WILL POULTER, KIT CONNOR & CHARLES MELTON Los Angeles Premiere Of A24's "Warfare" March 27, 2025

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

---

i've been thinking abt joaquin's smile all day. he has these small little canines that drive me insane he has such a blinding smile i need him to bite me NEOWWWW

well yes!!! i wanna have his bite marks all over me!!

it starts with his smile. it always does. the one that makes your stomach flip before your brain can even catch up.

joaquín torres grins like he’s never known a bad day in his life, like the whole world is just one big inside joke that only he gets, and for some reason, he’s decided to let you in on it. it’s bright and easy, a little lopsided, all teeth—all easy charm and boyish.

it should not affect you the way it does.

joaquín grins with his whole face, like he can’t help himself, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his dimples cutting deep. but it’s the way his lips curl just a little wider, letting those sharp little canines peek through—that’s what does it for you.

and he knows it.

he sees the way you hesitate. how your gaze flickers, just for a second, a fraction too long on his mouth before you catch yourself.

the second he notices, it’s over.

“you’re staring,” joaquín sing-songs, swaying slightly as he leans into your space, his grin widening.

“i’m not.”

“you so are.” his head tilts, studying you, his grin taking on that smug little edge. and then—then his brows raise, realization dawning. “wait, wait—are you looking at my teeth?”

“no.”

“oh my god,” Joaquín laughs, voice a little breathless, like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. “you are. you like them.”

he sounds so delighted by the discovery that it makes you mad.

“no, i don’t—”

he gasps “you so do.”

“i literally never said that.”

“but you didn’t deny it.”

you open your mouth, ready to argue, but the way he smiles at you? it knocks the words right out of your throat.

because it’s different now.

not just playful—calculated. there’s a slow kind of teasing in the way his lips pull back, like he’s showing you on purpose, like he’s letting you look.

and that—that is what does it.

you panic.

“what, you think i have some weird vampire kink or something?”

joaquín snorts, shaking his head. “nah, i just think you like when I do this—”

before you can react, he dips down, nosing against your shoulder before he bites.

it’s not a real bite—just a quick, teasing nip against your shoulder, nothing more than the press of his teeth against your skin. but it lingers—just enough to send a sharp little shiver rolling through you, to make your breath hitch.

he laughs when he feels it.

it’s quiet, breathy, a little pleased, his lips brushing against the spot where his teeth just were, like he’s savoring the reaction.

when he finally pulls back, there’s nothing but mischief in his gaze. his hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilting just slightly to the side as he watches you with something too smug, too knowing.

“see?” joaquín murmurs, voice warm, teasing. “shut you up real quick, didn’t i?”

and you should be annoyed. you should push him off and roll your eyes and tell him to stop being so full of himself.

but instead, your fingers tighten in his shirt, and the only thing you can think about is how much you wouldn’t mind if he did it again.

---

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.

---

no thoughts just will poulter in the bear… it feels criminal that I barely see any fics/oneshots for Luca yet this man is so fine omfg THE TATS like LOOK AT HIM

---

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

---

'Landed too hard'

outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: You save Joel's life from raiders but instead of thanking you, he gets mad at you.

or

You get hurt and you are forced to be vulnerable with each other.

wc: 7k

warnings: age gap, established relationship, angst, fluff, miscommunication, insecurities, mentions of blood, and fluff

a/n: i'm slowly coming back to this with this baby here that was on my drafts. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌

The forest was too quiet for your liking. No birds, no wind—Just the soft crunch of the snowy ground beneath your feet as you followed Joel who was ahead of you and Ellie. There was something in the air this day, eerie silence pressing on your chest, tension, and Joel had been on edge all day, his broad shoulder seemed tense under his jacker, his grip on the rifle tighter than usual.

It felt like the premonition of something bad coming on your way. So, you kept your knife close and your gun pressed under your hand.

“We’ll set up camp soon,” Joel muttered, his voice low without looking behind to you and Ellie.

Ellie groaned. “Finally. My feet feel like they’re gonna fall soon.”

You gave her a tired smile at her remark, but your eyes stayed on Joel. His jaw was tight, the scar above his brow crinkling deeper. You knew him well enough to read the signs—he was worried. More than usual.

That’s why you didn’t even hear them coming.

One second, you were walking behind Joel, and the next, chaos broke out. Shouts echoed through the trees. Five, maybe six men, all armed came out from nowhere. Joel shoved you and Ellie behind an overturned log.

“Stay down,” he growled, pressing his rifle into your hands. “If anyone gets close, you shoot. Don’t move unless I say so.”

“Joel—”

“Stay.”

You swallowed your fear and nodded, grabbing Ellie and pulling her down. Joel stepped out, drawing their attention, firing a shot that took one of the men down, then another and so on.

But the rest came fast. Through the cracks in the log, you watched Joel fight. He moved like a man who’d done this too many times, but even then, it was too much. One of the raiders tackled him, and suddenly, Joel was on the ground, with one of those men’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.

the man’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.

“Shit,” you whispered, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear Ellie’s panicked breathing next to you.

Joel clawed at the man’s wrists, his face turning red, veins bulging in his neck. He wasn’t going to get out of it and you couldn’t just sit there watching the man you loved die in front of you.

“Stay here,” you told Ellie, voice shaking from rage.

“Wait…what are you doing?!” she whispered.

Your body moved before your mind could argue. You were already running before Ellie could have the chance to stop you.

You tackled the man strangling Joel, knocking him off balance, but before you could finish him, another set of hands grabbed you from behind. You struggled, kicking and clawing, managing to land a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs before twisting free. The first man lunged again, but you dodged, feeling the burn of a knife slicing across your cheek. The pain barely registered as you drove your own blade into the man’s neck, then turned and plunged it into the second attacker’s chest before he could recover. Warm blood splattered your hands as the man crumpled, gasping his last breath.

You stood there, panting, adrenaline rushing through your veins.

Joel coughed violently, rolling onto his side, his face pale and drenched in sweat. You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands hovering uselessly. “Joel? Hey—hey, are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, still gasping for air. When he finally sat up, his brown eyes locked onto yours—not with gratitude, but with pure, burning rage.

“The fuck were you thinking?” he rasped, voice raw.

You blinked, the adrenaline still rushing through you. “I—I had to. He was going to—”

“You didn’t listen to me!” Joel slammed his fist into the dirt, his whole-body trembling with anger. “I told you to stay hidden! What if he’d killed you?!”

“Well, he didn’t” you stated, “I saved your life!”

“And you risked yours doing it!”

His voice echoed through the trees, sharp and unforgiving. You felt your chest tighten, heat rising in your throat.

“I’m not some helpless girl you can just shove behind a log, Joel! I did what I had to!”

Joel stood up, wiping the blood from his hands. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything else. The space between you felt impossibly wide.

He ran a hand over his face, stepping back like he couldn’t even look at you. "You put yourself in danger. You could’ve been killed. Do you even get that?"

"I get that I just saved your ass!" You shot back, the weight of the moment crashing over you. "And all you can do is yell at me?"

He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists before he turned away. "I ain't doin' this."

"Fine," you bit out.

The air between you felt thick, suffocating. You glanced at Ellie, who stood off to the side, arms crossed, her expression tense.

You lifted a hand to your cheek, your fingers coming away sticky with blood. The cut burned now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and you sucked in a sharp breath. Ellie’s eyes flicked to the wound, concern flashing across her face, but she didn’t say anything. Joel still wasn’t looking at you, his back rigid as he adjusted his pack.

"We should get moving," he muttered, voice low and strained.

You nodded, swallowing down the ache in your throat. Without another word, the three of you fell into step, the silence stretching between you like an open wound

That night, you found a small clearing tucked between dense trees, far enough from the road to feel safe. The cold had settled deep, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself as you sat near the weak glow of the fire. Joel had barely spoken a word since the fight, his focus set on keeping watch, his back to you.

You weren’t hurt by his words or the outburst he had, but by the idea of him willingly die and feeling at peace with it. How easy would be for him to left you behind and in your own.

You dismissed your thoughts as you dug through your pack for a rag, pressing it against the wound on your cheek. The sting made you wince, and you cursed under your breath.

A quiet shuffling caught your attention, and you looked up to see Ellie kneeling beside you, her brows furrowed.

"Here," she said, pulling a small bottle of alcohol from her pocket. "Let me help."

You hesitated for a moment, then gave her a small nod. She dampened the cloth with the antiseptic and reached for your face. The touch was gentle, but the sting made you hiss.

"Sorry," Ellie murmured, concentrating as she cleaned the cut. "You’re lucky it’s not deeper."

You let out a small chuckle, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "Lucky isn’t exactly how I’d describe this day.”

Ellie huffed, finishing up before pulling a bandage from her pack. "Well, you’re not dead, so that counts for something."

You smiled faintly, glancing toward Joel. He still hadn’t turned around. You sighed, looking back at Ellie. "Thanks, kid."

She just shrugged, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Anytime."

As the fire crackled softly between you, you finally felt a small sense of comfort—at least, from Ellie. Joel, on the other hand, was still a storm brewing on the other side of camp.

Joel sat a few feet away, his gaze drifting to you as he kept watch. He noticed the way you shivered, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, but still, you slept. He hesitated, jaw tightening as he debated with himself. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and carefully draped it over you.

You stirred slightly at the added warmth, a small, unconscious sigh escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake. Joel lingered for a moment, watching you, before settling back down next to you as if he needed to remind himself you were still here.

The fire in your camp had burned down to glowing embers, the scent of smoke mixing with the cool morning air. Joel sat near it, his hands wrapped around his termo, sipping coffee our from it, his eyes occasionally flicking over to where you slept.

Your back was to him, your body curled slightly, the jacket pulled high over your shoulder. The cut ran along your cheekbone from the fight the day before—a fight that left you and Joel in a tense, suffocating silence. Reminding him how you always put yourself in danger for him.

He hated himself for it. How he had came to the point where he felt useless.

Now, in the morning light, you looked peaceful despite the frown that creased your forehead. Joel knew that look. He knew you too well.

Ellie stirred next to him, stretching before getting to her feet. She glanced at you, then back at Joel. “Should I wake her up?” she asked, rubbing her tired eyes.

Joel shook his head. “Not yet.”

Ellie raised a brow. “Why?”

Joel sighed, glancing at you again before taking another sip of coffee. “She’s got a frown.”

Ellie blinked. “Yeah, ‘cause she’s mad at you. Even in her sleep.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, but there wasn’t much fight in it. “No. It’s different. She gets that when she gets a migraine.” He ran a hand over his beard, glancing at you again. “Let her sleep a little longer.”

Ellie’s teasing smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer. “You really pay attention, huh?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took another slow sip of coffee, staring into the fire. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “When it comes to her of course I do.”

Ellie sighed, dropping back down onto the log next to him. “So… you gonna fix this or what?”

Joel tensed, setting his cup down beside him. “She doesn’t wanna talk to me.”

“Yeah, because you yelled at her.” She reminded him.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “She shouldn’t have done what she did.”

“She saved your ass, Joel.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “That ain’t the point.”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, it kinda is. She did what you would’ve done for her.”

Joel was silent, his gaze dropping to the ground.

“Do you think she would be fine if you were dead?” she pressed on, sighing.

Instead of answer, Joel reached for his bag, unbuckling the strap. He knew exactly where to look, tucked inside one of the side pockets were the pills he always carried for you, just in case.

Ellie, who had been watching with quiet curiosity, tilted her head. “Wait… you carry her pills?”

Joel didn’t look up as he pulled out the small bottle, checking how many were left. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff, like he didn’t think it was something worth mentioning.

Ellie crossed her arms. “Huh.”

Joel finally glanced at her. “What?”

Ellie smirked. “Nothin’. Just—you act all tough, but you’re, like, secretly the softest person ever for her.”

Joel rolled his eyes, muttering, “Keep it to yourself, kid,” as he moved toward you.

You stirred slightly as he knelt beside you, brushing your hair back from your face with a careful hand. The sight of the cut on your cheek made his stomach twist again, but he pushed the feeling down. He had already failed to keep you from getting hurt once, he wouldn’t fail you now.

Gently, he set the bottle of pills down next to you, along with a canteen of water. He knew you still weren’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop taking care of you.

As he sat back, Ellie watched him with something unreadable in her expression. “Still mad, huh?”

Joel sighed, rubbing his thumb over the strap of your bag.

Ellie nodded. “Well… you’re doin’ the right thing, at least.”

Joel wasn’t sure about that. But as he sat there, keeping watch while you slept, he figured it was all he could do for now.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the dull ache in your head. The second was the soft sound of the fire crackling nearby. You blinked against the morning light, your body still heavy with exhaustion.

And then you saw the canteen and the small bottle of pills sitting beside you. You didn’t have to ask who put them there.

Your gaze flickered to Joel, who sat a few feet away, his back turned slightly toward you. He was sharpening his knife, the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone filling the quiet space. Ellie sat across from him, kicking at the dirt with her boot, sneaking glances at you like she was waiting to see what you’d do.

You swallowed, your throat dry. Carefully, you pushed yourself up, wincing as your muscles protested. Your fingers brushed against the bottle of pills, and you hesitated before finally picking it up.

Joel’s voice came before you could say anything. “Drink some water with that.”

It was quiet. Gruff. Like he wasn’t sure where the two of you stood after yesterday.

You pressed your lips together, debating whether to respond, but you didn’t have the energy to fight again. Instead, you obeyed, twisting the cap off and dry-swallowing the pill before chasing it with a sip of water.

Joel didn’t look at you, but you saw his shoulders drop just a little.

Ellie, of course, didn’t stay quiet for long. “Sooo… does this mean you guys are done being mad at each other?

You shot her a look. “Ellie.”

“What? I’m just saying’—”

Joel cut in; his voice flat. “Eat your breakfast.”

Ellie huffed but dropped it, tearing off a piece of jerky with her teeth.

You sighed, rubbing your temples before stealing a glance at Joel. His eyes were still fixed on his knife, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the handle a little too tightly.

He was waiting. For you to say something. For you to forgive him.

You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples in a weak attempt to ease the pressure in your skull. It wasn’t working. Nothing ever really worked, except for him.

Joel had a way of grounding you when the pain got bad. He didn’t always have the right words, but he never needed them. He had his own way of taking care of you, of letting you know he was there. And right now, all you wanted was for him to kiss your temples the way he used to.

The way he always did when you were hurting.

But things weren’t the same. You had fought, you had pulled away, and he had let you. And now, even though he was right there, he felt miles away.

You swallowed hard and shut your eyes, trying to push down the disappointment twisting in your chest. It was stupid to want that from him right now. After everything, you shouldn’t need him like that.

Except you did.

Joel shifted, and you felt him move closer, his presence clear even before he spoke. “Did you take the pills?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

There was a long silence, and then, so softly you almost missed it— “Still hurts?”

You hesitated. Your pride screamed at you to say no. To brush him off and keep that last little bit of distance between you. But you were tired.

“Yeah,” you admitted.

Joel exhaled slowly. And then, finally, finally, you felt his fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head just enough so he could lean in.

His lips pressed against your temple, warm and steady, lingering for just a second longer than they needed to.

You closed your eyes, breathing him in.

“Get ready, we have to go now” he spoke, still closer to your face.

You nodded, your throat tightening at the sudden shift back to reality. The moment was brief, fleeting, just like every soft thing between you and Joel seemed to be.

He pulled away first, his hand dropping from your face like he hadn’t just touched you like you meant something to him. Like he hadn’t just kissed you the way he always used to when you were hurting.

You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up slightly, ignoring the dull ache in your chest "Yeah, okay," you muttered, rubbing at your face as if you could wipe away the lingering warmth of his touch.

Joel stood up, already shifting back into that closed-off version of himself, the one that had been there ever since your fight. The one that didn’t know how to bridge the gap now.

Ellie walked in just as you were attempting to stand, her eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys look weird," she said, frowning. "Like... extra weird."

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now, Ellie."

She just smirked, clearly entertained by whatever tension was hanging in the air. "Whatever you say, lovebirds."

You rolled your eyes, reaching for your bag to distract yourself. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the straps, but you pretended not to notice. Joel pretended too, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you, watching you too closely like he always did.

The road stretched ahead, cracked and broken, nature reclaiming what once belonged to people. You walked in silence, the weight of the morning still pressing against your chest. Your head ached, but you bit down on the pain, refusing to let it slow you down.

Joel was beside you, his steps steady, his presence solid as ever. But something about him felt distant. He was looking at you, you could feel his gaze flickering toward you every few moments, but it wasn’t the same. Not like before.

Before, his eyes had been filled with something warm, something certain. But now? Now, it felt like he was watching you from behind a wall, like he was making sure you were still there but refusing to let himself feel anything about it.

Ellie, for once, was quiet, kicking a stray rock as she walked ahead, letting the tension settle between the two of you.

Joel’s outburst had been raw, desperate, his voice breaking, his hands gripping yours like he could tether you to him. But now, you saw it for what it was. Fear. Not just of losing you. But of what it meant if he didn’t.

Because Joel didn’t think he deserved to have you. He thought he wasn’t enough, that he never had been. And maybe… maybe he never would be.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "You don’t have to keep looking at me like that," you muttered, not even turning your head.

Joel tensed beside you. "Like what?"

"Like you're waiting for me to cry to let you in and forgive you shout at me.”

His jaw ticked, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all. But then—

"I am not," he said, voice rough. A lie.

You stopped walking. Finally, you turned to face him. "Then what is it?" you asked, your voice softer than you meant for it to be. "Because you had been like this for week, something's been different and yesterday you just broke."

Joel exhaled slowly, looking away, his hands on his hips, his fingers flexing. "Nothing’s different."

You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Bullshit."

Ellie stopped a few steps ahead, glancing between the two of you like she wanted to intervene but thought better of it.

Joel shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders stiff, his mouth opening—then closing again. He had no answer. No real one, anyway.

Because the truth was, it had never been about you. It had always been about him. About the way he would rather push you away than let himself believe, even for a second, that he was allowed to keep you. That you would want to stay.

That you would choose him. But you were tired of being the only one fighting for this.

So, you just nodded, setting your jaw. "Alright," you murmured, turning back toward the road, ignoring the way your chest ached. "If nothing’s different, then let’s just keep moving."

He Heard the way your voice broke at the end and he just watched as you joined Ellie.

Joel stood there, hands tightening into fists at his sides as he watched you walk away. He’d done this—again.

He had Hurt you.

He told himself it was for the best, that it was the only way to keep you safe. But that excuse was starting to sound as hollow as he felt.

Ellie shot him a glance, her expression unreadable before she turned her attention back to you. She said something low under her breath, nudging your shoulder. You didn’t look back.

And Joel? Joel just stood there, rooted in place, watching the one thing he was most afraid of slip through his fingers.

Because, deep down, he knew. It wasn’t the world that would take you from him. It was him. It was a matter of time.

A few hours later, when cold still found its way deep down your bones. You followed Joel and Ellie into the old market, the air inside thick with dust and the remnants of a world long gone. The faded signs above the shop windows once advertised fruits and vegetables, but now they were nothing more than silent witnesses to the decay around them.

Joel stepped into the shadows first, scanning the area with ease. His hand never strayed far from the rifle slung across his back. He wasn’t just looking for supplies—he was looking for danger, as always, he was ready to find it. You watched him move with that quiet confidence that made him seem invincible, even though you knew better. The way he held himself, as if the weight of the world was constantly on his shoulders.

He disappeared behind a corner, moving into the heart of the market.

Ellie, always ready for adventure, shifted impatiently next to you. “Think it’s safe?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the market.

You didn’t answer right away, your eyes fixed on the place where Joel had vanished. You could feel the tension coiling between the two of you, that invisible thread that had been growing tighter over the last few hours. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

“He’ll let us know when it’s safe,” you said quietly, not taking your eyes away from him.

Ellie raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced. “Yeah, but what if-”

You cut her off with a shake of your head. “He’s careful. He’ll check everything first.”

She didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but she stayed quiet. You both waited in silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Then, Joel’s voice echoed from ahead. “Clear,” he called out as he reappeared from behind a row of shelves, his gaze briefly flicking over you before he turned to lead the way deeper into the market. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the wariness beneath it.

His fingers found their way to your shoulders, his touch was brief, just the slightest brush of his fingers against your jacket. A silent reassurance. Or maybe a habit he couldn't break.

You didn’t react, didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, you focused on scanning the shelves, looking for anything useful. Cans, medical supplies.

Ellie was already rummaging through a shelf, muttering under her breath about how people really liked canned beans before the world went to hell. Joel moved ahead, his rifle held tight as he checked the corners, ever cautious.

You bent down, shifting through a pile of toppled boxes, when Joel’s voice came from behind you. “You good?”

It was automatic, the way he asked. Like even when he was keeping his distance, he still couldn’t help but care.

You hesitated, keeping your back to him. “Yeah.”

Another pause. Then a quiet, “Alright.”

But it wasn’t alright.

Not the way his voice sounded. Not the way your chest ached every time he was close but not close enough. And definitely not the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long on your shoulder, as if he didn’t want to let go.

Joel was already moving toward another section of the market, scanning the rows of empty shelves, searching for anything of value. Ellie had drifted further ahead, already rummaging through a crate she found. You stayed close to the wall, the building’s dilapidated structure making you nervous, but you tried not to let the unease show. You knew Joel was doing his best to keep everyone safe, but the weight of everything—of what you had lost, of what you were still fighting for—was starting to catch up with you.

You took a few more steps, carefully picking your way over the cracked floor, when suddenly, the ground beneath you gave way with a sharp, unsettling creak. Before you could react, your foot twisted, the bone snapping like a twig under the weight of the fall.

A sharp, searing pain shot through your ankle as you cried out, unable to stop yourself. The world spun for a moment as you collapsed, hands pressing to the ground to catch yourself, but the pain in your ankle was unbearable. You let out a sharp gasp, fighting the urge to cry out again as you felt something shift beneath the skin, your foot didn’t feel right.

"Shit," you muttered, trying to stay calm, but panic crept in with each breath. Your heart raced as you instinctively tried to pull yourself up, but your foot wouldn’t hold any weight. You couldn’t put it down.

Ellie’s voice broke through the fog of pain, distant but growing closer. “What happened?”

“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice followed almost immediately. You could hear the panic lacing his tone, the urgency in his steps as he turned back toward you. You felt the weight of his presence before you saw him, his figure coming into view, moving fast.

He saw you on the ground, your face twisted in pain, and his heart dropped. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kneeling down beside you with a speed that surprised you. His hands were gentle, but you could hear the frustration in his voice as he assessed the damage. "What the hell happened?"

“I—I fell,” you stammered, gritting your teeth as you tried to hold back more of the pain. You couldn’t focus on anything other than your ankle, the way it throbbed, the way your body seemed to give way under the weight of it.

Joel’s face hardened, his jaw clenching as he reached down to carefully touch your injured ankle. “I’m gonna need you to stay still, alright?” His voice was calm, but there was a warning edge to it. He was trying to hold himself together, trying not to let his worry show, but you could see it in his eyes. His hands worked quickly, checking for anything more serious, his brow furrowed with concentration.

“Ellie, get over here,” Joel called out, his voice low and strained.

Ellie rushed back toward you, eyes wide with concern as she knelt beside you. “Shit, are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to sound stronger than you felt. “It’s just my ankle.”

Joel’s gaze flicked between you and Ellie, his mind clearly racing. “We need to get you out of here, now.” His hand gripped your shoulder for a moment, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if grounding himself in that brief contact.

Ellie was already standing, her expression determined as she took a deep breath. “I’ll go grab what we need.”

Joel nodded, but his focus never left you. He reached down, his hands carefully lifting you as he positioned himself behind you. "I'm gonna carry you. It's gonna hurt a little, but I need you to hang on."

You bit back a hiss of pain as he adjusted his hold on you, making sure not to jostle your foot too much, but you couldn’t suppress the way your body tensed at the movement. The pain was still sharp, but there was something comforting in the way Joel’s arms secured around you.

“Joel…” you whispered, too exhausted to speak louder.

“I got you,” he muttered back, his voice almost a promise. "Just hang in there."

As he started to move, carrying you carefully toward a safer corner, you could feel your heart rate begin to slow, your pulse steadying slightly in the rhythm of his steps. But the ache in your ankle still lingered, a constant reminder of how fragile everything really was.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the pain, trying to find some semblance of peace in the way Joel had his arms around you. Because no matter how mad you were, no matter how much you weren’t talking to him, Joel Miller was always going to take care of you.

Joel helped you settle into a quiet corner of the abandoned store, easing you down onto an old crate. He crouched in front of you, his hands steady as he pulled your boot off, careful not to jostle your ankle too much.

Ellie hovered for a second, glancing between the two of you, then rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’m gonna go check the other side of the store. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

You didn’t respond. Joel didn’t either.

Once Ellie disappeared, Joel focused back on your ankle, pulling out a roll of bandages from his pack. He was quiet as he started wrapping, his fingers gentle but firm, pressing just enough to support your injury.

You watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet scoff. “You don’t have to pretend you care about this.”

Joel’s hands stilled. His jaw ticked. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“You think I’m pretending?” His voice was low, rough. Almost offended by the way your voice sounded saying those words.

You looked away, focusing on the peeling paint on the walls. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Joel. One second, you’re mad at me. The next, you’re acting like—like this.” You gestured vaguely at him. “Like it actually matters.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, sitting back on his heels. “It does matter.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Does it? Because you sure as hell didn’t act like it when you were yelling at me.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was mad because you almost got yourself killed.”

“I was saving you.” You protested.

“I don’t need saving” He replied, rough as always.

Your eyes snapped back to his, anger flashing in them. “And I don’t need you acting like I don’t have a say in whether or not I protect you. You can’t just decide for me, Joel.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked exhausted, like he was carrying too much weight on his shoulders. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.

You frowned, your voice softer now. “Can’t what?”

His gaze met yours again, something raw behind it. “I can’t lose you.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the faint wind outside, the rustling of leaves.

You swallowed, your throat tight. “You think I want to lose you?”

Joel’s expression softened just a fraction. He sighed, reaching forward, his hand hesitating before resting gently on your knee.

Your breath caught. The fight, the tension, it was still there, but underneath it was something deeper. Something neither of you had the words for just yet.

“You are always so willing to die,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “Like you’re just waiting for the exact moment. Like none of this matters to you. Like I don’t matter.”

Joel’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened, grounding you, but he didn’t say anything.

You sniffed, shaking your head. “Do you even know what that does to me? How it makes me feel?”

He swallowed hard, his throat working around the words he wasn’t saying.

“You walk into danger like you’ve already made peace with dying,” you continued, your voice raw. “And maybe you have. Maybe you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I care. And you make me watch you throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t matter if you make it out. Like you don’t care if I have to watch you—”

Your voice cut off as a sob wracked through you.

Joel let out a slow breath. Then, finally, he spoke. “I do care,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”

You let out a bitter laugh, swiping at your tears. “You sure don’t act like it.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. His gaze dropped for a moment before he forced himself to look at you. “I’m not waiting to die.”

You scoffed, looking away.

“I’m not” he insisted. His voice was rough, firm. “I just…I don’t know how to do this. How to—” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the back of his neck. “I spent twenty years not giving a damn about whether I made it out of alive. And then you—” He stopped, shaking his head like he didn’t have the words.

You stared at him, waiting. His gaze met yours again, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable.

"Do you think I would survive without you?" You asked him.

"You're strong." he stated.  

"That doesn't matter if the person I love and I protect throws himself to death" you said, tired of the cycle.

“I’m not trying to--” he started, but you cut him off.

“Yes, you are,” you snapped, your voice trembling. “You act like you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I do. And I don’t know what’s worse—watching you run into danger without thinking or knowing that if you died, you’d probably think I’d just move on.”

His brows furrowed. “That ain’t—”

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around Joel’s wrist. “Do you love me, Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say it—that maybe, after everything, he’d still hold back.

But then, his hand moved, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing over the cut on your cheek. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was memorizing you.

“I do,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”

Your breath stilled.

Joel exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “More than I ever meant to. More than I know what to do with.”

Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice.

“Then stop trying to leave me behind,” you whispered, pleading to him.

He looked at you with such intensity, as if he was trying to see past the pain and fear, trying to understand something that had always eluded him.

“How do you even love someone like me?” Joel’s voice cracked slightly, the question laced with vulnerability, a side of him you rarely saw—something raw and unprotected.

Your heart hurt at the sound of it. You wanted to reach out and erase the doubt from his mind, to tell him that he didn’t have to question it. But instead, you just looked at him, letting the silence linger for a moment, trying to gather the right words to answer him.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, “I love you because you’re you. Because through all the broken pieces, all the walls you’ve built around yourself, I still see the man who’s been there for me. You’re not perfect, none of us are. But you’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if taking in your words, processing them, before meeting your gaze again. His expression softened, the tightness in his jaw easing, but there was still that guarded look in his eyes. He was trying to fight something inside himself, something he had carried for so long.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, almost to himself, but you heard it loud and clear. The doubt in his voice, something he couldn’t shake.

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. “Stop saying that,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “You deserve me. You deserve everything good that’s coming your way. I’ve seen who you are, Joel. You’re not what you think you are.”

“Why do you think I keep pushing you away?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, like he was afraid of the answer himself.

You leaned in a little closer, your forehead nearly touching his, and your breath mingled in the quiet space between you. “Because you’re scared of letting yourself love me the way you do,” you said softly. “You’re scared of losing me. But pushing me away won’t make it any easier. It’ll just leave you with a regret you can’t undo.”

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as if your words had struck a chord in him, but it wasn’t enough to break him completely, not yet.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m afraid if I let myself love you fully... if I let myself need you the way I do… I won’t be able to protect you. I can’t live with that.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek as you reached up to wipe it away, the tenderness in his voice catching you off guard. You could feel the pain in his words, the depth of his fear, and it only made you love him more.

Joel’s hand gently moved to your ankle, and despite everything that had just been said, the tenderness in his touch wasn’t lost on you. His rough fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully positioned your leg. You winced slightly at the discomfort, but it wasn’t the pain from your ankle that caught your attention—it was the way his eyes never left you, the quiet care he was showing in that moment.

“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low, trying to keep his own emotions in check. You could tell he was trying to be calm for you, even though you knew he was anything but calm inside.

Joel’s fingers moved gently over your ankle, wrapping the bandage with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. His touch was steady, and for once, it was soft, more like the careful tenderness of someone who didn’t want to hurt you, rather than the harshness that often came with survival.

You winced slightly when the bandage tightened, but he immediately eased his grip, looking at you with concern.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure why, but his care made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

Once your ankle was properly secured, Joel leaned back, looking at you for a moment, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite place in them. He didn’t speak for a while, just stared at you like he was trying to decide something in his mind.

Joel’s gaze went to your ankle for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin of your bandaged ankle. It was a gesture so tender, so unexpected, that you couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“Don’t laugh,” he murmured, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice remained quiet, almost apologetic. “I’m just trying to make it better.”

You shook your head, still chuckling lightly, the sound feeling strange after everything that had happened. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Joel,” you said, meeting his eyes with a smile. “It’s just... never thought you’d be kissing my ankle better.”

Joel’s smirk softened into something more tender, and for a moment, there was nothing between you but the quiet understanding. His eyes dropped back to your ankle for a brief second before lifting to meet yours once more, his expression serious.  Without another word, he moved closer, his hand reaching to cup your face gently, his thumb brushing over your skin with the same tenderness he had shown when tending to your injury. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his lips just a breath away.

And then, without hesitation, he kissed you, soft, lingering, as if it was a promise, as if it was everything, he hadn’t been able to say before. You leaned into it, letting the kiss speak for you both, the tension between you finally easing, at least for this moment.

“Oh, come on! Seriously?” Ellie’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.

You and Joel broke apart instantly, your breath still tangled in his, as you turned to see Ellie standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, a smirk pulling at her lips.

Joel cleared his throat and sat back slightly, rubbing a hand over his beard like that would somehow erase what she’d just walked in on.

Ellie rolled her eyes. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and you’re already making out. Unbelievable.”

Your face burned, but you couldn’t help but laugh at her dramatic tone. “Ellie—”

“No, no,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “I mean, it’s kinda sweet, but gross.”

Joel shot her a look, his voice flat. “Ellie.”

“What?” She shrugged, grinning. “Just saying. But, uh—maybe save the romance for later, lovebirds? We kinda got shit to do.”

Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but when he glanced at you again, you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“C’mon,” he muttered, standing up and offering you a hand. “We should get movin’.”

You took his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. As you stood, Ellie shot you both a smug look before turning on her heel.

As she walked away, you heard her mutter under her breath, “God, I hope I never have to see that again.”

As soon as you put weight on your injured ankle, a sharp pain shot up your leg, making you wince. You bit down on a curse, trying to tough it out, but Joel noticed immediately.

“Joel, it’s fine, I can walk,” you protested, but you could see the look in his eyes, the one that said, no argument.

“Not gonna argue with me on this one. Up you go.” Before you could protest, he crouched slightly in front of you. “Get on.” He waited for you to settle onto his back, and you reluctantly complied, knowing it would be easier than walking on your own.

You blinked at him. “Joel, I can—”

He shot you a look over his shoulder. “I'm not asking...”

Ellie snorted. “Just get on, lovebird.”

You sighed, but there was no real fight left in you. Carefully, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you effortlessly.

“Easy, old man,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Joel huffed, adjusting his grip. “Call me that again, and I’m dropping you.”

You laughed softly, “Thanks,” you muttered after a moment, your face buried in his jacket, still feeling the warmth of his body. The way he carried you felt like a sense of safety you hadn’t realized you needed until now.

You sighed against him, letting yourself relax just a little as Joel carried you forward with steady steps. Without thinking, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his jacket.

Joel stiffened for half a second, his grip on your legs tightening before he exhaled slowly. “You trying to distract me?” His voice was lower now, rougher.

A smirk played on your lips. “Is it working?”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

You laughed, placing another kiss on the same spot, “I love you, Joel.”

His steps faltered for just a moment, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into your legs like he needed to ground himself.

He didn’t answer right away, just kept walking, his jaw tight. For a second, you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.

But then, in that quiet, gruff voice of his, he murmured, “I love you too, darling. Always”.

---

HES SO SLUTTY & IM ON MY KNEES YESS SIRR 😩🫦

---

Use Somebody

Summary : It’s Valentine’s Day and neither you nor your best friend Sam has plans, so he invites you over for movie night.

Pairing : Sam Wilson x best friend!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : food, cursing. FLUFF!!!!!!

Word count : 2.1k

Note : This fic was inspired by the song ‘Use Somebody’ by Kings of Leon. Happy Valentine's Day, and Enjoy!

You’d spent the entire afternoon pacing your apartment, scrolling through social media, and grumbling to yourself about the sheer audacity of everyone in your life being unavailable. Bucky had a date, so hand to hand combat training was out of the question. Pretty sure your pen pal Shuri had a date, which meant you can’t call her to complain. Even baby-faced, married-to-his-job Joaquin had a date.

And then there was you.

You had wasted hours half-heartedly swiping through Tinder, but the guys who fit your type never seemed to message back, and the ones who did were... not exactly good for you. After the third conversation that opened with "u up?”,  you gave up.

Which led you here: laying on your couch, phone to your ear, calling the one person you could always count on—your best friend, Sam Wilson.

"First of all," you started your rant  the moment he picked up, skipping pleasantries altogether, "Valentine’s Day is a scam. A capitalist holiday designed to make single people feel like shit while couples spend unnecessary amounts of money on flowers that die in two days and overpriced chocolates that have a 200% markup."

Sam chuckled on the other end. "So I take it your Tinder plan didn’t go well?"

"Nope. I am both undateable and cursed. Everyone has plans except for me. Bucky has a date. Bucky, Sam! The human equivalent of a feral cat."

"He’s not that bad," Sam defended, but you could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Shuri has a date. Joaquin has a date!“

Sam chuckles. "Are you calling just to diss on our friends?”

You rolled onto your side with a groan. "No, I called because I needed someone to suffer with me. Misery loves company, Wilson."

"Wow."

“Why did you answer, anyway?” You asked, looking at the clock. “It’s almost 5 PM. Should you be getting ready for whatever girl you’re taking out tonight?”

There was a long pause, and then, as if the thought had just occurred to you, you asked, "Wait. Do you even have a date?"

You were met with silence.

You sat up. "Sam?"

He sighed, and you could picture him leaning back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. "No, I don’t,” he confirmed.

You blinked, momentarily thrown off your rant. "But—you’re Sam Wilson."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I’m aware."

"No, but like… you could be out with literally anyone. You’re Captain America and all that. You’re—" You gestured vaguely even though he couldn’t see you, scrambling for the words. "You’re objectively a catch. And you’re just… home?"

"Pretty much."

Curiosity got the better of you. “How come no one tried to lock you down for Valentines?"

There was another pause, like he was weighing reasons in his head. "I just…," he finally said, voice softer, "…wasn’t interested."

Your stomach did a weird little flip, though you didn’t know why. "In anyone?"

He hesitated before letting out a cute little snort. "Not in anyone who asked."

Something about the way he said it made your heart skip a beat as you wondered what that meant.

"Well, whatever," you eventually huffed, flopping back against the couch. "You’re choosing to be alone, and I, despite actively trying to find a half-decent man, cannot even get a text back."

Sam let out a sympathetic hum, the kind that would’ve felt more sincere if he wasn’t also clearly trying not to laugh. "Damn."

"It’s humiliating." You groaned, throwing an arm over your eyes. "I mean, what’s wrong with me? I’m smart. I’m funny. I’m decent looking—“

"Better than decent," Sam interrupted, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your stomach did another little embarrassing flip. "That’s not the point," you muttered, heat rising to your cheeks. “The point is that dating sucks and I am suffering while everyone I know is out there being disgustingly happy and in love."

Sam hummed, like he was considering something. Then, as casual as ever, he said, "So why don’t you just come over?"

You froze. "What?"

"You’re my best friend," he said, a little too easily. "Let’s put on a movie or something. Forget all this Valentine’s bullshit."

You hesitated. It wasn’t a bad idea. You and Sam hanging out wasn’t anything new– you’d spent countless nights on his couch, laughing over bad movies or arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza. It was easy. Comfortable.

So why did the idea of spending Valentine’s Day alone with him suddenly feel so loaded with… whatever this is you were feeling that you were definitely not ready to unpack?

"I dunno…" You chewed your lip, toying with the hem of your sweater. "Wouldn’t that be kinda… pathetic?"

"You think I’m pathetic?"

"What? Ugh- no!"

"Then what’s the problem?" You could hear the smirk in his voice. 

Coming over was such a simple thing. An innocent thing. 

You would never think of Sam as pathetic. In fact, you liked a lot of things about him—his gorgeous laugh, the way he always knew how to make you feel better without even trying.

You swallowed. "Fine," you said, trying to sound unaffected. "I’ll come over. But if you make me watch some boring documentary, I’m walking out."

Sam laughed. "Alright, alright. I’ll pick something good."

"You say that, but your taste is questionable at best—"

"That’s rude.”

You smiled despite yourself. "I’ll be over in twenty."

—

By the time you got to Sam’s place, you were still vibrating with frustration. He let you in, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that made him look way too comfortable and, unfairly, way too good.

"I come bearing gifts," you announced, holding up a carton of milk and a pack of discounted cookies you found in the nearest convenience store.

"I do have milk, you know," he said, stepping aside to let you in.

"Yeah, but it’s probably expired."

Sam made a face. "That only happened once."

"Once was enough," you said, toeing off your shoes. "Never taking that risk again."

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the way he was watching you— like his muscles were finally relaxing, like he was a little more at ease now that you were here.

You made your way to the couch while Sam grabbed glasses of milk. When he settled in next to you, you stretched your legs across his lap, and he let you, like he always did. It was just muscle memory at this point.

"Alright," Sam said, grabbing the remote. "What are we watching?"

"You know I can’t make decisions."

He hummed, scrolling through the options. "Alright, what about Up?”

"Nope," you cut in immediately. “I can never get through the first ten minutes.”

"Fine,” He scoffed. “How about Love Actually?”

"Too romantic."

“You’re just being difficult on purpose,” he accused.

"You just can’t read the room," you said sweetly.

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Screw it,” he said, putting The Princess and the Frog on. 

You opened your mouth to object… but actually, this wasn’t too depressing. At least Naveen and Tiana spent half the movie as frogs being all woe-is-me, much like you are right now. 

The room was quiet for a while, save for the TV and the occasional sound of Sam sipping his drink and dunking his cookies.

But even as the movie played, you couldn’t shake your bad mood. The frustration from earlier still clung to you like an itch you couldn’t scratch. You must’ve been radiating it, too, because halfway through the movie, Sam was grabbing the remote and pausing the TV.

"Okay," he said, turning to you. "What’s up with you?"

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, “I get that you find Valentine’s Day depressing, but why are you so obsessed with getting a date?"

“Because being a superhero is hard. I could use somebody, you know? Somebody I can pour my heart out to and fuck me senseless after a long day.” You groaned, unaware that you were making his heart beat much faster. "But I just can’t get anyone to fucking like me."

Sam raised a brow. "That’s not true."

"It is true," you groaned, grabbing a cookie and taking a bite. "Everyone I know is out tonight!” You turned to face him, suddenly on a roll. "Am I really that bad in bed?"

Sam choked on his drink. "What?"

"I'm serious!" You gestured wildly. "Am I not hot enough? Not nice enough? Am I a bad kisser? What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Nothing," Sam said immediately, too fast, too sure to be casual.

You rolled your eyes. "You’re on saying that because you have to say that. You’re my best friend."

"I'm serious," he said, his tone lower now, steadier. His eyes grew thoughtful, tracing over the details of your face like he was looking for the right words. "You’re amazing."

It was one thing when Sam gave you his usual teasing compliments, the ones you brushed off with a laugh. But this wasn’t that.

"Then why am I sitting here on Valentine’s Day while every other person I know is in someone else’s bed?" you whispered under your breath.

Sam still watched you, chest rising and falling just a little too quickly.

Then, suddenly, he set his drink down and leaned in.

"Alright," he said, voice rough. "Let’s find out."

Your heart stuttered. "What?"

He gave you a look that made your stomach twist itself into impossible knots. "You asked if you’re a good kisser."

A rush of heat shot straight through you. "It was a rhetorical question."

He tilted his head slightly, considering your words. "Yeah, but now I’m curious."

You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribcage. "Sam—"

"This is for science," he said. He leaned in slowly, like he was waiting for you to give him a reason to stop.

You didn’t

You couldn’t.

Your fingers curled into your jumper nervously, nails digging into the comfy fabric. Sam was close now, his heat bleeding into your skin, his okay scent blanketing you. It was impossible to think about anything but him.

"Okay," you whispered.

And then he kissed you.

It was slow, at first. Soft. It was the kind of kiss that sent shivers down your spine. 

He was gentle at first, giving you the space to pull away, but you didn’t. You leaned in as his hand slid to your waist like it belonged there.

And then it was over.

Too soon, too quick.

Sam pulled back just enough to look at you, his lips still barely brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin. His gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back up again.

"I don’t know what you were worried about," he teased. "You’re a great kisser."

You swallowed hard. “So are you."

His fingers flexed slightly against your waist, like he wanted to hold on, lime he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

"Can I try again?" he asked, more confident now. "For science."

"Oh." Your breath hitched. “Okay."

And this time, neither of you held back.

It was slow and deep, his lips moving against yours in a way that had heat pooling in the bottom of your stomach. His hands were firmer, sliding up your sides, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp

He took advantage of it, tilting his head just right, teasing your mouth open and pulling a quiet little sound from your throat.

That did something to him.

Sam groaned against your lips, pulling you closer, needing you closer. He kissed you like he was starving, like he was making up for lost time, for all the years you’d spent dancing around this, pretending it wasn’t there.

Without thinking, you shifted, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him. Sam let out a quiet groan, his fingers pressing into your waist

And God, he felt good.

You could feel the sweat through his t-shirt, the way his muscles tensed as you slid your fingers up his chest, tracing his shape. 

He was already breathing hard, lips slightly swollen, pupils dilated as he stared up at you.

"Again?" you whispered.

Sam let out a shaky breath, like he was on the edge of losing control.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Again."

And then his hands were everywhere—skimming up your back, threading into your hair, tugging you down on him like he couldn’t stand even the inch of space left between you.

Every touch of his lips, every slide of his hands, every quiet noise he made and failed to conceal—it was too much and not enough all at once.

He nipped at your bottom lip, and you gasped, hips shifting just slightly.

"Fuck," Sam groaned, hands gripping your waist hard enough to make you tremble. "You are going to be the death of me."

You let out a breathless laugh. "We’re still just best friends, right?"

"Yeah," he whispered, his vocal cords wrecked. "Whatever you say."

But you both knew better.

-End.

---

SUNDAY DINNER

pairing: sam wilson x reader || requested

summary: you invite your friend sam over for sunday dinner. 

warnings: lots and lots of fluff!! nervous!sam

word count. 2k || masterlist

You had rearranged the pillows on the couch three times and you were in the middle of contemplating a fourth time until your friend approached you, sipping a glass of wine curiously. 

“Does this look right?” you asked, tilting your head as if they would help make the pillows look different. 

Your friend, Max, shook her head with a light laugh. “It’s a dinner party. No one is going to be judging your pillow arrangements.” 

“I know,” you said, abandoning the couch and fixing the display of magazines on the coffee table. “But I want everything to look nice.” 

Amusement took over Max’s face. “Any particular reason you’re extra stressed about your monthly dinner party?” 

Sunday dinners were a tradition you had established with your friends. You had the most space in your apartment and no roommates, so you hosted while everyone brought dishes, wine, and the latest life updates. It was a surefire way for you to visit with your friends, at the very least, once a month with everyone’s busy schedules. You loved it. As the tradition grew, spouses, partners, and new friends were added, crowding your apartment with delicious food and love. 

“What? No,” you answered quickly, too quickly. 

“Oh? So your current rampage has nothing to do with you inviting Captain America to dinner?” 

You froze, in the middle of moving around some kick-knacks on your shelf. Heat rose to your face, but you ignored it in favor of checking over your plants by the window. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said. 

Your friend laughed. “Sure you don’t. But if you were totally freaking out, I wouldn’t.” 

Turning around, you faced Max with a mix of confusion and curiosity. “Why?” 

“Because he was on the news last night in California having busted up some crime ring with alien tech or some shit. And he hasn’t texted or called you to take a rain check. Which means he flew all the way across the county just to come here to see you. I’d say that’s a pretty big gesture.” 

You were hesitant to believe that. Not because Max had ever lied to you, but because it sounded ridiculous. If you had to take a flight cross country, without having taken down criminals the night before, you’d cancel any plans and opt to sleep off your travels. You were simply hosting a silly little dinner with some friends, not anything groundbreaking. 

Yet, at seven-thirty, Sam arrived at your apartment.  

You opened the door with a smile and the same flutter in your chest that always showed up when you were around him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said before you could even greet him. Holding out his hand, he presented you with a bouquet of different flowers. “The lady was lecturing me at the flower stand for not knowing your favorite flower, which is definitely my bad.” 

“You’re not late,” you said, taking the flowers. They were a beautiful arrangement, matching the quiet chaos of your apartment. “And you didn’t need to get me flowers, but thank you. They’re perfect.” 

You stepped aside and let Sam in. He kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat along with the others. “My grandma said to never go anywhere empty-handed. If I do, I’m afraid she’ll find out and there’ll be hell to pay,” he joked. 

You led him into the kitchen, where some of your friends and friends of friends lingered, snaking on appetizers and chit-chatting. They paused their conversations as you introduced Sam, though most of them already knew who he was. 

You stood back in slight awe by how quickly he took to your friends, easy conversation flowing like he had been at the dinners since the beginning. You weren’t nervous that Sam or your friends would make a bad impression on one another, but you couldn’t help but worry that the meshing of two different parts of your life wouldn’t go well. But you were quickly proven wrong. 

After everyone ate, the conversations continued. Max sat down beside you on the couch, a smirk on her lips. “Well, still worried about ‘Cap fitting in with your non-superhero friends?” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, but you didn’t deny her words. “No.” 

“Good because Aaron already invited him to the next one and to catch some pretentious film with him next weekend. Sam agreed but I could sense the dread in his answer. You may have to same him before Aaron books Captain America’s itinerary for the next year.” 

You looked over your shoulder to where Sam stood in the kitchen with Aaron. He must’ve felt you looking because he met your gaze and smiled. You couldn’t help but smile too, which your friend clocked with a light groan and a punch to your shoulder. 

“What was that for?” 

Max sat down her wine glass and leaned in close with a seriousness in her gaze. “What is keeping you from pouncing on that man?” 

“Oh, my god! What are you talking about?” 

“If he showed up at my door with flowers and that smile, I’d be down on one knee with a ring. Are you kidding me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sam and I are just friends,” you said. Sam seemed miles out of your reach. He was a big shot, Captain America himself. It wasn’t even something you let yourself entertain for the sake of keeping yourself sane. 

Max threw herself against the back of the couch with a dramatic groan. “You’re killing me.” 

You laughed it off, but Max’s words hung in your head for the rest of the night. Every time you found yourself in a group conversation with Sam, your attention lingered on him a little longer, wondering what it would be like if the two of you became more than friends. Sam was one of the best people you knew, there was no doubt he’d be a great boyfriend too. But you hated crushes, getting your hopes up only for them to fall flat when reality didn’t mirror your imagination. 

Slowly, people faded from your apartment until it was just you, Max, and Sam left. She had entertained him with a plethora of embarrassing stories of you before she, not so subtly, left with a plate of leftovers and a wink. 

You thought Sam would leave as well, but he insisted on helping you clean up. He stood at your sink with his sleeves rolled up, washing dishes before passing them off to you to dry and put away. The soft hum of your playlist filled the comfortable silence for a while. 

“Thanks for inviting me tonight,” Sam said. 

“Thanks for coming. I would invite you back, but I heard Aaron’s already extended that invite.” 

Sam chuckled. “He did.” He paused, handing you a clean cup. Your hand brushed against his as you grabbed it and his gaze caught yours. “But I’d like to do this again if you’ll have me.” 

A smile graced your lips. “Are you kidding? You’re always welcome here.” 

With a raise of his brow, he said, “Careful, I might take you up on the offer. You won’t be able to get rid of me.” 

“I’d be okay with that.” The words fell out of your mouth with a light-hearted intent, but they hit the air with more weight. You meant it, of course, but you hadn’t expected it to sound so vulnerable, borderline flirtatious. 

And Sam being Sam, clocked it as he finished up the last plate. He handed it off before turning off the water and facing you. “Yeah?” 

You adverted your gaze downward, taking a little extra time to dry the plate before crossing the kitchen to put it away. “I mean, I like having you around. I like having all my friends around. That’s why I host this dinner.” 

Your back was to Sam so you didn’t see his reaction to your words, but you heard a short intake of breath before he spoke. “Right.” You thought maybe it was your brain misinterpreting his tone, but to you, it did sound disappointed. 

The flowers he had brought you were in a vase on your counter and Max’s words were still circling your mind. 

“Were you in California yesterday?” you blurted out, spinning around to face him once more. Confused, Sam nodded slowly. “You flew in, today?” He nodded again. “But you still showed up. Here. I mean you, could have rain-checked but you didn’t.” 

“Of course not. I told you I’d be here. I’m a man of my word.” He was so sincere, so serious. It was just dinner, not saving the world. “Hey, is everything all right?” 

You tried to shake yourself out of the weird feeling you were sinking in to. You didn’t want to make Sam feel weird too. It was late and you were tired and your mind was being an asshole, thinking too much. 

“Yeah,” you quickly replied. “Sorry. Max just said something earlier and got it my head.” 

You thought it would be left there, but Sam crossed the kitchen to stand in front of you, concern in his pretty eyes. Sam was the kind of person who was almost too easy to talk to. Just looking at him made you want to spill your guts. 

“What’d she say?” 

You hesitated, an awkward laugh forcing itself out. “She, uh, just said that if she were me and you showed up being so…so you she would’ve proposed already.” 

Sam’s eyes widened for a moment before he chuckled almost nervously, tugging at the neckline of his sweater. “So...me?” 

“The flowers and still showing up despite saving the world the night before. She thinks that’s some kind of gesture, like a…a romantic one. But I told her we’re friends and you’re just that wonderful, you know?” There was a beat of silence that passed between you in which Sam seemed to digest the words you rushed out. You felt hot panic rise within you. “Sorry,” you said before he could say anything. “That was a lot, and probably weird. I just-” 

“How would you feel if she was right?” Sam said, tilting his head to the side in question. 

You felt a wave of confusion spill across you, cold and unnerving. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. 

He gazed at you with a soft hesitation in his gaze, stepping a little closer but not invading your space. “Come on,” he said with a hint of humor somewhere in there too. “I like my friends, but I wouldn’t do that for just anyone. I was kind of hoping the flower would be enough to tell you that.” 

“To tell me…” you trailed off, your hopes starting to rise with each pounding beat of your heart. 

“That I’d like to be a little more than friends.” Sam’s voice was quiet almost like he was nervous. It all sounded too good to be true, you thought you were hallucinating the whole conversation. He mistook your silence for rejection and started to shrink into himself, dejected but still his kind, charming self. With a shake of his head, he said, “But if that’s not something you want I-” 

“What?” you cut him off, bewildered. “You want to be more than friends with me?” As self-deprecating as it was, it was just a crazy thing to hear from the man you’d grown so fond of but thought nothing more than a friendship would ever bloom from. 

“Pretty damn badly if I’m being honest,” Sam admitted. 

There were so many things you wanted to say but you didn’t feel like any would amply explain just how bad you wanted to be more than friends with him too. Instead of trying to string anything together, you pushed yourself off the counter you’d been leaning against and wrapped your arms around him in a sudden, tight hug. 

He was warm and smelled like fresh cologne. That wasn’t the first time you’d hugged him, but it was different that time, an admission of your hidden feelings and affection. It took Sam a moment to recover from his surprise before he hugged you back, letting out a breathy laugh in your ear. 

“Me too,” you whispered. 

He pressed a sweet kiss to the side of your head in the nightly glow of your kitchen, empty of your friends but still buzzing with love and laughter, coating it in a warmness only made greater by Sam.  

---

Summary: You’ve never felt fully at home in your own skin, but that has never stopped Joel from showing you just how much he wants you. One night, you gather the courage to show him what you’ve been too afraid to share, and he shows you exactly what it means to be wanted, worshipped, and seen.

|| smut MDNI 18+, Joel is down bad in love, self conscious reader, no physical description (except 'soft belly') but reader is insecure of their body, no specific timeline, age gap mentioned but not specified, pinv, f!receiving oral, little bit of (f!receiving) ass play, dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, soft!joel, he calls you like every pet name in the book. some aftercare || notes: joel miller in reading glasses hello? dont kill me for being a little bit of a cornball in here. joel is a cornball when he's in love. Yes I know I wrote the word pretty a lot! That’s the point!!! Inspired by this request

Joel’s bed became home long before you were ready to admit it.

It’s where you feel safest. It’s where he tugs you into his chest first thing in the morning, rough hand splayed over your back like it belongs there, murmuring something low and sleep-thick against your temple. It’s where you read curled into his side at night, him propped up against the headboard in that worn old Henley, eyes flicking lazily over the pages of whatever book you handed him, while yours is gripped a little tighter, the latest thriller mystery that has your heartbeat ticking up by the final chapters.

He had told you to stop reading them before bed once, but he didn’t really mean it. Not when you curled tighter into him, not when your hand slid across his stomach and stayed there gripping him like you needed to be close to something steady, something warm. Something like him.

Joel loves you like this. Warm and soft and pliant in his bed.

It’s one of his favorite places. Not just for pressing you down into the mattress and filling you, not just for the pretty, breathy sounds you make when you’re too far gone to think about what you look like or where his hands are. No—he loves the quiet moments, too. The ones where your limbs are tangled up with his, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, your skin still carrying the ghost of his touch.

And every now and then, when you’re asleep on his chest or laughing at something dumb he said, he still finds himself wondering how the hell he ended up with a girl like you.

You’re so much younger. So much softer. He doesn’t know what you see in a man like him—older, rougher, carved from all the years you haven’t had to carry yet. You could’ve had anyone. But you chose him. 

You’ve been together a few months now, and he still hasn’t wrapped his head around it. Still doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, your sweetness, your sharp quick wit when he least expects it.

He tried to keep his distance at first. Tried not to look too long when you smiled, not to follow the sound of your voice like a damn tether every time you were in the room. Told himself it wasn’t right. You weren’t for him. You were good. But you kept coming closer.

And once you started to pursue him—sweet and fearless and so goddamn certain—his resolve didn’t just crack. It collapsed.

The years between you didn’t matter to him anymore. The guilt didn’t matter. The voice in his head that told him to stop, that warned him he was too old, too jaded, too broken to ever deserve you—it all went quiet the second you looked at him like he was worth wanting.

He had to have you. To feel you, hear you, know you. So he gave in.

But there was still something there he didn’t quite understand, even now. Something that never quite leaves him.

Because every time he takes you to bed with the singular thought of getting you naked, of taking you until he gets his fill, until you’re trembling and wrecked and crying out his name—every single time, he sees it.

That flicker of hesitation.

He watches your shoulders shrink inward. Watches the way your hands move to cover your belly the second his fingers slip beneath your shirt. The way your breath stutters like you’re already bracing for something—even if it’s just his eyes.

You never say it out loud. You don’t have to.

And every time he settles over you, broad chest looming, palms sliding down your sides with reverent slowness as he lays you down on his bedspread, you ask him in that sweet, uncertain voice:

“Can we turn the light off?”

And Joel… hesitates.

Just for a second. Just long enough to take one more look at your face—flushed and perfect and lips swollen from letting him kiss them until they’re bruised. He always obliges. Always reaches over and clicks off the bedside lamp without a word, even if something in his chest aches as the room goes dark.

In the low moonlight, he can still see pieces of you. The softness of your belly. The curve of your thighs. The arch of your back when you start to melt beneath his touch. And he reveres it. All of it.

Worships you like you’re something holy.

But even in the dark, he notices everything.

The way your breath hitches when he kisses down your body—not with pleasure, but with discomfort. The subtle tension in your limbs when he trails his lips past your ribs. The way you squirm when his mouth lingers at the tender skin between your stomach and mound. Not because it’s too much. But because you don’t want to be seen.

And it kills him a little every time.

Because he wants to see you. All of you. Wants you to know that there is not a single inch of your body he doesn’t adore.

But still, like many nights before, he obliges you tonight and reaches over to turn out the light at your request.

The room falls into darkness.

Joel wakes to the warm and golden light of the morning, the kind where sunlight filters through the blinds in soft, slatted beams, pooling across the hardwood floor. The kind where the world outside feels far away, like it can wait a little longer while the house stays quiet.

His mind fully catches up to the scent of coffee and the soft creak of floorboards.

The bed is empty beside him, blankets still warm, your pillow carrying the shape of your head. He rubs the sleep from his face and swings his legs over the edge, the weight of last night still humming low in his chest.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re at the counter, barefoot, wearing nothing but his t-shirt—one of those older ones, soft and stretched out, the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair’s a little messy, skin still marked in places from where his mouth had worshipped you in the hours of the night.

You’re so focused on pouring coffee into your favorite mug—the pink one with the little chip at the rim, just big enough to catch your lip if you’re not careful—that you don’t hear him come in.

He steps in behind you, silent as ever, warmth radiating off his chest before you even feel his hands.

One arm slips around your waist, the other gliding up beneath the hem of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—until his hand splays flat across your stomach. His lips find your neck a second later, soft and unhurried, brushing along your skin as he breathes you in.

You stiffen, just a little. It’s not resistance, you could never resist him, but your body goes still beneath his touch, that automatic flicker of self-consciousness rising to the surface like it always does when he touches you in the daylight.

Still, you don’t move away.

Joel’s voice is low and rough in your ear, all gravel and morning warmth, “‘Mornin’, darlin’.”

You smile, small, a little sheepish, but it’s there. “Morning.”

His hand drops lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, then sliding up again, slow and lazy. His other arm tightens around your front, keeping you pulled against him as his lips trail from your neck to your cheek.

“Joel—” you murmur, half a protest, half a laugh, squirming under his touch.

“You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice thicker now, rougher with sleep and want. “So sexy in my shirt, honey.”

You go quiet. Not because you don’t like it. But because it still hits that spot—the part of you that flinches at being seen. You press your lips together, focus on the coffee in your hand, as if the words might disappear if you just don’t look at him.

But Joel sees it. Feels the shift. The way you tense ever so slightly when he calls you nice things. Like the words don’t fit, not yet. Like you still haven’t figured out how to wear them.

He kisses your cheek again, slower this time.

“I mean it,” he adds softly.

You nod once, a breath catching in your chest before you murmur, “I know.”

Joel leans in and kisses the back of your head, just behind your ear, then murmurs against your skin, “Put the coffee down for a second.”

You glance over your shoulder, suspicious but smiling. “Why?”

“Just do it, baby.”

With a soft sigh, you set the mug back on the counter. Before you can ask again, he’s turning you in his arms, hands firm but careful on your hips and over the shirt, as he spins you to face him.

He steps in close, real close, until the backs of your thighs press against the cabinets and his hands come up to cradle your face. Big, warm palms on your cheeks, thumbs brushing the softness there like he’s memorizing the way you feel under his touch. 

Then his hands squish your cheeks between his hands, just enough to puff your lips out like a fish.

Your brows furrow as you try in vain to pull away. “Joel—!”

“Say it,” he says, dead serious despite the ridiculous hold he has on your face.

Your eyebrows knit further as you still. “Say what?”

He smirks, dipping his head until your noses bump. “Say: I’m pretty.”

You groan, giggling despite yourself as you try to wiggle free. “Joel, oh my god—”

He holds on, pressing exaggerated kisses to your squished face—your cheek, your forehead, your nose and your puffed out top lip. “Say it. Go on. I’ll wait all day.”

“Fine!” you huff, lips barely moving from the way he’s still holding your face. “I’m pretty.”

He grins, loosening his hold just enough so you can speak properly, though he keeps his hands right where they are. “Didn’t hear you.”

“I’m pretty,” you repeat, cheeks heating as you say it, soft and unsure but not sarcastic. Not deflecting.

Joel beams, eyes crinkling at the corners, kissing your lips as he loosens his hold on your face. “Damn right you are. Prettiest girl I ever saw.”

You can’t help but smile now, wide and a little bashful. You duck your head, but he catches you again, presses a kiss to your lips again, sweet and unhurried.

And when he backs away and you finally reach for your coffee again, cheeks still warm, he’s watching you like he’s already counting the seconds until he gets to do it all over again.

That night starts like any other night.

Late, quiet, the house dipped in soft shadows. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the evening breeze, the hum of cicadas drifting in with the warm air. Joel’s in bed already, reading glasses sliding down his nose, thumbing through the same page of his book he’s read three times without taking in a single word.

He’s waiting for you to join him, your book is still closed on the side table. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom before you could even cuddle up in bed beside him. You had said you needed two minutes.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

He figures you’re brushing your teeth. Or lost in one of your little bedtime routines—rearranging things on the counter or doing your 10 step nightly skincare. He doesn’t mind. He’s gotten used to your rhythms the more you stayed over. Grown to love them, even.

But then he hears the bedroom door open, and when he glances up, expecting to see you in one of your usual pajamas, his breath catches. You’re not wearing one of his big T-shirts or those soft cotton sets you like so much.

You’re standing in the doorway in white lace, delicate and sheer and almost ethereal in the low glow of the lamp light.

It damn near knocks the air out of him.

He forgets all about the book in his lap—doesn’t even feel it fall to the mattress as his gaze rakes over you, slow and disbelieving. His jaw goes slack as he removes his glasses and sets them on the side table.

The bra—he doesn’t know what it’s called, not that it matters—looks daintier and more delicate than anything he’s ever seen in his goddamn life. Feminine in a way that hits him right in the chest. It wraps around you like it was made for your body, hugging your curves in all the right places. The straps are thin, dipping into the softness of your shoulders, and the lace cups give just enough to let his imagination blur with what’s already in front of him.

The matching bottoms sit high on your hips, scalloped lace tracing the tops of your thighs, giving him a perfect view of the skin he’s only ever touched in the dark.

Your hair is pulled back behind your shoulders—intentionally, he thinks, like you wanted him to have the full view.

Your lip is tucked under your top teeth, and your eyes flick down for a second, uncertain—then back up again.

But then you smile.

Shy, but proud. Like you’re showing him something precious and a little terrifying. Like you finally believe, even just a little, that he might actually mean every word he’s ever said about you.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed, jaw tight with restraint as he beckons you to him. Slowly, you make your way over, and he soaks in the look of your thighs as you move, the way your body is begging to be marked and taken. His hands curl against his own thighs like he’s afraid to touch you too fast, too hard, and shatter the moment.

But when you move to stand between his knees, and he lifts his eyes up to meet yours, you don’t flinch.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. Then his hands lift slowly, reverently, palms brushing along the outside of your thighs, up to your hips.

His voice is low, almost reverent. “Christ, baby… look at you.”

You let out a nervous laugh, eyes dropping for a second—but you don’t cover yourself. Don’t twist away like you usually do. You stay right there, between his knees, close enough for him to smell the soft scent of your lotion and whatever little perfume you’d put on just for him.

Joel lifts his hands, slow and sure, and holds your hips, warm, steady, splayed wide like he wants to cover all of you. His thumb strokes gently over your skin where the lace ends, just above your hipbone.

“You did this for me?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod once, eyes still shy but glowing with something soft. “I wanted to. I…I know I usually…”

“I know,” he says quietly, thumbs stroking your skin under his touch. “Don’t gotta explain nothin’ to me.”

His voice is gentle, but there’s something else beneath it now. Thicker. Hotter. Like he’s barely keeping a lid on what he really wants to say.

You bite your lip again, tucking it under your top teeth as you gauge his reaction. Joel leans in, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss between the valley of your breasts—slow, open-mouthed, just wet enough to make your breath stutter.

You exhale, body already leaning into him, melting under the heat of his mouth, the drag of his stubble, the way his hands are rubbing slow circles along your thighs. His fingers toy with the hem of the lace between your legs, pinching the delicate fabric between them, like he can’t decide whether to rip it off or worship it.

“You know what this does to me? What you do to me, angel?” he rasps, voice rough now, filthy and unfiltered. “You got me starin’ like a damn animal. Don’t even know where I wanna taste first.”

He kisses the underside of your breast, and even though it's covered by lace, he bites softly at the curve, tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. His hands move to grip your ass tightly now, pulling you closer, positioning so your stomach and hips are flush against his chest.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, you go and give me this?”

His eyes flick up, hungry and reverent. You squirm, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips, but Joel doesn't back off. He presses another kiss to your stomach, then just above your belly button, murmuring into your skin.

“Timid little thing—but deep down you like it, don’t you? Like when Daddy talks like this?”

Your thighs twitch under his hands and you nod.

He grins, feral and soft all at once. His hands slide up your sides, palms hot and steady against your ribs, thumbs brushing the edge of lace as his mouth follows—slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing higher, tongue flicking against the fabric covering your breasts. His tongue pokes out over the lace of your bodice right where your nipple would be, teeth grazing over the hidden but pebbled skin. Your jaw falls open as you watch him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, breath catching against your sternum. “You wore this just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

One hand lifts, fingers tugging gently at the strap of your bralette, sliding it down your shoulder. Then the other. His movements are careful, almost reverent, as he peels the lace down and away, baring you inch by inch.

And when your breasts spill free, his breath catches audibly.

“Jesus Christ.”

He sits back just far enough to look. Just for a moment. Just to see you.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he murmurs, thick with awe and heat. He brings his hands up to grip the flesh of your breasts, kneading them together, “Bet you don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”

You bite your lip again, that flicker of shyness still dancing across your face—like you have to physically restrain yourself from trying to cover the revealed skin. But no. Not this time.

Joel leans in and licks a slow stripe over one nipple, making you gasp. He drags his tongue in a lazy circle, then sucks it into his mouth, groaning low in his throat like he’s tasting heaven.

You whimper, your hands flying to his shoulders, fingers gripping him as your back arches on instinct.

“That’s it,” he growls, pulling back just to press a kiss between your breasts before taking the other into his mouth, this time sucking harder, leaving it damp and peaked from his tongue. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear every sound you make when I touch you like this.”

Your hips roll against him, thighs trembling as you stand between his legs.

“Sensitive little thing,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Just needed someone to show you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

He kisses lower, down the underside of your breast, then back up again, licking softly, sucking just enough to leave the faintest mark.

“M’gonna take good care of you tonight, baby,” he breathes, dragging his mouth back to your nipple. “Gonna take my timeand take every fuckin’ inch of this sweet body. You gonna let me?”

You nod, breathless, voice caught somewhere in your throat,“Y-yeah.”

Joel looks up, eyes blazing, lips slick from kissing you.

“‘Yeah’, what? Tell me, honey.”

Your begin to squirm as you tell him, “I want you to, Daddy. Please.”

Joel groans like it physically knocks the air out of him. His hands trail back down your sides, slow and reverent, fingertips grazing the lace waistband still hugging your hips.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower. 

He kisses down your stomach, tongue peeking out to trace the little dip of your navel, his hands smoothing down your hips and behind to cup your ass again, fingers squeezing tight. The lace panties are all that remain, soft and delicate, slightly damp already with your arousal. He noses along the waistband, breathing you in.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he growls, teeth catching gently at the fabric. “Bet you taste even better.”

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging gently as he tongues over the lace, not pulling it down yet—just feeling you through it, his mouth wet and hungry over your hips and tummy.

You moan, your hips grinding against him again as he teases you, his one hand reaching down to drag his fingers over your clothed mound, the slick of your folds soaking through. He groans at the feeling before pulling back with a sharp exhale, looking up at you with wild eyes.

“On the bed. Hands and knees. Now.”

You blink, heart leaping, but you don’t hesitate. You scramble onto the mattress, crawling forward on shaky limbs until you’re positioned right where he wants you—on all fours, back arched, breath quick and needy.

Joel groans behind you at the sight, pulling his shirt over his head before dragging a hand up your spine, slow and heavy.

“Goddamn, baby. Look at you.”

Once he’s climbed onto the bed behind you, spreading your knees a little wider, he kneads at your ass with both hands, reverent and gentle. He settles his body lower, shifting on the bed until his face is level with your center. He drags his thumbs along the backs of your thighs, spreading them a little wider, groaning low when he sees how soaked the lace of your panties is—slick and clinging to your folds, a perfect puffy outline of everything he’s about to taste.

“Look at this,” he breathes, like it’s something sacred. “Fuckin’ drenched for me.”

You gasp when you feel his mouth again—not on your skin, but over the lace. A slow, deliberate kiss right to the center of you, hot and wet and perfectly placed. His lips part, tongue nudging against the fabric, teasing your clit through the sheer barrier.

It’s maddening.

He hums, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby… I could spend all night like this. Kissin’ you through these pretty little panties. Smellin’ you. Feelin’ how worked up you are for me.” He nuzzles in deeper, breathing hot against you, licking a wide, slow stripe up the center of your heat—through the lace—then mouthing at it, sloppy and wet, soaking it even more.

You sob, spine arching, thighs quivering where they try to stay upright. Joel groans against you.

“Can’t believe you wore this just for me,” he mutters, dragging his tongue back down. “So fuckin’ soft. So sweet. Pussy’s beggin’ for it, ain’t she?”

You nod frantically, already breathless. “Yes—God, Joel, please—”

He chuckles darkly, biting gently at the fabric. “Please what, baby?”

“Take them off,” you gasp. “Please—need you.”

Joel pulls back, and you feel the shift in the air before you feel his hands—rough palms curling under the waistband of your panties, fingers brushing the skin of your hips as he peels the lace down slow. Agonizingly slow.

“Anything for my girl,” he says.

Joel’s broad, warm hands palm at your ass, kneading every inch as he situates himself behind you. He dips lower, mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses into the flesh of your left cheek, then the right, before his teeth sink down into the soft meat.

You yelp, hips jerking at the sharp nip.

“Prettiest noises too,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing the sensitive mark he left behind. His hands spread your cheeks, thumbs firm as they open you up for him—and when you peek over your shoulder, you find his eyes locked on your center, gaze dark and fixated, the pupils blown wide.

When he catches you looking, his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“She’s flirtin’ with me,” he says, grinning like the devil.

Your face burns, and you let your head drop into the pillows, hiding from the embarrassment that curls through your belly—hot and helpless, tangled with molten want.

Joel’s lips find your skin again, slower now, more reverent as he holds you open. His tongue drags between your cheeks, a deep, teasing stroke that makes your whole body tense. He kisses your slick folds with a wet, lewd sound that makes you gasp.

He hums, low and satisfied, then laps at your dripping arousal like it’s his first taste of water in weeks.

“And the prettiest pussy,” he rasps, lips brushing your folds. “You know that, darlin’?”

You moan, unable to answer, as his tongue pushes deeper. He flattens it and licks slow, wide strokes up your slit before circling your clit. His nose bumps your entrance, barely prodding, teasing you as his tongue works your clit in tight, filthy circles.

Your hips start moving without your permission, grinding into his face, seeking more.

Joel groans like you’re his favorite meal, tongue flattening again, letting you push into him.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, eyes fluttering shut. “Ride my face.”

You mewl, your body bucking, wild and desperate, grinding into him like a goddamn bronco at the fair. Your walls flutter, your core pulsing with pressure as it builds, and builds, and builds.

Your thighs begin to shake.

Joel’s grip on you tightens as he takes over, tongue working your clit with expert flicks, fast and relentless.

The pressure in your belly snaps like a pulled cord, your spine arching as your orgasm crashes over you. You cry out, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as you come, loud and wrecked, your fingers gripping the sheets.

Joel moans into you like he’s the one coming undone, tongue never faltering, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your trembling body. Even as you start to come down, breath catching in your throat, he doesn’t stop. He just slows, letting you twitch and gasp and shake through it.

Then, you feel it. The warm, wet pressure of his tongue pushing up past your folds, over the skin between, then circling your tighter hole. You jump at the intrusion, a sharp gasp breaking from your lips—but the haze of your orgasm makes your body soft, receptive, already melting for him.

You whimper, hips twitching. Joel just groans again, closing his lips around your sensitive rim, suckling gently.

“F–fuck,” you whisper, unable to think, to move, to breathe.

He licks you there once more before planting slow, open-mouthed kisses up your spine, up to the small of your back, your shoulder blades, and finally your neck.

Then he’s curling over you, beard scratchy against your skin, his lips brushing your cheek.

“Turn around,” he whispers, voice low and rough, "Wanna see your face when I stuff you full a'me,"

You can’t help but giggle at the tickle of his scruff against your neck, still dazed, still boneless, but do as you’re told—twisting under him until you’re on your back, staring up at him.

Joel’s eyes, though dark with hunger, hold something else too. Something deep and aching. Something sweet.

And then, with that same steady tone he uses when talking patrol routes or fixing fences, he says, “Now. Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart.”

His lips brush your jaw, then your ear.

“I’m gonna fill you up so deep, fuck you so full of my cock, my cum, me, that when you look in the mirror tomorrow, all you’re gonna see is how fuckin’ beautiful you are—‘cause you’ll still be wearin’ what I did to you tonight.”

Your chest heaves, the words settling deep in your stomach, curling there like heat and honey.

“Joel, I—” you start to say, only to gasp when you feel the hot, thick head of his cock nudge at your entrance.

“You feel this, honey?” he murmurs, pulling back to look down between you, voice rough and reverent. “Feel how bad he wants you? How bad I want you?”

You nod, gripping his forearms tight, your thighs falling open even wider for him.

He notches just the bulbous tip inside you and hisses at the wet heat.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “I feel it, Joel, I—I… pleasepleaseplease—”

“I know, angel, I know,” he pants, his thumb stroking your inner thigh, grounding you. “Now I wanna hear you say it.”

Your brain lags, thick with need, swimming in lust and love and the ache to just feel him.

“W-what?”

Joel watches you, eyes burning into yours.

“Say, ‘I’m pretty, Daddy.’”

Your whole body flushes, lips parted in disbelief, already whining at the way he just knows how to unravel you.

You groan wordlessly, bringing your hands to your face to hide. He is so on your shit list for this.

Joel chuckles darkly, pushing in another inch, and you whimper behind your hands.

“I’m waitin’, darlin'.”

You squirm under him, thighs trembling, skin turning hotter and hotter by the second. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him to move, to fill you, to do something.

But Joel waits. He always waits—until you give in, until he gets what he wants.

You lift your hands from your face slowly, eyes hazy, cheeks heated, lips parted. He’s watching you like a man possessed, one hand gripping your thigh, the other wrapped around his pulsing member with agonizing patience.

“M’pretty,” you whisper.

Joel’s brow arches, lips curling, “Not quite, sweetheart. You know how I want it.”

Your chest heaves. Your pussy clenches around just the tip of him, and even though you see the twitch in his jaw, he still waits.

So you gather your courage, heart pounding in your throat: “I’m pretty, Daddy.”

Joel’s smile breaks across his face, so bright and full of something so tender it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It almost pulls you out of the heat of it, the haze of arousal, until your core clenches and he sinks into you just a little deeper.

You gasp, the stretch sharp and perfect.

He leans down slowly, hands braced in the pillows beside your head, lowering himself onto his forearms until his chest is flush with yours, until there’s no space left between your bodies.

He’s still not fully sheathed in you.

“Again.” 

“I… I’m pretty, Daddy,” you breathe, voice shaky as your pussy tries to adjust around the thick stretch of him.

“The prettiest,” he nods, and his lips mold to yours as he finally pushes all the way in. Your mouth falls open with a gasp, the sound swallowed by his tongue slipping between your lips, hot and hungry, as he bottoms out. His balls press firmly against the slick, wet crevice of your ass, and the mess between your thighs is obscene—your arousal dripping, sticky and hot, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Joel groans into your mouth, loud and wrecked like its been trapped in his chest for hours. His hands come up to cradle your head, keeping you right there beneath him as he begins to move, slow at first, pulling out a few inches before rolling back in, the full weight of him rocking your body with every deep thrust.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “Pussy’s so damn tight.”

He pulls out slowly again, then drives back in hard, enough to jolt you up the bed, the sound of it lewd and perfect. His brow furrows, eyes fluttered shut as he focuses on the way your walls cling to him.

“Fuckkkk,” you mewl as he continues sawing into you, filling you and stretching you around him, buried to the hilt.

Joel grins, feral and hungry, sweat starting to bead at his brow.

“Sound even prettier when you take my cock.”

He sets a rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that hit all the way up, filling you to the brim. His body covers yours, chest brushing your nipples, beard scratching your throat as he nips and kisses every inch he can reach.

“Been thinkin’ about this for so long, baby” he grits out between thrusts, hips slapping against yours. “The way you’re always hidin’ yourself from me, coverin’ up like you’re not the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

“I got you, honey,” Joel pants, head dropping to your neck as his arms wrap around you, pulling you into him even tighter. “And you’re gonna start seein’ it for yourself,” 

His pace picks up, rougher now, slamming into you with the kind of need that’s barely human.

“Gonna fuck you so full you forget every goddamn lie you ever told yourself in a mirror. Gonna make sure the only thing you remember is me—how you sounded, how you looked, when I wrecked this perfect little body.”

You’re gasping, whimpering, shaking beneath him, stars flashing behind your eyes as he pounds into you like he’s never going to stop.

“That’s it, baby. You take it,” he growls. “Take my cock so good, like the good girl you are for me. Fuckin’ made for me.”

“Joel—” you cry, voice breaking.

He lifts his head, eyes wild and tender all at once.

“Say it again, sweetheart. Tell Daddy how pretty you are.”

“I—I’m pretty,” you choke out. “I’m—fuck, I’m so pretty, Daddy—”

He loses it.

His hand slides under your thigh, hooking it up, opening you wider, deeper. His hips slam into you harder now, the rhythm filthy, brutal, perfect.

“I know, baby. I know. Look at you. My good girl, look so beautiful takin’ it so fuckin’ well.”

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you forward as he sits back—craning your head up so you can look down, see exactly where you’re joined. 

Your mind barely registers the softness of your belly, too focused on the thick stretch of him splitting you open, the obscene way you take every inch. You both watch as he drives into you, slick and deep and devastating, a ring of your last orgasm glistening around his cock. The pressure builds again, white-hot and unbearable.

And Joel knows—he feels it in the way you clench, the way your voice goes high and desperate, the way your hands grip him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

“You gonna come for me again, sweet girl?” he pants, fucking you into the mattress. “Gonna let Daddy feel you pulse around his cock?”

“Yesyesyes—Joel, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he snarls, “give it to me.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm crashes through you with a scream as he releases your neck, letting you arch your back, trembling as you milk his cock with spasms so tight it makes Joel curse, a broken sound from deep in his chest.

And then he’s coming, hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, filling you just like he promised. His voice breaks on your name as he grinds through it, hands gripping you enough to leave bruises, breathing ragged.

Neither of you move for a long moment. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled and uneven. His chest heaving against yours. Your legs shaking around his waist.

His hand slides up, cradles the side of your face. His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, even though you’re not crying—but something about the touch makes you want to. Makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice all gravel and reverence. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes still fluttered shut, heart pounding. “Y-yeah.”

Joel presses a soft kiss to your lips—barely a touch, like he’s afraid of ruining you more than he already has. Then another, and another, until you're giggling quietly beneath him, too dazed to hold it in.

He smiles, the kind of smile he doesn’t show anyone else. The kind that barely reaches his eyes, because he’s still looking at you like you’re a dream that might disappear if he blinks too hard.

“Look at me, baby.”

You do. You always do when he asks.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, voice low and rough with what sounds almost like awe. “You know that?”

The words hit you deeper than they should. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to even out your breathing, but your lungs don’t cooperate. Your eyes dart away, suddenly misting and too overwhelmed by the intensity in his gaze—by the sincerity written all over his face. It's too much. Too close. Too real.

But Joel’s hand is already there, catching your chin gently, tilting your face back toward his. His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, soft and steady.

“No,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Don’t do that. Not tonight. Not after everything you just gave me.”

Your chest stutters, emotion building so fast and so sharp you feel like you might spill over with it. Your fingers twitch against his back before finally settling, drifting across his damp skin in slow, absent circles. You take deep, calming breaths to settle yourself. Breathe in, breathe out.

He’s still inside you, still heavy over you, like neither of you are ready to let go just yet. Your limbs are tangled, the air still thick with sweat and heat and something quieter—something softer.

The room is quiet now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Just your shared breaths, slow and unsteady. The low thump of his heart where his chest presses to yours.

Joel shifts only slightly, just enough to press a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then your temple. The way he moves is unhurried, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s kissing more than just skin—like he’s kissing the pieces of you he’s afraid to speak out loud.

It makes your chest ache.

“You’re being so sweet,” you whisper, throat tight almost like it’s a secret.

His lips hover at your lips, pressing gently but not fully,  “I don’t know how not to be,” he says softly. “Not with you.”

You close your eyes, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. His scent wraps around you—salt and skin and something warm and comforting that’s just him. The warmth blooms under your skin again, curling around your ribs, spreading down your spine.

“I love you.” he says, like it’s always been there, waiting. Like it’s not a confession so much as a truth that finally found its way out.

Your breath catches. Not from fear, not from panic, but from the sheer weight of it. The gravity. The sound of those words, spoken into the low light of the room while he's still buried inside you, holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Your eyes flutter open. You don’t move. Not yet.

Joel doesn’t either. But his voice dips low, softer now. A hint of uncertainty laces the edges. “Too much?”

You shake your head instantly, and your hands rise to cradle his face, looking up at him, fingertips brushing his temples like you need to anchor both of you in this moment.

“No,” you whisper, a tear finally escaping your eye. “No, not too much.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently as you pull him down and press your lips to his. And when you pull back, your words are trembling but sure.

“I love you too.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.Then he kisses you—slow and deep and home, his mouth moving against yours like he’s sealing the promise between your bodies.

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal, @anxiousscribbling

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