Do you even know what that does to me? How it makes me feel?”
He swallowed hard, his throat working around the words he wasn’t saying.
“You walk into danger like you’ve already made peace with dying,” you continued, your voice raw. “And maybe you have. Maybe you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I care. And you make me watch you throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t matter if you make it out. Like you don’t care if I have to watch you—”
Your voice cut off as a sob wracked through you.
Joel let out a slow breath. Then, finally, he spoke. “I do care,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”
You let out a bitter laugh, swiping at your tears. “You sure don’t act like it.”
Joel’s jaw clenched. His gaze dropped for a moment before he forced himself to look at you. “I’m not waiting to die.”
You scoffed, looking away.
“I’m not” he insisted. His voice was rough, firm. “I just…I don’t know how to do this. How to—” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the back of his neck. “I spent twenty years not giving a damn about whether I made it out of alive. And then you—” He stopped, shaking his head like he didn’t have the words.
You stared at him, waiting. His gaze met yours again, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable.
"Do you think I would survive without you?" You asked him.
"You're strong." he stated.
"That doesn't matter if the person I love and I protect throws himself to death" you said, tired of the cycle.
“I’m not trying to--” he started, but you cut him off.
“Yes, you are,” you snapped, your voice trembling. “You act like you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I do. And I don’t know what’s worse—watching you run into danger without thinking or knowing that if you died, you’d probably think I’d just move on.”
His brows furrowed. “That ain’t—”
You swallowed, your fingers tightening around Joel’s wrist. “Do you love me, Joel?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say it—that maybe, after everything, he’d still hold back.
But then, his hand moved, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing over the cut on your cheek. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was memorizing you.
“I do,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”
Your breath stilled.
Joel exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “More than I ever meant to. More than I know what to do with.”
Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice.
“Then stop trying to leave me behind,” you whispered, pleading to him.
He looked at you with such intensity, as if he was trying to see past the pain and fear, trying to understand something that had always eluded him.
“How do you even love someone like me?” Joel’s voice cracked slightly, the question laced with vulnerability, a side of him you rarely saw—something raw and unprotected.
Your heart hurt at the sound of it. You wanted to reach out and erase the doubt from his mind, to tell him that he didn’t have to question it. But instead, you just looked at him, letting the silence linger for a moment, trying to gather the right words to answer him.
“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, “I love you because you’re you. Because through all the broken pieces, all the walls you’ve built around yourself, I still see the man who’s been there for me. You’re not perfect, none of us are. But you’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if taking in your words, processing them, before meeting your gaze again. His expression softened, the tightness in his jaw easing, but there was still that guarded look in his eyes. He was trying to fight something inside himself, something he had carried for so long.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said, almost to himself, but you heard it loud and clear. The doubt in his voice, something he couldn’t shake.
You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. “Stop saying that,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “You deserve me. You deserve everything good that’s coming your way. I’ve seen who you are, Joel. You’re not what you think you are.”
“Why do you think I keep pushing you away?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, like he was afraid of the answer himself.
You leaned in a little closer, your forehead nearly touching his, and your breath mingled in the quiet space between you. “Because you’re scared of letting yourself love me the way you do,” you said softly. “You’re scared of losing me. But pushing me away won’t make it any easier. It’ll just leave you with a regret you can’t undo.”
He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as if your words had struck a chord in him, but it wasn’t enough to break him completely, not yet.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m afraid if I let myself love you fully... if I let myself need you the way I do… I won’t be able to protect you. I can’t live with that.”
A single tear slipped down your cheek as you reached up to wipe it away, the tenderness in his voice catching you off guard. You could feel the pain in his words, the depth of his fear, and it only made you love him more.
Joel’s hand gently moved to your ankle, and despite everything that had just been said, the tenderness in his touch wasn’t lost on you. His rough fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully positioned your leg. You winced slightly at the discomfort, but it wasn’t the pain from your ankle that caught your attention—it was the way his eyes never left you, the quiet care he was showing in that moment.
“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low, trying to keep his own emotions in check. You could tell he was trying to be calm for you, even though you knew he was anything but calm inside.
Joel’s fingers moved gently over your ankle, wrapping the bandage with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. His touch was steady, and for once, it was soft, more like the careful tenderness of someone who didn’t want to hurt you, rather than the harshness that often came with survival.
You winced slightly when the bandage tightened, but he immediately eased his grip, looking at you with concern.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure why, but his care made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.
Once your ankle was properly secured, Joel leaned back, looking at you for a moment, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite place in them. He didn’t speak for a while, just stared at you like he was trying to decide something in his mind.
Joel’s gaze went to your ankle for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin of your bandaged ankle. It was a gesture so tender, so unexpected, that you couldn’t help but laugh softly.
“Don’t laugh,” he murmured, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice remained quiet, almost apologetic. “I’m just trying to make it better.”
You shook your head, still chuckling lightly, the sound feeling strange after everything that had happened. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Joel,” you said, meeting his eyes with a smile. “It’s just... never thought you’d be kissing my ankle better.”
Joel’s smirk softened into something more tender, and for a moment, there was nothing between you but the quiet understanding. His eyes dropped back to your ankle for a brief second before lifting to meet yours once more, his expression serious. Without another word, he moved closer, his hand reaching to cup your face gently, his thumb brushing over your skin with the same tenderness he had shown when tending to your injury. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his lips just a breath away.
And then, without hesitation, he kissed you, soft, lingering, as if it was a promise, as if it was everything, he hadn’t been able to say before. You leaned into it, letting the kiss speak for you both, the tension between you finally easing, at least for this moment.
“Oh, come on! Seriously?” Ellie’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.
You and Joel broke apart instantly, your breath still tangled in his, as you turned to see Ellie standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, a smirk pulling at her lips.
Joel cleared his throat and sat back slightly, rubbing a hand over his beard like that would somehow erase what she’d just walked in on.
Ellie rolled her eyes. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and you’re already making out. Unbelievable.”
Your face burned, but you couldn’t help but laugh at her dramatic tone. “Ellie—”
“No, no,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “I mean, it’s kinda sweet, but gross.”
Joel shot her a look, his voice flat. “Ellie.”
“What?” She shrugged, grinning. “Just saying. But, uh—maybe save the romance for later, lovebirds? We kinda got shit to do.”
Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but when he glanced at you again, you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“C’mon,” he muttered, standing up and offering you a hand. “We should get movin’.”
You took his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. As you stood, Ellie shot you both a smug look before turning on her heel.
As she walked away, you heard her mutter under her breath, “God, I hope I never have to see that again.”
As soon as you put weight on your injured ankle, a sharp pain shot up your leg, making you wince. You bit down on a curse, trying to tough it out, but Joel noticed immediately.
“Joel, it’s fine, I can walk,” you protested, but you could see the look in his eyes, the one that said, no argument.
“Not gonna argue with me on this one. Up you go.” Before you could protest, he crouched slightly in front of you. “Get on.” He waited for you to settle onto his back, and you reluctantly complied, knowing it would be easier than walking on your own.
You blinked at him. “Joel, I can—”
He shot you a look over his shoulder. “I'm not asking...”
Ellie snorted. “Just get on, lovebird.”
You sighed, but there was no real fight left in you. Carefully, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you effortlessly.
“Easy, old man,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Joel huffed, adjusting his grip. “Call me that again, and I’m dropping you.”
You laughed softly, “Thanks,” you muttered after a moment, your face buried in his jacket, still feeling the warmth of his body. The way he carried you felt like a sense of safety you hadn’t realized you needed until now.
You sighed against him, letting yourself relax just a little as Joel carried you forward with steady steps. Without thinking, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his jacket.
Joel stiffened for half a second, his grip on your legs tightening before he exhaled slowly. “You trying to distract me?” His voice was lower now, rougher.
A smirk played on your lips. “Is it working?”
He huffed, shaking his head. “Maybe.”
You laughed, placing another kiss on the same spot, “I love you, Joel.”
His steps faltered for just a moment, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into your legs like he needed to ground himself.
He didn’t answer right away, just kept walking, his jaw tight. For a second, you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.
But then, in that quiet, gruff voice of his, he murmured, “I love you too, darling. Always”.
-
flippingfrogs liked this · 4 days ago -
rinn-ie reblogged this · 4 days ago -
rinn-ie liked this · 4 days ago
-
lewisdidthat liked this · 4 days ago -
prettylittleblog13 liked this · 4 days ago -
miss-strawberry-queeen liked this · 5 days ago -
juliapowers liked this · 6 days ago -
livelaughlovefics liked this · 1 week ago -
fyncheroo liked this · 1 week ago -
myheadisonfire liked this · 1 week ago -
3-nicole-3 liked this · 1 week ago -
blackwidow-carter reblogged this · 1 week ago -
hypnagogiac reblogged this · 1 week ago -
moonsfair liked this · 1 week ago -
profoundthingnut liked this · 1 week ago -
meoowwwwwwwwwwww liked this · 1 week ago -
captrips liked this · 1 week ago -
b-u-b-b-l-e-s2 liked this · 1 week ago -
kiss-me-im-dead liked this · 1 week ago -
wolverinessideburns liked this · 1 week ago -
tulilip21 liked this · 1 week ago -
sweaters-and-socks liked this · 1 week ago -
midnightkissing liked this · 1 week ago -
vampyyweek liked this · 1 week ago -
mommyshreke liked this · 1 week ago -
fatalflowers liked this · 1 week ago -
kbyrmt liked this · 1 week ago -
targaryen-realnesss liked this · 1 week ago -
hypnagogiac liked this · 1 week ago
-
kyungseist liked this · 1 week ago -
manzanasfrescasfrahagenmin liked this · 1 week ago -
yukinelli liked this · 1 week ago -
hollydreamwood liked this · 1 week ago -
joelmillersgffff liked this · 1 week ago -
sientailan liked this · 1 week ago -
kingvonskibidislicer liked this · 1 week ago -
darkalpacastranger liked this · 1 week ago -
daddiesofthecult reblogged this · 1 week ago
-
daddiesofthecult liked this · 1 week ago
-
tomie-it-girl liked this · 1 week ago -
mustachepascal liked this · 1 week ago -
lostinthestreamofconsciousness liked this · 1 week ago -
imjustcoolerthanyou liked this · 1 week ago -
loganeraa liked this · 1 week ago -
forget-me-nots4 liked this · 1 week ago -
little-miss-dilf-lover liked this · 1 week ago -
wolverinedd0 liked this · 1 week ago -
strawbery23 liked this · 2 weeks ago
