PEDRO PASCAL Who Makes Who Laugh More | The Last Of Us Season 2

PEDRO PASCAL in Austin, Texas | via _jrmx

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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.

---

Danny Ramirez

---

Summary: Joel was a bad man. Perverted, dirty-minded, and old. He couldn’t keep you out of his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. You were the new neighbor across the way, though he’d made sure you’d never spoken. He kept his distance, kept to himself. Until Dina nearly dragged you into his dining area, forcing you to sit with him as he averted his gaze. And just like that, she got up and left—leaving you to whatever quiet little plan she'd already set in motion. || smut MDNI 18+, peepaw!joel, oldman!joel, big ol' girthy age gap (not specified but LEGAL), soft!joel, the man's obsessed, perv!joel, daddy kink, pinv, f!receiving oral, masturbation, << joel watches you, joel mentions reader's body is 'little' but only because he's a big boy, big dick joel miller, idk what else to put here, this fic lives in a world where creampies ≠ pregnancy, this takes place *before Ellie & Dina get together || a/n: couldn't stop thinking about this all damn night. Ok he’s actually an angel but THINKS he’s a bad man

Just focus on the wires, Miller. The wires.

But the zap bit into his fingers the second he looked, eyes drifting up just for a moment, out the window and onto you.

You were kneeling in the garden bed along the edge of the street by your house, wrist-deep in dark soil, the late-spring sunlight gilding your skin like something out of a goddamn dream. Your shirt had ridden up your back as you reached forward, and he caught the bare curve of your spine, the subtle arch of it with every shift of your hips.

He hissed quietly at the sting in his palm, jerking his hand back from the breaker.

He was supposed to be working. Minding his own business. In his own house. At his own dining table. Just tinkering. That was all.

Wasn’t his fault the window faced the street. Wasn’t his fault you were outside in cutoff shorts and a t-shirt, sleeves shoved up as you planted an unruly bramble of something in the dirt.

God bless late spring, he thought. Then immediately cursed himself for it, trying in vain to look away. But you stretched your arms over your head, back arching. Your shirt lifted with the motion, a sliver of skin flashing above your waistband before falling back down.

He blinked, hard, and dropped his head.

The wires. Focus on the wires.

The breaker sat in his palm, cold and sharp-edged. He adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his nose, trying to reorient himself with the tangled mass of copper and springs he was meant to be working on. His pliers hovered over the rusted coil, but his mind had already betrayed him.

The air inside felt too still. Dust floated through shafts of sunlight that slanted across the kitchen floorboards. A breeze fluttered the thin curtain over the sink. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped. A dog barked. Life, irritatingly, continued.

Then he heard voices. Loud enough to pull him from his head. He looked up.

Dina was out there now, talking to you, animated as ever. You frowned at something she said, then shook your head. He didn’t know why that made his chest ache, but it did. 

He wanted to know what she’d asked. Wanted to know what you needed. If you asked, he’d do it. Build it, fix it, find it. He’d do it with no hesitation.

But asking meant talking. Talking meant being near. And Joel didn’t allow himself that kind of luxury with you.

Because if you saw him— really saw him—you’d see right through the practiced nods and gravel-toned grunts. You’d see the way his eyes trailed a second too long, the way his jaw clenched when you laughed at someone else’s joke. You’d catch the heat of it. The filth of it.

And you’d run.

He wouldn’t blame you.

But God, he wasn’t sure he could take it if you did.

And yet… if you hated him, at least you’d be thinking about him.

As he stared out the window, Dina suddenly gestured toward his house, thumb hooked over her shoulder. Then your eyes followed. You looked right at his place. And shrugged.

Shrugged.

He had to sit back for a second, stunned. What the hell did that mean? Were you talking about him? Dina was, clearly. But you…were you indifferent? Unbothered? That hollow thud behind his ribs wasn’t from a breaker.

He told himself he didn’t care. He tried. But then she was dragging you to your feet.

No.

You resisted at first. Body language stiff, reluctant. But Dina…Dina was not the kind of girl to take no for an answer. Joel knew it well, she was Ellie’s closest friend, after all. And now she was dragging you up his walkway.

“Joel?” Dina called out, knocking.

He scrambled to look busy, heart pounding, thoughts buzzing like flies.

“Yeah,” he called, low and even. “Come in.”

The front door creaked open in the corner of his eye, the sound of footsteps soft and careful as they moved closer. And then your legs came into view. Long, bare, sun-warmed. He had to force himself not to look higher, not to follow the shape of you all the way up to that sweet little body wrapped in tiny shorts and a thin tee, practically begging to be devoured.

The wires, Miller.

“Hey,” Dina said cheerfully.

“Howdy,” Joel replied, short and clipped.

“What’re you working on?” she asked, plopping into the chair beside him.

He kept his tone casual. “Old breaker. They were gonna toss it, but it’s just a spring issue.”

She leaned over the table, inspecting it. “Teach me?”

He grunted in what he hoped passed as agreement. Felt the chair next to her shift. Felt your hesitation fill every inch of the room.

There was a beat, some hushed whispers of Dina urging you again, but Joel still kept his eyes down.

Then the chair across from him scraped, and you sat. Tension spiked in his chest.

“Joel,” Dina said sweetly, “have you met my new best friend?”

Joel lifted his head just enough to look at her. “Thought Ellie was your best friend.”

“She’s in the Hall of Fame. But this one—” she beamed at you “—makes the best apple pie in Jackson.”

“I know.”

Ah, shit. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

You gasped. A soft little breath that made his stomach twist. He still didn’t look at you, but now he could picture it perfectly. The way your lips parted. The way your eyebrows probably lifted.

He wasn’t supposed to know.

You’d left it for him on a rainy afternoon. Knocked once, maybe twice, then stood there for a minute like you were trying to decide if you should wait. But when he didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—you turned and walked away, your footsteps soft against the damp porch.

He’d seen you enough around town, neighbors fawning over your story, your smile, your damn cooking. He didn’t want any part of it. Didn’t want to be another man pulled into your orbit just because you were sweet and sunny and made people feel something.

He told himself he wouldn’t touch it. But later, when the sky had gone pink and the house was quiet, he peeled back the foil, took one bite, and almost dropped to his knees.

It was perfect.

The kind of taste that sent him spiraling back through decades. Holidays at his grandmother’s house. His little hands and floured countertops and the sound of laughter he hadn’t heard in years.

He tried to hate it. Hate you for making it.

But Joel Miller was a lot of things. Stubborn, angry, mean when he had to be.

He was not strong enough to hate you.

Not even close.

Dina leaned over the table, elbows planted, chin in hand. “So listen,” she said, flicking a glance toward you before turning back to Joel. “Ellie told me you’ve been fixing up old stuff again. Thought maybe you could take a look at my space heater—it’s making this really weird buzzing sound, and I’m ninety percent sure it’s not supposed to smell like burnt popcorn.”

“What you need that thing for now? S’warm out now,” he grumbled over to her.

Dina’s brow furrowed at him, “My place is freezing!”

Joel rolled his eyes, grunting, eyes back on the breaker. “Probably just dust. I can swing by later.”

“Sweet,” she said, clapping her hands once. “I told Ellie you’d say yes.”

You shifted in your seat, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Joel could see it in the corner of his eye, the way you didn’t quite know where to look. Your gaze darted from the breaker to the worn tabletop to the window. You didn’t want to be here.

Dina, ever the social architect, didn’t miss a beat. “Anyway,” she said, standing suddenly and brushing her hands down her jeans, “I’m gonna run back and check on Ellie. She’s making me a cassette tape in the garage.

You looked up, surprised. “Wait, I thought we were gonna—”

She cut you off with a little wave of her fingers. “You’re fine. Stay. Learn how to fix shit. Or don’t. Flirt awkwardly. Whatever works.”

Joel finally looked up at that, shooting her a warning glare, but she just grinned and backed toward the door.

“Thanks, Joel. You’re the best,” she said sweetly. Then, turning her back to him, shot you a wink.

And just like that, she was gone.

The front door clicked shut behind her, and silence fell over the house again.

Thick as syrup.

You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely audible over the ticking wall clock and the quiet hum of the fan. Outside, the breeze rustled through the garden beds, and you could still hear the soft creak of Dina’s boots fading down the porch.

Joel didn’t move right away. Just let the silence stretch, long and taut, like a wire about to snap.

Then he finally exhaled, “She can be a bit…”

Your eyes lifted to his face, and he had to remind himself to hold your gaze. Don’t be impolite. Don’t be a scrooge. So he looked up a you.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, lips quirking at the sides.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he said, voice low as he looked back at his hands and quickly busying them, placing in a spring to the small breaker.

“I know…” you said, hesitating, and then, sitting straighter, you added, “Actually, I was gonna ask you…think somethin’s wrong with my water heater.”

His gaze snapped up. 

Anything you needed.

He’d do it. 

Fix it, build it, find it. 

God, he was so screwed.

“Been a few days now,” you continued, rushing the words under his stare. “Water’s comin’ out freezin’, and the pressure’s been real weak. Can you come look at it for me?”

Joel paused, the breaker in his hand feeling like a hundred pounds. 

Don’t, Miller. He told himself. But his mind, his imagination, the unhelpful bastard that it was, already lept at the thought.

You, naked under a stream of frigid water. Shivering. Nipples tight from the cold. Your fingers rubbing at your arms, slick and bare and goose-pimpled. Hair heavy, dripping, clinging to your collarbones. That soft little sound you might make when the water hit.

He swallowed hard, fighting the flush rising under his collar. He couldn’t have you suffering like that. No man in his right mind would leave you to freeze in your own house.

“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. “Yeah. Sure.”

“How’s tomorrow?”

Joel nodded, quick and clipped. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t already planning it out down to the damn hour. He’d come by early. First thing. Get it done and gone before he did something stupid like linger.

But early meant sleepwear. Meant you might answer the door in those tiny shorts he pretended not to notice through his window.

Afternoon, then.

That’d be safer.

“Just, uh,” he said awkwardly, fingers twitching around the pliers. “Maybe don’t be there when I show up.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

His eyes flicked up to yours, brief and sharp, “In the shower.”

“Oh,” you said quickly, “Right. No—of course. Definitely not.”

But his ears burned. And no matter how hard he tried, the image came back anyway.

You. Cold. Naked. Wet.

He was so fucked.

Joel felt sick to his stomach just crossing the street.

Would you know?

Could you tell he’d spent the whole damn night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, your tight little body haunting every inch of his imagination as he tugged at his fist beneath the covers?

He felt filthy. Perverted.

Bad.

He was a bad man, and worse, he knew it.

He probably didn’t need that second cup of coffee that morning—his limbs jittery, his hand aching as he lifted the old metal toolbox from the shed beside Ellie’s garage. His knees popped as he straightened, the ache behind his eyes a dull throb. He was too old for this.

Too old to be thinking about you like this til all hours of the night. Like some teenage, horned-up fool.

Still, he made his way over, the weight of the box not half as heavy as the tension in his chest. At his feet, the little garden bed was already blooming—blackberry bushes nestled in the soil and climbing your freshly painted fence. They suited the house. Suited you. Sweet, wild, a little thorny. He wondered what you planned to do with them. Jam, maybe. Pie, if he was lucky. If he was ever lucky again.

He doubted he’d get the chance, not after today.

Not with the thoughts scrambling around in his head, sharp and dirty and desperate to spill out.

He knocked once with his knuckles, quiet, almost hoping you wouldn’t hear.

Maybe you were out—off at the community garden, like he’d seen you some mornings with a basket slung over your arm. Or off sweet-talking the horses, sneaking carrots to your favorites. Maybe you forgot.

But no such luck. The door opened.

“Joel,” you breathed, eyes widening like you hadn’t expected him to actually show. The sound of your voice—saying his name for the first time—ripped something open in his chest.

Say it again, he wanted to beg. Please. Just once more, so I can keep it locked away. So I can die with it in my memory. 

You smiled, a little sheepish.

He didn’t smile back. Just kept his brow furrowed, his expression hard. He couldn’t afford to let you get close. Couldn’t let you mistake him for someone safe.

“Hi,” he nodded, voice low.

You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Uh, my shower’s just… in here—”

“Need to take a look at the water heater first,” he cut in.

“Oh,” you blinked, hands still gripping the door and its frame. “Right…”

“Can I come in?” he added, one brow raised. A flicker of something like amusement in his voice. Maybe you were just as nervous as he was.

“Course,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Please.”

He stepped inside.

Into your world.

It smelled like cinnamon. Like apples and woodsmoke and something fresh baked—though he saw no tray of anything waiting on the counter. Just your scent, clinging to the walls. Like you lived here completely. Like you’d settled in, made it your own.

Of course you had.

Fresh flowers sat in a mason jar on the table. Little framed paintings dotted the walls—ones he recognized from the barter-and-trade shop, and a few of horses that made his chest ache. One in particular, just a lone cowboy on a mountainside, was his personal favorite.

“The uh… water heater’s down in the basement,” you said, already walking toward the narrow door at the back of the kitchen.

Joel followed, but when you stayed behind, hovering uncertainly near the top of the stairs, he didn’t protest. It was better that way. He needed to get himself under control.

He ducked into the dark, found the breaker box, and the old water heater behind it. It didn’t take long to spot the issue.

The main switch was off.

Just… flipped off. No blown fuse. No leak. No damage.

He stared at it, confused. Then narrowed his eyes.

No.

No, no, no. That wasn’t right.

Had someone messed with it? Played a prank? Messed with you?

But he’d never seen anyone else go in or out of this house. You lived alone. He was sure of it. Which left only one possibility.

His pulse thumped in his ears.

He flipped the switch. Waited for the hum. Then made his way back upstairs, each step landing heavy beneath his boots.

“You should be all good now,” he said as he reemerged.

“Yeah?” you asked, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “That easy, huh?”

“That easy,” he nodded.

Easy. To get him here. To get him to look. To fix it.

Fix it, build it, find it. He was your man. He wanted to be your man.

“Well,” you said, fidgeting, “you sure you don’t need to check it upstairs?”

Joel moved to the sink instead, turned the handle all the way to hot, and waited. Within seconds, steam curled up from the basin. He held his hand under it, felt the sharp bite of heat.

“Good to go,” he said, glancing at you. He wondered if he would’ve noticed it before, but this time he was certain. You turned a little pink under his gaze, pulled your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Oh,” you murmured. “Good.”

He nodded. “Yup.”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t turn to leave.

He didn’t want to.

Not now that he knew, by some cataclysmic star crossed miracle, you’d brought him here on purpose. That you’d wanted him here. But he wasn’t sure what that meant. What he was supposed to do with it.

Still, you let him make his way to the door. Sweet as anything, practically shoving cookies into his hands as thanks.

He refused, hands up in surrender as he backed toward the entryway.

“Really,” he said, voice lighter now, accent thicker as he let his shoulders relax, “I’m fine, darlin’, please. Just—” his hand found the doorknob, “Just let me know if there’s anythin’ else you need. You just holler, alright?”

You smiled, soft and a little playful. “Alright. Well… thank you.”

But, somehow, your water heater broke again only a few days later.

Then the lights went out in your second bedroom. 

And then— his last and final strike—the curtain rod came crashing down from your bedroom window on a Saturday morning.

Joel stood on a small foot ladder beside your bed, boots braced on the tread, hand wrapped around the curtain rod bracket as he tightened the last screw into the wall. The hardware clinked softly against the metal as he adjusted the fit. You sat on the edge of the bed behind him, legs swinging, talking about something—weather, or the community garden, or a dog you’d seen with a lopsided face. He wasn’t really listening.

Not in a rude way. He just liked the sound of your voice more than whatever it was you were actually saying.

He hummed now and then, nodding at the right moments, letting you fill the space. It helped. Gave him something to focus on besides the fact that he was in your bedroom, that even your curtains smelled like you. That your nightstand had a little dish with jewelry in it and a book with a pressed flower between the pages. That your closet door was cracked just enough to show a glimpse of your laundry basket, and his brain, the traitorous thing, kept wondering what might be folded inside.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and gave the bracket one last twist.

“You sure must’ve worked real hard to get this damn thing off the wall,” he said, voice low.

Your words stopped mid-sentence.

He turned his head, just enough to catch the look on your face.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Silent.

Caught.

The silence stretched between you like something taut and dangerous.

Joel straightened up slowly, the curtain rod still in his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asked, voice gentler than it should’ve been. “Or should I just assume you wanted me back over here so bad, you started pullin’ things off your walls?”

“I—” you choked, voice barely above a whisper, the color draining from your face as the words stuck in your throat.

Joel caught the way your fingers curled against the bedsheet, how your knees shifted slightly, like you might bolt. And God, part of him wanted you to. Part of him needed you to.

But the other part, the selfish part, couldn’t bear the thought.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he said softly. “I like your company too.”

Your eyes lifted to his, wide and searching.

“You… you do?” you asked, like you didn’t believe it. Like no part of you had expected it to be true.

Joel nodded, slow. “Yeah.” The word came out tight. It took effort, like he had to shove it past all the reasons why he shouldn’t say it.

You stared at him, stunned and unmoving. He stood still for a long beat, then finally stepped down from his stool. The floor creaked under his weight as he crossed to your bed, each step slower than the last. He moved slower than he really needed to, but it kept him steady, until he finally sat beside you. 

Not too close, not touching you, but he could feel the heat of you anyway. He caught the faint trace of your perfume, something soft and warm and inviting, and it nearly knocked him out. He wanted to breathe it in until it lived in his lungs. He wanted it to cling to his shirt, to the collar of his flannel, so he could press his face into it later—alone in the dark—like that might be enough.

Or better, that filthy corner of his brain, the beast that lived inside him wanted you to smell like him. Wanted it clinging to your sheets, your wrists, the hollow of your throat. Wanted people to catch it in passing and wonder why you’d let a man like him get that close. 

But he wouldn’t. He was trying to be good, to have restraint.

His hands stayed on his knees, tense, knuckles pale where they pulled against the denim. This was your room, so soft and warm and clean. The kind of place he could get lost in if he wasn’t careful. 

“Ain’t a good idea, what you’re doin’,” he murmured, “I’m an old man, honey.”

Your eyes tracked over his face as he looked at you, “I like that you’re older, Joel.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, jaw flexing. Christ. You didn’t know what you were saying. 

“I’m old enough to be your daddy, baby,” he whispered. The words came out rougher than he intended.

He heard the way your breath caught. Saw the way your body stilled. Like something inside you had jolted awake.

He should’ve looked away.

Instead, his gaze found yours as he swallowed dryly. When he finally got control of his heavy tongue again, he asked, “That do somethin’ to you, sweetheart?”

You didn’t speak. But the answer was all over your face.

Joel exhaled slowly, leaning back just enough to get a better look at you. Still not touching, but close enough to see the flush rise in your cheeks.

“Gonna answer me?” he asked.

Your voice trembled. “Y-yes.”

His brow lifted slightly.

“Yes, I like… thinking of you that way.”

His stomach turned over. “You think about me, huh?”

You hesitated, lips parting, and for a second he thought maybe you’d lie.

Then your voice hit him square in the chest.

“All the time.”

Joel went still. Your words rang in his head, loud and clear. Like a bell tolling inside his ribs.

Now he knew. You wanted him. You thought about him the same way he thought about you. And if he so much as reached for you, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

So instead, he just looked at you. He let his eyes rake over your face, your body, looking at how your thighs had pressed together. How your breathing had changed. How your fingers twisted in the fabric of your shirt like you didn’t know what to do with your hands now that the words were out.

And then, his voice came low and steady, like it was coming from somewhere deeper than his own body, “Show me.”

Your brows drew together in confusion, your mouth falling open. “What?”

His eyes locked with yours, and he knew you could see it. The way his pupils had all but swallowed the color from his irises, how tightly he was clinging to the last scrap of control he had left. He could feel the sweat at the back of his neck, the pulse in his throat, the ache in his hands from how hard he was trying not to reach for you. Not to ruin you.

He couldn’t let himself slip. Couldn’t let it crack wide open.

“When you think of me,” he said, quieter now, words coming like gravel dragged behind his teeth, “what do you do?”

You looked away for a second, your gaze dropping to the bed beneath you, cheeks heated and mouth parting like you didn’t know how to answer. But then your eyes found his again—wide and shining, nervous and breathless.

“You want me to… to show you?”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded slowly.

That was all he needed. Just to watch. That was the line. That was what he could live with. He wouldn’t touch you. Wouldn’t lay a single hand on your sweet, perfect, young body. He’d sit still like a good man, like a gentleman, and let it wreck him quietly. He’d carry the memory of it back across the street like a loaded gun and bury it deep where no one would ever find it.

You hesitated, breath shivering, legs pressing together as you sat there, body unsure while your eyes held his like they were searching for something—permission, safety, the truth of how far this would go.

“S’alright,” he said again, his voice soft like velvet, “Just lay back.”

He saw your throat bob, and then, slowly, you leaned back onto your elbows, shifting further onto the bed. The mattress dipped with your weight, the sound of your shorts brushing the sheets too loud in the stillness. He swallowed hard as you arched your back just enough to hook your thumbs in the waistband of those tiny, soft little shorts, sliding them down your hips, exposing the smooth skin beneath inch by inch.

“Slow–” he said, voice rough and wrecked. You paused, and nodded, eyes never leaving his face as you gently brought them down your legs. Your hand quickly and gently let them fall to the floor. 

And there you were. 

Laid down on your own bed, your legs bending slightly, thighs pressed together, hiding yourself from his fiery gaze. Joel’s knuckles popped with restraint to keep himself from spreading them for himself.

He tried to keep his eyes on your face, so sweet and flushed and burning with heat. You let out a breath, seemingly collecting your courage as you let your thighs fall to the sides. He couldn’t do it anymore, his eyes dropped almost immediately, giving in. Your precious puffy lips were outlined in the panties, light colored enough that he could see the stain of wetness forming in the cotton.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your fingers slid slowly down your stomach, over your panties, pressing lightly between your thighs.

Joel’s lungs locked. His jaw ticked. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as wire.

This is all I get, he told himself. This is enough.

He could feel his pulse hammering behind his eyes. His jeans were too tight, his hands were trembling, and he hadn’t even touched you.

You moved your fingers again, slower this time, dragging them up and over the damp fabric, letting out the softest sound—barely audible, but to Joel it was deafening. It struck him in the chest like a damn hammer.

He was going to die here. He was going to die right here in your bedroom with his boots on the floor and you moaning into your own palm, and he was going to deserve every second of torture.

You didn’t rush.

Joel thought maybe that would save him. That you’d move fast, try to get it over with. But you didn’t. You took your time. You let your fingers glide softly over the front of your underwear, lazy strokes that did more to him than anything explicit could have. Your thighs shifted, knees bending up and falling open a little wider, and Joel could see the heat of you blooming beneath the thin cotton, darkening it, making it cling.

He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, just to breathe. Just to stay sitting where he was and not reach for you, not grab your hips and tear those panties clean off your body. When he opened them again, you were watching him. Watching the way he breathed through his nose, the way his fists stayed locked tight on his legs, the way his gaze kept dropping down no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

You circled yourself again, slower now, the fabric catching slightly, and your breath caught in your throat. Joel’s heart was pounding so hard he thought you must hear it from where you lay.

His voice came out low, nearly wrecked. “Take ’em off.”

You paused, fingers freezing for a moment, your expression flickering with nerves and something else—excitement, anticipation, the realization that this wasn’t just about putting on a show. This was about him needing it. Needing you.

You slid your thumbs under the waistband and raised your hips off the mattress. He watched, helpless, as you peeled them down your legs—slow, hesitant, like maybe you were savoring the tension just as much as he was—and let them join your shorts on the floor.

Laid bare in front of him, thighs parted, glistening, flushed, and so fucking soft-looking it almost hurt to look directly at you, you looked like a god damn angel.  Joel swore under his breath and dragged a hand over his mouth again, like it might erase the things he was thinking. It didn’t.

His voice cracked when he spoke. “Touch yourself.”

You nodded, barely, and your hand slipped down again. But this time, there was no fabric in the way. Joel watched your fingers move over your folds, the way your hips tilted up to meet them. He could see everything now, every flicker of pleasure across your face, every little tremble in your legs. When you let out that first real moan—low and quiet, almost like you were trying to stifle it—Joel’s body jolted like he’d been shot.

“Jesus, baby,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.

You rubbed slow, steady, getting yourself wet, and his eyes dropped to where your hand moved, slick and glistening, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he wanted to see.

“Put a finger inside,” he said, and it came out lower than he meant it to—rough, almost angry with need.

You looked at him, lips parted, lashes heavy. “Joel…”

“Do it,” he rasped. “Just one, baby. That’s all.”

You hesitated, breath shaking. Then you did it. You brought your fingers lower, traced the slickness, and pushed one inside—slow, stretching, burying it to the knuckle—and Joel’s hands finally left his knees, flying up to rake through his hair as he groaned quietly.

He couldn’t fucking take it.

And neither could you.

Your back arched, mouth falling open with a quiet gasp—daddy—as you moved your finger in and out, your palm pressing down against your clit for more friction. Joel couldn’t even pretend to look away now. He was locked in, watching the way your body responded, the way you started to tremble.

And then he heard your voice again. Small, breathy. Needy.

“Please.”

Joel’s heart stuttered.

“Please, Joel,” you said again, whimpering now, your eyes shining, mouth wet, hips starting to lose their rhythm. “I don’t… I can’t… I need you.”

He clenched his jaw so tight it ached, his whole body bowstring-tense as he leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his thighs, fists clenched again, because if he moved even a little further he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered. “Don’t beg me, baby. I can’t—”

But you did. You begged anyway.

“Please touch me,” you said, breathless, desperate, your hand moving faster now, legs trembling under the pressure building in your body. “I want you, Joel. I think about you all the time, and I—fuck—I want it to be you.”

He shook his head again, slower this time, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. But then your leg moved—bare and trembling—and your ankle brushed against the back of his hand where it still rested uselessly on the bed.

And that was it.

That one small touch, like permission and invitation all wrapped into one. He didn’t think. Couldn’t. His fingers wrapped gently around your ankle, warm and steady, and for a second he just held it. The first time he’d touched you. The first contact after all this time spent trying to keep himself in check.

You whimpered under the weight of his touch, a soft, aching sound that nearly unraveled him. His thumb traced a slow, reverent circle against your skin, and his heart beat so hard it was nearly dizzying.

So soft. So warm. So alive.

He bent forward without a word, still clutching your ankle, and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. The smallest kiss. Barely even a breath. But it was everything.

His lips moved again—just a little higher.

Then higher still.

Trailing up your calf, slow and worshipful, his hand shifting to the back of your leg, guiding it gently as your thigh began to tremble. You were still breathing hard, hand stalled now, frozen against your center as you watched him.

He pressed another kiss to the inside of your knee. Then just above it. Each one a little firmer than the last, like he was testing the shape of you with his mouth. 

And then, eyes locked on your hand still buried between your legs, he grasped your wrist gently, his touch reverent but sure. He pulled your finger from yourself and brought your hand to his mouth and looked at you like he was asking permission, even now, even on the edge of ruin.

You didn’t stop him.

So he parted his lips and took your finger into his mouth.

His tongue circled it first, slow and wet, curling around the soaked digit, savoring the taste of you, dragging it over the pad with aching, deliberate pressure. He sucked it in deeper, lips wrapping tight as his tongue moved along the underside. You watched, frozen in intense rapture, mouth parted and chest heaving. His eyes never left your face, even as he groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering half shut.

You whimpered his name again—breathless, high, barely held together.

He let your finger go with a wet sound, still panting, his voice hoarse and ruined when he finally spoke.

“So fuckin’ sweet, baby.”

You whimpered his name again, breath catching as he released your hand and kissed higher on your leg, faster now, the heat of his mouth so close to where you wanted him. He nudged your thighs further apart with gentle pressure, his hands firm but trembling slightly as they moved up the backs of your legs, his thumbs dragging over the delicate curve of your inner thighs.

He paused just before reaching you. Breathing heavy. Hovering.

“This is what you wanted?” he asked, barely a whisper. “You want me here?”

“Yes,” you breathed, already breathless, already gone. “Please, Joel.”

That was all he needed.

He dipped his head and finally—finally—dragged his mouth over you, slow and sure, tasting you like he’d been starving for it. His tongue parted you, flat and warm, collecting everything you’d made for him. He moaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body, and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open like you were something sacred.

And God, you were.

Joel wasn’t delicate with it. But he was steady, focused. Slow only because he wanted to draw it out. He licked a purposeful stripe up your center, then did it again, dragging his tongue in slow circles over your clit until your back arched off the mattress.

You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting into the graying strands.

Daddy daddy daddy fell from your lips like a prayer, and he groaned into you, tongue pressing deeper, tracing the way you opened for him. He noticed you said it the most when you were falling apart. When your brain was lagging and hazy. 

And couldn’t stop thinking—this is what you taste like when you think of me.

He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, just once, firm and slow, and your legs clenched around his shoulders as a broken sound tore from your throat.

He pulled back slightly, his breath ragged, beard soaked with you.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh again, slower now, lips softer. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You begged again—don’t stop, please don’t stop—and he didn’t. He buried his mouth back between your legs and gave you everything. He wanted you to come on his tongue. Wanted to feel it. The way your body would tighten, the way your thighs would tremble, the way your breath would stutter in that pretty chest of yours before falling apart completely.

He was going to carry the sound of it for the rest of his life.

And still—he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t grind against the bed or reach for relief. This was for you. All of it.

If he could only have this, this taste, this sound, this moment, he’d take it.

And he’d burn for it later.

Joel’s tongue moved with steady, reverent purpose, his mouth open and hungry against you, like this was the only way he knew how to live anymore, by giving you this. His hands stayed firm, keeping your legs open, thumbs brushing softly against your trembling thighs, grounding you even as he pulled you closer and closer to the edge.

You were panting now, moaning freely, head thrown back against the pillow, your fingers tangled in his hair, his name falling from your mouth like it was the only one you’d ever known. He could feel the way your body was coiling, tightening, the way your hips were starting to stutter beneath him, like you were trying to chase that last bit of pressure before it ripped through you.

He sucked gently around your clit again, tongue flicking against it just right, and that was all it took.

You broke.

Your whole body arched, legs tightening around his shoulders, a sharp cry punching from your chest as you came hard against his mouth, your fingers fisting in his hair, holding him there while you rode it out. Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound dark and satisfied, almost possessive as he kept licking through it, gentle now, working you down slowly, coaxing every last tremble from you with his mouth still warm and wet against your skin.

He felt it, all of it. The way your muscles fluttered and clenched, the way your hands shook where they gripped him, the way your breath hitched as you tried to come back to earth.

And still, he didn’t stop touching you. Not yet. His lips moved lower, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, the crease where leg met pelvis, like he couldn’t stop worshipping you now that he’d started. His beard was damp with you, his mouth swollen, his hands still gentle where they rested at your hips.

But then your hands shifted.

You grabbed the front of his shirt, your fingers curling tight in the collar, and tugged.

“Joel,” you gasped, voice high and breathless, chest heaving as your eyes found his, wild and wanting, “Please.”

He lifted his head, eyes glazed, lips shining, chest rising and falling with every labored breath. “What, baby?” he rasped, even though he already knew. Even though his own body was screaming with the need he’d been trying to bury.

You pulled again, harder this time, dragging him up your body with shaking hands, your mouth still parted, your skin flushed and damp.

“Please,” you whispered, again and again, like you were unraveling, like the word was all you had left, “please, Joel… please, I need you…”

Your legs parted wider beneath him, your hips rising, searching, the fabric of his jeans rough between your thighs as he braced himself over you.

“I can’t—I can’t wait anymore,” you whispered, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, your voice shaking. “Please—I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me, Joel. Please.”

And who was he to deny you?

Hadn’t he said it himself?

Anything you needed. Anything you wanted. He’d be the man for you.

He'd said the words and meant them. Even if they were only in his head, he meant them down to the marrow in his bones. And now, here you were, laid out beneath him, skin flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and pleading as you begged for him. Begged with your hands, your voice, your whole trembling body. And something inside Joel cracked so deep it felt like it might never close again.

He couldn’t stop himself.

He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue slipping past your lips so you could taste yourself on him. It was filthy, intimate, perfect. He should’ve been ashamed of how much he needed it, how tender it felt even with the heat still thrumming through him.

He’d always thought that stuff was bullshit—the way books and movies and every sappy romance insisted sparks flew when two people kissed. That it meant something. That it could change you.

But this… this was something else entirely.

This was fire and gravity and truth all wrapped into one aching, perfect moment.

And for a moment, Joel believed every goddamn word.

His hands fumbled with his waistband as his tongue explored your mouth, your sweet cooing noises filling his ears, your breath soft and sweet as honey as you gasped against him. The sound of his belt unbuckling and zipper lowering filled the room, sharp and electric. Finally, he wrapped his hand around himself, freeing his cock as it sprang free, tender, aching, and flushed dark and thick with need. He swore under his breath as the air hit him, the head already leaking for you. 

The idea of being a good man was long gone now. Left back on the floor with his restraint, his better judgment, his self-control. All that was left was you. Your scent, your skin, the desperate way you reached for him like you couldn’t bear another second of distance. Your gasp hit his mouth like a spark to gasoline. You moaned into him, hips lifting, thighs spreading wider around his waist as he rocked forward, lining himself up, his cock dragging through your slick folds.

He groaned deep in his chest, the weight of your heat soaking him instantly, the wet glide of your cunt against the underside of him making his whole body jolt.

And then you whimpered.

Joel pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips.

“I know, honey,” he cooed, his voice low and sweet, like a lullaby wrapped in filth. “I know it’s a lot, but you can take it. You can, baby. I know you can.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your throat, his hands cradling your face like you were something precious even as his cock pressed closer, sliding lower with each slow grind.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispered, barely able to breathe it out. “Knew you’d be so good, so sweet. Just let me in, honey.”

You whimpered, needy and breaking, and he slid forward again, this time pushing the head of his cock inside, slow and careful, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. You were so warm. So tight. Your walls clenched around him instantly and his head dropped to your shoulder with a strangled groan.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked, his voice barely holding. “You feel so fuckin’ good, angel.”

You clung to him, arms around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his hips as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until you were gasping, trembling, completely filled.

Daddy. It was like a siren’s call from your lips.

Joel didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut as he fought the urge to lose himself too fast.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your skin. “You take me so good. So perfect for me.”

And then, finally, he moved.

Slow at first. Measured. Deep, rolling thrusts that pulled back just far enough to make you whimper before he pushed forward again, thick and steady, dragging every inch through your soaked, desperate cunt. He kissed your shoulder as he rocked into you, his voice hot in your ear.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re doin’ so good.”

You were breathless beneath him, hips lifting to meet every stroke, your nails digging into his back, your mouth pressed against his neck as you moaned and gasped and whispered his name like a prayer.

Joel was unraveling with every sound you made, every pulse of your body around his cock. He held your face, kissed your lips, your cheek, your temple, the top of your head. He told you how beautiful you were. How tight. How fucking sweet you felt around him. Told you you were his good girl. His angel. His.

Joel moved inside you like he was trying to memorize every inch—slow, deliberate, reverent. His hands mapped your body like he’d never get the chance again. One gripped the underside of your thigh, keeping your legs spread wide for him, the other braced beside your head, grounding him, holding him back from fucking into you the way his body screamed for.

But he didn’t want to rush this. God, he couldn’t. Not when you felt like this.

So tight, so warm, so wet and fluttering around him with every slow thrust of his hips. Each roll of his body drew a breathy moan from your lips, and he drank them down like they were keeping him alive.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your cheek, his voice rasped and heavy with worship. “Just like that, sweetheart. Grippin’ my cock so good, angel girl.”

Your fingers were tangled in his hair, your body arching into his with each stroke, and every time your hips rocked up to meet his, he felt it—that trembling pulse in your cunt that told him how close you were.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispered, kissing your jaw, then lower. “So goddamn sweet. Feels like you were made for me.”

Your hands slid down his back, clinging, like you couldn’t get close enough.

“Joel,” you whispered, voice soft and shaking, “You feel so good—I don’t want this to end.”

His heart almost broke right there.

“Baby,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours, hips rocking slow and deep, “don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” you whimpered. “I—Joel, I think I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you. I used to dream about this. About you.”

Joel groaned, low and guttural as he kissed you. Not hard or frantic, just deep and warm, letting you feel every bit of how much that meant to him. How much he wanted to give it back.

He rolled his hips slower, deeper, angling just right until he felt your legs tense around his waist again, your body tightening, that little gasp he was starting to crave spilling from your lips as you tipped your head back against the pillow.

“There she is,” he whispered, voice rough and desperate. “You’re gonna come again, ain’t you? Gonna let me feel her squeeze my cock, huh?”

You nodded, mouth open, breath catching on each thrust. “So close—oh my God, daddy, daddy—”

“Come for me, angel,” he said, his voice shaking now. “C’mon, baby girl. Be my good girl and come.”

You cried out as it hit you, body seizing under his, thighs trembling, your walls fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses. You clung to him, your fingers locked in his hair, your mouth gasping out his name again and again. 

He kept moving, kept fucking you through it, slow and steady, letting you ride it out, watching the way you shattered so beautifully for him. He held you through every wave, every twitch, every soft sob of pleasure.

And then he couldn’t hold it anymore.

Your cunt still fluttering around him, soaked and tight and perfect—Joel’s control finally snapped.

His hips stuttered, breath coming in short, punched-out gasps, and he buried his face in your neck.

“Fuck—oh baby, I’m gonna come—Christ, you feel so good—I can’t—I can’t—”

He gripped your thigh tighter, pulled you flush against him, and thrust deep one final time as his release hit him hard, spilling into you with a broken groan. His whole body shook, teeth gritted, face buried in your skin as he came in long, slow, pulsing waves that left him shaking above you.

He didn’t move right away.

Just stayed there. Still inside you, just breathing with you. His hand smoothing softly over your ribs, then your belly, then your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispered finally, voice barely there.

You nodded, turning your head just enough to kiss his jaw. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. Your skin was warm and glowing, your eyes heavy, dreamy, dazed in the way he hoped he’d be seeing again and again. You looked happy. Content.

He’d wait ‘til tomorrow to let the guilt creep in.

PEEEEEEE PAAWWWWWWWWWW

---

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 |

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in love with whatever this is

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i think ur oral fixation surprises both you and joaquin when you take his dog tags into ur mouth and suck on them. they're just dangling in your face how could you ever resist

oh my god?? my jaw is on the floor. this is insane. i love it. (18+)

it wasn’t like you could stop yourself.

you were already a little out of it—joaquín had been treating you too good all night. from dinner, where he played footsie with you under the table until your heel slid just a little too high, leaving him red-faced, to the way he kissed you against the door before you could even get your keys out. and now, after everything, after he’s had you gasping and writhing beneath him, you’re both wrecked and breathless, tangled together in the sheets, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips roll against yours.

it’s a sweet pace, a little sloppy, his rhythm faltering as his body trembles. he’s close. you can tell by the way his huffs turn into short, needy whines.

joaquín loves missionary, loves looking at you, touching you. but right now, his eyes are squeezed shut, brows furrowed tight as his fingers tangle in your hair, cupping your jaw like he can’t bear to let go.

every thrust rocks you against the mattress, the old frame creaking beneath you both. the headboard knocks against the wall in time with your moans, the wet, desperate sounds between you filling the room. and over it all, there’s the soft, steady clinking of his dog tags.

your gaze drops from his face to the chain hanging around his neck. the tags sway with every movement, catching the faint light from the window, gleaming silver against the tan of his chest. it’s distracting, the way they dangle just above your lips, taunting you. you don’t think—just act—lifting your head as he drives particularly deep, parting your lips so the tags graze your skin, clinking against your teeth before you take them fully into your mouth.

it takes joaquín exactly two seconds to notice.

the slight tug at his neck drags him forward, and his eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused at first until he sees—

oh.

a shudder wrecks through him, his hips stuttering to a halt as a deep, broken groan spills past his lips. he stares down at you, panting, his dog tags resting on your tongue, your lips wrapped around the cool metal. you stare back, never breaking eye contact as you flatten your tongue against them, tracing over the engraved letters of his name and military rank. captain torres.

the taste is sharp, bitter and metallic, and you moan around it, letting the sound vibrate against the chain. his hand tightens in your hair, fingers flexing.

"qué… qué haces?" joaquín rasps, voice wrecked, thick with something he doesn’t fully understand yet. his brows knit together, but the heat in his gaze betrays him.

you hum around the tags, sucking lightly before letting them drag against your lips as you pull back just enough to murmur, "couldn’t help it. they were just… there."

joaquín lets out a choked noise, somewhere between a curse and a groan, his grip on you tightening. he presses his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.

"dios mío…"

his breath is hot against your skin, his chest heaving, but you don’t let up. you close your lips around the tags again, sucking, a little filthier this time, pulling him down with you. his chain tugs against the back of his neck, making him swallow hard. his hips jerk forward on instinct, and you sigh through your nose at the way his cock fills you again, deeper than before.

joaquín doesn’t even try to hold back his groan this time. his fingers tighten around your hand beside your head, gripping like it’s the only thing grounding him. then your nails scrape against his scalp, urging him on.

that does it.

he snaps his hips forward, rutting into you with a newfound urgency, his rhythm completely wrecked. the bed creaks louder, his moans slip freer, and you’re right there with him.

he’s never going to be able to wear these without thinking about this moment again.

---

come into my bedroom

description. you and JOAQUÍN TORRES take a week long vacation to the beach together. just a week on the coast, spending time in each other's bubble, without falling for each other ... probably. visuals

includes. coworkers to friends to lovers, SMUT 18+ MDNI, reader has been kept as ambiguous as possible (hair type, skin color, body type, place of birth, etc), reader is able to tan, the location is ambiguous, slight spoilers for brave new world, takes place after bnw, protected p n v sex, oral (f receiving), soft dom! joaquín, reader is called "baby" a couple of times

wc. 12.3k+

a/n: title from champagne coast by blood orange. i tried to keep where they vacationed as ambiguous as possible, but it's definitely at least a little bit obvious. for my bsf who recently got back from miami. thanks to @luckypunklemonade for beta reading :D

You’re drunk. 

No, you’re not drunk. You’re too drunk, inching towards shitfaced. You’re still here, at least here enough to walk beside Joaquín down the street towards your hotel, but you’re not really here. You know you’re not exactly walking in a straight line, and you know where you’re heading, but you don’t know how long you’ve been walking. You could’ve left the club five minutes or 50 minutes ago. 

You weren’t going to get this drunk. Honest. You and Joaquín were just going to go out, have a few drinks, and go back to your separate rooms. 

But the music was good, and the drinks were good, and the people were good, and suddenly you and Joaquín are drunk and navigating your way down the street. Well, he’s navigating your way. You’re just trying to keep up with his long strides. 

He walks a little in front of you the entire time, slightly more rigid, and a little less drunk than you are. You’ll probably be at his level in another half hour, that is if you get something in your stomach by then. Every so often, he looks over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there. You thought about hooking a hand around his elbow to keep him close, but the thought entered your mind and left before you could act on it. 

There’s not much small talk happening, but you don’t mind it that way. You’re focused on making your feet pick up and land one (mostly) in front of the other. Actually, you’re focused on walking and finding an open food spot on the way. 

One part is going fine, the walking part, but you’re still blearily searching for something to eat. You pass bars and closed businesses, restaurants that require reservations weeks in advance, one of them you think you and Joaquín actually have a table at later this week, but nothing quick and greasy. Which is exactly what you need before calling it a night. 

Joaquín calls your name and you hum. 

“You up for stopping in right here?” He points to the side and you look around his wide shoulders to find your saving grace. It’s like he read your mind, or maybe you’d been audible harping on about wanting something to eat the entire time. Right now, either seems plausible. 

Either way, you nod and let Joaquín hold the door open for you. 

You and Joaquín end up sitting across from each other at a tiny outdoor metal table. With the wind blowing against your skin as you’re sipping freezing cold water from a to-go cup, you finally realize how hot you’ve been this entire time. You lift your skirt up a bit to press your thigh against the cool metal and a sigh pushes out front your lips. Your eyes fall shut as you just sit in the moment. 

“You still drunk?” Joaquín speaks from across the table. 

You open your eyes and destroy your brief peace to glare at him as you wrap your lips around your straw. “What do you think?” you ask him only when the cool liquid has slid down your throat. 

He laughs. “First night here and you’ve already gotten shitfaced.” He shakes his head as if he’s ashamed of you, but the playful glint in his eyes keeps you at ease. 

“It’s your fault!” you accuse. “You’re the one who made friends with that couple. They kept buying us drinks.” 

Joaquín throws his hands out to the side in a surrender. “I’m not going to say no to free drinks. Don’t blame me!”

He’s right. Even if he wasn’t, you aren’t in the arguing mood anymore. You would rather finish the greasy taco sitting limp in your hands. And you do.  

You’re not being very attractive about it, though, you can tell from the way the juice slides down your fingers and around your mouth, but that’s not really the point to all of this. 

Besides, you and Joaquín are just coworkers and friends. Just two coworkers/friends on vacation together. Sitting across from each other in front of a taco spot, fighting for sobriety as you occasionally lock eyes between large bites. There’s no reason for you to be attractively drunk eating when you’re only with your coworker/friend. 

You finish the last bite, wipe around your mouth with a crumpled napkin and throw it onto your empty tray, looking up to find Joaquín already looking at you. He has this look on his face, nothing different from the one he usually wears—soft eyes and a softer smile—but it feels different this time. Maybe it’s the city lighting and your drunkenness that’s skewing the meaning. You’re going to blame both factors for the flutter in your heart, too.

Neither of you say anything for a moment and in that moment, a thought flashes across your mind. It’s quick and fleeting, but still strong enough to evoke a reaction. Just a thought of you leaning over this small table and pressing your lips to Joaquín’s. And the thought was truly fleeting, but you bring it back and sit in it to imagine how he would reciprocate with his hands on your lower back, big palms resting on the strip of skin between your top and skirt, and he would taste like lime and alcohol and when you pulled away he would have a look almost identical to this one on his face. 

Joaquín’s eyebrows push together, skewing the soft look he wore before and knocking you out of your drunken trance. 

“What’s that look?” he asks. 

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “What look?”

His gaze lingers for a moment, but then he licks his lips and cleans up his area. “You think you’re sober enough to walk back now?” 

You scoff and attempt to make a point by quickly standing to your feet. When you wobble, it’s because your shoe didn’t land right on the concrete. Honest!

You have a crush on Joaquín. 

You don’t know why you’re realizing it here and now—laying in a hotel bed on vacation first thing in the morning. You don’t even know how long this crush has been here, but you know for sure you have a crush on Joaquín Torres, your partner/coworker/friend. 

You thought your little image from last night was fleeting, nothing but a drunken thought that you let yourself imagine for less than a minute, but it proved to be way more than that because when you got back to your room, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. 

As you took your makeup off, you thought about Joaquín waiting in your room for you to finish, snuggled under the blankets and scrolling through the channels on the TV until you came out of the bathroom in his shirt. As you climbed in the shower you imagined him standing at the sink brushing his teeth and humming that song he’s always singing but you never ask the name of. As you finally climbed into bed and clicked the lights off, you imagined fighting for covers with him and sleepily talking about your plans for the next day. 

It was so domestic and loving and absolutely sickening and unexpected. 

Well, maybe you should have expected it. At least a little. 

Joaquín is kind of the perfect guy. Everyone in your life made sure you were aware of it. He was funny, attractive, hard working, and easy to get along with. Even his flaws—his incessant nature and occasional annoyance for one—was quickly reworked as lovable in your head. 

You struggled with falling asleep for at least a half hour last night, and as soon as you knocked out, you were out. You might not have remembered your dreams but you knew deep in your mind and body that he was there. 

Just as he is here now, standing in front of you early  in the morning, wearing a bright smile and an athletic set. 

“No,” you sternly shut him down before he can even say anything. 

Joaquín’s jaw drops and he wears a mixture of shock and humor. “C’mon, you didn’t even let me say anything.”

“I know what you’re gonna say, Torres. I’m not going to some ‘sick workout class’ when we’re supposed to be on vacation.” 

“Oh, so we’re on last name basis again?” He crosses his arms over his chests and widens his stance. “I thought we moved past that.” 

“If you ask me to come with you then we’re back to last name basis, yeah.” 

He pouts and it’s so stupidly cute that you want to slam the door in his face. “Don’t let the hangover speak for you. I know you secretly wanna come workout with me.” 

You squint at him accusingly, leaning into the doorframe. “‘m not hungover.” 

“Uh-huh. How’s the headache?” He’s obviously not buying your shit.

“I don’t have a headache.” Bullshit and you both know it. 

“How’d you sleep?” He asks you instead, this time lacking any suspense. For a moment, he seems like he’s actually wondering how you slept. 

“Like a baby.”

“Then that means you should be energized enough to go for a workout. It won’t be bad. It’s only an hour.” 

You shake your head. “That’s an hour that I could be sleeping.” 

“And basically waste the whole day away? That doesn’t sound like the partner I know and love.”

You don’t let your mind linger on that word, especially when you know he doesn’t mean it like that. But still, knowing that Joaquín has some sort of love for you makes your chest feel all airy and glittery. 

“Yeah because that partner isn’t here right now. We’re on vacation.” 

Joaquín doesn’t respond. Not verbally at least. Instead, he tilts his head and fully pouts, lips pushed out and eyes big. He’s not backing down and truthfully, it might be better for you just to say yes and halfass the entire session. 

Finally, he reasons with you. “I’ll buy you a smoothie afterwards. Whatever overpriced shit you want. Fair?” 

Fair enough. 

Compared to what you’re used to, the workout is quick, but it’s certainly not painless. The instructor, some woman with much more energy than you’re willing to exert on vacation, seemed to find pleasure in kicking your asses. For a brief moment there when you were catching your breath and wiping your forehead on a towel, you wondered if she could be some big and bad super villain hiding in plain sight. That would explain the inhuman stamina, and the almost eerie cheery personality, but other than that your theory didn’t make much sense. And even if it did, you were on vacation. Now wasn’t the time to seek out trouble that wasn’t presenting itself. 

The only thing that pushed you through the entire thing was looking over at Joaquín, one because of how attractive he looked with sweat glistening along his tanned skin, and two because you refused to let him show you up, even if the workout was his idea. 

You will admit, though, that every time he lifted his shirt to wipe his forehead, your knees did feel just a little weaker and your last rep in a set was not nearly as strong as it could’ve been when you heard him grunting beside you. 

You couldn’t understand it. You and Joaquín workout together all the time. You train together, sometimes with Isaiah and Sam, sometimes with friends of friends, sometimes with just each other. You’re used to seeing him sweat, you’re used to hearing his grunts and breaths, you’re used to all of it. But something about all of this happening now is making you lose your mind. 

As soon as the class ended, relief entered your entire body. 

The relief certainly didn’t last for long, though. 

Since you did what Joaquín wanted to do that morning, he did what you wanted to do right after. Before you could even really think about it, you happily suggested sunbathing on the beach until you were too hot or hungry to continue, whichever came first. 

It wasn’t until Joaquín slyly grinned and sang your name that you realized what you signed up for. 

“You tryna see me shirtless?” he teased at the time. And you rolled your eyes and called him a freak and continued walking down the hall towards your rooms, but as soon as you were behind the closed door you were digging into your suitcase to find the cutest swimsuit you brought. 

Not that you were trying to impress Joaquín or anything. 

As soon as your bare toes are sinking into warm sand, you slowly feel yourself relax. Slowly. 

Laying on your back in a swimsuit that was a nice mix between cute and attractive, your eyes closed, your ears full of a playlist you made just for this occasion, the sun radiating down on your skin. It’s easy to forget everything laying just like that. The breeze cools your skin as soon as you get too warm, the sun heats you back up as soon as you get too cold. Absolutely nothing to worry about except how long you’ve been laying on one side and when you should flip over. 

Absolutely no stressors. 

Until Joaquín speaks. 

“Do me a favor and get my back?” 

You peek an eye open and lift your sunglasses up to see Joaquín standing next to you, holding out a bottle of sunscreen. 

You don’t mean to hesitate, but you still do. It takes a moment to process his question, and it takes another moment to find an answer, even though the clear one is yes. If he wasn’t standing there without a shirt, wearing forest green trunks that hung low on his hips, and his skin wasn’t glistening in the daylight, it wouldn’t have taken nearly half the time to help him out. 

“What would you do without me?” You try not to let your voice falter while you watch him massage sunscreen onto his chest, but you’re sure the little dip at the end of your sentence was noticeable. 

Joaquín just tilts his head and tosses the bottle into your lap.  

It’s not awkward. At least you don’t think it’s awkward. You rub the sunscreen on Joaquín’s skin as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the sturdiness of his muscles beneath your hand. You know how fit he is, it’s impossible for you not to know since you’ve been working with him for a while now. But knowing and knowing are two different things. 

Seeing is not the same as feeling. 

Feeling his muscles as you work them beneath your fingers, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips, grazing your hand lightly over the scars littering his skin, only lingering for a second on the life altering scar that trails down from the side of his neck to his shoulder. You try not to touch it too much. He hasn’t talked to you much about the accident, not since you visited the hospital with high quality food instead of flowers for him. Even then, he joked around it, even if you saw sorrow in his eyes like you’d never seen Joaquín wear before. 

You rubbed the sunscreen down his back and finished above the waistband of his trunks. Not even a second later did he look over his shoulder and down at you through a squint. “Now let me do you,” he urged without leaving much room for argument. 

Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t make room. 

You shook your head. “‘m okay, I already got it.” 

Joaquín turns around to face you completely. He laughs through a quick puff of air, his lips pulled up at the corners. “Barely. I saw you struggling over there. C’mon, let me top it off for you.” 

His hands take the sunscreen bottle from you, but he doesn’t put any in his palm. Not yet. For now, he stares at you, eyebrows lifted, waiting for you to give him the final answer. 

You turn around, moving whatever needs to be moved to give him basically full reign over your back. 

The first touch makes you jump, even if you were expecting it. You hear him quietly apologize under his breath, and you quietly brush it off, but you aren’t sure if your response was heard or if it was carried off with the wind. 

He continues in silence. 

You’ve had Joaquín’s hands on you before. A hand clasped in yours to pull you up, a touch fixing your posture when he was showing you a new trick Isaiah taught him before, a finger jabbed into your side when he walked past you. But again, this is much different. 

Having Joaquín’s bare hands on your bare back makes you tense up, and you hope he doesn’t notice it. He rubs with a lot more attention to detail than you did; he reaches beneath the straps of your top with curt permission, and even asks if he can get the backs of your arms too. 

By the time he finishes, you’ve started to relax just a bit, to the point where the expected disappearance of his hand on your back feels unwanted. Joaquín’s hands are big and soothing, you could do with them on your skin for the rest of your life. 

Of course, you don’t tell him that. Not just because it would be completely inappropriate, but because he would never let you live it down. He would go the lengths to change his phone contact to Joaquín “best hands there ever were” Torres. 

Which is just a step below Joaquín “best co-worker there ever was” Torres. 

Somehow, you manage to make it through the rest of the beach day without much trouble. You tan until you don’t think you could tan anymore. Joaquín lays next to you most of the time, besides when he began to feel fidgety and he ran to grab both of you drinks, and pre-cut fruit for you, as an excuse to stretch his legs. You used the few minutes of solitude to text your group chat about the agony you accidentally put yourself into. Agony that was only made worse by Joaquín coming back with two drinks in one hand, fruit still in its rind in the other, and his newly tanned skin glistening from sweat in the sunlight. 

Shortly after, you had to leave and take a cold shower to get your head on straight. 

You think you’re doing pretty good at ignoring your feelings. You know you have a crush on him, but acting on it would change nearly too much, and a lot in your lives—his especially—has already changed. It’s not a leap you think you’re ready to make yet, so you’ve been ignoring your feelings. 

Over the course of the past couple of days, you and Joaquín have been spending your time doing every relaxing thing you could think of. Decompressing at that same club from the first night, but leaving as soon as the crowd proved to be very different from before—more rowdy for the hell of it and less generous in general. Eating at trendy, overrated lunch spots, or underrated hole-in-the-wall dinner spots. Spending a little too much money on new clothes but enabling each other anyway, because the shirt might look similar to another one that you already have but that shirt back home wasn’t that shirt there in your hands, so you needed it. 

There were just two nights left and then you would have to pack all your stuff, somehow fit in more new clothes than you anticipated, and return to the real world. One that entailed mission debriefs and learning how to work new tech. The only thing you were looking forward to about the real world was Sam, since he happened to be a natural barrier between you and Joaquín. It’ll be hard to focus on how badly you wanted to be underneath the Falcon whenever Captain America was in the vicinity providing tasks that required your full attention. 

But that is days away. For now, you’re going to try and enjoy the remainder of your all too quick vacation as much as possible. Even though you’re becoming more and more tense as you go on, a tension that your fingers beneath your panties hasn’t been able to fix yet. 

You didn’t think your behavior was noticeable, but Joaquín notices more than you thought. 

The two of you are walking side by side down the boardwalk. You’ve been fairly silent throughout, but not for any particular reason. Silence made sense to you, there wasn’t much to talk about right now. 

Apparently, Joaquín felt different. 

“What’s up with you?”

You furrow your eyebrows, quickly trying to figure out if you did something wrong between the walk from your hotel to the walk at the start of the boardwalk. Coming up short, you ask for clarification. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean why’re you so tense? Isn’t this relaxing for you?”

Yeah, this is relaxing for you. Walking side by side, letting the beach breeze blow your dress in the wind. Showered, fed, at the end of your vacation, this moment you exist in is like heaven. It’s a little too much like heaven, a perfect plane where the guy you’ve been crushing on is wearing a button up with the first two buttons undone so you can see the fresh tan he has and the gold glint of the chain he wears instead of his dog tags. 

It’s hard to relax when right beside you is someone you’ve wanted so badly, and he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted. 

“I’m not tense,” you finally respond. Although it’s a lie. 

“You so are,” Joaquín counters, “let me show you what you look like walking around here.” He takes a few quick strides ahead of you, and then pulls his shoulders up to his ears, straightens his spine, and walks with a little too much purpose. He looks odd and menacing. And definitely not like you. 

You tell him as such. 

He turns around to face you, grinning and walking backwards. “Okay I did take some creative liberties there, but you do look tense.” He turns back around and slows until he returns to a stride right beside you again. “What’s wrong? Do you wanna do something else?”

You shake your head. “No. This is fine. I like doing this.” 

Joaquín takes a moment and you see him look down at you from the corner of your eye. “Then what’s up? Anything you wanna get off your chest?” 

God, you should just tell him the truth. Well, not the full truth. 

Joaquín is chill personified. If you told him that you’re wound up sexually, he would likely make a joke about it, then brush it off and avoid asking you about it again. Friend to friend, you could just let off some steam—verbally!, although the other option is much more preferable—and then hopefully feel better. 

But just imagining yourself saying those words makes you tense even more and you have nothing to do but shake the thought out of your mind completely. 

“No. ‘m okay. I was just … thinking. But not anymore.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second and you don’t know if he believes your lie. But he moves past it. He points to an ice cream shop to your right, and you swerve for the window. 

You and Joaquín end up sitting side by side on the beach, willingly letting sand press into your nice clothes but neither of you care much. You have a dinner reservation soon, and you’ve just been killing time—and also your appetite, but you and Joaquín both swore to eat dinner. Even if you’re devouring ice cream cones. Truthfully, this is a perfect way to end your night, sitting by your partner's side, letting the world exist around you both. 

The breeze blows against your skin. You and Joaquín sit with your bare toes digging into the sand, shoes having been discarded to the side, your shoulders close enough to brush against the other if either of you move. You’re looking off at the ocean, watching people enjoy the evening air around you both as you sit in a moment of stillness. There’s paragliders, a few jet skis, some boats, and a large cruise ship sailing into the port. 

Joaquín points off at the ship with the hand not holding his waffle cone.

“We should cruise for our next vacation.”

You turn to face him, tilting your head to the side. “Our next vacation?”

Joaquín nods. “Yeah. We should make this a regular thing. You know we work well together.” 

That you do. You grin and knock your shoulder into his.  “Let’s hope Sam doesn’t start feeling left out.”

Joaquín laughs with a quick exhale through his nose. “He’s definitely having the time of his life back home.” 

You’re unable to stop yourself from grinning as you imagine it—Sam working back home, likely enjoying the rare lull in the terror that the three of you have been fighting and will continue fighting. “He’s probably blasting Marvin Gaye over the speakers in the office.” 

This gets a real laugh from Joaquín, likely because he, too, can see it perfectly. 

Your laughter dies down and for a few moments, you and Joaquín sit in comfortable silence. 

Then, “You been having fun?” 

You hum. “Yeah. It’s nice not having to deal with—” you gesture vaguely in the air and Joaquín nods beside you. “Especially after everything.” You don’t say it exactly, but you know Joaquín still understands you. He knows you’re talking about his accident. 

You weren’t even the one in danger, having stayed grounded on the ship, but the horrors still settle deep in your heart some nights. Things are repaired, or currently being repaired in the case of D.C, but everything still feels so fragile to you sometimes. 

Which is why you’re so glad to be here with him at your side, reminding you that he’s okay. Everything’s okay. 

Joaquín takes a breath as if he’s about to speak. You turn to look at him. He’s staring off at the sunset, his face mostly stoic except for a slight twitch in his eyes, a flare of his nostrils, and his jaw clenching. “For a moment there when I was falling out of the sky, and when I could barely move my body on my own in the hospital I was worried that I wouldn’t get the chance to see places like this again. To … you know…” he hesitates and you’re about to tell him that he doesn’t have to keep going if he doesn’t want to. You and Joaquín have avoided talking about the day his heart stopped, and you don’t have to start now. But then he inhales through his teeth and continues. “To see home.” 

Your breath hitches and your eyes sting. Without thinking too much about it, you scoot closer into Joaquín’s side, tilting your head and resting it on his shoulder. Immediately upon contact, Joaquín wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you fully into his side. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me, Joaquín.” 

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” he says your name at the end, echoing you but somehow sounding more earnest. More meaningful. 

He places a kiss on the top of your head and in that moment you decide you could stay here just like this for the rest of your life. It all settles in your body at one time, the realization that you want Joaquín, you’ve known that for a while, but you want more than his body. 

You want Joaquín Torres in his entirety. 

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about?” he continues, “Is that why you’ve been tense? Because I promise I’m okay. It was scary for a bit but my heart’s fine and I feel fine physically—”

“No. It’s not that, Joaquín. I promise I was just a little tense but I’m good now, too.”

He nods once. “Okay.” He pulls his phone out and checks the time. He doesn’t say anything for a while as if he doesn’t want to disrupt the energy, but he speaks eventually. “If we wanna make our reservation we gotta leave now.” 

He stands to his feet and puts a hand out for you to grab. You take a moment to look at the sun setting and to finish the rest of your ice cream in one bite, then you take another moment to look at him. With resolution, you place your hand in Joaquín’s and let him pull you to your feet. 

Yeah, ignoring your feelings isn’t working anymore. 

It’s not like you’re exactly able to ignore how bad you want Joaquín when you’re at dinner with him, sitting in such an intimate setting—sat at a small table tucked in the corner of the restaurant next to a window looking out on the street, his tan skin lit by candlelight and ambient low lighting around the both of you. 

Having just come from the beach, the two of you are still wearing the same outfits (now without as many grains of sand as possible), meaning you have an even better view of Joaquín’s chest and the chain sitting right below his collarbones. He looks so nice and put together—his curls out more than you’ve ever seen them before, his face a little unshaven and adding an older look to him. 

God, he’s so pretty, it’s impossible for you not to think so. Not when you’re faced with him like this. 

Joaquín’s looking at the menu, acting like he didn’t look at it on his phone two hours ago. You’re holding the menu open, acting like you’re still deciding between two options, when really you’re just trying to decide if you should make a move or not. 

When Joaquín looks up, you quickly look down, furrowing your eyebrows and pouting as you stare at words that aren’t processing.  

Joaquín calls your name and you hum without lifting your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything immediately, you glance up. Not only is he already looking at you, but he’s looking at you with a certain look in his eyes. Infatuation, admiration, something else that you don’t wanna name, for it feels like too much of a jump.

“What?” you ask, a shy grin splitting your face open as your skin starts to warm. 

Joaquín shrugs like he’s going to say the most casual thing ever. Instead, he tells you, “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you how pretty you look.”

Oh my godddd. 

What are you supposed to say to that? Everything thus far on this vacation has been widely platonic, and anything crossing that barrier has been nothing but a hopeful figment of your imagination. But his words, paired with the way they were delivered, feels like a step towards a future you want to live in. 

But maybe you’re overthinking it. Joaquín is honest and earnest when he wants to be and maybe now is one of those moments. 

You wrap your hand around your glass of ice water and bring it to your lips, pausing just long enough to respond. “What is it? The tan?”

Joaquín nods but that look in his eyes is still there. Chocolate brown dances across your figure before settling back on your own eyes. “Yeah … among other things. The tan and the color of your dress,” a bright colored fabric that hung loosely over your body and dipped around your back, you chose it especially because you knew it would look good on your skin, “and just you.” 

You gulp down water, trying to contain yourself. 

“Thanks, Joaquín,” you finally respond, trying to remain as casual as possible. “You look good, too.” 

Joaquín grins and you can see the man you’re used to coming back to himself. He tugs at the collar of his shirt and dusts off invisible particles. “I clean up well don’t I?”

You halfheartedly roll your eyes and return back to the menu. That interaction has already been catalogued for you to hyper analyze in the shower later. 

You thought that interaction was mind boggling, but the one you find yourself in later is ten times worse. 

You’ve both steadily worked through your plates, giggling and laughing about any and everything you could think of. The waiter mentioned the option of drinks at one point, and you looked to Joaquín for his reaction, wanting to see if that’s how the night was going to go. Not exactly as drunk as you were the first night, but at least a little buzz. When Joaquín politely shook his head, you did the same, and continued to sip your water instead. 

You do, however, decide to split two desserts. 

“Can I say something?” Joaquín speaks whenever he scrapes his fork across the decadent chocolate dessert sitting in the center of the table. 

You hum, grabbing a forkful of the fresher, citrus dessert instead. “Depends. How stupid is it gonna be?”

“Um … let me say it and then we can decide.”

You sit back in your seat, thereby giving him the floor. 

He takes his time chewing and swallowing before he goes to respond. “I’m shocked that we’ve been together every day and night of this trip.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What d’you mean?”

“Like we haven’t … been with other people.”

His words shock you. “Is that what you think of me, Joaquín?” 

You don’t feel upset, or particularly offended. You’re just a little confused on why Joaquín has been thinking about your sex life while the two of you have been on vacation together. Sure, you’ve been thinking of the same thing, but his sex life hasn’t exactly crossed your mind. Besides whenever you pictured the two of your sex lives merging into one. 

But now that he’s presented the idea, you, too, are shocked that things have been contained to just the two of you this entire week. It’s not that you expected Joaquín to sleep around, you actually didn’t know what to expect when it came to his dating life. You did know that Joaquín was attractive and people other than yourself thought so, and he obviously knew it as well, but it’s unexpected that you didn’t see him intentionally ogling at least one other person on your nights out. 

You don’t know why he would think the same of you, though. 

“No!” he’s quick to defend himself, “But I wouldn’t judge you if that’s how you wanted to spend your vacation. I mean I wouldn’t blame you.”

“You’re digging yourself further and further into a hole, Torres.” 

He laughs. “Yeah, I can tell.”

A moment goes by and you sip your water. The air here feels open, but certainly not casual. You feel like you can tell the truth in this intimate atmosphere, and your words would hold intentional weight. 

You take the jump. “I didn’t wanna be with anyone else. I liked being with you.”

Joaquín looks surprised. “Really? So you preferred beach trips and coffee shops and working out over a hot hookup?”

You shrug. “I haven’t been interested in hooking up with anyone else.” 

His eyebrows lift in the center. “Anyone else?”

Fuck. 

It seems you have joined Joaquín in that hole, but you don’t mind being here. It’s about time you did something, right? You don’t bother responding, at least not verbally. Instead, you just look at Joaquín over the rim of your glass, sincerely hoping that he’s starting to understand. 

Before any more progress can be made the waiter comes back with the check and you’re already reaching into your bag for your wallet, verbally chastising Joaquín before he can even reach for the bill. 

Quiet returns to you both during the walk back to your hotel. It feels natural this time, likely because you’re not speaking, but it isn’t silent. Cars against asphalt as they drive down the street beside you, music spilling out of establishments that line the way, the automated voice of the pedestrian crossing pole when Joaquín presses the button for the both of you. There’s not anything being said, but there doesn’t need to be; much is being communicated through the energy radiating off of your body. 

Walking closer to each other than you had ever before, elbows grazing, a lightness to your bodies even if you both indulged a little too much over dinner. Everything just feels so right, even if there’s still an emptiness inside of you. Even if you leave this trip without getting laid, you’ll still feel fulfilled because you and your partner are closer than you’ve ever been before. Though, after existing in this bubble with only him, it’s going to be hard to return to your normal life and let other people in. 

A car honks and skirts to a stop. Before you can even realize what just happened, Joaquín’s already throwing an arm over the front of your torso, his face turned to the car that almost (wrongfully) hit the two of you. He yells something at them and blindly grabs your hand, pulling you in front of him and pushing you to the sidewalk and out of the street. 

He mutters something under his breath, but you don’t hear it. “You good?” he asks at full volume. He stands next to you but still holds onto your hand. 

“Yeah. We’ve been through worse than almost getting floored by a Benz, right?”

He laughs and continues leading the way back to the hotel. 

Your hand stays in his the entire time.

You and Joaquín make it all the way inside of the hotel with your hands still clasped together. They don’t part until an unattended child runs between your bodies, forcing you to separate. 

You end up standing in front of the elevator with the up button pushed. It dings every few seconds, an indicator of its steady descent, but it makes a few stops along the way. While you wait, you lean your shoulder into the wall next to it, crossing your arms over your chest and your legs at the ankle as you look at Joaquín standing across from you. 

He speaks first. “You wanna go out again tonight?  End the week with a bang?”

You shake your head. Your eyes are big, your lips are pulled into a soft smile, your entire expression is soft. Fuck hiding it, you’re done pretending. 

“Nah. I’d rather stay in tonight.”

Joaquín nods and tucks his hands in his front pockets. “Alright. Together or separate?”

“Together.”

His eyebrows lift as if he’s shocked, but there’s a little glint in his eyes. You think he’s starting to catch on. 

“Okay,” he drags the last syllable out and shifts his stance. He clears his throat before he speaks again. “What d’you wanna do?”

The elevator door opens and you and Joaquín stand out of the way to let people come out. As soon as everyone has cleared out, the two of you enter the elevator alone and you push the button to shut the door before anyone else can come around the corner. With the doors closing you turn to face Joaquín to see him already looking at you. 

You smile up at him and he smiles down at you. 

You take a step closer to him and he takes a step closer to you. 

You reach a hand out to his face, hesitating, and then he nods just before he reaches a hand out and places it on your waist. 

And then finally, your lips press against his. 

The first kiss is tentative. It’s testing. Your lips press together, you stay like that for a moment, and then you pull away. The two of you stare at each other, Joaquín’s expression as soft and docile as it always is. You think you’re mirroring him in this moment. 

Then, without any words exchanged, you both move towards each other again. Your heads are tilted and without much trouble at all, your faces slot together nearly perfectly. This kiss is more exploratory. It’s open mouthed, teetering towards a messiness that you’re sure you’ll both fully succumb to by the end of the night. At least, you hope so. 

You don’t have much time, you’ve realized that as soon as the elevator dings the first time to indicate its ascent, therefore you’re trying to get what you can while you can. You throw your arms over Joaquín’s shoulders and hook them around his neck, pulling him down towards you as you tilt yourself up into him. His body curves to engulf yours in his warmth, but he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. 

He kisses you like he means it, like there’s more than one mutually shared goal at the end of this motivating him. 

It’s hard not to give in to the slow and longing way Joaquín kisses you. You don’t even try resisting it at a certain point. Instead, you press your chest up into his and lean up on your toes to get more of him, yet not initiating a change in the pace at all. You like the slow way Joaquín’s lips move against yours. You feel much more this way. 

Your fingers lay across the back of his neck and just as they start to inch up into the faded part of his haircut, the elevator dings and announces your floor. 

You and Joaquín separate with clear hesitance in the movement. The two of you stare at each other, unmoving, just looking in each other’s eyes. His eyes look darker than you’ve ever seen them before. If you got closer, you think you would see his pupils blown out. From here, though, you see his desire in other ways—the flush on his cheeks, the prominence of his chest rising and falling, the hint of your lip products that have rubbed off on his lips. 

The elevator door starts to shut and Joaquín is forced into making the first move. He slots his arm between the doors just before they close and he stays there when they open. He turns to look at you, tilts his head in a beckon, and holds his hand out for you to grab.

The walk to your rooms feels much longer than it usually does. You try to make it go as fast as possible, skittering ahead of Joaquín as fast as your impractical sandals would allow, but you’re trying not to look too eager all the while. Still, when you reach the number you’ve memorized for the week and turn around to look at him, he has a slight smile of amusement on his face. 

You’re already searching into your bag for your key when you ask, “Yours or mine?”

Joaquín reaches around you for the handle to the door without speaking. You watch him press the key card to the sensor and push the door handle down just as you feel your fingers find the piece of plastic. 

“We gave each other one of each when we checked in, remember? Just in case.” comes his unprompted explanation. And now that you’ve been reminded, you do remember. Your key to Joaquín’s room has been sitting on the dresser forgotten the entire week. You know he wouldn’t have done it, not without your explicit consent, but you wish Joaquín had used the key to his advantage once this week. You wish he would have acted on the tension between you both, the tension that you’re finally realizing has been reciprocated this entire time. 

But now it’s happening. There’s no reason to complain when you’re getting what you wanted. 

His hands are on your hips as he leads you into the room, your bag is thrown to the floor and your shoes are kicked off of your feet. Your body is turned at his will, your eyes meet his as he lazily grins  down at you. His tongue flicks out over his lips in a quick and smooth movement, and at a much slower pace, you lean back in to press your lips back to his. 

Joaquín’s hands automatically latch onto your lower back, one warm palm pressed into the thin fabric of your dress and the other settling right on your bare skin in the opening. Meanwhile, you start working on his shirt, popping button after button through the holes. You stop when you’re halfway down, not on your own accord. 

You’re forced to stop when Joaquín slots his hands behind your thighs and he easily lifts you up. You squeal into the kiss on instinct. 

There’s a moment where both of you are grinning against each other’s lips and it just feels so right. It feels incredibly natural to be doing this, to be smiling when you’re kissing Joaquín, even though nearly everything else about this situation isn’t natural for the two of you (your erect nipples rubbing against his chest, your panties stuck to your cunt, the very faint brush of his cock stiff in his pants that you get on the journey up). 

“You’re just showing off,” you half-heartedly chide. 

Joaquín shrugs and walks you back to the bed. “Maybe just a little.” He places you down, kneeling between your legs and finishing off the remaining buttons on his shirt. “You love it, though.”

You don’t admit it verbally, but the way you shamelessly ogle his chest when he pulls the shirt off says everything. 

As soon as his shirt is gone, he places a hand on your ankle, slowly inching your dress up a few inches before he stops and looks at you. His expression is open, you can tell what he’s asking without words. But for good measure, he includes them. 

“Can I keep going?”

You nod, eager and unashamed. “Yeah. Keep going.”

He starts to push the bright fabric further and further up your legs, speaking to you as he continues. “You gotta let me know if …” his words taper off when he sees the first hint of your panties, and you don’t know exactly what he’s seeing, but it makes him speechless for a moment and your ego inflates. 

“I’ll let you know if …?” Cockiness is audible in your words but he doesn’t comment on it. 

Joaquín blinks and comes back to himself. “If you wanna stop, or if you want something changed. We gotta communicate.” 

“M’kay.” 

And with that, Joaquín pushes the fabric completely over your hips and he’s met with your panties. They’re a bright color that compliments the color of your dress, and, consequently, your tanned skin. He swears under his breath and although you don’t hear him clearly at all, you’re pretty sure it wasn’t in English. 

You sit up fully and slip your dress over your torso with Joaquín’s help. He lets the fabric drop to the floor without looking, his eyes are focused solely on your chest. 

You’re laying back on your elbows, elevated just enough to look at him. You stare at his eyes, even if you aren’t making eye contact, while he leans up to hover over you. His head dips and he presses a single kiss in the center of your chest and repeats the action right over each side of your ribcage. The tip of his nose grazes your breast and instinctively you arch up towards him. When he pulls away just enough to look up at you, you see him smiling.

You could beg, but the night has only begun. You decide to save that for later. For now, you huff and stick your spine back to the mattress. 

Joaquín places a hand around your side and dips his head back down, this time higher than before. When he latches his lips around your nipple, a little gasp breaks from between your lips. He lets his teeth scrape against the bud, alternating between giving you pressure and giving you wet heat from his tongue. By the time he switches to your other nipple, you’re already desperate for a true relief focused on your cunt. His lips travel upwards, brushing against your skin throughout the journey, until he’s pressing them into the side of your neck and under your jaw. You let him continue upwards, you let him kiss you a bit more, but you can only go so long without real, fruitful stimulation. And maybe another time after this (circumstances willing) you would love to prolong everything. 

But right now you need to get fucked, whatever that could entail. 

You buck your hips up and end up catching the bulge in Joaquín’s pants where his zipper lies. You think he’ll catch on that way, and maybe he does, but he just chooses to ignore it. Either way, you send him a hint and Joaquín doesn’t do anything about it. He continues kissing you, he tweaks your nipples and slots a knee between your legs, all of which you’re grateful for since it is a stepping stone in the right direction. But you need stimulation, you need to get off, and the slow crawl is slowly driving you crazy. 

You pull away from Joaquín to call his name. He responds with a gruff yeah that immediately settles deep in your gut. 

“I need more. Please.” 

He grins right in your face. The expression almost looks wicked on him for the first time ever. He has the power here right now and he’s obviously letting it go to his head. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks while his hand slides down between your bodies until his thick fingers can slip between your clothed folds. 

His question was rhetorical (and smug but that’s besides the point), yet you still find yourself going to respond. Your lips part, you can feel the corners turning down as you prepare to say something just as smug back to him, but then he presses down and quickly finds your clit after a moment of fumbling. As far as words go, you’re silent. Nothing but sounds slip from your mouth from that point onwards. 

Joaquín toys with your clit. He starts with one finger, just the pad of what you think might be his middle finger, and when that has you forcing your hips up into his touch, he adds a second finger. With two fingers, he has more space to work with, resulting in larger circles right over the most sensitive part of you. He speeds up, too. 

Your back arches and you dig your nails into the sheets. You know what you want to ask for, it's simple and you’d already said the word in this space, but it gets trapped in your throat this time. You’re close already. Yeah, you’d been getting yourself off throughout the week, but finally having Joaquín do it for you has made you so much more responsive. 

You get the first syllable out, the ‘M’ vibrating in your throat before you open your mouth to round it out in an ‘O’. 

Joaquín picks up where you left off. 

“More?” he asks, eyebrows lifting as he holds your heavy gaze. Before you even respond with a nod, he’s already sitting back far enough to slip his hand in your panties and repeat his emotions. 

The first real touch dizzies you for a moment. You pinch your eyes shut with the pure intention of orienting yourself, but then Joaquín chastises you in a soft, but firm voice. 

“Look at me. I wanna see you.” 

You do as told, of course. 

He nods. “There we go.” His fingers get just a little faster, the circles tighter. You’re so wet that there isn’t any uncomfortable friction at all, his skin easily glides against yours. 

“You close?” he asks after a moment. When you nod, he continues, “If I give you this one, you’ll be able to give me another, right? You can give me more?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I can.” You’re breathless when you speak, and it certainly doesn’t help that it’s then when Joaquín decides to pull his fingers away completely, pull your panties to the side, and sink down completely until his face is level with your cunt. 

Just the image below you is enough to twist that section deep into your stomach into a knot. He’s barely able to give you anything before your back is arching off of the bed and everything in you mounts to a peak. 

When you come, it’s from the controlled and effective licks Joaquín delivers to your cunt. You don’t know when your hand moves on its own, but you feel silk-like strands between your fingers. It helps anchor you, gripping his hair helps keep you sane, especially when Joaquín keeps going. 

He broadens his reach this time. His mouth opens wide enough to slide his tongue down from your entrance and back up towards your clit. And he doesn’t just lick this time, you hear the audible suck from him. He’s slurping that shit, and you can already feel the introduction of another orgasm. 

If you were with anyone else, you’d be shocked at how soon another is on the precipice. But it’s Joaquín, and aside from the fact that you’ve wanted him for a while, you’re not exactly shocked that he knows what he’s doing. 

He slowly sinks one finger into you, pumping the digit in and out of you with meticulous ease. It’s a stark contrast from the almost sloppy way he’s eating you out. But it works. 

One finger is nice, it’s thicker than your own, rougher, too. You could get off just like that. And then, he adds a second. 

“Fuck,” you swear without any conscious intention. 

Joaquín comes up for air, releasing you with an audible smack. “Yeah?” he asks, the word coming from right in his throat. 

You nod as you take in the way he looks—cheeks flushed, hair tousled and hanging over his forehead, pink lips shining, his eyes wide and nearly doe-like. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. You see a look flash in Joaquín’s eyes then. It’s a look similar to the one he has whenever Sam affirms his work with a clap on the back—self-satisfied, delighted, proud. It occurs to you then that he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you. He can read your body language, sure. It’s obvious from your cunt, along how good he’s making you feel, but you know verbal affirmation is different. It’s better, especially for Joaquín. 

As he goes back in to finish you off, you speak to him.

“Just like that,” you tell him. Just this little bit encourages him, you can feel it in his movements.  “Keep going. ‘M close, so close, Joaquín. Please, don’t stop. You’re so … you’re so—” Before you can even get it out, all noise dies completely from you. Your mouth uselessly hangs open, not even air comes out as your entire body stiffens. Nothing happens for a moment, Joaquín continues, you’re stuck, and then a nanosecond later everything knocks into you. 

Sound emits from you, moans and groans and breaths. You’re digging into whatever you can find—the heel of your foot into Joaquín’s back, your hands in his hair, the rest of your body into the twisted sheets beneath you. You’re simultaneously trying to escape and trying to keep Joaquín from parting with you for even a moment. It’s hard to decide which you prefer, you don’t even think your mind has any say in the dilemma, your body is in control at this point. 

Ultimately, your body decides to let go, releasing both of you at the same time. Still, Joaquín takes a moment to pull from you. He continues licking and sucking, but his fingers slowing down indicates his intent to free you. It comes after a few drawn out moments where you’re stuck twitching beneath him until finally, he pulls his fingers out of you and presses one final kiss right onto your clit. 

His head lifts and the evidence is more obvious than you expected. It’s gathered all over his chin, stuck along the beginnings of facial hair that will likely be gone first thing Monday morning. It’s gathered on his lips and along his tongue when he uses the muscle to pull the remnants of your arousal into his mouth. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and only then does he realize how much of a mess you’ve made of him. He pulls his hand back, brown eyes big as he stares at the evidence. 

“Shit,” he laughs. 

All you can do is agree through labored breaths. 

He tries to clean you off of his mouth, but not much is done. He leans in tentatively after that, as if you’re going to shy away from him. You don’t. 

You kiss him back eagerly, although a bit lethargically. You’re trying to hide it from fear that Joaquín could think that you’re done. But your body needs a moment to recover from that. 

When Joaquín pulls away from you with a small smile on his face, you know he’s onto you. 

“You need a minute?” The way he says it isn’t much different from the way he asks you those same words when he’s kicking your ass in the gym. 

And just like when you’re in the gym, you shamefully nod. 

Joaquín chuckles and leans in to kiss your forehead. “That’s okay. You want anything? Water maybe?” 

“Water sounds good.” 

You watch him leave and then your eyes are focused solely on the ceiling. You can’t even let what’s happening sink in when you’re still a little spacey. But you can handle more. You want more from him. 

Joaquín comes back with a glass of water. He stands next to the bed and passes the full glass to you. You don’t question the source, you just drink until there’s half left. You offer it to him and he gladly takes it from you. 

“Are you … do you wanna stop?” He speaks when the glass has been emptied and placed on the nightstand. For the most part he looks like he would be unaffected by whatever answer you gave, but you think you can detect some premature dejection in his features. Quickly, he adds, “Because it’s fine if you do. I’m okay with that.” And he’s being honest. You don’t feel any pressure coming from Joaquín at all. 

It’s what you truly mean and want when you immediately shake your head. “No. Let’s keep going.” 

He nods once to himself. “Alright. Cool. Yeah.” 

Excitement leaks from his pores but you don’t comment on it. You felt just as he did not long ago. You still feel like that, but you’re under a haze right now and that’s what your emotions are being led with. 

Joaquín hooks his thumbs into his already-loosened jeans and goes to pull them down. First, though, he pats at his pockets. When he doesn’t feel what he’s looking for, he swears. 

“One second.”

You watch his form retreat until the door of your room is pulled open. Not even a minute later he comes back in with a foil pocket brandished between his fingers, the same fingers that were in you not long ago. 

“You came prepared?” The question comes out more judgemental than you meant it to. 

Joaquín shrugs. “I keep an emergency bag full of … stuff. You know, in case of an emergency.” 

“Freak.” You don’t mean it. 

“You’re about to get fucked by a freak so, wouldn’t that make you a freak by association?” He seems to mean it. 

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

He holds the packet between his teeth while he slides his jeans off of his legs, stepping out of them and leaving them at the foot of the bed. He comes back around to the side, pulling the packet out from his teeth and staring down at you. Like this he looks more imposing than he ever has before. 

When he’s been out in the field, when he’s training, when he yelled at the car earlier tonight, he didn’t look as imposing as he does now—staring down at you over the bridge of his nose, hair tousled, cock tenting in his black briefs. 

“That’s definitely how that works,” he claims as he leans down. He presses his hands into the bed beneath you to leverage himself as he kisses you, slow and passionate. You wonder if he’ll fuck you like that too. 

You reach a hand up and pull the elastic away from his waist. When he doesn’t react, you tug the fabric down. You feel it get stuck around his cock just before you feel his cock spring free. It brushes against your wrist and you make a little noise into the kiss. 

As soon as Joaquín’s briefs are laying at his feet he assumes his previous position, this time sitting right on his haunches. You avoid looking at his cock for a moment, but when you watch him tear the condom packet open, you get the first glimpse at him. 

Even this part of him is attractive. He’s thick, that’s the first thing you notice. Thick and heavy, if the way he hangs to the side is any indicator. There’s a vein leading from his taut stomach down towards the dark and trimmed thatch of hair at the base of his cock. You hadn’t noticed the vein ever before, not when you had been too busy ogling the v-line chiseled into his torso instead. 

Now that you’ve seen all of Joaquín, you can easily conclude that he’s perfect. Just as you have that thought, Joaquín takes an inhale as he prepares to speak. 

“You’re so perfect,” he says. 

The warmth instantly floods your body. 

“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” you tell him. 

He dips his head almost shyly and doesn’t say anything. Instead, Joaquín pulls the condom out of the packet. 

“Wait. Lemme do it. Can I do it?” 

He looks momentarily surprised at your request, but he passes you the condom and politely places his hands on top of his thighs. 

It’s truly an excuse to feel him beneath your palm as you glide the latex barrier down his length. You revel in the warmth beneath your hand, because as soon as you’ve secured the barrier around the base of his shaft, Joaquín's leading you back without even having to touch you. He leans forward and in response, you lean all the way back until you’re nestled amongst the pillows at the head of the bed. 

“Ready?” 

You nod, letting your legs fall open for him. 

One warm hand falls to the inside of your thigh while the other disappears between your legs to line up his dick. Then, slowly, Joaquín pushes forward. The stretch is instant, you can feel yourself opening up wider and wider to fully fit him in. If you weren’t as soaked and prepped as you were, you’re sure the burn would’ve been way worse. 

For a few moments it’s like the length of him keeps going and going, but then you feel his thighs press up against the back of yours and there’s the faint feeling of his balls resting against your ass and you know he’s bottomed out. He looks at you, gauging your reaction, and your response comes in the form of linking a leg around his back.

Joaquín smiles through nothing but the twitch of the corner of his mouth upwards, and then he wastes no more time. He rests his weight on his hands at either side of your head, and pulls his hips back just to roll them forward and slide his cock back into you. 

And for a bit, Joaquín does fuck you slow and passionate. He fucks you in full strokes, a nice tempo that doesn’t overwhelm you too quickly. There’s punctuation at the end of each thrust, followed by a nearly agonizing pull back out. Whether intentional or not, Joaquín’s introducing you to the feeling of his cock filling you up, just as he’s introducing the concept of another release to you. 

But you’ve had your fill, it’s his turn now. 

You press your hands into his shoulders. They glide back, one hand grazing over the raised skin of the scar that leads down his back, the other following a smooth path, but they meet in the same place—back around the front to where his chain hangs. You hook one finger into the gold link, the other going behind his head. You pull him closer until you can nudge your noses together. 

His eyes flutter shut and his eyebrows pinch together in the center. You kiss him once and pull back to tell him, “You can use me, Joaquín. Take what you want.”

His eyes open to stare at you with confusion written on his face, bordering on hope, as if he already has an idea formed in his head of what he really wants to do to you. 

You nod assuredly. “It’s what I want.” Just as you’re about to add a quiet plea to seal the deal, Joaquín adjusts his position and then he pulls nearly all the way out of you, only to forcefully drive back into you. 

The switch is immediate. He still fucks you in complete motions, but they’re shorter, no longer the tip to the shaft each time. These are faster, much faster. It feels like he’s reaching up into your guts each time, just to pull back and do it again and again and again. 

You’re forced to find purchase again, hands digging into whatever you can find. One hand attaches to his hair and the other holds onto his chain, your legs have linked around Joaquín’s hips, your head has craned backwards, leaving the area between the base of your neck and your chest open for Joaquín to rest his forehead on. 

You can’t hear his sounds over yours, but you feel them—quick breaths let out onto the sweat coated area of your chest. You would try and silence yourself to better hear him, but you couldn’t even if you tried. 

Luckily, though, Joaquín lifts his head and notches his nose against the side of your neck instead. He kisses you right beneath your earlobe, but when he can no longer complete that action, his jaw goes slack and every single noise he makes travels directly to your ear. 

You swear and it comes out as a whimper, not even a second later Joaquín swears and it’s a deep groan all the way from the back of his throat. You call his name and he calls yours. He’s affecting you, and you’re affecting him, even just by laying back and urging him to get himself off by using your body.

“Are you close?” you eventually gather the strength, and will, to ask. 

You feel Joaquín nod against your neck. “Yeah,” he confirms, “yeah, baby, ‘m almost there.” 

Your reaction is instant. You groan, a sound that could be interpreted as frustration if you weren’t having your guts completely rearranged right now. 

He chuckles deeply against your skin. “What? What’s up?”

“C…Call me that again.”

“What? ‘Baby’? You like when I call you baby?” 

You hum affirmatively. 

Joaquín lifts his head and slots one hand against your cheek. His pace slows as he stares at you. “You’re my baby? Hm? Are you?” 

You nod, whining out an “uh-huh”. 

“Yeah?” he grins as he says it, as if he’s shocked that you agreed. You don’t know if he’s serious, if he knows that his words are holding weight even if you’re a little dumb right now, but you do mean it. 

He licks his lips and you see an idea coming to his head. “You gonna be good for me, too?” When you nod, he continues. “Be good for me, baby, and touch yourself, alright?”

He gives you the space needed and watches your hand slide down your stomach. When you use two fingers to tweak your already overstimulated clit, Joaquín nods. 

“That’s right. Just like that.” 

He resumes his original pace, this time with his eyes fully locked on your cunt. He pulls one of your legs up and throws it over his shoulder, leaning forward to get even deeper into you. 

You’re close, you’re almost there, and the erratic way Joaquín practically jackhammers into you as he chases his own release is what pushes you over. You finish just after Joaquín buries himself into you and curls his body over yours. This orgasm truly feels like a release. Everything in you melts into the world around you, just as Joaquín’s body melts on top of yours. 

He kisses the skin closest to him, first in small almost discrete pecks, and then they gradually get bigger and more audible until he’s clearly making them ridiculous on purpose. 

His cock is still nestled in you and his head is still resting on your chest when he speaks. “You think you’ll be up for a shower?”

You hum, letting the question run through your head for a minute before responding. “In about ten minutes, yeah.” 

“Take your time.”

In the meantime, Joaquín slowly slides out of you. The emptiness is immediate, but after all you’ve been through since getting back to your room, you don’t exactly hate it. Your eyes start to feel heavy but you let them close for a little while. You rely on your other senses throughout. 

The feeling of Joaquín kissing over where you think your bikini tan lines are, the rim of the glass that he brings to your lips, the sound of his voice as he gently urges you to drink, the feeling of cool water sliding down your throat. He holds you steady as you drink with a hand behind your head. Your lips turn up tiredly, and you feel his thumb at the corner of your lip catching a stray drop of water. You don’t have to open your eyes to know he’s wearing that same soft look on his features.

You’re so pampered there that you don’t force yourself to get up until you hear the shower running. 

Joaquín’s already there waiting for you at the door. He smiles when he sees you as if he’s shocked that you came, even though this is your room and your bathroom. Still, he reaches out and grabs your hand, pulling you into the bathroom and in front of him. His hands push at your back, guiding you towards the shower. He pulls the door open for you and lets you step inside before he follows after you. 

You reach for the towel and soap, but stop when he tuts behind you. 

“I got it,” is all he says. So you let yourself completely relax with the feeling of Joaquín dragging the cloth up and down your limbs. He talks to you throughout, mostly asking you to lift an arm or turn around, sometimes bringing up small bits of conversation, every now and then singing bits of songs—some that you recognize, some that you don’t. There’s a familiarity now that you’ve gained since his hands had massaged sunscreen into your shoulders. 

Eventually, though, he finishes with you, leaving you to lean against the wall and watch him shower.

“You know what I realized like a few minutes ago?” he says when he’s rinsing the soap off of his body. 

“What?”

“Remember the couple from the club that first night? The one who kept buying us drinks?”

“Yeah, how could I forget?”

“Yeah well I’m pretty sure they thought we were like … swingers or some shit.”

You’re startled awake. “Huh? Why do you think that?”

“Oh I don’t think, I know. The guy gave me his number and everything. Plus you saw the way they were looking at us, and the woman kept cozying up to you.”

You frown. “I thought she was just drunk or friendly.”

“She definitely was drunk and friendly. And she also wanted you.” 

You blink. “I thought she wanted you.”

Joaquín shrugs and rinses the last of the soap from his back before he shuts the water off. “She probably did. That’s sort of part of the whole swingers gig, isn’t it?”

You laugh through a quick exhale of air. “Come on, Joaquín, let’s go to bed.” 

You step out of the shower and wrap a towel around your body. Joaquín follows after you. 

“Oh, I get to sleep with you tonight?” He sounds giddy when he says it, as if he wasn’t just fucking you so good that your legs are still getting used to walking again. When you tell him that, you see the unintended compliment go straight to his head. 

You end up getting exactly what you wanted. Joaquín leans into the bathroom counter with the towel hung low around his waist and his eyes watching you do your skincare routine. As soon as you’re finished, he’s trekking off to his room for a change of clothes and to do whatever he needs to do, and he comes back in nothing but boxers with a big shirt in his hand. He lays it on the counter for you casually, but you see the tips of his ears tinted just a tiny bit red when he retreats back to your room. 

You come out in his shirt to see him lying on your side of the bed, the remote in his hand and pointed at the TV. As if the entire trip had been going like this the entire time, he instantly scoots over when you come to the side of the bed and lifts the sheets for you to climb under. You lay curled into his side, telling him to click a channel playing a movie that you know he likes. 

The remote is placed on the nightstand, the lights are clicked off and you’re snuggled up next to Joaquín, wearing his shirt and talking about how the two of you are going to spend your last day of vacation. 

Not everything goes how you thought it would, though. Joaquín ends up being pretty mindful with his blanket usage. 

---

To The Winter Soldier~ Oneshot

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

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Note: All characters except Bucky are mine!

Warnings: Smut

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

Flashback: Warsaw, Poland – 11:42 PM

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

In this moment, he wasn’t James.

He was the Winter Soldier.

Emotionless. Controlled. Programmed.

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

Objective: Terminate target. No witnesses. No deviation.

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

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

Caleb L/N. Age 27.

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

Now, he was loose.

And loose ends were to be tied.

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

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

One step. Another.

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

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

The Soldier said nothing.

He raised the silenced pistol.

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

The shot was muffled. The sound of finality.

The body crumpled.

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

No witnesses.

No mistakes.

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

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

Brooklyn, New York – Present Day

The dreams never changed.

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

Sometimes he heard the words.

“Please.”

Sometimes he saw the blood again.

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

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

Caleb L/N.

He remembered his name now.

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

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

But Bucky’s hands had delivered it anyway.

Because that was who he was made to be.

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

But there was no one to hear.

Brooklyn, 3:15 AM

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

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

She was.

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

Four years since she got access to the file.

And she still couldn’t sleep through the night.

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

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

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

To the Winter Soldier,

You don’t know me. But I know you.

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

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

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

So I’m putting it here. With you.

She stared at it.

Then slowly signed her name.

—Y/N L/N

Three Days Later – Avengers Compound Mailroom

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

But this envelope caught his eye.

No return address. Just his name. Carefully printed.

He opened it.

And the words hit like a blow to the ribs.

Caleb.

Takeout.

Please.

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

Y/N L/N.

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

He hadn’t thought of her since.

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

___

Y/N didn’t expect a response.

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

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

Y/N,

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

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

—James Barnes

She read it again.

And again.

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

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

Brooklyn – One Week Later

Y/N didn’t plan to write again.

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

But the void had answered.

And now it wasn’t a void anymore.

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

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

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

Forgiveness wasn’t even on the table.

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

So she picked up the pen.

James,

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t sign her name this time.

She didn’t need to.

Avengers Compound – Bucky’s Quarters

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

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

But Caleb wasn’t just a file anymore.

He had a sister.

And now her voice lived in Bucky’s mind.

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

Guilt had made a permanent home there.

He reached for a pen.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he owed her answers.

Y/N,

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

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

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

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

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

—James

___

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

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

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

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

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

Do you believe in redemption?

Not for me. But I believe in trying.

Brooklyn – Late December

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

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

Instead, she reached for her notepad.

James,

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

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

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

Maybe I’m tired of hating you.

—Y/N

Avengers Compound – Midnight

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

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

Now he did.

Or at least the beginning of it.

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

Y/N,

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

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

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

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

—James

By February, they were writing weekly.

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

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

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

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

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

Not peace. Not yet.

But something close.

Brooklyn – March

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

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

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

She didn’t expect a reply so soon.

Y/N,

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

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

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

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

—James

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

That night, she picked it up.

Just a few chords. Nothing whole.

But it was a beginning.

Early April-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that progress?

Yes.

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

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

Avengers Compound – Mid April

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

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

Y/N had written again yesterday.

This one was different.

James,

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

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

Do you ever go somewhere just to remember?

Or to forget?

—Y/N

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

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

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

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

You write beautifully. Even when you’re breaking.

I hope the cabin is kind to you.

—James

Vermont – Late April

The cabin hadn’t changed.

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

Her fingers trembled as she reached for her pen.

James,

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

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

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

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

Thank you for helping me get here.

—Y/N

May–

The letters slowed.

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

He called her.

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

She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

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

“It’s me,” he said. “James.”

A beat of silence.

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

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

“Is that a good thing?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It is.”

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

But when they hung up, her chest felt warmer.

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

Late May-

The letters didn’t stop. But they changed.

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

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

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

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

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

I think about it too.

Brooklyn – June

It was hot.

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

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

Because she didn’t need to say anything new.

But she did anyway.

James,

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

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

I think I’m ready to meet.

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

You don’t have to come.

But I hope you will.

—Y/N

Vermont – June

The bench waited.

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

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

She wasn’t early. She wasn’t late.

But he wasn’t there yet.

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

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

Today, the ache was quieter.

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

She’d rehearsed a dozen things in her head.

None of them came when she saw him.

He Appeared Like a Shadow Stepping into Light.

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

Just footsteps.

She turned slowly.

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

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

He stopped a few feet away.

Neither of them spoke.

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

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

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

“I wasn’t sure I could,” he replied.

“Why did you?”

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

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

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

Not a barrier.

Just… space.

___

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

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

“I’ve never been good at that.”

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

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

A bird chirped in the distance.

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

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

“Both. And louder.”

She laughed. It was short but real.

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

“I know.”

“But I didn’t.”

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

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

“I used to dream about killing you.”

Bucky didn’t flinch.

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

“Do you feel better now?”

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

___

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

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

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

He knew what she meant.

“Almost five years.”

“Does it get easier?”

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

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

His throat tightened. “Your brother?”

She nodded.

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

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

“He was kind.”

She looked at him in surprise.

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

A silence passed between them. Heavy. Necessary.

Then: “He would’ve forgiven you.”

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

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

Warm. Rough. Human.

“I’m trying.”

He nodded. “That’s all I can ask.”

___

They talked for hours.

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

They didn’t talk about Hydra.

They didn’t talk about Steve.

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

She laughed again. Twice.

He smiled more.

When dusk settled, he stood.

“I should go.”

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

He blinked. “Are you sure?”

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

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

“Yeah. It is.”

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

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

She took it. “Thank you.”

He started down the porch steps, then paused.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you wrote to me.”

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

“I’m glad you answered.”

Later That Night-

She read the letter by lamplight.

Y/N,

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

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

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

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

But you gave me all of it.

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

Someone like you.

If that’s worth anything.

Thank you for giving me the chance to try.

—James

She didn’t cry.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because it did—and it was okay.

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

“I think he’d be proud too.”

Vermont – The Morning After

The rain had passed in the night.

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

The river murmured softly outside the cabin window.

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

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

She made coffee.

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

She wasn’t.

He was sitting on the stairs. Quiet. Still.

Bucky Barnes.

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

He looked over his shoulder when he heard her step.

“You always up this early?” he asked.

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

“You expecting me?”

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

He handed her a second mug.

She took it without question.

____

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

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

Neither spoke of the letters.

Or Caleb.

Not yet.

There was comfort in the silence.

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

Later That Night –

She made grilled cheese.

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled into her mug.

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

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

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

She didn’t push it.

He didn’t look away.

After Dinner –

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

Bucky nodded once, not looking at her.

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

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

“Only when it goes untended.”

He finally looked up.

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

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

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

“I’m trying.”

Their eyes held.

It was a long, silent understanding.

___

He took the couch.

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

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

The Week That Followed-

He stayed.

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

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

They spoke about nothing and everything.

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

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

She didn’t ask. Just sat beside him.

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

She rested her hand over his. Flesh on metal.

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

____

It happened slowly.

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

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

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

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

She read it anyway.

Y/N,

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

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

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

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

—J

____

It wasn’t a letter.

Just herself.

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

Just her.

“You stayed,” she said softly.

“I did.”

“I think I want you to keep staying.”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He reached out, hesitant, and touched her hand.

She let him.

___

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

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

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

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

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

She looked up at the sky.

“Do you still have nightmares?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“You ever see me in them?”

He turned to face her.

“Not anymore.”

____

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

She placed them in a box.

Not to forget.

But to begin something new.

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

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

He kissed the top of her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” she breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He kissed her like her name was salvation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.

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

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

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

No more letters tonight. No more ghosts.

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

-the end

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