i don't really have mutuals here anymore, at least no one i actively talk to, so i'm not sure if anyone cares. but! I've gotten back into writing after 3 or 4 years. thunderbolts has awoken something in me and i've been inspired, and of course my little one-shot idea has become a whole series. classic!
i'd like to do a little rebrand and center myself on here before i publish anything, but i have no idea what i want this to be. i've been on tumblr for close to 15 years and i've gone through so many phases and fandoms so this isn't new to me, but this is the longest i've been kind of inactive.
idk what i'm saying, just talking into the void. so, if you see me again, it'll probably be under another name. i have a lil snippet of bob x reader that i need to clean up and share. hopefully soon :)
Summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.
Word count: 2.1k
Warnings: Some angst and miscommunication
a/n: I love this trope!! It was so fun to write a little one and I loveee reading it. I hope you enjoy!! Thank you for reading ily ❤️❤️
Masterlist
~~
You fought off the swell of your throat with tight lips, stirring the contents of the pot with unnecessary care. He was staring at you. He had been staring at you from the moment he came inside, but there was nothing you could do about it—nothing you should do about it.
The spices from the haphazardly thrown-together dinner were beginning to burn your eyes. This felt awful. The past week had felt awful.
After overhearing Bucky call you intense, everything you felt was amplified.
It had been an accident, you being at his apartment at that exact moment. You were dropping by unannounced, but you hadn’t even knocked on the door before his words had vibrated past the locked threshold of the door. And then you had left.
You had taken great care to be less intense over the past week. This was the first time Bucky had been in your apartment since that day, and that hadn’t been without struggle. He asked to come over several times, even showing up and knocking on the door while you pretended to be asleep. It all felt very juvenile—the ignoring and avoiding and missing calls. But you didn’t know how else to respond.
You loved Bucky. You loved him and it felt intense, but, apparently, things had moved too fast for him. A few months of dating were not enough. You were too much.
You had told him you loved him for the first time just days before you overheard his confession, so connecting the dots hadn’t been very hard.
You were too much.
Avoiding him had been made easier by your intense work schedule. You stayed overtime and texted brief excuses. That had worked for a time. But last night, Bucky showed up at your office with a bag of takeout and an uncomfortably furrowed brow, and you knew it was probably time to face this.
You gave him space for a week, and now it was time to practice being less intense in person. You couldn’t avoid him forever. And it hurt—being away from him for too long. Not that you would admit that. Not now.
“I don’t know how good this is going to be,” you huffed out a laugh, ladling noodles into two bowls. “It’s a new recipe, and I’m kinda low on groceries.”
When you glanced up at Bucky sitting on the couch, his smile looked strained. “‘M sure it’ll be great.”
You replied with a short smile, glancing down at the bowls as you joined him in the living room. You sat far enough away for it to make sense—one cushion over, not halfway in his lap like you used to. The television created a soft backdrop of some show you weren’t paying attention to, but the meal was otherwise silent.
You missed kissing him.
When he came in, you gave him one quick press of your lips and then darted back to the kitchen, ignoring the feel of his hands on your waist as they rushed to grab you. He was only doing all of that to appease you—the calls and trips to your office and the affection.
If you let him do what he didn’t want to do, you would lose him.
“Well,” you prompted, your teasing smile almost wobbling over the bowl. “How is it?”
Bucky caught your eye from the other side of the small couch. His expression narrowed on your mouth, and then he winced, almost imperceptibly.
Something dropped in your gut.
“It’s good, sweetheart.”
You kept up your smile, but as you turned back to your meal and pretended to watch TV, everything felt final. Your jaw was stiff as you took your next bite, the food tasting like nothing and curdling in your stomach. You hadn’t done enough. You hadn’t given him enough space. He had been so adamant about coming over because this was the end.
You left your bowl half-filled when you placed it on the coffee table, the smell of it nauseating. The inside of your cheek was bleeding from where you bit into it.
“Done already?” Bucky asked. He had finished a few minutes before you, his dish next to yours, and his arm looped back behind the couch. He wasn’t touching you. Almost, but not.
“Yeah,” you replied. The single word sounded unstable, and you cursed your throat for feeling so thick with anxiety. You looked at Bucky from the corner of your eye, only to find his eyes closed and his expression pinched.
Your lips parted. Were you going to beg? That would only make it worse, surely. Too intense, too much.
Maybe this would be for the best. Some time for a break would—
“Please, tell me how to fix this.”
You blinked at the TV, and then you blinked over towards Bucky, lips still parted but no words escaping them.
A pause as breath was caught in the heaviness of your chest, and then, “What?”
Bucky moved his tongue to his cheek, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He was wearing a hoodie today, and it felt so uncharacteristic that you had almost been distracted at the door.
“I can’t… I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t know what I did, but you gotta tell me or I’m—” his hands came up to run over his head and fall at the nape of his neck. “—just tell me what I did, sweetheart. Please.”
He turned to look at you then, only a foot of space between you but the distance almost stifling. Your hands clenched atop your knees, and he watched them, eyes flickering to any movement you made. He tracked your unsteady breath, the way your gaze couldn’t stay rooted in one place, and each minute shift in your features.
“I don’t—I don’t understand,” you offered, because it was the truth.
Bucky’s jaw rocked to the side. “You barely said three words to me this week. You didn’t want me over—didn’t want to see me. I fought through your building security to bring you dinner, and you looked… Baby, I walked through the door and looked about ready to cry. I mean, you didn’t even—you barely even kissed me today.”
Your gentle sigh weighed down your chest. You dropped your gaze down to the couch, unaware that Bucky was desperately trying to find himself there, leaning his head down to no avail. This didn’t make any sense. You really couldn’t do anything right, it seemed.
“It’s just—baby, I thought you said—” Bucky started, speaking in such disjointed sentences you looked up to try and parse them out. His shoulders untensed as you did, but then he said, “Thought you loved me, is that still true?” and the confusing swirl of emotions turned to devastation.
“I do,” you fervently replied, shaking your head as if that made sense. “Of course I do, Bucky, but you…”
“I what?” Bucky rushed to get clarification, the vulnerability so clear on his face it made you ache.
“I thought I was too much for you. I was trying to give you space. I thought you were going to end things tonight.”
“Why in the hell would you think that?” he exasperated, the words harsh but his delivery of them so gentle.
You bit into your bottom lip and let out another breath, the pressure on your chest looming down into your ribs. The fists on your knees moved to pick at a loose thread on the couch.
“I came by on Saturday—to your apartment, I mean. You left your jacket in my car, and I knew you were going to be out late with Sam.”
“But I didn’t—”
“I never actually got inside your apartment,” you revealed, knocking your head to the side, still unable to fully meet his gaze.
A tick of silence passed.
“You heard me.”
This was the worst part. It made you seem immature, eavesdropping from the hall of his building. It made you seem immature, and you were also petty because you avoided him for a week. You fought the urge to allow the couch to swallow you whole.
“I didn’t mean to hear you,” you stressed, pulling and tugging at the loose corner of your cushion. “I left pretty quickly. I didn’t—”
“Hey,” Bucky interrupted. He placed fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. The concern in his features masked lingering hurt, and you moved your hands into your lap to squeeze them together instead. “What did you hear, baby?”
You flickered your gaze between his eyes. “I’m not mad at you. I understand, you know? I wouldn’t want—”
“Y/n. What did you hear?”
“That you think I’m too intense. That this—us—is too much, maybe.”
Bucky kept you in his hold, but he closed his eyes. The hurt melted from his face only to be replaced with something akin to regret. He shook his head slightly, jutted out his jaw, and then he looked at you once again, his features strained.
“Damn,” he whispered. The fingers under your chin moved to cup your cheek, rubbing soothing shapes there. “Thought you were leaving me, did you know that? Whole time this has been my own fault. God.”
Bucky shifted forward on the couch until your legs were pressed close. You untucked yours to accommodate him, greedy for the contact despite your confusion, and he only got closer. When his forehead touched yours, you gave in to the burn in your waterline, vision blurrier than it had been.
“I love you so goddamn much,” Bucky began, moving back only an inch to find your watery gaze. “When I said you were intense, I meant that this is the most I’ve ever felt for someone. That the intensity was mutual. That maybe, at the rate we’re going, it would be too much for you. I was asking Sam for advice—seeing if he thought I should back off.”
“You?” you asked, the word crackling in your throat.
“Yeah, me, sweetheart. Not you. I was afraid you were gonna bolt one of these days. I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, according to quite a few people, and I know that loving you means that I’m probably the worst around you.”
The muscle at the corner of your mouth twitched, and along with it went the stress that had settled in every nerve ending in your body. The tension in your jaw released, your chest began to ease, and the only remaining negative was the sadness at Bucky’s confession—at his fronted vulnerability.
You reached up to catch his wrist in your grip, and he responded by bringing his other hand up to hold you fully.
“I love you,” you affirmed. Bucky’s own smile was sad. “I’ve never thought about ‘bolting.’ I spent this entire week sad and lonely because I was afraid you were going to leave me. I was trying to show you that I could be… chill, I guess.”
“Chill?” Bucky repeated with a scoff-like laugh, brows shooting up as he brushed his thumbs along the dampness of your cheeks. “I drove past your apartment every night this week. I used that shampoo you left in my shower just to make my bed smell like you again. I wrote…God, I wrote you this letter because I figured maybe if you got something in the mail—”
“You sent me mail?” you interrupted.
Bucky’s face blushed a bashful pink, his mouth open in a defensive smile. “We can forget about the mail, okay? Now that we’re talking it out.”
“Right. I’m going to check my mail when you leave.”
“Hey,” he demanded, his playful, pointed look reorienting you to the reason behind the tears now drying on your face. When you settled back into his gaze, Bucky readjusted you in his hands, bringing your head into his shoulder until you were fully in his arms. “I love you, you got that? I’m sorry you heard what you did and thought—thought that wasn’t true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never want to feel like that again—like I’m losing you.”
You tightened your fingers into the material of Bucky’s hoodie, taking a moment to relish in his arms around you. You nodded against him, hoping that would suffice, and it did. He kissed the side of your head and leaned back against the couch, bringing you with him.
“Can’t even check the mail,” Bucky eventually grumbled out. “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving any time soon.”
Reader always falling asleep next to Bucky, yes. BUT. Hear me out okay, Bucky always falling asleep next to reader. Pre-relationship. All reader has to do is be in the same room as Bucky and he's out like a light. It becomes comical because the team tries to figure out who it is and stay w Bucky alone to see if he falls asleep, but it's not until he's sitting alone with reader that he passes out within the minute. The team thinks it's funny, Bucky is embarrassed, but reader thinks it's cute and gets him to start sleeping in her room so he can sleep properly 😋😋
It truly was an acccident.
You’re in the common room late one night, curled up on one end of the couch with a blanket tucked around your legs and a file open on your tablet. The compound is quiet in that rare, fragile way it only ever is past midnight. You hear the soft, familiar whir of servos before you see him.
“Can’t sleep?” you ask without looking up.
Bucky grunts something noncommittal and drops onto the opposite end of the couch. He’s fresh from a shower, hair damp and pushed back, wearing gray sweats and a black Henley that stretches across his shoulders. He smells like clean soap and something warm and distinctly him.
You hum in acknowledgment, keep scrolling.
It’s less than three minutes before you glance over and realize his head has tipped back against the cushions, mouth parted slightly, breathing slow and even.
You blink.
“Barnes?”
No response.
You lean closer. He’s out cold.
You stare at him for a second, then snort quietly to yourself. He had been tense when he walked in, shoulders tight like piano wire. Now he looks… soft. Younger. Peaceful in a way you don’t get to see often.
You slide the blanket off your legs and drape it over him instead.
The next night it happens again.
And the next.
It becomes a pattern so quickly it’s almost ridiculous. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he nurses a cup of tea? He’s asleep at the table before it cools. You’re on the training mats stretching after a workout? He sits down “just for a minute” and is snoring softly within five. You’re on the Quinjet, shoulder brushing his, and he’s gone before takeoff.
The first time Sam notices, he nearly chokes on his drink.
“Man,” he says slowly, eyes bouncing between you and the unconscious super soldier slumped in his chair, “I have never seen him do that.”
“What?” you ask innocently.
“Sleep. Like that.”
You glance at Bucky. He’s folded in on himself in one of the common room armchairs, chin tucked to his chest, looking so deeply asleep it borders on absurd.
“Maybe he’s tired,” you shrug.
“Uh-huh,” Sam says, squinting.
Natasha catches on next.
She tests it.
One evening, she corners Bucky in the kitchen while you’re still in the gym. She talks to him about mission reports, about old Hydra intel, about nothing at all. She even sits him down on the couch and lowers her voice to that smooth, soothing cadence she uses on frightened witnesses.
He doesn’t so much as yawn.
You walk in ten minutes later, towel around your neck, cheeks flushed from sparring.
“Hey,” you say, smiling when you see them.
Bucky looks up at the sound of your voice.
And promptly passes out mid-sentence.
Natasha stares at him.
Then at you.
“Oh,” she breathes.
Within a week it’s a full-blown investigation.
Clint tries keeping Bucky company in the rec room. Steve insists on staying up with him one night to “see what’s going on.” Sam even suggests it might be some weird delayed serum side effect.
Nothing.
Bucky stays stubbornly, frustratingly awake with everyone else.
But the second you’re alone with him?
Lights out.
The breaking point comes during movie night.
The whole team is sprawled across the couches. Bucky is sitting ramrod straight on one end, clearly determined to prove a point. He even says as much.
“I’m not tired,” he mutters, jaw tight.
You bite your lip to keep from smiling and sit beside him anyway. Not touching. Just close enough that your knees almost brush.
The movie starts.
Thirty seconds later, his head tips sideways.
And lands squarely on your shoulder.
The room erupts.
Sam howls. Clint actually applauds. Natasha hides her smirk behind her hand. Even Steve’s lips twitch.
Bucky jerks upright, horrified. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
“You were snoring,” Sam informs him gleefully.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were,” Clint says. “Like a tiny chainsaw.”
You’re laughing now, warmth blooming in your chest as Bucky’s ears turn pink.
“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, refusing to look at you.
It is funny.
But it’s also… something else.
Because you’ve started to notice the details. The way his breathing evens out almost immediately when you’re near. The way his shoulders drop. The way the constant, subtle vigilance that hums beneath his skin finally goes quiet.
It hits you one evening when it’s just the two of you in your room.
He hadn’t meant to come in. He was pacing the hall after a nightmare, trying not to wake anyone. You’d opened your door at the sound of his footsteps.
“You okay?” you’d asked softly.
He hesitated.
Then nodded, once.
“C’mere,” you’d said, stepping aside.
He perches on the edge of your bed like he’s afraid it might bite him. You sit cross-legged across from him, close but not touching.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says roughly.
“I know.”
You talk about nothing. About the new recruits. About a recipe Sam ruined. About the weather.
His eyelids start to droop.
You watch it happen in real time.
“Buck,” you murmur gently.
He blinks at you, trying to fight it.
“You’re safe,” you tell him, because you think maybe that’s the key. “You can sleep.”
It’s like someone flips a switch.
He sways once.
Then slumps forward, forehead pressing lightly against your shoulder as he goes completely limp.
You freeze for a second.
Then slowly, carefully, you ease him down against your pillows and pull the comforter over him.
He doesn’t stir.
The next morning, the team finds him there.
In your bed.
Still asleep.
Sam leans against the doorway, grinning. “Well. Mystery solved.”
Bucky groans and buries his face in your pillow. “Kill me.”
You just smile, brushing your fingers gently through his hair.
“Or,” you say sweetly, “you could just start sleeping in here.”
His eyes flick up to yours, wary but hopeful.
“You serious?”
“Seems like you only sleep when I’m around,” you shrug. “Might as well get a full night out of it.”
There’s a beat.
Then, slowly, shyly, he nods.
The team never lets him live it down.
But that night—and every night after—Bucky falls asleep within minutes of you climbing into bed beside him.
✦︎ — SUMMARY. Bucky finds your romance novel. Bucky reads the highlighted part. Bucky discovers you've both been silently wanting the same thing. Bucky proves he’s incapable of acting normal about this information.
WARNINGS. established relationship, MDNI, 18+, porn no plot, Bucky has a raging breeding kink, soft smut, unprotected pnv, creampie, cumplay, mentions of lactation kink, domestic intimacy, no use of y/n.
NOTES. scheduled post bc your girl is on a break. also thank you for 4000 followers, what the hell 🥹
The only good thing about a mission was that it ended. And when it ended, Bucky can come home to you.
The door clicked behind him. He exhaled properly, maybe for the first time in three days, and let the quiet settle over him. He shed his jacket, his boots, and followed the strip of warm light under the bedroom door without thinking. Muscle memory by now, this particular walk.
You were on your stomach, one leg bent, cheek soft against the pillow, mouth barely open the way it only went when you were properly under. Completely gone. One hand curled slack beside a book lying pages-down on the bed, spine cracked, the way books shouldn't be left if you cared about them.
He'd seen this exact scene before — you falling asleep mid-read, the lamp still on — and his move was always the same: turn the light off, climb in behind you, sleep for ten hours.
He almost did.
His hand reached for the book to set it aside when his eyes caught the open page. He sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress because his legs stopped cooperating.
The prose wasn't fancy. It didn't need to be, it was blunt about what it was describing. A man with both hands pressed to his girl's lower belly while he worked himself deep, telling her she was going to take every drop, that he wasn't stopping until he'd filled her up past overflowing. That's it, pretty girl, take my cum, let me breed this tight little cunt till it takes, want you so full of me you can't think, wanna see your belly swollen with my babies. The woman in the story was begging for it, wet and completely broken, while he kept his palm flat over her stomach.
Bucky's hand tightened around the spine until the cover bent.
He turned the page and found a star drawn in pencil in the margin. Your handwriting. Neat and small, beside the passage where the man pulled back just enough to watch his cum leak from her before pressing it back inside — not wasting a drop, gorgeous, every bit of it stays right here where it belongs.
A star.
He sat with that for a moment. Two moments. Maybe a full minute of just sitting there with the lamp warm on his hands and your soft breathing behind him.
He knew this want. He'd been sitting on it for months — the need to just stay, every time he was buried inside you and the pull of it got so loud it took actual effort to talk himself back. The responsible thing. The right thing. Pull out. Don't push it. Don't put that on her. And then watching the mess of it on your skin and thinking about what it would mean to not. To keep it all where it was supposed to go. How many showers he'd stood in thinking about your belly. What you'd look like. How soft you'd go. How it would feel to press his palm there and know.
To him, this wasn’t some random story anymore. Apparently his girl has been falling asleep to fantasies of getting claimed and filled until she carried his baby, the same urges he’d been swallowing down every time he pulled out and spilled across your skin instead, not wanting to push too far and scare away that sweet softness you always seem to give him.
He turned another page. Found another star, this one beside the line where the man cradled his girl's tits as he asked about nursing from her.
He closed the book and looked at you. All the love he felt towards you multiplied with the awakened hunger, hands itching to wake you right then, to show you how perfectly those pages matched the way he wanted to ruin you for anyone else. He stood up, stripped down. Shirt, pants, everything. He was not getting into bed in three-day mission clothes, even if his brain was only half working.
He looked down at himself. Already half-hard, his cock thick against his thigh, wet at the tip just from reading. He'd been on missions that didn't break him this fast. He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, hissed at his own slickness smearing his palm and stroked just to get a handle on it.
He put his hand on your hip. "Baby." He shook you gently. "Wake up for me."
The sound you made was small and personally offended by the concept of consciousness. You burrowed deeper.
"Baby." He rubbed your hip. "Open your eyes."
Slowly, you did, blinking like a deer caught, as you found him in the warm lamplight and your face just opened. All of it, the sleep-blur gone in a second, replaced by that warmth, that automatic reaching, your arms coming up before you'd even finished registering what you were looking at. Like some part of you knew it was him before your eyes did, and your whole body moved toward him on instinct.
He gathered you in. He would never in his life stop being leveled by this, the way you reached for him like that, all open and unguarded, not one defensive thing in you when you saw him. He tucked his face into your hair and breathed.
"You're home," you mumbled against his neck. No matter what, the images from the book spilled over, now all he saw was you and him, those dirty promises echoing.
"I'm home." His lips found your temple. "Came home and found you sleeping like you haven't got a single bad thought in your pretty head." He felt your breath catching, your fingers going still in his shirt. "Left your book right out here for me."
"It's just a book." You spoke into his skin, pressing closer into him, fingers digging into his shoulders with a restless energy, soft sounds vibrating through you that only made him harder
"Pages worn soft from reading it."
"Bucky —"
"Little pencil stars in the margins." He pulled back just enough to look at your face. The flush was already climbing your throat, your eyes sliding sideways from his. He could see you trying to determine exactly how much he'd read. "My sweet girl." He shook his head slowly, as he watched you bite your lip. "Sleeping like an angel… with her breeding kink book on the nightstand."
A mortified sound left you as you tried to press back into his chest. He let you, his mouth curving, his arms pulling you in. "Don't," you said, muffled by him.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing." He really was, a little. He pressed his lips to your hair to hide it. "I would never." He rubbed your back, felt you slowly start to relax against him. "I've been pulling out," he said, into your hair. "This whole time."
You went completely still.
"Every single time," he continued. "Being responsible. Doing right by you. While you've been in here starring passages about being filled up and bred." He felt your fingers curl in his shirt. "I've been pulling out for nothin', baby."
A long pause where you just nuzzled again and breathed. Then very quietly your voice came. "I didn't think you'd want —"
"I think about it every time I'm inside you." He said it simply. Just the plain truth of it sitting between you. "Just — thought it would scare you. Thought I'd push you away." He pressed his lips to your forehead.
He continued when you didn't reply, "so here we both were, keeping our mouths shut like absolute idiots."
You looked up at him with an expression he could never quite name, somewhere between wanting and completely undone. He kissed you before either of you could ruin the moment with more words. Slow and thorough, hands cupping your face. You made a soft sound against his mouth that had always gone straight through him.
Clothes came off fast, what little you had on was gone, and he was already bare. He settled between your thighs and looked at you properly.
Your cunt was weeping before he'd even touched you. Slick and swollen, soaking the sheets, and he dragged two fingers through your folds and brought them to his mouth while holding your gaze the entire time. "You were dreamin' about it." He could still taste you on his tongue. "Weren't you? Dreaming about me filling up this tight little pussy."
A broken whimper came as you turned your face into the pillow.
"Baby." He tapped your thigh gently. "Look at me." Reluctantly, you met his eyes, warmth spreading to your ears. He circled your entrance without pushing in, felt you clench around nothing, as he listened to the sound it pulled out of you. "Don't get shy now, sweetheart. Tell me what you want."
"Please —"
"Please what baby?"
"Fill me up. Please, Bucky, please just fill me up, I need it —" Your hand raised to hide your face, which he softly pulled away.
Bucky pushed in slowly. Your nails found his biceps before he was halfway there, digging crescents into the thick muscle. He worked into your dripping cunt inch by inch, feeling every clench and flutter, the wet sounds of it loud in the quiet room.
When he got himself fully seated, he held there, both of you just breathing each other in.
His palm pressed flat to your lower belly. "Feel that?" He pressed down gently and watched your eyes go soft. "That's me, baby. Right here." He pressed a little firmer and your breath punched out. "That's where it's staying. Every load, from now on." He pulled back slowly and drove in, as he watched your mouth fall open. "Never pulling out. Not wasting a drop. Gonna fill this pretty pussy up and keep her that way."
"Bucky —"
"I know, baby." He started moving, finding a rhythm. "I know. We've been idiots."
You came apart under his hands easily, wound up and desperate, scratching at his back, your thighs locking around his waist. Your cunt was soaking him, drooling around his cock with every thrust, the slick sounds of it filling the room.
"I know you love swallowing." You made a soft, small sound when he said that. "And I love watching you do it. Love seeing my cum on your stomach, on your tits." He palmed your breast, taking your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, feeling you jolt under him. He did it slower the second time, watching your face. "But that's done. From now on every single load goes right here." He ground his palm down over your lower belly. "Load after load, until you're round with my babies and everyone can see what we've been doing."
"Yes — please —"
"These tits." He thumbed your nipple again and your back bowed off the mattress. He felt you gush around him. "They're gonna fill up, you know that? Get so heavy and full." He kept his palm there, felt your pulse jumping under your skin. "Gonna let me drink from them." His thumb dragged slowly across your nipple again and your whole body shuddered in a shock. "Aren't you?"
A gasp spilled from your lips, barely a sound.
"Aren't you, baby?"
"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, god, yes, anything you want —"
"Atta girl." He sucked a mark into your throat and felt your cunt clench and flood around him, soaking him straight down his thighs. He kept his palm on your belly. Couldn't stop touching you there, the soft warm plane of it, the thought of it round and full of him. "Gonna put a baby right here." He spread his fingers wide. "Take such good care of you. You and our baby both, I promise you that."
"More — please — Bucky—"
He hooked your knee higher and drove in harder, making you cry and scratch at his skin.
His metal hand reached up, curving gently under the back of your neck and tilted you forward. "Look how good you're taking me."
You looked down. He watched your face while you watched his cock move in and out of your puffy, soaked cunt, the slick mess of you coating every inch of him. Your thighs were dark and wet, your pussy drooling around each thrust and clinging to him when he drew back. He could see the drag and pull of it from here. Watch the way your cunt stretched open and tried to keep him every time he moved.
"Look at her," he marveled. "See how she takes me? Sucking me in like she's been starving." He drove in to the hilt and held himself there, watching your head drop back. "Did I starve her? Hm?"
"Bucky —"
"Tell me." He rocked into you, slow enough to be punishing. "Did I keep her empty when she wanted to be full?"
You whined in response, clinging to his arm. He pulled back slowly, and pushed back in. "That's done, babygirl."
Your sounds had gone to pieces, his name breaking apart in your mouth. He worked you harder and felt you winding up, getting impossibly tight around him.
"You'd make such a good momma." The words fell out of him without planning. He pressed his face into the curve of your neck. "Gonna make this belly round and take care of you through every bit of it. Every part. I mean that. You want that, sweet girl?" The headboard rattled at his pace, as you openly scratched at him harder, head lolling to one side, soft mewling sounds threading through each exhale.
"Say it baby. Come on, sweetheart."
"Please — I'm so close —"
"I know, baby… I know. Say it first."
"Make me a mommy —" It tore out of you. "Please, Bucky, please — make me a mommy—"
That pushed him to the edge, and he came, hard and sudden, hips slamming forward and holding while his cock pulsed in long thick ropes inside you. You came apart with him, cunt clenching in tight rippling waves, whole body shaking, a broken sob of his name leaving your mouth. He felt you your pussy milking every last drop, as he kept grinding in, palm pressed hard to your lower belly, like if he just kept his hand there
"Take it — take all of it — every drop, baby —"
He was still rocking into you in slow, sloppy thrusts when he felt himself going soft, working the last of it out. You were limp and shaking underneath him, hands slack in his hair. He pressed his face to your neck and breathed until he could.
He lay there with his softening cock still inside you, palm warm over your belly. You nuzzled your face against his jaw. The room smelled like sex. He pressed his lips to your cheekbone, your temple, the side of your mouth, anywhere he could reach. Told you between each one how good you were, how beautiful you'd be, how he'd meant every word.
When he finally slipped free, it was reluctant, genuinely, physically reluctant, a resistance he had to push against. As he looked down, slow, thick stream of his cum leaked from your swollen, puffy cunt, running down your inner thighs.
He pressed two fingers gently at your entrance before he'd even made a decision about it.
Your whole body twitched. "Bucky."
"Shh." He pushed it back inside, slow but thorough, and pressed his fingers there when he was done. Just held it there. Keeping the warmth of you against his palm, plugging you, not letting any more of it go.
"I know what you're doing," you said.
"I know you do." He didn't move his hand though.
A small, helpless sound slipped out of you. You pressed closer into his chest, as he brought his other hand over your shoulders to rest on your lower belly. Both of them just stayed there — one cupping you from below, one warm and flat on your stomach.
He nuzzled into your hair. Pressed his lips to your forehead. He's wanted this for so long, and he's going to be good at this no matter what.
"You're not moving your hands," you said eventually, voice drowsy, sated, barely there.
"No," he said.
"Either one."
"No."
You made a sound that was too tired to be an objection and pressed your face into his chest. His thumb drew a slow circle on your belly and didn't move.
Summary: Your husband is unfaithful, and your contractor is hot.
Pairing: Contractor!Joel Miller x Married!Reader
Warnings: Porn with some Plot?, piv, cunnilingus, fingering, massage, Joel works for reader, adultery, but reader's husband cheated first so it doesn't count and i stand by that, divorce, Joel has a big dick, Tommy Miller, shitty marriage
WC: 8.2k
A/N: This really got away from me im so sorry. but low key lmk if i should make a part 2. Love to hear your thoughts :)
You didn’t set out to hire a contractor with the sole purpose of cheating on your husband. It just happened.
In all fairness, he cheated first. Consistently and repeatedly. His ongoing affairs are the reason you’ve found yourself in this situation in the first place.
In truth, it started long before his infidelity had. You knew marrying him was a mistake the moment he showed just how little he cared for you and your needs, miniscule as they may be, in your opinion.
You married Jeremy straight out of college, which was your first miscalculation. Guys your age never quite met your standards of what a healthy and loving relationship should be. But you married him anyway because you thought it’s what you had to do.
His job in finance allowed you to buy the house of your dreams, though it definitely needed some work. He promised you – insisted – that he could take care of the repairs himself despite having the financial means to hire someone else to do it and zero experience doing any sort of manual labor. Your career was just as lucrative as his, so between the two of you, there was no reason you couldn’t afford to hire someone to do the job. You lost track of the amount of times you’d fought him on the topic.
Just hire someone! No, I can do it myself! When? I’ll start soon, I swear!
He never started soon. And now, it’s been five years
The home itself was perfect – full of mid-century modern charm, large, bright windows, sleek, low-pitched roof, open floor plan. You loved it. You did not love the orange shag carpet or the lime green cabinets in the kitchen, nor were you a fan of the square teal tiling covering every inch of both bathrooms. But those problems could be easily resolved.
Your husband, cheating, vile, misogynistic scumbag that he is, was considerably less simple to deal with.
When you discovered his habitual adultery, you were surprised to feel nothing but anger. Not hurt. Not betrayal. Just pure, unbridled anger. You hadn’t been happy in years, and quite frankly, you weren’t sure you ever were.
It sparked a thirst for retaliation in you that couldn’t be quenched without taking full and total control of your life again.
First on your to-do list was filing for a divorce. You had all the proof you needed to back up your claims of his infidelity – texts, phone calls, receipts for motels – Jeremy was not smart, nor was he careful, which made the task incredibly simple. Seeing as he fucked anything with a pulse, you had plenty of evidence to go on. Your lawyer was astonished, either at his stupidity or the sheer amount of women Jeremy has been caught with, you weren’t sure.
Next, you gathered the funds you needed in order to complete the renovation to your home, and luckily, you’d been saving for that specific task. You wanted him to be dumbstruck when he saw the final product, and then you would hand him the divorce papers and tell him to get the hell out.
Finally, you had to hire the right contractors to get the job done. This proved to be your most ardent task yet.
It took you weeks to find a suitable contractor to take on your project. You vetted and price checked and examined their work with a scrutiny that would impress even the most seasoned detectives. You took recommendations, avoided certain ones entirely, and finally landed on Miller & Miller Construction.
Their website had no flair. No pizazz. No gimmicks. It was plain, clean, and it showcased their work in stunning clarity. You were impressed. The custom cabinetry was just what you’d been looking for, the craftsmanship simple, but precise. Their eye for design, their workmanship, everything spoke to you. You set up a consultation and met with them as soon as you could.
Joel and Tommy were two completely opposing entities that you weren’t quite sure how to read. Tommy did most of the talking, his smile easy and bright, immediately likable, while Joel sat quietly, eyes trained on you, not exactly frowning, but there was no smile to be had on his face either. You liked them, despite how quiet the elder Miller was, grizzled hair, trimmed scruff on his jaw and chin, mustache flecked with grey.
Something about him made you squirm.
You could tell immediately how their dynamic worked. Tommy was the salesman, the entrepreneur, the frontman. And Joel was the brawn, the craftsman – it showed in the rough edges of his features, his hands, his discerning eyes. Though, you’re sure they both put in their fair share of hard labor.
Tommy had a tablet in front of him, typing out the details of your project. Joel paced the kitchen, measuring, examining, testing. You watched him, admiring the slope of his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint hints of grey in his beard, rippling muscles hidden under a flannel and a t-shirt.
You blinked out of your haze when Tommy spoke.
“Full-scale kitchen remodel. Custom cabinetry. Updated appliances. Marble counters – that won’t be cheap,” Tommy muttered, but you waved your hand.
“It’s covered. I’ve been saving for years.”
His grin flashed, warm and friendly, “Don’t worry, we won’t drain it all.” He types something else out, muttering, “Hardwood floors, new trim, drywalling, tiling..” he trailed off, listing out everything the two of you had discussed for the entirety of the house. When he was done, he looked across at you with a smile, “I’ll get you an estimate in about a week or so.”
You almost bounced in your seat, giddy with the prospect of your home finally coming to life. You were so ecstatic you almost forgot about the wreckage of your marriage.
“We’ll have our design team set up a consultation, pick materials, colors and such, and then we can get you a fixed timeline. Do you have any questions for us?”
Your eyes darted between him and his stoic older brother before shaking your head, “No, thank you so much.”
In all of your searches and meetings with various contractors in the area, it was the first time you felt seen. They didn’t ask if you needed your husband’s approval. They didn’t ask if he wanted input in the project. Didn’t even ask if you had a husband. But it was clear in your surroundings – the framed picture of you two on your wedding day situated right behind you on the china cabinet, the men’s tennis shoes discarded by the door, the ugly recliner just visible in the living room. Your wedding ring.
Your meeting with their design team went even better – though team was a bit of an overstatement. A woman your age, friendly, bright, excited to help you design your kitchen. Her name was Winona, and she was bubbly without being obnoxious, smart without being a knowitall. And best of all, she took your design ideas and turned them into something spectacular. You loved her.
Jeremy was on a business trip, probably fucking anything that moved, when you signed the final contract to get the house started. And the progress was swift. Efficient for two guys who did all the work themselves. You wondered, briefly, how many projects they normally took on. If they had a crew doing work elsewhere. But it didn’t matter. They were working on your house.
And Tommy was right. The estimate he provided didn’t drain all you’d saved for the project. You had just enough left over to tuck away for your lawyer fees for your inevitable divorce. Something you were wildly ecstatic about.
Over the course of two weeks, Tommy and Joel arrived at seven am on the dot, ripping apart your house piece by piece, hauling things away, cleaning up the site, and working at a scarily efficient tempo.
By the end of the first week, they’d had the upper level of your home completely bare, painted in the soft, off-white color you’d chosen for the hallways, and the corresponding colors you’d chosen for your office, bedroom, and guest room. You slept on the couch while the upstairs was under construction, and by the end of the second week, you were back in your bedroom, adding the decorative touches you’d been working on while they did the hard labor.
Now that your primary living space was completed, they’d moved on to the rest of the house, spending two weeks alone on the bathrooms, and another full day hauling debris from your house.
You enjoyed seeing them bright and early every day. Tommy’s friendly smile, Joel’s gruff nod. After just under a month, you’d grown accustomed to them. You offered them coffee, brewed in your home office instead of the kitchen, and had bagels and fruit out on the kitchen table for them to enjoy at their leisure. Tommy ate the bagels and fruit. Joel guzzled coffee like it would cure whatever had him looking so grumpy all the time.
You chatted with Tommy during your lunch breaks, and you were surprised to find that you enjoyed his company. He was charming and friendly and sweet and nothing like his quietly cantankerous brother. You were lucky if you got more than two words out of Joel in a day, but Tommy was quickly becoming the highlight of the entire project.
You learned a lot about him, and incidentally Joel, every time the two of you sat down for lunch. He told you about their construction company, the scale of their work, and how business has really picked up over the last couple of months. He told you about his wife, Maria, and how she was due to give birth any day now. He expressed his excitement, his trepidation, and joy at becoming a father. He’d had a lot of practice with Joel’s daughter, but she was grown now. That surprised you.
You couldn’t picture Joel getting close enough to someone to have a child with them.
While Joel cut lumber on your back patio, you lowered your voice and asked, “He’s married?”
Tommy took a heaping bite of his sandwich and shook his head, “Nah, wife ran off a couple months after Sarah was born. ‘S just him now that Sarah’s gone off to school in Washington.”
You could see Joel through the patio door, hunched over a piece of lumber, marking it with a pencil, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes focused. You hadn’t let yourself examine him very closely, but watching him work, you were struck by how handsome he was. You’d thought so when you first met the pair of them, but you were so focused on getting the project off the ground, you paid little attention.
His green flannel drew tight over his shoulders and biceps, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He tucked the pencil behind his ear as he maneuvered the piece of wood into place and ripped it through the saw. His forearms tensed, fingers deft and precise as he pulled the wood through. His jaw clenched as he examined it, flicked away the sawdust, eyes singularly focused on his task.
“Easy, sugar,” Tommy drawled, snapping you out of your trance, “He’s a surly old bastard. Don’t wanna get mixed up with that.”
You gaped at him, cheeks coloring, pressing a hand to your chest, “Excuse me? That would be highly inappropriate.” You tried to sound glib, but Tommy was right. You were attracted to Joel. And you were aching for someone to touch you.
You hadn’t had sex in nearly a year thanks to Jeremy’s exploits. You were not interested in contracting an STD from him, and you were so disgusted by him, the thought of having sex with him turned your stomach.
In the month since the project began, Jeremy had only been home twice, complaining about the mess and the dust and screaming at you for going through with the renovation when he’s perfectly capable of doing it all himself.
“Who’s paying for all of this anyway?” He asked derisively. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him. Joel and Tommy were downstairs, completing the tile work for the guest bathroom, and you knew they could hear every word. “I bet they’re taking you for a ride. Women always get scammed by contractors, are you stupid?”
“Shut the fuck up, Jeremy!” You shouted at him, unable to contain your fury. “Why don’t you just go back to fucking your assistant and keep your shitty opinions to yourself!” You stormed out of the room, slamming the door in his face and retreating to the back patio where Joel was hunched over a wet saw, lining up a tile to cut with with the precision you’d come to expect from him.
He looked up at you, his face neutral, lips set in a firm line, dark eyes assessing.
“Everying alright?”
Stunned by his gentle voice, you’d been unable to speak, simply nodding your head and watching as he nodded back and hunched over the saw again.
Jeremy left, and hadn’t been back since.
Between your frustration at your husband, and Tommy’s comment about Joel, a spark of determination lit inside you like dry shrub in a wild fire. Your previously controlled, distant admiration of Joel transformed into a cloying, desperate urge, and he was the one and only thing on your mind.
But that didn’t mean anything would happen. Not with Joel’s sour disposition and gruff exterior. Talking to Tommy was easy. Talking to Joel – well, there was very little that came out of his mouth, so you weren’t sure it could be qualified as talking. Which is why it was so shocking to you that he’d spoken to you in the first place.
You tried. You really did. Every time he came to your office for a coffee refill, you immediately dropped what you were doing in order to strike up a conversation with him. But he never budged. Just grunted, gave one word answers, sometimes even just stared at you like you hadn’t spoken at all. You wondered why he even bothered coming into your office in the first place. Why not just send Tommy to get his refills if it was such a burden to talk to you?
His silence perturbed you. And you were determined to get his attention.
You were so desperate, you started wearing less. Instead of yoga pants and a conservative pull over sweater, you switched to shorts and loose t-shirts that hung off your shoulder. It was an easy switch to make as the last remnants of chilly spring weather finally succumbed to the prickling heat of summer.
If Joel noticed your slowly deteriorating selection of moderate clothing, he didn’t let on. And the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.
Instead of letting him come to you for coffee, you brought the pot out to him, low cut, form fitting, spaghetti strap top displaying your perky breasts. Your shorts barely covered your ass. And he didn’t even blink.
“Coffee?” You ask coquettishly, lifting your chest just a touch. His eyes stayed on yours, steadfast, hard, and determined, as he held his mug out for you to fill.
“Thanks,” he grunted, taking a large gulp.
“Hot today,” you point out, the beginning of summer making its presence known. “You sure you don’t wanna come inside? Take a break?”
His eyes never strayed. Not once. He shook his head, “Tommy should be back with more lumber any minute.”
It’s the most words you've heard leave his mouth in a consecutive string. It emboldens you.
You nod at the comfortable, air conditioned living room just on the other side of the French doors, “Just a quick break. I can get you something cold to drink. Lemonade? A beer?”
You were pushing, and he wasn’t conceding, turning back to the makeshift work table he had set up under the shade of your patio; three saw horses with a large piece of plywood acting as the tabletop, “‘M alright, darlin’. Why don’t you go cool off?”
Darlin’. That subtle Texas drawl, syrupy smooth, deep and rich like honey. He’d called you Darlin’.
You shouldn’t devote too much thought to it. Tommy calls you ‘Sugar’ all the time. Even goes as far as ‘Sweetheart’ on some occasions. But it was natural coming from him. Harmless and utterly platonic. He’s a smooth talker and a schmoozer. From Joel, it was so foreign, so out of character, you didn’t know what to do. He’d hardly said two words to you in the past, and now he’s giving you sweet nicknames. Calling you Darlin’ was just as harmless as Tommy calling you Sugar, but it did something to you.
You left him on the patio and shuffled back to your office, dazed.
You liked it, you realized, skin flushed and heat simmering low in your belly. You wanted him to do it again. Call you by more endearing pet names. Even in your five years of marriage to Jeremy, he’d only ever addressed you by your name or a condescending ‘babe’. You hadn’t realized how pathetically you’d been yearning for more. Something softer, sweeter, kinder. Not until Joel.
But he didn’t seem interested. Should you be more direct? Ask him, outright, if he was attracted to you? Should you strip naked and throw yourself at him? No, no. That was too direct. You had more self respect than that. Maybe. Probably not.
Jeremy had neglected you for so long, your mind was spinning out of control. You want to be wanted. You want to be touched. And you want Joel.
When Tommy returned with the lumber, you watched them unload it from his pickup truck. Joel shed his flannel and was now clad in a white t-shirt that hugged his biceps, his back spotted with sweat and his muscles bulging with the effort of lugging wood into your home. Fuck, you couldn’t stand it.
You have to do something about this ache between your legs. The sudden, unquenchable thirst you feel for him. If skimpy outfits and shy invitations to join you for coffee don’t do it, you know what will. And it’s just about as close to stripping naked as you could get.
When Joel arrives the next day, without Tommy, you greet him with a smile, a fresh pot of coffee, and a question in your gaze that asks where his brother is.
“Wife went into labor late last night. I’ll be finishin’ up without him,” he grunts, though without any of the typical irritability that comes with the need to socialize. Maybe the birth of his nephew had softened him.
You’re a little sad you won’t get to see Tommy, but thrilled to have Joel all to yourself.
As you step aside to let him in, you don’t miss the way his eyes flit down your bare legs. You hadn’t bothered getting dressed, still clad in your oversized sleep shirt that barely hangs down past your ass.
As he sets about getting his bearings from where he left off the previous day, you pour him a cup of coffee and toast and butter a bagel for him, knowing he doesn’t much care for the indulgence of cream cheese or jelly. He thanks you with a grunt and shuffles his way onto the patio to get started. Your eyes linger on the way his navy t-shirt stretches across his broad, muscular back.
After you change into a revealing tank top and the shortest shorts you own, you coop yourself up in your office to get some work done. But when you’re done for the day, you can’t help yourself. You check in on him, peering through the back doors and asking if he wants something to eat. You expect him to decline, but when he graciously accepts, you bounce giddily to the kitchen to make him a sandwich.
Today is different. You can feel it.
When you present him with the sandwich, he dusts his hands on his jeans and nods at you in thanks, but doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, eyes flitting to your cleavage so quickly, you think you imagine it. But then he looks you dead in the eyes as he takes a bite of the sandwich and chews it slowly.
Something in you snaps and your blood heats, making your skin flush. You rush away from him, and as you retreat inside, you swear you hear him chuckle.
With your heart racing and an idea bubbling to life in your mind, you race upstairs and start digging through your closet until you find exactly what you’re searching for. If he wants to tease you, you’re going to tease him right back.
You pull on a white and blue bikini with strings that tie at the hips, around the base of your neck, and at the middle of your back. After applying a nude gloss to your lips and dabbing a light amount of makeup across your cheeks, you pull on a black sheer coverup, that flows down past your ankles, leaving it open. It does little to hide your scantily clad body as you tiptoe back downstairs with a book and a bottle of tanning oil in your grip.
You walk past the back door as deliberately as you can, making sure to catch his attention as you carefully maneuver your way through your deconstructed kitchen to fill a glass with ice water and lemon slices. With your sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, you finally step onto the patio, your tits on display, legs bare and gleaming, and smile coy and searching.
”I’m going to lay out by the pool for a bit. If you get hungry or thirsty, help yourself to anything you like,” you tell him, feigning disinterest. Acting like you don’t see the way his throat bobs and his eyes greedily drink you in. He doesn’t say anything to you as you take the three short steps down to your yard and traipse over to your pool.
The early summer sun is blazing hot, and sweat prickles your skin the moment you lay out on your teakwood lounger, the white cushion comfortable but warm from the heat of the day. Your eyes dart toward Joel to make sure he’s watching, and you slowly slip out of your coverup, intentionally dropping it and bending at the waist to pluck it off the stone pavers surrounding your pool.
It feels almost comically pornographic to resort to this type of temptation, but with the blatant way he watches you, it’s worth it.
You lean back on the lounger, snatching up your book and flipping to the page you’d left off on. It’s some tawdry romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the front. Painfully transparent with little to no plot, but you’re not reading it for the plot, anyway.
Your skin prickles with awareness, your eyes darting toward Joel every few minutes to catch him watching you for the briefest moment before he returns to the meticulous work of assembling your cabinetry.
When your ice water is half gone and too warm to enjoy, you decide to take a brief dip into the pool. You stand, adjusting your bottoms, pulling them up just a touch, before wading slowly into the rippling water. The effect is instant, the water immediately cooling you and making goosebumps pebble across your skin, tightening your nipples.
You’re careful not to get your hair wet, brushing it aside as you drift further in, then back toward the shallow end. A quick glance in his direction makes you frown. His back is to you, broad shoulders leaned over his plywood table.
The power saw buzzes to life, then quiets. He blows away the sawdust, t-shirt damp with sweat. Biceps straining as he joins two pieces of wood together, fastening them with a clamp. You’re enraptured by his focus. Envious of your very own cabinets and wishing he’d look at you with such deliberate intent and concentration. House be damned.
When you can tell he’s about to turn in your direction, you climb out of the pool, allowing the water to trickle off your frame and slick down your body. You run a hand down your stomach, briefly toying with the pink jewel at your naval, then adjust your bottoms again as you strut back to the lounger.
Under the dark, impenetrable lenses of your sunglasses, your eyes dart to him. He’s staring, his throat bobbing, hands tight around the clamps he’s using to fasten the cabinets together.
You hide your smile, laying out on your towel to let the sun soak up the water from your skin. You feel his eyes on you more prominently than the moisture coating your body. With a sly smile, you push your sunglasses down your nose to look at him.
“Hey, Joel?” Voice dripping with honey and mischief.
“Yeah, darlin’?” He calls back, still watching. Not even bothering to pretend anymore. And he calls you that name again. Darlin’. Your core clenches.
Biting your lip, you give him a coquettish look that’s all sin and wicked intention, “Will you help me put on some sunscreen?”
Straight out of a porno. The oldest trick in the book. Painfully, achingly transparent. You’re inviting him to touch you. And even from afar, you can see his resolve snap. Eyes darkening, posture going rigid.
“You sure about that?” He asks, voice tight and rough.
You nod, biting your lip for good measure, “Uh huh.”
He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and a devilish smile spreads across your face, triumphant. Joel dusts his hands off on his jeans, trudges down the patio steps, and prowls over to your lounger. His tall, broad frame eclipses the sun, casting shade over you. You grin and roll onto your stomach, acutely aware of the way your ass looks in your tiny bikini.
“Sunscreen, there,” you point to the bottle of tanning lotion on the teakwood table next to you. It’s more of an oil with UV protection, but the idea is the same: you want him to rub it all over your body, and then fuck you senseless.
The scent of pine and leather wraps around you as he sits on the edge of the lounger, careful not to touch you. He grabs the oil and huffs a laugh, “This ain’t sunscreen.”
“It has UV protection!” You argue.
“This is nothin’ more than body oil.”
“Still. Please?” You ask, looking back at him and resting your cheek on your arms. He shakes his head, cheeks dimpling against the smile he’s trying to fight off.
“Ain’t payin’ me to lather you up, honey,” he says under his breath, flicking the cap of the oil open and drizzling it along your back.
“That’s okay. You need a break.”
He hums, setting the bottle aside. Your entire body tingles with anticipation, waiting for his skin on yours. You wait and wait, feeling the oil drip along your spine, your shoulders. Then, finally, the coarse surface of his work roughed hand meets your skin and you shiver.
“S’it okay if I untie this?” He asks, voice so low, so smooth, you’re sure you imagined it. But then you feel his fingers playing with the ties at your neck and you nod, frantically, too eager. “Of course it is.”
You almost giggle. He knows what you’re doing and he’s still placating you. You wiggle a little when he unties the neck, then the back, leaving you bare from the waist up. The moment his hands are back on you, you gasp. Pressure firm, but gentle. Sure and thorough as he spreads the oil around your skin. Brushing your hair aside, he massages the oil into your neck. You peek at him to see that concentrated look on his face. Like tearing him away from his task would undo him.
Then, both of his palms press into your back, eliciting a moan straight from your lips. You clamp your mouth shut, but the pressure is so divine, you almost do it again.
“Feels okay?” He mutters, hands skimming down your body, your waist, your lower back, and then up again. His fingers graze the sides of your breasts and you nod again. God, if he stopped now, you think you’d cry.
Every pass of his hands turns you to jelly, and soon, he moves down to your legs, first starting at your ankles, then up your calves, careful not to go much further than the bend in your knee. You’re soaked. Skin humming with the effects of his firm, soothing touch, heated by the sun, and glowing faintly with the sheen of oil.
When you feel his hand inch up the inside of your thigh, you suck in a breath.
”Relax,” he coaxes, moving from the top of your thigh down to your knee and back up again. Over and over and over, pressing a little firmer on the way up, and stopping just short of the gusset of your skimpy bikini. “You told me to help myself to anything I liked.”
You did say that. And then you called him over to you to touch you freely. You grin, peeking up at him, cheek resting against your arms, “And you like me?”
His cheeks dimple, his smile so soft, so sexy, you almost say to hell with your little ruse. Something between a grunt and a laugh escapes him, “Darlin’, you got no idea.”
Darlin’. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of it. You feel yourself grow damp as he moves his hands to your other thigh, repeating the same, torturous ministrations. But this time, he goes so much higher, you think he’s going to graze the covered, soaked apex of your desperately neglected pussy. He never does. Massages right below it. There’s no reason to put oil there, but he does it anyway. His thumbs get closer, massaging circles into your skin, very nearly grazing you, teasing, refusing to give you what you want.
When his hands leave you, you almost cry out in protest, but then he’s nudging your hip, “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”
As you lift up to turn, you toss your bikini top aside, having no desire to feign modesty any longer. He knows it, and you know it. You want him to fuck you.
His eyes spark with interest as they land on your breasts, perky and waiting, nipples tight from your dip in the pool. You lie back, making yourself comfortable as he stares.
He chuckles, deep and smooth, “Not bein’ shy no more, are you?”
You grin in response as he grabs the oil and drizzles it over your chest, your stomach, and along your arms. He starts at your hands, making sure you’re fully covered, his large ones engulfing them completely in his grasp. The texture of his fingers is rough, but you like it as he moves his way up your wrists, your forearms, and then toward your shoulders, massaging along the way.
“Mm, Joel,” you sigh, his hands rubbing the oil into you completely before moving on. He presses his thumbs into your shoulders, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He still doesn’t touch you there, but then one hand wraps around your throat, resting, thumbing your pulse point where it hammers rapidly against your skin.
“Lookin’ so pretty,” he says quietly, keeping one hand on your neck while the other finally finally covers your breast. The initial touch is feather light, thumb grazing your nipple. Then, he presses firmer, his entire hand covering you with his palm while he kneads and massages. His hand leaves your neck only to cover your other breast, and you’re giddy with need as he works you into a whimpering, keening mess. “That feel good, darlin’?”
“So good,” you nod, grabbing his wrist to keep him there, demanding more.
He hums, keeping the hand you’ve now possessed on your breast, while the other moves down to rub oil into your tummy. His hands are a work of art, skilled in so many ways. You’re trembling by the time he reaches the top of your bikini bottoms. His pinky slips under the hem, making you gasp. He withdraws and does it again, rubbing back and forth until your hips move up to seek his touch.
“Want me to take these off?” He asks, tugging at the strings, already knowing your answer before you nod rapidly.
“Off, please. Take them off.”
His reply is a deep grunt, and you think that must be his grumpy little way of teasing you, “Needy little thing.”
The bottoms come off, and you’re bared to him, your center slick with need and ready to be fucked. But you just know he’s going to take his time. Simultaneously, you can’t stand it, but you also yearn for it. Being teased and molded into a whimpering mess, desperate for his touch. Your husband has never made you feel like this. Sexy. Desirable. Loved.
“Fuck, look at that pussy, baby,” he groans, still not touching you where you really, really need it. He’s massaging your hips now, leaning over you in a way that’s almost obscene as he gets closer to your slick heat. His thumbs press into your hips, then down your thighs until he’s rubbing oil into your legs, still neglecting you, even though every pretense of professionalism has all but burned up in the wake of your arousal.
“Joel,” you whine, arching your hips.
“Patience,” he answers sternly. And that’s that. Nothing more.
Every stroke up and down your leg is torture as he repeats the same teasing he’d done to the backs of your legs. Getting closer and closer to your pussy, but never fully touching. You’re so eager, your slick coats your thighs, and on a final pass, he rubs it into your skin before his fingers finally graze your clit. You suck in a sharp breath, your hand shooting out to grab him again. To keep him there. Because if he stops now, you think you’ll actually die.
You look up at him, his eyes dark, his grin wide. You’ve never seen him smile like that, and it’s blinding, warm, and teasing. He rubs circles over your clit delicately, not pressing too hard, not too light. It’s so perfect and you’re so on edge that it has you on the precipice of your orgasm faster than you can blink.
And then he eases up, halting your peak so quickly, your hips buck, making you moan in protest, “No, no, no, don’t stop, please, Joel.”
“Ain’t plannin’ on stoppin’, baby,” he says softly, “Just need to get a better look at you.”
And then he shifts, gently lowering himself to the ground, knees probably screaming in protest, and grabbing you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the lounger, slightly askew on the cushion, but still comfortable. He lowers his head, making you squirm, lips brushing against your hip, across your tummy, briefly pausing to kiss around the pink belly button piercing. You arch your hips, enticing him.
“So eager,” he grumbles, one hand spreading your thigh, hooking it onto his shoulder, the other running up your opposite leg, kneading and massaging you into a puddle.
“I need — I need—“ you breathe, one hand clutching the teakwood, the other reaching for him, digging into the muscles of his shoulder.
“What do you need, baby?”
Your chest is heaving as he plants another kiss below your bellybutton, still massaging your leg while his other hand keeps your thigh firmly planted over his shoulder.
“Fuck, you smell so sweet,” he sighs, inching down. It’s torture. It’s pure, unbridled torture — waiting for him. You’re a slick mess, oiled up, pussy wet, walls fluttering around nothing. “Tell me what you need,” he repeats.
“I need your tongue,” you gasp, the prickle of his beard on your skin driving you insane. You never would have guessed this. That Joel Miller is a fucking tease. That he’s slow and methodical. That he enjoys making you squirm. But here he is, peppering kisses all across your body, everywhere except your aching core, “Please, make me cum. Please, Joel.”
His chuckle is deep, a hint of red coloring his cheeks and neck, either from the sun or arousal, you don’t care.
“Since you asked nicely.”
And then his mouth is on you, hands spreading your thighs wide, keeping you open for him as he drags his tongue from your weeping cunt to your clit where he sucks, teasing you, making you gasp for air, arching your back off the lounger.
Your burrow a hand into his hair — it’s damp with sweat, but that doesn’t bother you in the slightest.
His mouth is devastating against you, licking stripe after stripe up your slit, pausing briefly to suck and nibble at your clit until you’re sobbing with need. And then, just when you think it can’t get any better, he pushes one, thick finger into you, stretching you. The burn makes you cry out, the slow drag sending prickles of lightning up your spine.
“This is what you wanted, right, darlin’?” He asks, voice rough with arousal, eyes nearly black as he slowly pumps his finger into you. “It’s why you’ve been walkin’ around lookin’ like that. No pants on. Shorts barely coverin’ you, askin’ me to touch you. Askin’ to get fucked.”
You can’t answer. Your voice stalls in your throat. You can only nod, frantically. He adds a second finger and it almost undoes you. You’re so fucking close. He pushes them deep, leaning down to tease your clit again with his mouth, sucking hard, groaning.
“How do you think your husband would feel if he knew his pretty little wife was gettin’ fucked by the help?”
He twists his fingers, curling them just so. He prods at the sensitive, soft spot inside you, making your arch.
“Ex. Ex — husband. Soon.”
He hums, “Judging by that ring, he’s no ex.”
It takes every ounce of will power you have to rip your hand away from him and tear the ring off your finger. It glints in the sun and clatters on the table next to you when you slam it down. Then your hand is back in his hair, urging him back to your cunt where he grins and licks you again, this time not pausing, not slowing.
Your orgasm is volcanic, blinding. You think you scream. You know your fingers clench around his hair so tight, you’re in danger of pulling it out of his scalp. And he just keeps going. Finger fucking you into oblivion, tasting your release on his tongue, moaning against you as you ride the waves of your climax into bliss.
You’re trembling when he lifts himself off the ground, fingers still probing deep, hunting for another orgasm. He leans over you, bracing his other hand next to your head, and kisses you. You whimper into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips, tongues stroking and breaths mingling.
“Joel,” you moan when he removes his fingers, leaving you empty and limp. But he’s not pulling away. He’s kissing down your neck, sucking a spot just below your ear that drives you crazy that your husband always neglects, and undoing his belt.
“Tell me what you need,” he says into your neck. But he already knows. You know he knows. You’ve been begging for it this entire time.
“Fuck me, Joel,” you whine, hands searching for the end of his shirt. They slip underneath, and you moan at the way his muscles feel under your fingertips. He’s warm and rough and you want to see him. “Off.”
He hums, leaning up to pull his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere among your discarded bikini. He comes back to you, lips hot on yours while you concentrate your efforts on getting his jeans undone. He’s hard against your hand as you pull the zipper down, aching and needy.
Once his cock is freed, you break away to take him in, and you almost shrink. He is huge, leaking from the tip, resting heavy against your thigh. Even with how wet you are, you don’t know if he’ll fit. But God you want to try.
“Don’t worry, baby, I got you,” he grunts, shoving his jeans and boxers off. He straightens you on the lounger, making room for himself as he climbs over you. He’s golden and glistening in the sun, slick with sweat and your arousal shimmering on his chin.
The sight of his broad, hard form over you almost makes you cum again.
He catches you gawking and you could swear he’s trying to fight off a smug smile, but his lips only twitch in amusement instead. Taking his cock in hand, he drags the tip through your folds, making you shudder and reach for his hips, holding him as he hovers, nails pressing a little harder than you intend. He doesn’t seem to mind.
As his tip catches your entrance, he groans, “Nice and wet for me, aren’t you?”
You can only nod, speech evading you as he slowly, cautiously sinks into you. The stretch is everything. You’re so full, so wet, and inconsolable, it makes you mewl in delight.
“What’s that, darlin’?”
”So — so big. Your cock is so big, Joel,” you sigh, shifting your hips, taking him deeper. The burn is exquisite, but you need him to move. Need him to fuck you into another reality. ”Please..”
”Such pretty little manners,” he tells you, withdrawing slowly.
The first thrust is devastating. The second is mind numbing. And after the third, you’re holding onto him for dear life. It doesn’t take long for you to melt underneath him, arching your hips so he hits at just the right angle.
“Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had, baby,” he pants, leaning down to mutter profanities into your ear, nibbling and kissing your neck, “That husband doesn’t take care of you at all does he?”
”No, no, no, never,” you chant, every part of you ready to snap.
“Bet he hasn’t fucked you proper in years,” he grunts, the sound of your skin slapping together downright obscene. “That’s all you needed, huh, darlin’?”
“Uh huh,” you yelp, almost a broken sob leaving you as he drives into you, “Fuck me, Joel..”
“Nothin’ to worry about now, I’ll take real good care of you.”
You could cry from the relief of it. The way his hips slam into you, how deep he is, how attentive. Even at the strongest point in your marriage, it’s never been like this, and it’s ecstasy.
Pleasure pools low in your belly, his cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside you so perfectly, the precipice of your orgasm is on you in an instant. Just as you’re about to cum, he stills, breath heaving, your walls trembling, clenching around him.
“Joel,” you whine, breathless and wanting.
“Not yet, baby,” he tells you, voice syrupy and thick. Pressing a kiss to your neck, then your lips, he sits up on his knees, takes you by the thighs and lifts your hips to grind against him. The position is utterly indecent, back arched, him holding your thighs for leverage while he begins snapping his hips against you. And it’s like he never stopped in the first place.
Your orgasm crashes into you, hands reaching for his wrists to hold on as he towers over you, giving you everything he’s got. The power of his thrusts knocks the breath out of you.
“Take it, baby, fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he grounds out, sweat slicking his muscled chest, dripping down his temple. “You got me so wound up, darlin’, prancin’ around looking sexy as sin. Now I’ve got you all to myself.”
“Don’t stop, please,” you keen, desperately grasping for air, your climax driving away all rational thought and composure. “It’s so good, please, don’t stop.”
“Gonna make me cum, sayin’ things like that.”
You think, then, that you’d be fine with it. Letting him cum inside you, or paint your oiled up body with his seed. Mark you, stake his claim on you. He can cum wherever he wants, you decide, as long as he promises to do it again.
“Ain’t gonna let that piece of shit husband touch you again,” he declares, pinning you with a solid, steady stare, “You’re mine now, darlin’.”
You tell him, then, “Cum inside me, Joel,” nearly sobbing as his powerful thrusts drive you toward another orgasm with blinding speed. His movements are precise and deliberate, his eyes going dark at your words.
You know he wants to do it, that he can’t stop himself even if he wanted to. Even if you weren’t begging for it.
“Yeah?” He huffs, hooking his arms a little higher around your thighs to gain better leverage. You shift your hips, cry out as his cock goes deeper, spearing into you so completely you never want him to leave.
You’re almost sobbing with the approach of another orgasm, one that will undo you and wreck you for the rest of your life. All you can do is nod and gasp and hold onto him as he fucks you deeper. Your neighbors are going to hate you.
“Shit, darlin’,” he grunts, the buck of his hips frantic as he chases his release. When your nails bite into his forearm, the tight coil of his control snaps like a cable and you feel warm ropes of cum fill you. A final orgasm paints stars across your vision, and you faintly hear a guttural moan leave him as you tighten around him once more. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you’re both spent, your muscles aching and fingers sore from how tightly you have them wound around his wrists.
He collapses on top of you in a heap, your bodies slippery with sweat and oil. His hot breath fans over your neck, the weight of him both grounding and comforting. The scruff of his beard prickles your skin as he peppers kisses along your chin, down the column of your throat.
”Ain’t gonna be able to finish those cabinets today,” he grunts.
A slow smile spreads across your lips, ”Why not?”
He lifts his head to gift you with a warm smile of his own, captivated, even after the way he’d fucked you. Surprised that he gives it so willingly now that you’ve had each other in the most physical and intimate manner possible.
”Wanna take you out. Dinner. Will you let me?”
His offer stuns you into silence.
Yes, you’d practically begged for him to fuck you. Asked him to cum inside you. Told him you were as good as divorced. And yeah, you have every intention of having sex with him again.
But a date? That says something. It speaks volumes to his intentions. Which both frightens and thrills you.
Despite you throwing yourself at him for weeks on end and finally getting what you want, he wants more. And not just your body.
Your hesitation draws his eyebrows down, “We don’t have to ––“
”I want to,” you answer quickly. But there’s still that lingering sense of doubt. Of trusting someone with yourself only to be stabbed in the back. Betrayed in the most visceral sense. You didn’t have sex with him because you wanted to move on from Jeremy right into another twisted, sickly excuse for a relationship. You just needed attention. And Joel gave it.
He lifts himself off of you and pulls on his jeans, “It’s fine if you don’t wanna ––“
”Joel.”
”I’m too old to be playin’ games, darlin’. If I wasn’t clear before — I like you. More than I should. And I know you’re married, but that didn’t stop us, did it? So if you want this, I’m here. If not, no hard feelin’s.”
He’s half dressed now, jeans buttoned, belt still hanging loose, t-shirt hanging over his broad shoulder. His wide frame blocks the sun, allowing you to see him clearly. No man has ever been as direct and straightforward with his needs. Not like that. It’s… different. Refreshing. Almost unheard of.
You almost want to pull him back down and let him have his way with you again, but you’re a woman of control and poise. You can articulate your needs just as clearly as he has. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit interested in seeing what manifests.
”Dinner would be lovely,” you begin, keeping your expression controlled, “When Jeremy gets back from whatever trip he’s on, I’m serving him the divorce papers.”
You can see the moment when your words sink in, the pleasant twitch of his lips, the way he leans over you and brushes his lips against yours. This kiss is tender and sweet in a way you haven’t experienced from your own husband in years. But it’s what he says next that turns your body into mush and your mind pliant and docile.
Summary: You’re the Vice President’s daughter, public property in pearls, judged by headlines you never wrote. Steve Rogers has been your lead bodyguard for years: disciplined, distant, and devastatingly attentive in all the quiet ways that matter.
Wordcount: 19.4k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers (ish), idiots in love, protective Steve, soft Steve, "touch her and die" energy, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, emotional confession, trust issues, fear of commitment, power imbalance (boydguard/client), forbidden-ish romance, tension & softness, hospital scene, domestic fluff, kisses, car accident (minor), conflict with a parent, emotional distress, themes of surveillance and lack of privacy, mild injury
Elixir's Arcade Event: Two Pairs with afraid to commit + bodyguard AU + "You were the only person I thought I could trust." + one of them pretends to not like the other because they are afraid of getting hurt
A/N: I couldn't not write something a little angsty for this challenge, and when I saw the combinations of prompts and tropes, my mind immediately went to Steve. Let it be known that it's probably the first time Cassie @blobfishlol told me that for once, the male character wasn't an idiot (we kinda disagree on that one, but meh)
Masterlist
The first thing you learn, growing up in the shadow of the Vice President, is that people don’t look at you the way they look at other women.
They look through you.
They see headlines. Angles. Narratives. They see a daughter as an extension of a man’s policies – an accessory that can be polished for a fundraiser or weaponized in a scandal. They see you and they decide, instantly, which version of you will make their life easier: the spoiled princess, the reckless party girl, the entitled adult child who can’t survive without a credit card and a chauffeur.
You stopped correcting them a long time ago.
It was exhausting, trying to prove your humanity to people who benefited from pretending you didn’t have any.
So you learned how to move like you belonged to the story they’d written. How to smile on cue. How to keep your face neutral when they asked invasive questions framed as jokes. How to make your anger small and your sadness invisible.
And then, years ago, Steve Rogers stepped into your orbit like a quiet inevitability.
At first, he was just another agent.
Another man in a suit with an earpiece and a posture that said don’t try me. Another shadow at the edge of every room, eyes always scanning, hands always ready but never restless. Another name you weren’t supposed to know, another person you weren’t supposed to become attached to.
But Steve wasn’t like the others.
He didn’t flirt. He didn’t overcompensate. He didn’t treat you like a delicate thing made of PR and glass.
He treated you like a person who deserved to be alive.
Which – surprisingly – was rarer than it should have been.
You remembered the first day in weird, sharp fragments.
The residence hallway smelling like lemon polish and old money. The distant click of heels. The way your father’s chief of staff had said, “Rogers will be your detail lead moving forward.” Like you were being assigned a new password.
Steve had been standing by the security office, waiting.
Tall, broad-shouldered, blond in a way that looked almost unfair under fluorescent lighting. His suit fit him like armor, not fashion. When he turned his head toward you, his expression was neutral, controlled – professional to the point of being unreadable.
But his eyes…
His eyes were the kind that didn’t waste time.
They took in the things they needed: your posture, your pace, the tension in your shoulders, the fact that you carried your phone like it could explode. The kind of assessment that wasn’t judgment. Just… attention.
You held out your hand out of habit. Polished, practiced.
Steve looked at it for half a second, then took it firmly – no lingering, no performative gentleness. A grip that said I am here because I am capable.
“Ma’am,” he said.
You hated that title. It made you sound older than you were, and smaller than you felt. Like a formality could turn you into something manageable.
“You can call me–” you started, but the chief of staff cut you off.
“Agent Rogers has a protocol.”
Steve’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He didn’t contradict his superior. But later, when you’d turned the corner and the hallway had swallowed the staffers and their clipped voices, Steve had walked half a step behind you and said quietly, like he was offering you a piece of truth without permission…
“I know your name.”
You’d glanced back, surprised.
He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. His gaze had stayed on the far end of the corridor, the reflective surfaces, the angles where danger hid.
“Then use it,” you’d said, softer.
He’d hesitated – barely. A beat long enough to feel like a choice.
And then: “Yes.”
Not yes to calling you by your name. Yes to respecting that you’d asked.
He still didn’t use it right away.
But from that moment on, you started noticing the ways he listened.
The ways he did not pretend you were made of politics.
Years settle into patterns.
Your life had become a long series of structured days: briefings, lunches, galas, board meetings, interviews where every question was a knife wrapped in velvet. A rotating cast of advisers. The ever-present hum of risk.
And Steve became part of that hum.
He was there before you were fully awake and still there after you were too tired to be anything but honest. He walked with you, drove with you, stood behind you, opened doors and closed them again with the kind of care that made you forget doors could be dangerous.
He learned your routines faster than you realized you had them.
How you took your coffee: too strong, no sugar, a splash of cream you pretended you didn’t need. How you started fidgeting with rings when you were overstimulated. How you crossed your arms when you were angry even if you were smiling.
How you got headaches after long press days and how you tried to hide it because you didn’t want to look weak.
Steve learned, too, the difference between public you and private you.
Public you: poised, biting, unbothered.
Private you: someone who laughed too loudly at stupid jokes when you were exhausted. Someone who sat cross-legged on the floor with a laptop and a hoodie and looked, for a moment, like you could have been anyone’s daughter – not the Vice President’s.
And Steve – God, Steve – looked like he’d been built for steadiness.
He didn’t talk much. He didn’t offer opinions unless asked. He existed in the space around you like a wall that didn’t suffocate. Like a presence you could lean on without it turning into a debt.
Which is how it started.
Not with a grand moment.
With small things.
Quiet things.
Professional things that weren’t supposed to mean anything.
“Water.”
The first time it happened, you were in the backseat of the armored SUV, stuck in traffic, air conditioning humming, your phone buzzing with messages you didn’t want to read.
Steve sat opposite you, facing the rear window, eyes on the tail car. His posture was controlled, shoulders squared, the kind of stillness that came from training.
You were halfway through your third coffee of the day, because caffeine was the only thing that made the exhaustion blur into something tolerable.
You hadn’t realized you were rubbing your temple until Steve spoke.
Just one word.
“Water.”
You looked up, irritated on reflex. “Excuse me?”
Steve didn’t turn. “You’ve had three coffees. No water. Your hands are shaking.”
You stared at him for a second, caught between annoyance and something that felt dangerously like being seen.
“I’m fine.”
Steve’s reflection in the tinted glass didn’t change expression. “Hydration affects cognitive function.”
You scoffed. “Are you giving me a biology lesson now?”
There was a pause.
Then, in the same tone he might have used to identify an exit route, he added, “There’s a bottle in the side compartment.”
It was so… ridiculously normal.
So careful.
You could have shrugged it off. Could have ignored him.
Instead, you reached down, found the bottle, twisted the cap open, and drank – just to shut him up.
But halfway through, you realized your throat actually had been dry. That your head felt a fraction clearer.
When you lowered the bottle, Steve finally glanced at you.
Not long. Not intimate.
Just a brief check, like he was confirming something in his mind.
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
You looked away first, because you always looked away first.
“That better?” he asked, quiet.
“…Yes,” you admitted.
Steve nodded once, then returned his attention to the window.
No smile.
No comment.
No “you’re welcome.”
Which somehow made it worse.
Because it meant he wasn’t doing it for praise.
He was doing it because he cared.
And you told yourself – because you had to – that it didn’t mean anything else.
He kept doing it.
Not just the water.
Little reminders threaded through your days like hidden stitches.
“Eat something,” he’d say when you tried to skip lunch before a meeting.
“I will later.”
“You said that four hours ago.”
He’d offer a protein bar from his jacket pocket like it had always been there, like it wasn’t a decision he’d made because he’d noticed you forgot to take care of yourself when you were stressed.
Sometimes he’d set it down near you without speaking.
Sometimes he’d just glance at you pointedly until you rolled your eyes and complied.
If you got a headache during a press conference, he’d shift, subtly, to block harsher light from hitting your face directly. A slight angle of his body. A fraction of shadow.
If you shivered stepping out into cold wind, there would be a coat – his coat – settling over your shoulders before you even processed you were cold. He’d do it without meeting your eyes, like he was afraid of what he might see there.
You always tried to hand it back immediately.
He always said, “Keep it. You’re shaking.”
Not I want you in my coat.
Not I like seeing you wrapped in something that smells like me.
Nothing romantic.
Nothing that could get him in trouble.
But it felt intimate anyway.
Because he noticed.
Because he remembered.
Because he anticipated needs you hadn’t even admitted out loud.
And you started trusting him in a way that felt both inevitable and terrifying.
The press, of course, noticed too.
Not the tenderness. Not the quiet care.
They noticed proximity. Angles. Bodies.
They noticed the tall, broad-shouldered agent behind you in photographs, the way he always seemed to be there when you turned your head. The way his hand sometimes hovered near your back when you walked down stairs, close enough to catch you but never touching.
They wrote pieces about it.
Speculation columns.
The VP’s Daughter and Her Mysterious Shadow.
Is He Just Security?
Rumors Swirl Around the VP’s Daughter and Secret Service Agent.
You stopped reading them.
But you couldn’t stop thinking about them.
Because the comments – God, the comments – always came in two flavors.
Either you were sleeping with him, using him, exploiting him…
Or he was sleeping with you, manipulating you, climbing.
And the truth – your truth – was so much softer and so much more dangerous.
You weren’t using him.
You were falling for him.
And you had no idea if he was falling too… or if you were just hungry for a safety you’d never been allowed to have.
The thing was, Steve did not look like a man who belonged in your world.
Not because he wasn’t polished. He was.
Not because he wasn’t educated. He clearly was.
But because there was something about him – something stubborn and honest and heavy – that did not bend easily to the performative cruelty of politics.
He didn’t laugh at the jokes your father’s donors made.
He didn’t flatter. He didn’t pretend.
He was respectful, yes.
But he wasn’t… obedient in the way so many men around you were. He didn’t orbit power like it was a sun. He treated it like a responsibility.
And you watched him, sometimes, when you were in a crowded room surrounded by people who wanted something from you.
Steve would stand a few feet away, scanning the space, jaw tight, eyes sharp.
And if you met his gaze across the room, he would look back – steady, unshaken.
A silent message passing between you without words.
I’m here.
I’ve got you.
It made you feel seen in a way that was almost painful.
Because you’d spent your whole life being watched, but never truly noticed.
And Steve Rogers noticed everything.
Including, eventually, the way you looked at him.
It wasn’t like you were subtle.
Not at first.
You tried to be.
You tried to keep your face neutral. Tried to speak to him like he was only your guard. Tried to ignore the way your body reacted when he got too close, the way your skin buzzed when his hand briefly steadied your elbow in a crowd.
But you weren’t trained for this.
You were trained for politics. For smiling through hostility. For navigating rooms full of sharks.
You were not trained for a man who treated your wellbeing like it mattered more than your image.
The first time you realized you were in trouble, it was stupid.
You were sitting in the residence library at midnight, curled up in an armchair with your laptop balanced on your knees, reading briefings you’d already read twice because your anxiety wouldn’t let you sleep.
Steve stood by the doorway. Not inside. Never quite inside private spaces unless invited.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
You didn’t look up. “Too much to do.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Then, quietly: “No.”
Steve was silent for a moment.
Then he stepped closer – one step only. Enough to be in the room, just barely. Like he was crossing a line he’d drawn in his own mind.
He placed a glass of water on the side table beside you.
No comment.
No lecture.
Just… water.
You looked up, startled. “You just carry water around like a dad?”
Steve’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Gone in an instant.
“Drink,” he said.
You stared at him, heartbeat tripping. “Why do you care?”
The question came out softer than you intended.
Steve’s eyes held yours for a heartbeat too long.
Then his face closed.
Because of course it did.
“It’s my job,” he said, voice even.
There it was.
That wall.
That safe, cruel, professional wall.
And you nodded, swallowing the disappointment like you’d swallowed everything else your whole life.
“Right,” you murmured. “Your job.”
Steve didn’t move.
His gaze dropped to your hands, to the way you were picking at the skin around your thumb without realizing.
His voice, when it came, was gentler than his words.
“Try to sleep,” he said. “You have an early day.”
You scoffed lightly. “And if I don’t?”
Steve’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked away, then back.
“Then I’ll be here,” he said quietly.
The words hung between you.
Not romantic.
Not explicit.
But it landed like a promise anyway.
And when Steve turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him, you stared at the glass of water on the table and felt your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
Because for the first time in your life, you thought…
Maybe I’m not alone.
Steve, on his side, told himself a thousand times to keep it clean.
He was the lead on your detail. He was responsible for your safety. He was trained to stay detached, to maintain boundaries, to avoid personal entanglement.
He knew what happened when agents crossed lines.
Transfers. Investigations. Careers ended.
Lives ruined.
He also knew what happened when people close to power got hurt.
Bodies in the news. Names in press conferences. Grief turned into policy.
Steve had seen too much of that kind of loss to risk becoming another variable.
So he locked it down.
He stayed professional.
He kept his voice neutral.
He didn’t look at you too long.
He didn’t let himself imagine what your mouth would feel like under his, what your hands would do if they didn’t have to be polite.
He didn’t let himself imagine you choosing him.
Because why would you?
You were raised in rooms he would never belong in.
You were the kind of woman the world would eat alive for loving the wrong man.
And Steve – Steve was only your bodyguard.
The word only tasted like ash every time he thought it.
Because it wasn’t only.
Not to him.
Not anymore.
But it had to be.
So he loved you in quiet, safe ways.
Water.
Food.
A coat.
A hand hovering near your back without touching.
His body between you and danger.
His eyes on every exit.
His voice, low in your ear at crowded events: “On your left.” “Step down.” “Hold for one second.”
And every time you listened – every time you trusted him without hesitation – something in Steve’s chest tightened.
Because trust, to him, was sacred.
And you gave it to him like it was easy.
Like it didn’t cost you anything.
He wondered, sometimes, if you knew what you were doing to him.
If you knew that every time you smiled at him – really smiled, private, when no cameras were around – it made him feel like he was standing too close to the edge of something he couldn’t survive.
By the time you hit twenty-five, then twenty-six, then twenty-seven, the world had decided you were old enough that your choices should be judged as strategy.
If you dated, it was for optics.
If you didn’t date, it was suspicious.
If you were seen with anyone, it was a scandal waiting to be framed.
You started avoiding relationships entirely, not because you didn’t want love, but because you were tired of being used as someone else’s storyline.
And then Steve became your constant.
The one man who didn’t ask you to perform.
The one man who didn’t want something from you.
The one man who – despite his coldness, his distance, his careful professional mask – still made sure you drank water, and went to bed, and weren't cold outside.
And you began, slowly, to believe the dangerous thing; that maybe he cared because he cared.
Not because he had to.
Not because it was protocol.
Because you were you.
And he was Steve.
And somewhere between press conferences and late-night briefings and the soft weight of his coat on your shoulders, you fell in love with him.
Quietly.
Hopelessly.
With a patience born from years of being told to wait.
And you told yourself you could live with the ache.
You told yourself it was enough, having him close.
You told yourself you would never ask for more.
But, the thing about lines, is that they don’t stop you from feeling.
They just make you bleed when you cross them.
And you were already bleeding, even if neither of you wanted to admit it yet.
The day it started to crack didn’t feel dramatic at first.
It felt… normal.
Normal in the way your life had trained you to accept – calendar packed from dawn to night, every minute accounted for, every movement observed. Normal in the way your body had learned to carry tension like jewelry: polished, invisible from a distance, cutting into the skin if anyone looked too closely.
You woke before your alarm because you always did. Not because you wanted to. Because your brain didn’t trust peace enough to stay asleep.
The residence was quiet in that early-hour hush, the kind of quiet that belonged to expensive places where even the air seemed trained not to creak. You padded across your bedroom in socked feet, hair twisted up, robe tied too tight because you needed the pressure around your ribs to feel grounded.
Your phone lit up with notifications the moment you picked it up.
Press briefing moved up. New guest added to the luncheon. Security note: “credible threat chatter” flagged overnight – low specificity, high volume. The kind of message that made your stomach tighten without giving your fear anywhere useful to go.
You stared at the screen for a long moment, jaw set.
Then you put the phone down and went to brush your teeth like you hadn’t just read the word threat before coffee.
In the mirror, you looked like the version of yourself the papers loved: composed, pretty in a sharp way, eyes that didn’t beg. If you tilted your chin right, you could almost look untouchable.
You were good at untouchable.
And that was the problem, because Steve had seen all the ways you weren’t.
He was waiting outside your suite when you opened the door.
Always there. Always on time. Always half a step removed from intimacy.
Suit pressed, tie straight, earpiece in. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, but his eyes were already moving – hallway, corner, reflection, door seams. An entire world of threat assessments running behind his calm expression.
“Morning,” you said.
“Morning,” Steve answered.
His gaze flicked to you – just long enough to register you weren’t fully awake, the faint shadows beneath your eyes, the way your shoulders held too much tension. Then he looked away again, like he didn’t trust himself to linger.
You walked past him toward the kitchen.
He followed, the sound of his steps measured, steady.
The residence smelled like coffee and lemon polish and the faintest trace of last night’s dinner. Somewhere far off, a staffer laughed quietly. A normal morning sound. A human sound.
You clung to it like it was proof the world wasn’t always sharp-edged.
In the kitchen, you went straight for the coffee machine. It was automatic. You didn’t have to think. You needed that.
Steve stopped at the threshold like he always did.
You hated the threshold rule more than you’d ever admit. The way he never fully entered your private spaces unless there was a reason. The way he kept his body at the edge of your life, even as his presence filled it.
You poured coffee into your mug and took a sip too quickly. It burned your tongue.
You winced. Swore under your breath.
Steve’s voice came, quiet, from the doorway.
“Too hot.”
You glanced up, startled.
He didn’t sound smug. Just… observant.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” you muttered.
A beat.
Then, still calm: “There’s water in the fridge.”
You closed your eyes briefly, because there it was again. That infuriating tenderness disguised as instruction.
“Steve.”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to police my hydration today too?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t step in. Didn’t soften his posture.
But his eyes met yours.
“There was a new security note,” he said. “We’ll be out all day. You need to be functioning."
The word hit you wrong, like it had in the car before.
Functioning.
As if you were a system. A machine. A thing that could be calibrated.
You swallowed, irritation flashing. “I’m always functioning.”
His jaw tightened. Subtle. A crack of something beneath the surface.
“Not like this,” he said. “Not when you haven’t slept.”
Your grip tightened around the mug.
“I slept.”
“Two hours,” Steve said.
You froze.
Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
Steve’s gaze flicked toward the corridor – checking, automatically, for anyone else listening. Then back.
“Your light was on at two,” he said, voice low. “It went off at four.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Not embarrassment exactly. Something else. Something too close to intimacy.
“You’re watching my lights now?” you snapped.
Steve blinked once. “I’m doing my job.”
There it was again.
That phrase.
A shield. A wall. The safe, brutal boundary he used to keep you out.
You stared at him, breath shallow.
You wanted to say: You don’t watch my lights because it’s your job. You watch my lights because you care.
But you didn’t.
You never did.
Instead, you turned back to the coffee and said, too flatly, “Fine. I’ll drink water.”
Steve’s shoulders eased, just slightly.
He didn’t thank you.
You didn’t look at him.
And something – tiny, almost invisible – shifted between you.
Not broken.
Not yet.
But strained.
By eight, you were in the convoy.
The armored SUV smelled like leather and faint cologne. The windows were tinted so dark you could barely see the morning outside. It made you feel like you were moving through the world behind glass, untouchable and trapped at the same time.
Steve sat across from you, facing the rear. Another agent sat in the front passenger seat. A second vehicle followed behind.
You checked your schedule on your phone, thumb scrolling, brain already bracing.
Charity luncheon at ten.
Elementary school visit at noon.
Local hospital wing tour at two.
Donor reception at five.
Private dinner at eight.
Then an early meeting tomorrow with foreign delegates.
You stared at the list and felt your spine tighten.
“You’re clenching your jaw,” Steve said.
You didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”
Steve’s voice didn’t change, but something in it sharpened. “Don’t lie to me.”
Your thumb stopped moving.
You slowly lifted your gaze.
Steve’s eyes were on you now – not scanning the window, not checking mirrors. On you.
It was rare, having his full attention like that.
It felt like standing under direct light.
“I’m not lying,” you said, quieter. “I’m managing.”
Steve’s jaw flexed. “That’s not the same.”
You exhaled through your nose. “You’re really committed to the wellness coach thing today, huh?”
A flicker crossed his face – something like amusement, immediately swallowed.
The car hit a slight bump and your coffee sloshed.
Steve’s hand shot out, fast and controlled, steadying the cup before it spilled.
His fingers brushed yours for a fraction of a second.
Skin to skin.
Heat.
You both froze.
The touch was microscopic. Innocent.
It still felt like a confession.
Steve withdrew his hand as if he’d been burned. His posture went rigid, eyes snapping back to the rear window.
You stared at your own hand like it had betrayed you.
Your heart was pounding too loud.
You cleared your throat. Forced your voice steady.
“Thanks.”
Steve didn’t answer.
He just stared out the window, jaw clenched, like the city outside had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.
And you realized – suddenly, sharply – that he wasn’t just professional.
He was fighting.
Fighting something in himself that wanted too much.
And the knowledge made your chest ache with a mix of hope and frustration.
The luncheon was a blur of perfume and polite cruelty.
A hotel ballroom, glittering chandeliers, white tablecloths so crisp they felt like a threat. People in expensive suits smiling like knives.
You moved through it the way you always did: chin up, shoulders back, voice warm. You let strangers touch your arm, kiss your cheek, call you sweetheart in a tone that made your teeth grind. You laughed at jokes you hated.
Steve stayed behind you, always half a step removed. Eyes scanning, body angled to block.
At one point, an older donor – a man with a practiced grin and too much confidence – caught your hand and held it a beat too long.
“My, my,” he said, loud enough for people nearby to hear. “You’re even prettier in person.”
You smiled, because you’d been trained to.
“Thank you,” you said.
His thumb traced the back of your hand.
Too familiar.
Steve moved in instantly. Not aggressive, but present – like a door closing.
“Sir,” Steve said, voice calm, “we need to keep moving.”
The donor’s smile faltered. His gaze flicked to Steve with irritation.
“I’m just complimenting her,” the man said.
Steve didn’t blink. “We have a schedule.”
The donor let go, offended, and muttered something under his breath as you walked away.
Your pulse was fast – not from fear, but from the way Steve had stepped in so seamlessly. The way he’d protected you without making a scene. The way his voice had carried a quiet authority that didn’t need force.
When you reached the edge of the room, you turned slightly toward him, lowering your voice.
“Thank you.”
Steve’s eyes met yours. Brief. Intense.
Then his gaze flicked away.
“Part of the job,” he said.
You flinched, almost imperceptibly.
You hated that phrase.
You hated how he kept using it like it was the only safe thing he could say.
You took a breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. “Not everything is just ‘the job,’ Steve.”
His eyes snapped back to yours.
For a second, his expression shifted – something raw, something almost pained.
Then it closed again.
“Focus,” he said quietly. “Please.”
The word please was gentle, and it only made you angrier.
Because he could be gentle. He just refused to be… open.
You looked away, swallowing the bitter thing rising in your throat.
“Fine,” you murmured.
Steve’s posture eased, but the tension in his jaw didn’t.
He’d heard it too.
The crack in your voice.
By the time you got to the elementary school, the sky had turned overcast. Wind tugged at your hair, cold enough to sting.
Kids swarmed you with paper crafts and sticky fingers and questions that made you smile for real.
“How old are you?” one little girl demanded.
“Old enough,” you said, laughing.
“Do you live in the White House?” a boy asked, eyes wide.
“No,” you said. “But I’ve been there.”
“Is your dad the President?” another asked.
“He’s the Vice President,” you corrected gently.
A chorus of woooow followed, like you were a superhero.
You knelt to their level, took their drawings with genuine gratitude, let them talk over each other without interruption.
Behind you, Steve watched it all.
You knew he did, because you could feel him like gravity.
Once, you glanced back and caught him looking at you – not scanning for threats, not assessing the crowd.
Just… watching you.
His expression softened, the hard lines around his mouth easing. His eyes warm in a way you almost never saw.
It punched straight through you.
For a heartbeat, you forgot the cameras, the agents, the headlines.
It felt like you and him in a bubble.
Then a teacher moved too close behind you, and Steve’s gaze snapped into focus, professional again.
The softness vanished.
The bubble popped.
And you felt – stupidly – like you’d imagined it.
Like your hope was a hallucination born from too many years of loneliness.
In the car afterward, you stared out the tinted window at children waving as the convoy pulled away.
Your throat felt tight.
You didn’t realize you were quiet until Steve spoke.
“You did good back there,” he said.
You blinked, turning to him. “It’s just kids.”
“It’s not just kids,” Steve replied.
His tone was careful, but his eyes were steady.
“They see you,” he said quietly. “Not… the headlines.”
Something inside you cracked, just a little.
You swallowed hard. “Yeah. Well. They don’t know any better yet.”
Steve’s jaw clenched.
He looked away, then back, as if making a decision.
“You’re not what they say,” he said, voice low. “You know that, right?”
Your breath caught.
Because he didn’t have to say that.
Because it wasn’t about threats or schedules.
Because it was… personal.
Your heart thudded painfully.
And your first instinct was to lean into it – to take that tiny offering and hold it.
But then Steve’s face tightened, as if he’d realized he’d stepped too far.
He straightened, posture snapping back into neutrality.
“We’re running late,” he added, brisk. “We need to move.”
The moment was gone.
Just like that.
Your chest burned.
You stared at him, hurt sharp and sudden.
“Why do you do that?” you asked, voice quiet.
Steve didn’t look at you. “Do what?”
“Say something… human,” you said, “and then disappear behind the badge.”
Steve’s hands tightened once, barely, on his knee.
“You’re tired,” he said. “Don’t start.”
Your mouth fell open, anger flashing.
“I’m not starting,” you snapped. “I’m just–”
Just what?
Just begging him to admit he cared?
Just asking him to stop treating you like a duty and start treating you like someone he wanted?
The words jammed in your throat.
Steve finally turned his head, eyes hard now.
“Focus,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t gentle.
It was a command.
Your stomach twisted.
“Right,” you said, voice brittle. “Focus. Of course.”
Steve’s expression tightened, as if you’d done damage he hadn’t intended.
The rest of the drive was silent.
The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful.
The kind that grew teeth.
By the time you reached the hospital wing tour, you had a migraine blooming behind your eyes.
Everything was too bright, too loud. Flashbulbs. Smiling doctors. Hands shaking yours with gratitude that felt like performance.
You did it anyway. You always did.
Steve stayed close, closer than usual now. You noticed his hand hover more often near your back. You noticed the way he angled his body to shield you from crowds without touching you, as if touch was the one thing he couldn’t allow himself.
And you noticed the way he kept watching you in between scans – watching your face, your breathing, the slight delay before you smiled.
You wanted to scream at him: If you see me, then stop acting like you don’t.
But you didn’t.
Because you were in public.
Because you were trained.
Because you were tired.
At one point, as you moved from one room to another, the world tilted – just slightly. Your vision blurred at the edges.
You stopped, swallowing hard.
Steve was at your side instantly.
His hand found your elbow. Firm. Real. Steadying.
“Hey,” he murmured, so low no one else could hear. “Breathe.”
You blinked, disoriented.
His thumb pressed lightly, once, against your sleeve – anchoring you.
“Too much,” Steve said, voice almost… tender. “We can take five.”
You stared at him. His face was close. Too close.
His eyes were on yours, intense and worried in a way that made your throat tighten.
Then, over your shoulder, someone called your name.
A photographer.
Steve’s expression closed in an instant.
His hand dropped away.
He stepped back.
“Keep moving,” he said, louder, professional. Neutral.
And the whiplash of it – warmth to ice in half a second – made your stomach churn.
You turned and smiled for the camera because you were very good at pretending.
But inside, something was starting to fracture.
Not because Steve had been cold.
Because he hadn’t been cold first.
Because he kept showing you glimpses of something real… then yanking it away like it wasn’t safe for either of you to touch.
And you were starting to realize that the distance wasn’t just protocol.
It was fear.
By late afternoon, the donor reception loomed like a threat.
You stood in your room changing into a sleek dress that made you look exactly like the person the papers wanted you to be: untouchable, expensive, sharp.
You stared at yourself in the mirror and felt strangely hollow.
A knock sounded at the door.
You knew it was Steve. It was always Steve.
“Come in,” you called, and immediately regretted it, because he never did unless necessary.
The door opened only a crack.
Steve’s voice came through. Controlled. Careful.
“Five minutes.”
Your fingers froze on the clasp of your necklace.
“Steve,” you said, impulse winning. “Can you–”
Can you what?
Come in?
Stay?
Look at me like you did with the kids?
Stop pretending?
Your throat tightened.
The silence stretched.
Steve remained on the other side of the door.
Then, softly, “What do you need?”
The question – genuine, quiet – hit you in the chest.
You swallowed.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice small. “I’m tired.”
There was a pause.
Then Steve said, so quietly you almost missed it, “Drink some water.”
You let out a breath that sounded too much like a laugh and too much like a sob.
“Of course,” you whispered.
On the other side of the door, you heard him shift – like he wanted to come closer, like he wanted to say something else.
But he didn’t.
He never did.
The door closed again.
And you stared at your reflection, blinking hard.
Because you could feel it now, unmistakably. This wasn’t sustainable.
Not the trust. Not the feelings. Not the way he kept you safe with his body but refused to let you anywhere near his heart.
Something had to give.
And you had a terrible feeling it wouldn’t be him.
Not until it broke.
The donor reception blurred into one long, glittering performance.
A ballroom washed in warm light and expensive perfume. Crystal glasses clinking. People laughing too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny. Your father’s allies orbiting the room like planets, each one trying to get close enough to be seen in the right photograph.
You wore your role like armor.
Smile. Touch an elbow. Tilt your head. Repeat a name. Make a comment that sounded personal without offering anything real.
Steve stayed behind you, as always – half a step, sometimes less when the crowd tightened. He didn’t drink. He didn’t mingle. He didn’t laugh. He was the fixed point in the room, the quiet gravity that kept you upright when everything else felt slippery.
You should have been grateful.
You were grateful.
You were also so tired you could barely hear yourself think.
And because you were tired, you noticed more than you usually allowed yourself to notice.
You noticed the way Steve’s gaze lingered on your face when you laughed for real. The way his jaw tightened when a donor held your hand too long. The way his shoulders shifted – subtle, automatic – every time someone stepped into your space like you belonged to them.
You noticed the things he did without thinking.
And you noticed how quickly he shut them down.
A donor – a woman in diamonds and sharpened politeness – leaned in close, voice low and syrupy.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” she said, fingers brushing the bare skin of your arm. “You must be so proud. Your father is going places.”
You smiled. “Thank you.”
Her eyes flicked past you to Steve.
“And you,” she added, as if you weren’t still standing there, “you must have your hands full.”
Steve didn’t even blink. “Ma’am.”
The woman’s smile turned sly. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?” she said to you, not to him, like you were girlfriends sharing gossip.
Heat crawled up your neck. You forced a laugh, light. “He’s very good at his job.”
Steve’s posture went a shade more rigid.
You could feel him closing down behind you. Like a door locking.
The woman hummed, amused. “Mmm. Of course.”
You moved on quickly, because you knew what those comments did. Not just to you – to him. To the fragile, invisible line he’d drawn around your relationship. The line that kept him safe from rumors, safe from accusations, safe from wanting.
But the comments stayed under your skin anyway.
Because they brushed against a truth you’d been trying not to touch.
By the time you got back to the residence, it was nearly midnight.
You had smiled until your cheeks hurt. You had shaken so many hands your fingers felt numb. Your heels had carved a dull ache into the soles of your feet.
When the convoy pulled into the private drive, you leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes.
The SUV was quiet except for the low murmur of radio traffic.
Steve sat across from you, still facing the rear, still scanning. As if the day hadn’t ended. As if danger didn’t respect your schedule.
You opened your eyes and found him watching you instead of the window.
Just for a second.
His gaze was steady, but there was something in it now – tiredness, maybe. Or concern. Or something deeper he refused to name.
Your throat tightened.
“Steve,” you said softly, before you could stop yourself.
His eyes sharpened. “Yeah?”
The single syllable felt intimate in a way it shouldn’t have.
You swallowed. Your fingers twisted in your lap.
“Do you ever…” You hesitated, words stuck behind your teeth. “Do you ever get tired of pretending you don’t care?”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was packed with everything he refused to say.
Steve’s face went blank in an instant. The mask sliding into place so smoothly it made you want to scream.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
Your breath came out shaky. You hated it.
“Sure,” you muttered, turning your gaze to the window, because looking at him was too much.
The SUV stopped. Doors opened. Night air rushed in.
“Home,” the agent in front said.
Steve moved first, stepping out, scanning the driveway, the shadows, the perimeter.
You followed, the cold air biting at your exposed arms.
Steve’s coat appeared behind you – hovering, then settling over your shoulders. Heavy, warm, smelling faintly of him.
Your heart lurched.
You turned, startled.
Steve’s eyes were on the horizon, not on you. Like he couldn’t allow himself to watch your reaction.
“Thanks,” you said quietly.
“Cold,” he replied, like that explained everything.
You wanted to grab his sleeve. Pull him close. Force him to look at you and admit the truth.
Instead, you walked inside.
Because you were tired.
Because you were trained.
Because you didn’t know how to do this without breaking something.
You went straight to your office.
Not because you wanted to work.
Because you needed somewhere to put the restless energy under your skin. Somewhere to drown the ache with emails and schedules and lists.
Your office was dim, lit only by the desk lamp. The familiar scent of paper and leather and faint vanilla from the candle you never lit because open flames were not allowed. The world reduced to quiet.
You kicked off your shoes and sat down.
For a while, you let yourself pretend you were just another woman with too much work and a headache.
For a while, it almost worked.
Then your phone buzzed again: another message from staff. Another adjustment. Another demand.
You stared at the screen until the words blurred.
And without thinking, you typed back an answer. Efficient. Polite. Professional.
Just like Steve.
That thought hit like a slap.
You dropped your phone on the desk and pressed your fingers to your eyes.
You were not supposed to be thinking about him like this. You were not supposed to be measuring your life against the quiet space he occupied in it.
But you couldn’t stop.
Because he was everywhere.
Even when he wasn’t.
When you finally left your office, the residence hallway was quiet. Most of the staff had gone to bed. The security lights cast soft pools of gold across the polished floor.
You expected to see Steve stationed nearby, like he always was at night.
He wasn’t.
For a second, your stomach tightened with something like panic.
Then you heard voices – low, controlled – coming from around the corner near the security station.
You slowed.
Not because you meant to eavesdrop.
Because you recognized his voice.
Steve was speaking the way he spoke to other agents – calm, factual, stripped of warmth. The tone he used when he wasn’t talking to you.
And you realized with sudden clarity that you’d almost never heard him speak about you.
Not in that context.
Not in that voice.
You stopped in the shadow of a doorway, heart thudding.
“–she’s been under significant pressure,” Steve was saying. “It’s impacting her routine.”
Another voice answered, muffled. “Any behavioral flags?”
Steve hesitated only a fraction.
“No,” he said. “Nothing beyond expected parameters.”
You felt your breath catch.
“Expected parameters?” the other agent repeated.
Steve’s answer came smoothly, without hesitation.
“She’s compliant,” he said. “Stubborn, but manageable.”
Your blood went cold.
Compliant.
Manageable.
Words you’d heard your whole life in different forms. Words used by staffers and advisers when they thought you couldn’t hear them. Words used by men who saw you as a problem to control, not a person to understand.
Your fingers curled hard around the edge of the doorway.
The other voice said something you didn’t catch. Steve replied, sharper now.
“She’s not the primary,” he said. “The Vice President is the primary. Her proximity makes her a high-value target. We mitigate that risk.”
Mitigate.
Risk.
Target.
Primary.
Your throat tightened until it hurt.
You knew – logically – that this was how security worked. You knew Steve had to speak this language. You knew it wasn’t personal.
But hearing it – hearing him reduce you to a set of variables – felt like being shoved out into the cold without warning.
Because you’d trusted him with the parts of yourself you didn’t show anyone.
You’d trusted him because he felt different.
And now, in two sentences, he sounded exactly like the world.
The other agent asked, “You still comfortable with the detail?”
Steve answered immediately.
“Yes,” he said. “I can handle her.”
Handle her.
Like you were a situation.
A problem.
A thing.
Your chest tightened so violently you felt dizzy.
You stepped back without meaning to.
Your heel clipped the edge of a console table.
The sound was small – barely a knock.
It might as well have been a gunshot.
The voices cut off instantly.
Footsteps.
And then Steve rounded the corner.
He saw you.
For half a second, his eyes widened – just slightly. A crack in the mask.
Then his expression smoothed back into professionalism like nothing had happened.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asked, calm.
The casualness almost broke you.
You stared at him, the world narrowing down to the space between your bodies.
“I’m compliant?” you said, voice quiet.
Steve’s face tightened. His gaze flicked toward the security station, toward the other agent, then back.
“You heard part of a–”
“I’m manageable?” you continued, the words tasting like blood.
Steve took a step toward you. “Listen–”
“You can handle me?” Your voice rose, sharp. “Is that what I am now? Something you handle?”
His jaw flexed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” you demanded.
Steve’s eyes held yours, and for a second you saw something in them – regret, maybe. Or panic.
But he didn’t reach for you.
He didn’t soften.
He didn’t say your name.
He stayed behind the badge.
“I was speaking in operational terms,” he said, voice controlled. “It’s not personal.”
The words landed like a betrayal.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were safe.
Because they were the exact kind of answer that let him avoid the thing you needed him to say.
You shook your head slowly, disbelief making your vision blur.
“You–” Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it. “You were the only person I thought I could trust.”
Silence.
Absolute.
Steve’s face drained of color.
For the first time in years, his composure slipped – just enough to show the man underneath. The man who looked like he’d been punched.
He swallowed hard.
“You can trust me,” he said, and the words sounded desperate.
You laughed once, broken. “Can I? Because it sounds like I’m just a file to you.”
“You’re not,” Steve said, stepping closer now. “You’re not a file.”
“Then what am I, Steve?” you demanded, and your voice shook with it. “What am I to you?”
He froze.
And you saw it – the moment where truth rose to his mouth and he forced it back down.
Because he couldn’t say it.
Because he wouldn’t.
Because he was afraid.
The pause lasted only a second.
It felt like a year.
Steve’s eyes dropped briefly to the floor, then lifted back up – shuttered.
“We need to get you back to your room,” he said, voice turning firm. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
It wasn’t an answer.
It was a command.
And something in you snapped.
“No,” you said, voice low.
Steve blinked. “No?”
“I’m not going back to my room,” you said, breathing hard. “I’m going out.”
“Without security,” you echoed, bitter. “You mean without you.”
Steve’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”
“Why?” you demanded. “So you can handle me?”
Steve flinched.
“That’s not fair.”
“You don’t get to tell me what’s fair,” you snapped. “You don’t get to treat me like a risk assessment and then act like you’re the one protecting me from getting hurt.”
His eyes flashed. “I am protecting you.”
“From what?” you shot back. “From the world? Or from you?”
The question hung between you like smoke.
Steve’s breathing went shallow.
His voice came out low, strained.
“Go to your room,” he said. “Please.”
The please was the only crack of humanity in it.
It didn’t fix anything.
It made it worse.
Because it proved he knew you were breaking – and he was still choosing the badge over you.
You swallowed hard, forcing your chin up.
“I trusted you,” you said, quieter now. “I trusted you with everything. And you just– you just proved you’re like all of them.”
Steve’s eyes glistened for a fraction of a second.
Then he locked it down again.
“I’m not,” he said.
But he didn’t say what he was.
And you couldn’t stay in that space anymore.
You turned sharply and started walking down the hall.
“Stop,” Steve called, voice firm.
You didn’t.
His footsteps came after you, fast and controlled.
“Stop,” he repeated, closer.
You spun around, fury burning through the hurt.
“What?” you snapped. “What are you going to do? Give me an order? Drag me back to my room? Call me manageable again?”
Steve froze, as if you’d struck him.
For a heartbeat, his eyes looked naked.
Then his face set.
“That’s not what this is,” he said.
“Then what is it?” you demanded, voice breaking. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Steve. I can’t keep being… this thing you guard and monitor and handle while you pretend you don’t care.”
Steve’s mouth opened.
Closed.
His hands flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach for you.
He didn’t.
“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said finally.
The words were meant to be comforting.
They weren’t.
They were the same words he’d always used.
The same shield.
You stared at him, chest heaving.
Then, very softly, you said the most honest thing you’d said all day, “I don’t feel safe with you right now.”
Steve’s face went still.
Like something in him stopped working.
You didn’t wait.
You turned and walked away, faster this time, heading toward the front entrance.
Steve followed, immediate.
“You can’t leave,” he said, voice tight.
You didn’t look back. “Watch me.”
“You’re angry,” he said. “You’re not thinking.”
“I’m thinking clearer than I have in months,” you shot back, and your throat burned. “I’m not your soldier, Steve. I’m not your assignment. I’m not your primary or your secondary or your risk factor.”
His footsteps slowed for half a second.
Like the words hit.
Then he surged forward again.
“Please,” he said again, lower now, almost… pleading. “Don’t do this.”
You stopped at the door and turned.
Your eyes met his.
For a second, everything else fell away – politics, security, rumors.
It was just you and him.
You stared at his face – the tight jaw, the controlled breathing, the eyes that looked like they held a storm behind them.
“You don’t get to ask me for anything,” you whispered. “Not after what I heard.”
Steve swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you said it,” you replied, voice shaking. “And you didn’t even hesitate.”
His gaze dropped, shame flashing.
Then, almost inaudible, “I did hesitate.”
You blinked, thrown.
Steve lifted his eyes to yours again, rawness flickering.
“For a second,” he admitted. “And then I remembered what I’m supposed to be.”
The words should have been honest.
They should have been enough.
They weren’t.
Because what he was “supposed to be” was the exact thing that was breaking you.
You reached for the doorknob.
Steve’s hand moved – fast – then stopped short, hovering, not touching.
A restrained instinct.
A leash he held on himself.
You stared at the space between his hand and yours, that fraction of distance that had defined your entire relationship.
Then you opened the door.
Cold air rushed in.
You stepped out into the night.
And you left him behind, standing in the doorway like a man who’d just watched the one person he loved walk straight into danger – because he’d been too afraid to call it love.
Cold air hit you like a slap the moment you stepped outside.
The residence grounds were quiet at this hour – too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every crunch of gravel sound obscene, every rustle of leaves feel like a whisper meant for someone else’s ears. The security lights cast pale pools across manicured hedges and stone paths, turning the world into a series of bright islands and dark gaps.
You kept walking anyway.
You didn’t let yourself hesitate, because if you did, you might turn around.
And if you turned around, you might see Steve standing in the doorway with that expression you’d just glimpsed – raw, wounded, terrified – and it would make you weak.
You couldn’t afford weak.
Not tonight.
Not when the one person you’d trusted to see you as human had just reduced you to a set of terms.
Compliant. Manageable.
Your hands were shaking as you crossed the drive.
You fumbled for your keys and hated how loud they sounded. Hated how small your body felt under the open sky, exposed and stupidly vulnerable without the usual wall of agents and protocol around you.
The irony wasn’t lost on you.
You had walked out on security because you felt unsafe with him – because you felt betrayed – yet your skin prickled with awareness now, every nerve screaming danger like it hadn’t in months.
A car engine idled in the distance. A dog barked once, far away. Somewhere, a security camera rotated with a soft mechanical whirr.
You reached your car and yanked the door open.
The interior smelled faintly of leather and the vanilla air freshener you’d bought on impulse weeks ago, trying to make it feel less like another controlled space.
You sat behind the wheel.
And for a moment – just one – your hands hovered above the ignition as your chest heaved, breath caught like you’d been running.
The tears didn’t fall yet.
They gathered, hot and humiliating, burning behind your eyes.
You blinked hard.
No.
Not here.
Not now.
You shoved the key into the ignition.
The engine turned over with a low purr.
You backed out too fast, tires crunching over gravel, and headed toward the gate.
Your phone buzzed.
You didn’t look at it.
You didn’t need to.
You knew exactly who it was.
Inside the residence, Steve stood frozen in the doorway like he’d been nailed there.
He watched your taillights cut through the darkness and felt something in his chest collapse.
His training screamed at him. Protocol demanded immediate action. You were leaving the secure perimeter without your detail. You were angry, emotional, impulsive – high risk on every axis.
He should have moved.
Should have called it in. Should have sent another unit, activated the contingency plan, locked the gate if necessary.
He did none of it.
Because for one nauseating second, all he could see was your face when you said it.
You were the only person I thought I could trust.
It had landed in him like a bullet.
The truth was – he had known you trusted him.
He’d felt it every time you stepped exactly where he guided you without looking. Every time you followed his quiet “left” or “step down.” Every time you let him stand close without flinching.
He’d carried that trust like it was something fragile, something he didn’t deserve.
And then, tonight, he’d treated it like… language.
He’d talked about you like a file.
He’d let his operational brain choose words that were safe, detached, professional – words he would never say to your face.
And you had heard them.
He’d been caught.
Not lying.
Being exactly what he’d forced himself to be.
A bodyguard.
Only a bodyguard.
And the cost of that, suddenly, was you walking out into the night without him.
Steve’s hands clenched hard enough that his knuckles went white.
His radio crackled in his ear. A voice asked a question. Another voice called his name.
He didn’t answer.
He was staring at the empty driveway like he could will you back.
He couldn’t.
Then his instincts finally snapped into place – too late, too desperate.
He reached for his phone.
Your phone buzzed again.
Then again.
And again.
You kept your eyes on the road.
The city outside the residence grounds was sleeping – streetlights casting long reflections on wet asphalt, storefronts dark, occasional cars drifting past like ghosts.
You drove without a destination.
Because it wasn’t about going somewhere.
It was about being gone.
Being out of the residence, out of the camera angles, out of Steve’s orbit.
Being somewhere where you could breathe without feeling like you were being evaluated.
The buzzing stopped.
A second later, the screen lit up with a call.
STEVE.
Your throat tightened so hard it hurt.
You stared at the name until the call went to voicemail.
Immediately, another came through.
You let it ring too.
Your hands were trembling on the steering wheel.
Your chest felt tight, like your ribs were strapped down.
The anger was still there – hot, sharp – underneath everything.
But now it mixed with something else. Something sick and heavy.
Guilt.
Because you knew leaving was dangerous.
You knew he wasn’t calling because he wanted to win an argument.
He was calling because his entire job – his entire identity – was keeping you alive.
And you had just ripped that away from him.
A tiny part of you whispered: He deserved it.
Another part whispered: You’re being reckless.
You clenched your jaw.
You turned the volume of your radio up just to drown out your own thoughts.
At the first red light, you finally looked down at your phone.
Eight missed calls. Five new messages.
You didn’t open them.
You couldn’t.
If you read his words, you might cave. You might turn around.
And you weren’t ready to do that.
Because if you turned around, you’d have to face the truth: that you still wanted him. That despite everything, your heart still leaned toward him like a compass.
And wanting him felt humiliating right now.
You exhaled shakily, staring at the red light.
Your reflection stared back from the windshield – eyes too bright, face pale.
You looked like a woman who had finally realized the one safe thing she’d clung to wasn’t safe after all.
The light turned green.
You drove on.
You ended up in a quiet neighborhood near the river – one of the few places in the city that didn’t feel like it belonged to anyone important. Rows of trees, dark water, a narrow road that curved along the edge like a secret.
You pulled over and parked.
Your hands stayed on the wheel for a long moment.
Then you let your forehead fall forward until it rested against your knuckles.
And the tears came.
Silent. Angry. Ugly.
You weren’t crying because Steve had done something unforgivable.
You were crying because he had proven something you had spent your whole life fighting against; that even the kindest men still saw you as a thing attached to power.
A risk.
A duty.
A problem to manage.
You dragged in a shaky breath, wiping at your cheeks with the sleeve of your coat – Steve’s coat – still around your shoulders like a cruel joke.
You should have taken it off.
You couldn’t.
It smelled like him.
Warm, clean, familiar.
Safe.
And that made you hate him more.
Your phone buzzed again.
A new message.
You glanced down despite yourself.
Please. Tell me where you are.
Your throat tightened.
You stared at the screen until your vision blurred.
Then you locked your phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.
No.
Not yet.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
The city stayed quiet.
Your breathing steadied.
The anger cooled into something aching.
And underneath it all, a dangerous thought kept creeping in, He sounded panicked.
Not professionally urgent.
Panicked.
He’d looked like he’d been losing something when you walked out.
And maybe – maybe – he had.
Maybe this hadn’t been easy for him either.
Maybe he’d been holding himself back for so long that the only way he knew to survive was to put you in a box labeled “client” and “assignment” and “manageable” – because if he admitted what you were to him, he would want too much.
You swallowed hard, hands tightening on the steering wheel again.
It didn’t excuse it.
But it made the hurt feel… complicated.
You hated complicated.
You lived in complicated.
You wanted, just once, something simple.
Something honest.
You wanted him to look at you and say I love you.
Not It’s my job.
Not Focus.
Not Go to your room.
Your stomach twisted.
You should go back.
You knew you should.
If not for Steve, then for yourself.
If there was another threat, if there was some idiot with a camera, if someone recognized your car…
You inhaled, shaky.
Fine.
You’d go back.
You’d go back on your terms.
You reached for your phone.
Another buzz interrupted you.
This time, it wasn’t Steve.
It was your father’s chief of staff.
You stared at the name, dread sliding down your spine.
You answered before you could think.
“What?” you said, voice rough.
“Where are you?” the chief of staff demanded immediately. No greeting. No softness. “We got an alert you left the residence.”
Of course you did.
Of course they knew.
Of course your life was monitored even when you tried to run.
“I’m fine,” you snapped.
“You are not fine,” the chief of staff shot back. “You are the Vice President’s daughter. There are protocols–”
“Don’t,” you hissed. “Don’t talk to me about protocols.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, more careful: “Agent Rogers is losing his mind.”
Your chest tightened despite yourself.
“He shouldn’t,” you said, cold.
“He’s trying to locate you,” the chief of staff continued. “He’s activated–”
“Tell him to stop,” you said, voice shaking. “Tell him I’m not– I’m not his file.”
Silence.
Then, “You need to return.”
“I will,” you said, jaw clenched. “Soon.”
“Where are you?”
You looked out at the river, dark and indifferent, and felt the exhaustion settle in your bones.
“I’m in my car,” you said. “That’s all you get.”
You ended the call with your father’s chief of staff with your pulse still in your throat.
The quiet in the car felt wrong now – too thin, too exposed. Like the night had been holding its breath with you, waiting to see what you’d do next.
You stared at your phone, screen dark. The urge to call Steve rose again, sharp and guilty, and you swallowed it down like you’d swallowed everything else tonight.
Not yet.
You couldn’t deal with his voice. Not when it might crack you open.
You pulled in a slow breath, wiped the heel of your hand across your cheek, and forced your fingers to stop trembling.
Fine.
You’d go back.
Not because he deserved it.
Because you did.
You started the engine. The familiar vibration under your palms steadied you a fraction – something solid, something you could control.
Headlights cut a clean path through the dark as you eased out of your spot and merged back onto the road.
The city was quiet at this hour, streetlights painting wet asphalt in pale gold. Storefronts were shuttered. The river disappeared behind you, black and indifferent.
You drove carefully. Too carefully, maybe – every mirror checked twice, every intersection approached with the cautious patience of someone who’d grown up being told the world was dangerous.
Your phone buzzed once.
You didn’t look.
Your grip on the steering wheel tightened anyway.
Just get home. Just get back inside the perimeter. Just breathe.
A few streets later, you came up on a traffic light.
It was green.
Clear. Simple. Permission.
You rolled through, the tires humming softly over the painted lines.
And then – movement.
A blur from your right, too fast, too wrong.
You had just enough time to register headlights cutting across the intersection at an angle that made no sense.
Red for them.
Green for you.
Your stomach dropped, reflex screaming.
You jerked the wheel left on instinct – useless, too late.
The impact hit the passenger side with a brutal, grinding crash.
Metal screamed.
Glass shuddered.
The whole car lurched sideways as if a giant hand had grabbed it and thrown it.
Your body snapped against the seatbelt, the strap biting across your chest. Your head whipped – not hard enough to injure, but hard enough to steal your breath.
The world turned into noise and spin.
The car rotated – once, twice – tires skidding, the road becoming a smear of light and shadow outside the windshield. Streetlights strobed past in dizzy flashes. Your hands clenched the wheel like it was the only thing keeping you anchored to reality.
Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
A final jolt.
Silence – thick, ringing silence – punctured by the ticking of your engine and the distant hiss of another car idling wrong.
Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs.
You sat frozen, both hands still locked around the steering wheel, breath trapped halfway in your lungs.
For a second you didn’t move because you didn’t trust your body to obey you.
Then you blinked.
Once. Twice.
Your vision steadied.
You looked down at yourself automatically – arms, chest, legs.
No blood.
No sharp pain.
Just the violent aftershock trembling through your muscles, the ghost of impact still vibrating in your bones.
You swallowed hard and forced yourself to breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Your hands finally loosened their death grip on the wheel.
The passenger side was caved in enough that you could hear the faint crackle of stressed metal cooling. Your side mirror was hanging at an angle, reflecting only dark sky. The air smelled like burned rubber and something electrical.
You turned your head slowly, checking the passenger seat on instinct.
Outside, somewhere nearby, a horn blared once, then cut off.
Your phone had slid into the footwell. The screen was lit with a web of missed calls and notifications, but your eyes couldn’t focus on the words yet.
You swallowed again, throat tight, and stared through the windshield at the traffic light still glowing green, indifferent.
You had done everything right.
You had had the right of way.
You had been careful.
And still…
Your breath hitched, anger and fear tangling together, hot and ugly.
The door handles rattled as someone outside stumbled, footsteps unsteady on the pavement. A slurred voice floated through the night, too loud.
“Oh– oh shit–”
Drunk.
You could hear it immediately in the loose way the words fell apart.
You didn’t open the door.
You didn’t even think about it.
You just sat there, shaking, safe only because you were unhurt and alone in the car.
And because somewhere, in the back of your mind, the brutal truth cut through the adrenaline like ice.
You had left the perimeter.
You had left your detail.
You had left Steve.
Your hands found your phone without you fully deciding to. You dragged it up from the footwell with trembling fingers, thumb hovering over his name like it had been carved into memory.
Your throat tightened so hard it hurt.
Not yet, you thought.
Then you looked at the crushed passenger side again, and your pulse stuttered.
Your thumb hovered over Steve’s name for half a second again.
Muscle memory. Instinct. The person your body still wanted to reach for even when your pride was bleeding.
You swallowed hard and forced yourself to move past it.
Not Steve.
Not yet.
Your screen was smeared with your fingerprints when you unlocked it – hands still shaking, heart still thundering. You scrolled, fast, past recent calls, past missed notifications, until you found the number you needed.
SAM WILSON.
You hit call.
It rang once.
Twice.
He picked up on the third, voice already alert, like he never truly slept when you were off-perimeter.
“Wilson,” he said.
“Sam,” you breathed, and your voice came out thinner than you wanted. You cleared your throat, forcing the words into shape. “It’s me. I– I’ve had an accident.”
The pause on the line wasn’t silence. It was Sam’s brain switching gears.
“Okay,” he said immediately, calm in a way that wrapped around you like a blanket. “Okay. You hurt?”
“No,” you said quickly. “No, I’m shaken but I’m not hurt. I think– I think the seatbelt did its job.”
“Good. Stay with me.” His tone tightened, professional now. “Where are you?”
You swallowed, eyes flicking around the intersection. The street sign. The traffic light still green for the direction you’d been going. A storefront on the corner – dark, but the name was visible under the streetlamp.
“I’m at–” your voice wobbled, and you hated it. You sucked in a breath. “I’m at the intersection of– hold on.”
You leaned forward carefully to see better, neck stiff, and read the signs out loud. Then you glanced at your navigation screen and rattled off the nearest cross street again, more clearly.
Sam didn’t interrupt once.
“Okay,” he said when you finished. “I’ve got it. I’m pinging it now. Stay in the car. Doors locked?”
“Yes,” you said, breath shaky. “Yes, they’re locked.”
“Good. Seatbelt still on?”
You looked down like you needed proof. The strap cut diagonally across your chest, taut.
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Keep it on for now.” You could hear him moving – keys, maybe, the rustle of fabric, the controlled urgency of someone already in motion. “Tell me what happened.”
You stared at the crushed passenger side, the way the metal had folded in on itself like paper. Your stomach rolled.
“I went through a green light,” you said, voice tight. “And someone– someone ran the red. They hit me on the passenger side. I spun– my car spun around.”
“Any airbags deploy?”
“No.”
“Any smoke? Fuel smell?”
“No smoke,” you said, sniffing automatically. “Just… rubber. And like… hot metal.”
“Okay.” Sam’s voice stayed steady, anchored. “Is the other driver still there?”
You looked through the windshield. In the periphery, you saw movement – someone staggering near a car stopped awkwardly by the curb. They seemed more interested in their own bumper than in you.
“Yeah,” you said slowly. “He’s here. He… he’s not steady.”
A beat.
“Drunk?” Sam asked, already knowing.
“Sounds like it.”
“Alright.” Sam exhaled, sharp. “Listen to me. Do not engage. Do not roll down the window. If he approaches your car, you call me out loud and you honk the horn. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Another pause, shorter this time. Then, “I’ve dispatched a unit and I’ve got EMS en route. Ambulance is on the way.”
The words hit you in the chest with a strange combination of relief and humiliation.
An ambulance. Over a minor crash. Over you.
But you didn’t argue.
Your hands were still shaking too much to pretend you were fine.
“Okay,” you whispered.
“I’m going to stay on the line,” Sam said. “Talk to me… you hear me, right?”
A shaky laugh tried to escape you and died halfway.
“I hear you.”
“Good.” His voice softened a fraction – still professional, but warmer. “You did the right thing calling. You’re not alone, alright?”
Your throat tightened again, hot this time.
Because you hadn’t wanted to feel alone.
Not when you left. Not when you drove away. Not when you tried to punish Steve with absence.
You swallowed hard, blinking fast.
“Sam,” you said quietly, “can you– can you tell Rogers not to–”
You stopped yourself.
Because you didn’t even know what you wanted.
Not to come? Not to blame himself? Not to show up looking like stone and make you feel small?
Sam’s tone stayed neutral, but there was a gentle edge to it, like he already understood where this was going.
“Not to what?” he asked.
You stared at the dark street beyond your windshield, listening to the ticking of your engine like a countdown.
“…Nothing,” you whispered finally. “Forget it.”
Sam didn’t push. He just let the silence breathe, filling it with his steady presence.
“Alright,” he said. “Ambulance is about five minutes out. You’re doing great. Just stay put.”
You tightened your grip on the phone, knuckles white.
Outside, the drunk driver’s voice carried again, louder – complaining, swearing, blaming the universe.
You ignored him.
You kept your eyes forward.
You focused on Sam’s voice, on the fact that help was coming, on the fact that you were unhurt.
And on the bitter, unavoidable thought you couldn’t quite shove away:
If Steve found out you’d been hit – if he heard you were in an ambulance – he would come like gravity.
And you weren’t sure you were ready for what would happen when he arrived.
Sam didn’t waste a second.
He lowered the phone from his ear, already moving, already making the next call as he walked, jaw set.
Steve picked up fast – too fast, like he’d been holding his phone in his hand.
“Wilson,” Steve said, voice tight.
“It’s me,” Sam answered. No preamble. “She’s been in a car accident.”
Silence – sharp, immediate.
Then Steve’s voice came through, controlled but dangerously strained. “Is she hurt?”
“She says she’s not injured,” Sam replied, already filtering information the way they were trained to. “Passenger-side impact, vehicle spun. EMS is on scene, they’re getting her out now.”
Steve exhaled hard, a sound that wasn’t quite a breath.
“Where?”
Sam rattled off the coordinates and the nearest cross streets. “Ambulance is en route to the hospital for a check-up. Standard protocol. I’ve got units moving.”
Steve didn’t respond for a beat.
Sam could hear it anyway: the shift. The snap into motion. The way Steve’s mind would already be mapping routes, calculating time, rewriting the night around one single priority.
“Which hospital?” Steve asked, voice low.
“Nearest trauma-capable facility,” Sam said. “They’ll confirm destination in a minute, but it’s likely–” He named it.
“Okay,” Steve said, and that single word was steel. “I’m going.”
Sam kept his tone even. “Rogers–”
“I’m going,” Steve repeated, sharper now, and the professionalism in it didn’t hide the undercurrent. Not to Sam. Not after years on the same details, reading each other’s tells.
Sam paused, then chose his next words carefully.
“She didn’t call you,” he said quietly. “She called me.”
Silence again.
Then Steve’s voice, rougher: “I know.”
Sam sighed through his nose. “Get to the hospital. Don’t make it worse.”
“I won’t,” Steve said – too fast, too certain, like he needed to believe it.
Sam could already hear movement on Steve’s end: a door opening, footsteps, the clipped efficiency of a man heading into the night with purpose.
As Sam ended the call, he glanced back toward the outside of the residence. He watched for a second longer than he needed to.
Then he turned away, because there were protocols to run, reports to file, and a vice-presidential detail that had just gone from tense to volatile.
And because, somewhere behind all of it, he could already picture Steve Rogers walking into that hospital with his mask on, and praying it wouldn’t crack at the worst possible moment.
The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and antiseptic.
The paramedic kept asking you questions in a calm voice that didn’t match the way your heart was trying to climb out of your chest.
“Any nausea?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“Just… pressure.”
“Neck pain?”
“Yes.”
“Rate it, from one to ten.”
You stared at the ceiling of the ambulance, trying to attach numbers to sensations you couldn’t name. Your body didn’t feel like it belonged to you right now. It felt like a suit you’d been forced into – tight in all the wrong places, buzzing with adrenaline.
“Four,” you managed, because four sounded reasonable. Because you were still trying to be reasonable even now. Even when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Your phone sat on the bench beside you, screen cracked at the corner where it had hit the floor of your car. It kept lighting up with notifications you couldn’t read fast enough.
Calls you didn’t answer.
Messages you didn’t open.
Because one name kept appearing, over and over, like a pulse.
STEVE
The paramedic noticed. “Family?”
You swallowed. “No.”
They didn’t push. They just nodded and tightened the strap on the blood pressure cuff around your arm.
The fabric bit into your skin.
The restraint of it – gentle, clinical – made your throat tighten.
Not because it hurt.
Because it reminded you how quickly control disappeared when something went wrong.
You stared at the ceiling again and forced yourself to breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
You’d done this before – panic attacks in bathrooms during campaign events, hyperventilating in the back of cars after debates, hands pressed to your ribs while you tried to look normal.
Steve had been there for some of them.
Not close.
Never too close.
But there – outside the stall, outside the door, voice low and steady: Count with me.
And now he wasn’t here.
Not yet.
And the absence was a weight.
The paramedic’s radio crackled. “ETA three minutes.”
Your stomach twisted.
Part of you wanted Steve to show up.
Part of you wanted to lock the hospital doors and never see him again.
Both parts felt like they belonged to you.
Both parts felt like betrayal.
He arrived before you did.
Which shouldn’t have been possible.
But Steve Rogers didn’t do “impossible” the way most people meant it.
When the ambulance doors opened at the ER entrance, cold night air rushed in along with bright fluorescent light. The world became too loud – voices, footsteps, wheels squeaking, the sharp beep of a monitor being rolled past.
And then you saw him.
Steve stood just beyond the threshold where the paramedics would hand you off, jacket thrown over his suit like he’d dressed in seconds, hair not quite perfect, eyes wild in a way you’d never seen before.
He looked… wrong.
Not unprofessional. Not sloppy. Just… undone.
Like whatever mask he wore for the world hadn’t snapped fully back into place.
His gaze locked on you.
And you watched – actually watched – the moment his face changed when he confirmed you were alive.
Relief hit first. Sharp, almost violent.
Then fear.
Then something that looked dangerously close to pain.
He moved forward.
Not with the careful half-step behind you. Not with the measured pace of a man staying in his lane.
He moved like a man who had been held back too long.
“Sir,” one of the paramedics greeted him automatically, then corrected themselves when they recognized him. “Agent Rogers. She’s stable. Minor collision. Possible whiplash. No loss of consciousness.”
Steve didn’t take his eyes off you.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low and raw.
It wasn’t the polite question he’d asked you a thousand times during events. It wasn’t operational.
It sounded like he needed the answer to breathe.
“I’m fine,” you said, and your voice came out hoarse. “It’s minor.”
Steve’s jaw clenched.
His gaze dropped to the strap over your chest, the way your hands trembled against the blanket.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“Adrenaline,” you muttered.
Steve’s throat bobbed.
He looked like he wanted to say something else.
He didn’t.
He turned sharply to the nurse approaching with a clipboard.
“I need a room,” Steve said, voice snapping into authority. “Private. Now.”
The nurse blinked. “Sir, we triage–”
“She’s the Vice President’s daughter,” Steve said, controlled but edged with threat. “And you will triage her, yes. In a room. Not in a hallway.”
The nurse’s eyes widened. She nodded quickly and gestured down the corridor.
“Room three,” she said.
Steve walked alongside the gurney as they wheeled you in.
Too close.
Too present.
Your chest tightened with something sharp.
You stared straight up at the ceiling tiles and refused to look at him.
Because if you looked at him, you might soften.
And you couldn’t afford softness. Not yet.
Not when his voice had called you manageable.
Not when you’d walked out and he’d let you go.
Not when you’d needed him and he’d been a job description.
Room three smelled like disinfectant and paper. The lights were harsh, unforgiving. Everything was white and metallic and designed to make people feel small.
They transferred you onto the hospital bed. Wrapped a blood pressure cuff around your arm. Put a pulse ox on your finger.
The beeping started – steady, irritating, constant.
A nurse asked you questions.
Name, date of birth, allergies.
You answered automatically, like you were reciting a script.
Steve stood near the door.
Not at the threshold this time.
Inside the room.
Like the rules had shifted, and he either didn’t care or couldn’t remember them.
His presence pressed on you, heavy and familiar.
You kept your eyes on the wall.
A doctor came in and did a quick exam: checked your pupils, pressed gently along your neck, asked you to move your head.
You winced.
“Likely cervical strain,” the doctor said. “Whiplash. We’ll do imaging to be safe, given the mechanism. But it looks minor.”
“Good,” Steve said.
The doctor glanced at him. “Family?”
Steve opened his mouth.
You beat him to it, voice flat. “Security.”
Something in Steve’s face flickered.
The doctor nodded like that made sense in your world, then left.
The nurse adjusted the bed. “We’ll get you to imaging in a few minutes.”
Then she left too.
And suddenly it was just you.
And Steve.
And the fluorescent hum.
The silence spread between you like a pool of cold water.
You stared at the wall, jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Steve didn’t speak at first.
You could hear him breathing.
Too fast.
Too controlled.
Like he was trying to wrestle his body back into discipline.
Finally, his voice came quietly.
“Why didn’t you tell me where you were?”
You laughed once, bitter. “Because I didn’t want you to come.”
Steve flinched.
You turned your head just enough to see him in your peripheral vision.
He looked like he’d been punched again.
His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale.
“I didn’t let you go,” he said, voice strained.
You blinked. “You literally watched me leave.”
Steve swallowed hard. “I didn’t stop you.”
“Right,” you said coldly. “Because it wasn’t personal.”
Steve’s eyes closed briefly, as if he could physically feel your words.
When he opened them again, his gaze was on the floor.
“I should’ve followed you,” he admitted, voice low. “I should’ve… I should’ve handled it differently.”
Handled.
The word made your stomach twist.
You sat up slightly, careful of your neck, and looked at him fully now.
“Don’t,” you said.
Steve looked up, startled.
“Don’t use that word,” you said, voice shaking now. “Not here.”
His face tightened. “I didn’t mean–”
“I know what you meant,” you cut in, breathing hard. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what you mean.”
Silence.
Steve took a step toward the bed.
Then stopped, like there was an invisible line he couldn’t cross.
He hovered there, stranded between what he’d always been and whatever this was becoming.
“I was scared,” he said, and the admission came out like it cost him.
You stared at him, heart pounding.
“Of what?” you asked.
Steve’s jaw flexed. His gaze lifted to yours, and for the first time tonight, you saw it – the thing he’d been hiding.
Not indifference.
Fear.
Real, human fear.
“Of losing you,” he said simply.
Your chest tightened painfully.
You scoffed, because if you didn’t, you might cry. “Funny way of showing it.”
Steve’s shoulders sank a fraction.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “I know.”
He stepped closer again, slower this time, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt.
He stopped at the side of the bed.
Not touching you.
Just… near.
“I heard you,” Steve said quietly.
Your throat tightened. “Heard me?”
“In the hallway,” he clarified. His voice cracked on the last word. “When you said… I was the only person you thought you could trust.”
Your stomach dropped.
You looked away quickly, throat burning.
Steve’s voice continued, softer now. “I’ve replayed it about a thousand times since you left.”
You swallowed. “Good.”
The word was cruel.
You couldn’t stop it.
Steve flinched, but he didn’t retreat.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, like he was making a choice.
“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he said.
You snapped your gaze back. “Don’t start. Don’t you dare make this about–”
“Not because you can’t take care of yourself,” Steve cut in quickly, urgent. “You can. You always do. That’s not what I mean.”
His hands flexed, then stilled.
His voice lowered.
“I mean you shouldn’t have been alone because I should’ve been there. Because I made you feel like you couldn’t call me.”
Your mouth opened.
No words came out.
Your chest hurt.
Because yes.
Because that was exactly it.
You’d wanted to call him the moment your stomach started twisting in the car. The moment you pulled over. The moment the other car sent yours on the side.
You hadn’t.
Because hearing him speak about you like a file had made you feel stupid for ever believing he was different.
Steve took a shaky breath.
“I used the wrong language,” he said, and the apology in it wasn’t pretty or polished. It was raw. “I know I did. I– I talk like that in briefings because it keeps things clean. It keeps me… separate.”
You stared at him. “Separate from what?”
Steve’s eyes held yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.
“From you,” he whispered.
The words hit like heat.
“You think talking about me like I’m not a person keeps you separate?” you demanded, and anger flared again, sharp and protective. “That’s what you chose?”
Steve’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t want to want you.”
The sentence landed in the room with a thud.
Your breath caught.
Steve’s eyes looked almost haunted.
“I didn’t,” he repeated, like confession was something he had to force out. “Because wanting you means… I’m not objective. Wanting you means I make mistakes. Wanting you means I cross lines I can’t uncross.”
You stared at him, heart hammering so hard you felt it in your throat.
“And you think I don’t know what that feels like?” you whispered.
Steve blinked. “What?”
You swallowed hard, voice shaking with it.
“I live in a world where every relationship is strategic,” you said. “Where people don’t touch me unless it benefits them. Where I have to second-guess every smile. Every compliment. Every invitation.”
Your eyes burned.
“And you,” you continued, voice cracking, “you were the first person who didn’t feel like that.”
Steve went very still.
Your throat tightened until it hurt.
“I trusted you,” you said again, quieter now. “Because you were steady. Because you were honest. Because you didn’t want anything from me.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“And then I heard you reduce me to ‘compliant’ and ‘manageable’ and ‘parameters’ like you were talking about a malfunctioning device.”
Steve’s face twisted, agony flashing.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You stared at him, tears threatening.
“You don’t get to be sorry,” you said, voice thin. “Not if you’re going to keep hiding behind your job when it matters.”
Steve’s hands trembled.
You watched it.
Watched the tiny shake he couldn’t control.
That scared you more than the accident.
Because Steve didn’t lose control.
Not like this.
He looked at you like you were something he’d almost lost and didn’t know how to survive it.
“I’m done hiding,” Steve said suddenly.
The words startled you.
You blinked. “What?”
Steve swallowed hard. His voice was rough, like he’d been swallowing glass.
“I’m done hiding behind it,” he clarified, and his eyes flickered to the door as if he was afraid someone might hear. “Because tonight… tonight I realized something.”
You didn’t speak.
You barely breathed.
Steve’s gaze locked on yours.
“If you had been hurt,” he said, voice shaking now, “if you had been lying in that car and I wasn’t there–”
His throat bobbed. His jaw clenched hard.
“I wouldn’t have survived it,” he finished, almost inaudible.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Steve,” you whispered.
He flinched at his own name coming from your mouth. Like it undid him.
He exhaled, slow and shaky.
“I love you,” he said.
The words were quiet.
Not dramatic.
Not romantic in the movie sense.
Just… honest.
And it felt like the room tilted again, except this time it wasn’t dizziness.
It was your heart trying to decide whether to leap or protect itself.
You stared at him, tears spilling now despite your best effort.
“You don’t–” you started, then stopped, because you didn’t even know what you wanted to say.
Steve looked terrified suddenly, like he’d jumped off a cliff.
“I know I shouldn’t,” he said quickly, voice urgent. “I know it’s not appropriate. I know I’m– I’m your bodyguard, and you’re– you’re–”
“The Vice President’s daughter,” you finished, bitter.
Steve shook his head sharply. “You’re you.”
His eyes shone.
“You’re the woman who remembers the names of every staffer in this house,” he said, voice breaking. “You’re the woman who sits on the floor with a laptop because chairs make you feel trapped. You’re the woman who drinks too much coffee and forgets to eat when you’re stressed, and then pretends you’re fine.”
His voice softened, wrecked.
“You’re the woman I’ve been trying not to fall in love with since the first year.”
Your breath hitched.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your mouth, shaking.
Steve’s hands lifted slightly, hesitated, then lowered again – still not touching you.
Like he still didn’t think he was allowed.
“Why?” you whispered through tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Steve’s eyes closed briefly.
“Because I’m not supposed to want you,” he admitted. “Because the second I admit it, everything changes. Your father finds out. The press finds out. The Service finds out. And then you lose your detail lead, and I lose–”
He swallowed, voice rough. “I lose you.”
You stared at him. “You think keeping me at arm’s length keeps you from losing me?”
Steve’s jaw clenched. His eyes opened, meeting yours.
“I thought it would hurt less,” he whispered.
The honesty of it made your chest ache.
“But hearing you say you trusted me–” He shook his head, voice breaking. “Hearing you say I was the only person… and then watching you leave…”
His breath shuddered.
“I realized I’d already lost you anyway,” he finished.
Silence filled the room.
The monitor beeped steadily, indifferent.
Outside, footsteps passed in the hallway.
And inside, you stared at Steve Rogers – this man who had guarded you with his body for years but had been too afraid to guard you with his truth.
You wiped at your cheeks, angry at the wetness.
“I don’t want grand gestures,” you whispered.
Steve swallowed. “Okay.”
“I don’t want… promises you can’t keep,” you added, voice trembling.
“I won’t,” he said immediately.
You stared at him, throat tight.
“What I want,” you said slowly, “is for you to stop treating your feelings like a liability.”
Steve’s eyes softened, pain and hope tangled together.
“I don’t know how,” he admitted, barely audible.
You inhaled shakily.
“Then learn,” you whispered.
Steve flinched as if the word struck him.
You held his gaze, steady despite the tears.
“And if you’re going to say you love me,” you added, voice fierce now, “then don’t say it because you’re scared. Say it because you mean it.”
Steve’s throat bobbed.
“I mean it,” he whispered.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t hide behind the badge when he said it.
He didn’t move to touch you.
But his eyes looked like hands anyway – careful, reverent, trembling with restraint.
A knock sounded at the door.
A nurse peeked in. “We’re ready to take you to imaging.”
You blinked, dazed.
Steve’s gaze flicked to the nurse, then back to you.
“I’m staying,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t a protocol.
It was a choice.
And as they started to wheel your bed out of the room, Steve walked beside you – close, unflinching – his hand hovering near the rail like he was finally allowing himself to be something other than your shadow.
Not just your bodyguard.
Not tonight.
Imaging took longer than it should have.
Not because anything was wrong – your scans came back clean, your neck pain labeled as a strain, the kind that would ache for a few days and then fade into memory – but because hospitals were built on waiting. Built on bright lights and paperwork and the quiet, grinding erosion of control.
You lay still while machines whirred. You answered questions with a numb voice. You nodded at nurses and let them fuss with straps and angles and warnings.
Through all of it, Steve stayed close.
Not in the hovering, disciplined way he usually did.
In a way that made the air around you feel… anchored.
He walked beside your gurney, one hand near the rail like he couldn’t quite let himself grip it, like touch was still a language he was learning to speak without flinching. When a nurse asked him to wait outside the imaging room, he did – immediately, without argument – yet you could feel him on the other side of the door, a steady presence refusing to leave.
And every time the door opened again, he was there.
Eyes on you first.
Not scanning the corridor.
Not checking exits.
You.
It was unnerving.
It was also, in some helpless part of you, exactly what you’d wanted for years.
When they finally wheeled you back into room three, your body felt heavy with exhaustion. The adrenaline had burnt itself out, leaving only soreness and a hollow ache behind your ribs.
They settled you into the bed again, adjusted the pillow, handed you a cup of water and a small packet of painkillers with the kind of practiced kindness that made you feel even more fragile.
“Take these with food when you can,” the nurse said. “You’ll likely feel stiff tomorrow.”
You nodded.
She glanced at Steve – who was still by the door, posture taut, eyes too intent.
“Anything else?” she asked.
Steve answered before you could. “Low light if possible. Quiet. She needs rest.”
The nurse gave a quick, sympathetic smile and dimmed the overheads.
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
And you were alone again.
With him.
In a softer room now, the harsh white cut down to a gentle hum. Shadows pooled in the corners. The monitor beeped steadily.
You stared at the cup of water in your hands like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Because looking at Steve felt like standing too close to a fire.
“You should drink,” Steve said quietly.
You let out a short, tired breath that might have been a laugh if your throat didn’t hurt.
“Of course,” you murmured, and took a sip because you didn’t want to fight over water in a hospital bed.
Steve didn’t smile, but something eased in his shoulders anyway – as if seeing you do something simple and safe was enough to keep him from falling apart.
You hated how much that mattered to him.
You hated how much it mattered to you.
A long silence stretched.
Then, Steve spoke again, voice low.
“I should have told you years ago.”
You didn’t look up. “Told me what?”
“You know what,” he said, and the words carried a rawness that made your chest tighten.
You swallowed. Your fingers tightened around the cup.
“Say it anyway,” you whispered.
Steve’s inhale was shaky. “That it wasn’t just the job.”
Your throat burned.
You stared at the water. “But it was, though.”
Steve went very still.
“It started as the job,” you continued, voice quiet but sharp. “You were assigned to me. You followed protocols. You did what you were trained to do.”
You finally lifted your eyes.
“And somewhere along the way,” you said, “you forgot you were dealing with an actual person.”
Steve flinched like the words physically hit him.
His hands clenched once, then relaxed as he forced them open again.
“I didn’t forget,” he said hoarsely. “I… I did the opposite. I saw you too clearly.”
You stared at him.
Steve’s eyes shone in the dim light, not with tears spilling – Steve didn’t spill easily – but with something strained, too bright.
“And it scared the hell out of me,” he admitted.
The honesty landed differently now. Less like a confession meant to stop you from leaving. More like a truth he couldn’t carry alone anymore.
He took a step forward, slow.
He stopped by the chair at your bedside like he wasn’t sure he’d earned it.
“Can I?” he asked quietly, gesturing to the chair.
The question – permission – undid something tight in your chest.
You nodded once.
Steve sat down carefully, like the chair might break, like the floor beneath him might.
His knees angled toward you. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing, betraying the tension he was holding back.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
And then you whispered, “I heard you.”
Steve’s jaw clenched.
“I know,” he murmured.
“No,” you said, voice trembling. “I mean… I heard you for years. In the little things.”
Steve’s gaze lifted to you, startled.
“You can’t spend years reminding someone to drink water, or to eat, or to sleep, and then act surprised when they fall in love with you,” you said, and your laugh broke halfway through because it hurt too much to say it out loud.
Steve’s eyes widened, then softened in a way that made your throat close.
“I didn’t think…” he started.
“You didn’t think I would love you back?” you finished, bitter.
Steve’s throat bobbed.
“I didn’t think I deserved it,” he admitted, barely audible.
Silence hit again, heavy and intimate.
You looked away quickly, blinking hard.
“And tonight,” you said, voice quieter, “you made me feel stupid for trusting you. For… for letting you be that close.”
Steve’s shoulders sank.
“I know,” he whispered.
You turned your head sharply, anger flaring again because it was easier than softness.
“No, you don’t,” you snapped. “Do you know what it’s like to grow up with everyone wanting something from you? Everyone touching you like you’re– like you’re currency? Do you know what it feels like to finally let one person in and then hear them talk about you like you’re a set of parameters?”
Steve’s face twisted with pain.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t. Not like you do.”
He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on yours like he couldn’t look away even if it destroyed him.
“But I know what it feels like to be terrified of wanting something you don’t think you’re allowed to have,” he added.
Your breath hitched.
Steve’s hands lifted slightly, then fell again.
“I made myself talk like that,” he said, and the shame in it was palpable. “I trained my mouth to use operational words because if I didn’t– if I let myself think of you as… you– then I would start making choices that weren’t clean.”
You stared at him.
“What choices?” you whispered.
Steve’s jaw flexed. He looked like he hated himself for what he was about to say.
“I would start wanting to pull you away from rooms you’re supposed to stand in,” he said quietly. “I would start wanting to take your phone out of your hand and tell every person who thinks they own you to go to hell.”
His voice grew lower, dangerous in its sincerity.
“I would start wanting to put my hands on you in ways that have nothing to do with security.”
Heat crawled up your neck.
Your pulse spiked.
Steve noticed – of course he did – and his face tightened.
He looked away for the first time, like he didn’t trust his own eyes.
“And then what?” you asked, voice shaking.
Steve’s laugh was broken, humorless.
“Then I lose my job,” he said. “I get pulled off your detail. Your father finds out. The press finds out. And you get shredded for it.”
He looked back at you.
“And you deserve better than being someone’s scandal.”
Your throat tightened.
“Don’t decide what I deserve,” you whispered.
Steve’s gaze held yours, steady.
“I’m not deciding,” he said, voice softer. “I’m… admitting why I was scared.”
You exhaled shakily.
The room felt too small. Your skin felt too sensitive. The air between you felt charged.
You swallowed hard.
“And what are you going to do about it?” you asked.
Steve blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
You stared at him, exhaustion stripping you down to blunt honesty.
“You told me you love me,” you said. “Okay. Now what? Are you going to go back to being cold in the morning? Are you going to put the mask back on and pretend tonight didn’t happen?”
Steve’s face went pale.
“No,” he said immediately, too fast. “No.”
You held his gaze, not letting him hide.
“Then what,” you repeated, voice firm despite the tremor. “Because I can’t go back to half-truths, Steve. I can’t do this if you’re going to punish me for feeling something.”
Steve’s breath shuddered.
He stared at you for a long moment – like he was measuring the distance between his fear and your honesty.
Then he nodded once, small but decisive.
“I’m not going to punish you,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going to pretend.”
He swallowed, jaw tight.
“But I also won’t lie to you,” he added. “This is complicated. There are consequences.”
“I know,” you whispered.
Steve’s gaze flicked over your face, lingering.
“And you still want–” He stopped, like the words hurt. “You still want me?”
Your throat tightened.
You wanted to say no out of pride.
You wanted to say yes out of truth.
You settled on the only thing you could say without breaking.
“I want you to be honest,” you whispered.
Steve’s eyes softened.
“Okay,” he said. “Honest.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“I love you,” he repeated, slower this time, like he was building something careful. “I have for a long time. And I hate that I let fear make me cruel.”
Your breath caught.
Steve’s voice lowered.
“When I talked about you like that, it wasn’t because I don’t see you,” he said. “It was because I see you too much, and I didn’t know how to keep myself from wanting to–”
He stopped, jaw tightening.
“From wanting to be yours,” he finished, almost inaudible.
The words landed in your chest like a weight and a balm at the same time.
You stared at him, pulse racing.
“And what does that mean?” you whispered.
Steve swallowed. His eyes didn’t waver.
“It means I’m going to ask for a transfer,” he said.
You blinked, startled. “What?”
Steve nodded once, grim.
“I can’t keep protecting you while I’m lying to you,” he said. “And I can’t keep wanting you while pretending I don’t.”
Your stomach dropped.
A sharp pain flared – not in your neck, in your chest.
“You’re leaving,” you whispered.
Steve flinched immediately. “No.”
“That’s what that is,” you snapped, panic rising. “That’s you leaving because it’s easier than–”
“It’s not easier,” Steve cut in, voice rough. “It’s the opposite.”
His hands clenched hard, then relaxed as he forced himself to breathe.
“I’m trying to do this without destroying you,” he said.
Your eyes burned.
“And what if I don’t want to be protected from getting destroyed?” you whispered. “What if I want to choose?”
Steve’s face twisted, a mix of pain and something like relief.
“You do,” he said softly. “You get to choose. That’s… that’s why I’m telling you now. Not hiding it.”
You stared at him, heart pounding.
“Okay,” you said, voice shaky. “Then here’s my choice.”
Steve went still, eyes locked on yours.
You swallowed hard.
“I don’t want you gone,” you whispered. “I don’t want you to run because you’re scared. And I don’t want you to stay if you’re going to keep carving yourself into pieces to fit the job.”
Your voice cracked.
“I want… something real,” you finished. “Even if it’s messy.”
Steve’s breath shuddered.
For a second, his eyes looked wet.
Then he nodded, slow.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Real.”
He hesitated, then lifted his hand slightly, palm open on the edge of the bed – not touching you, just offering.
The gesture was small.
It felt enormous.
You stared at his hand for a long moment, heart hammering.
Then you placed your fingers into his.
Steve’s entire body went still, like he’d been shocked.
His grip was gentle. Careful. Like he was holding something precious and breakable.
You exhaled shakily.
“Still afraid?” you whispered.
Steve’s mouth twitched, a small, sad smile. “Terrified.”
You squeezed his hand once, a silent answer.
“Good,” you murmured. “Then at least you’re honest.”
Steve let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his lungs for years.
He didn’t pull you closer.
He didn’t try to kiss you.
He just held your hand like it was a promise he didn’t want to break.
After a moment, you whispered, “I’m sorry I left.”
Steve’s jaw clenched.
“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he said, voice thick.
“I know,” you admitted. “I was angry.”
Steve’s gaze dropped to your joined hands.
“You had every right,” he said quietly. “And I… I should’ve earned that trust better.”
Your throat tightened.
“And for what it’s worth,” you whispered, “I didn’t leave because I wanted to hurt you.”
Steve’s eyes flicked up. “Why did you?”
You swallowed.
“Because I was scared that if I stayed,” you said, voice trembling, “I’d forgive you too fast. And I’d go back to pretending the ache was enough.”
Steve stared at you like the honesty gutted him.
“It’s not enough,” he said, voice low.
“No,” you agreed. “It’s not.”
Silence fell again, but it was different now.
Not teeth.
Not cold.
Just… quiet.
Steve’s thumb moved once, barely, over your knuckles. A tentative stroke, like he was testing whether he was allowed.
You didn’t pull away.
Steve’s breath hitched softly.
“Can I stay?” he asked.
You blinked. “You’re supposed to.”
He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
“Not as your detail lead,” he murmured. “Not as protocol. As… me.”
Your chest tightened.
You swallowed, then nodded once.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Stay.”
Steve’s shoulders sagged in relief so visible it startled you. Like that single word loosened something he’d been carrying in every muscle.
He shifted the chair closer to the bed and sat again, still holding your hand.
The minutes stretched.
Your eyelids grew heavy.
The pain in your neck throbbed dull and persistent.
Steve stayed awake beside you, gaze fixed on your face like he was memorizing you.
At some point, you murmured, half-asleep, “Hydration check, Agent Rogers?”
Steve’s soft huff of laughter warmed the room.
“Drink some water,” he whispered.
You smiled faintly, eyes closed.
“And Steve?” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he answered immediately.
Your voice was sleepy, but the truth in it was clear.
“If you ever talk about me like I’m a file again,” you said, “I’ll make you regret it.”
Steve’s thumb stroked your knuckles again, gentle.
“I won’t,” he promised. “Not ever.”
You breathed out, letting yourself sink into the pillow.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Steve’s voice followed you into the edge of sleep, steady and soft.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
This time, it didn’t sound like a job.
It sounded like a vow.
Two months later, the residence felt different.
Not because the hallways had changed – same polished floors, same quiet hum of security systems, same framed photos of handshakes and flags and history. Not because the cameras had disappeared – they hadn’t. They never would.
It felt different because you had changed.
And because Steve had, too.
The fight with your father in the days after the accident had been the kind of argument that left bruises you couldn’t photograph. It had started with protocol and reputation, with phrases like inappropriate and unacceptable risk, with your father’s voice cutting through the living room like a gavel.
It had ended when you finally snapped and said, shaking, “I nearly died because I stopped believing I could call the one person who actually sees me.”
You didn’t remember everything that happened after that. Just flashes: your father’s face going pale. His hands tightening on the back of a chair. The moment his anger faltered – not into softness, not immediately, but into something far more telling.
Fear.
Because he’d seen you shaken before. He’d seen you tired. He’d seen you irritated.
He had not seen you broken.
Not like that.
Not with your voice cracking on the truth.
And when he realized that this wasn’t a crush or rebellion or tabloid fodder – that this was you clinging to the only thing that had ever felt steady in a life built on shifting ground – something in him had shifted.
The next morning, your father had knocked on your door without staff, without advisors, without the press team lurking like vultures.
He’d stood there, looking older than you’d ever allowed yourself to notice.
“I don’t like it,” he’d said plainly. “I don’t like the risk. I don’t like what it means for you.”
You’d crossed your arms, braced for battle.
Then he’d added, quieter, almost reluctant, “But I like you being alive more.”
And after that, it had been… not easy, never easy, but possible.
Your father had stopped trying to control the narrative like it was the only thing that mattered. He’d stopped treating your feelings like a liability to be mitigated. He’d started – slowly, awkwardly – treating you like an adult whose choices might actually be about something other than optics.
And Steve…
Steve had stopped living at the threshold.
He still wore his suit. Still carried the earpiece. Still watched crowds like a hawk watches the horizon.
But he didn’t hover like an outsider anymore.
He entered rooms without acting like his feet were on hot coals.
He sat beside you on the couch, close enough that your shoulders touched.
He slept in your bed on the nights you needed him to – actually slept, not just “stood guard” with his heart beating too loud.
He learned how to split himself in two without tearing.
Agent Rogers, when cameras were pointed at you.
Steve, when you were alone and your hands were shaking for reasons that had nothing to do with threats.
He got better at it every day.
So did you.
Tonight, the residence library glowed with warm lamp light. Rain tapped softly against the windows, turning the glass into a blurred watercolor of city lights.
You sat at the desk in your usual way – laptop open, shoulders tense, hair pinned back because it got in your face when you worked. A mug of cold tea sat forgotten to your left. Your inbox was a battlefield.
Steve had been in and out for the last hour – brief phone call in the corridor, a quiet check with another agent, a glance at the monitors. He’d left you to it, because you’d asked for space.
But “space” didn’t mean “disappear.”
And Steve had learned the difference.
The chair creaked behind you.
You didn’t look up immediately. You were halfway through rewriting a statement, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.
Then Steve’s voice came, calm and unarguable.
“Okay,” he said.
You paused, fingers hovering over the keys. “Okay what?”
“Okay, you’re done,” Steve replied.
You blinked, finally turning your head.
He was standing in the doorway – except he wasn’t lingering at it. He was in the room, fully, like he belonged there. One hand braced on the doorframe, the other holding a glass of water that caught the lamplight.
His expression was familiar: that composed steadiness that could handle a motorcade and a riot and a screaming donor.
But his eyes were pure Steve – soft, attentive, affectionate in a way that never quite stopped making your chest ache.
“You’ve been staring at that screen for two hours,” he said. “Without a break.”
You frowned. “That’s not true.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “You haven’t blinked since the last time I walked past.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“It’s not,” he said, stepping closer. “Drink.”
He held the water out to you.
You took it automatically, because you always did now – because somewhere along the way, the act stopped feeling like being managed and started feeling like being cared for.
And the fact that you didn’t fight it anymore made something warm unfurl in your chest.
You raised the glass and took a drink.
Steve watched, quiet, like he could finally breathe again.
You swallowed and set the glass down.
Then you smiled – small, genuine.
“It’s kind of funny,” you said.
Steve lifted a brow. “What is?”
“You still do it,” you murmured. “The water thing.”
His expression softened. “I’m going to do it until you’re eighty.”
You huffed a laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’ll live that long.”
Steve’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Don’t.”
The single word wasn’t harsh.
It was protective. Immediate. The edge of fear still living in him, even months later.
You held his gaze for a beat, then nodded, gentling.
“Okay,” you said quietly. “Okay.”
Steve’s shoulders eased.
He reached past you and closed the laptop with one smooth motion.
You made a protest noise. “Hey–”
Steve leaned down, close enough that his breath warmed your cheek.
“That,” he said softly, “is not a request.”
You stared up at him, lips parting despite yourself.
His eyes dipped to your mouth for a fraction of a second.
Then, like he remembered himself, he straightened – half a step back, the tiniest return to professional composure.
“You need a break,” he said. “A real one.”
Your pulse thrummed.
“Are you telling me this as my bodyguard,” you asked, voice light, “or as my boyfriend?”
Steve’s mouth twitched again. A smile he didn’t fully let himself wear in public.
“Both,” he admitted.
You hummed thoughtfully and reached for the glass again, taking another sip just to watch his gaze follow the movement. Like he couldn’t help it.
When you set it down, you turned in your chair fully to face him.
Steve stood there, arms relaxed, posture steady.
A man who could be dangerous to anyone else.
A man who was gentle with you like gentleness was a sacred duty.
“Okay,” you said.
Steve blinked. “Okay?”
“You want me to take a break,” you said. “Fine.”
You reached for the edge of his tie.
Not tugging yet.
Just touching it.
Steve’s breath caught – subtle, but you heard it. You always heard it now.
His eyes darkened, a flicker of heat behind the calm.
“Sweetheart,” he warned, voice low.
You smiled. “That sounded like boyfriend.”
“It was,” Steve admitted, swallowing.
You hooked your fingers into his collar and pulled him down toward you – decisive, unapologetic.
Steve’s hands hovered for a beat, as if he still had to ask permission.
Then he remembered: you’d told him to be real.
So he let himself.
He kissed you.
Not like a man trying to prove something.
Like a man coming home.
Warm, firm, careful at first – then deeper when your hand slid behind his neck and you made a quiet sound against his mouth that melted the last of his restraint.
His palm cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed to touch you to believe you were here.
The kiss wasn’t frantic.
It was grounding.
It tasted like water and rain and the soft sweetness of safety.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
His voice was a whisper.
“Better?”
You exhaled, breath shaky with a laugh. “Much.”
Steve’s mouth curved, finally, into a real smile.
He pressed a smaller kiss to your lips – gentler, almost playful – then straightened and glanced at the closed laptop like it was a defeated enemy.
“You’re taking a break,” he said again.
You tipped your head. “Or what?”
Steve’s eyes warmed. “Or I’ll carry you out of this room.”
You arched a brow. “That sounds like an abuse of power.”
“It’s an abuse of concern,” he corrected smoothly.
You laughed, the sound soft in the lamplight.
Steve leaned down and kissed your forehead – quick, tender – then held his hand out to you.
“Come on,” he said. “Five minutes away from the screen. That’s all I’m asking.”
You looked at his hand.
At the steadiness of it.
At the way he offered without demanding.
You took it.
“Five minutes,” you agreed.
Steve’s thumb stroked your knuckles once, like punctuation.
“And,” he added, voice quiet, “I’m proud of you.”
Your throat tightened.
“Steve–”
“I know,” he murmured, squeezing gently. “No more work talk. Just… let me take care of you for a minute.”
You nodded, swallowing past the sudden burn in your chest.
As he led you away from the desk, you glanced back at your laptop and realized something startling. For the first time in a long time, stepping away didn’t feel like losing control.
It felt like being held.
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SUMMARY: Bucky has been non-stop taking care of you while also trying to make sure not to break the exterior of his grumpiness. But who could've thought one drowsy sentence would change all of that?
Ingredients: 18+ MDNI, slight horror element (paranoia of being watched), no use of y/n, pet names (doll, babydoll, sweetheart), angst, fluff, lots of fluff, Bucky finally goes fully soft, Sam Wilson mentioned, pancakes, Bucky cries slightly, mentions of coughing and sickness, fluffy ending.
Calories: 2.2k
Chef's Note: I added the paranoia bit because when I was sick, I'm telling you, I had crazy thoughts. I thought I was being watched in every corner OF MY OWN HOME. But anyways, I hope you enjoy this final chapter!
Part One, Part Two
It was already past midnight as Bucky adjusted your pillows once more. You couldn’t lay down without wanting to cough your lungs and liver up so violently he really did think you died for a moment there.
“Buck… I don’t need 12 pillows…” Bucky only grunted at you, still making sure the now mountain of pillows was sitting you up enough you didn’t choke but also not enough that it felt like you were just sitting in bed. (Which meant you would never get to sleep if they were). He needed you to rest, you’d already had your cold and flu tablets which were definitely starting to make you feel drowsy already, he could see that as clear as day.
“There aren't even 12 pillows, doll.” He muttered before readjusting the final one. Perfect. You were at the perfect angle enough to sleep and enough where it wouldn't be too hard to breathe. He hopes. “Want anythin’? Tea?”
He was still trying his best to make sure his tone and speech were as caring as possible, but not too caring to break the safe compound he had built around himself. You knew of his past, not all of the details but the major key events were told to you, one late night in the middle of Winter. But he still made sure to keep some to himself, you didn't need his burdens or his guilty thoughts. You needed to stay like you were (before you were sick obviously). He needed you to stay his personal sunshine until the ends of the Earth, because if you got corrupted by him… Well it wouldn't end well for the world.
“Kisses?” Your request made his brain pause. All his over-thinking vanished within seconds because of that adorable little pout on your face.
“Kisses… huh?” He stayed standing next to you for a moment, his metal fingers twitching along with his flesh before huffing. He couldn't say no to you, especially not to the request of affection that doesn't take too much effort. “Alright, ‘ere you go.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed before leaning down to your face and leaving 3 gentle kisses. Two on each cheekbone then one right on your lips. The pair moulded perfectly together, like they always did. He hopes that the day where they don't fit each other like a puzzle piece never arrives. The tiny sigh of contempt you made only made Bucky’s heart soften. Wow, you really did love him, don’t you? You don't see him as scary or mean, somehow you just see your boyfriend who is the grumpy ogre of the entire street. But you seem to be perfectly fine with that, for some odd reason he seriously cannot figure out.
When he pulled away, his cheeks couldn't help but heat up ever so slightly at the little squelch and pop sound the disconnect made. You didn't seem to react to it as you yawned quietly before turning away from his direction and coughing into your elbow.
“Could I make… one more request?” Bucky sat up straighter.
“Uh, yeah, ‘course. I won't deny you when you’re sick, Doll.” The small smile that tugged at your lips only seemed to make his face feel even hotter, but ignored them. You needed him, and he needed to step it up.
“Could you get me a water bottle? My throat feels so dry…” Bucky was already up and out of the room. Walking like he was on a mission in… well a grey t-shirt, some plaid pyjama bottoms and the pair of fluffy red socks you got him ages ago. You wanted matching socks! And red was all they had, and did he act opposed to it? Yes. But did he secretly become super gooey inside and immediately wore them the first chance he got? Yes again.
“Water bottles, water bottles…” He bent down and pulled open the first cabinet before shutting it again. You’d think he would know where water bottles are situated in his own kitchen. “Oh, right. Over here.”
He turned around only to see you standing in the bedroom doorway, the blanket wrapped around you tightly like bubble wrap, protection even.
“What are you doing up? I was gettin’ the water bottle—”
“The blind is open.” Bucky paused. Fuck. Of all things he forgot to do, his brain decided to forget to shut the blind in your bedroom. Even when the two of you first moved in, you hated that window for some reason. You had told him you swear you see someone peeking in late at night or just feel eyes on you. It gave you nightmares, and it killed him. He did suggest just boarding up the window, but you went the more practical route and got some blackout curtains and a blind. Double safety barrier.
“Fuck, sorry… Hang on. I’ll get the water bottle, then I will shut the blind.” He quickly bent down to the next cabinet, whisked out a water bottle and quickly filled it up before rushing back over to you and the bedroom. “Here, go lay back down.”
“Thank you James…” You took the water bottle before padding back over to bed and getting comfortable. Bucky went to the window and glared out, observing each thing. The streetlights and the moon were bright enough to give him a perfect outline of everything. The bushes, the neighbours house, the fence line. Nothing seemed to have an odd human shape, but that didn't mean someone wasn't there, wasn't watching. He knew he wasn't completely safe of all of his crimes but if there was someone watching, they had no fucking right to make you paranoid.
If there is, he’ll just have to commit one more crime. That's all. Just a few fingers cut off—
“Bucky, get to bed already…” He quickly snapped out of his haze and shut the blind before then shut the curtains. He’ll have to think of a torture plan some other time.
“Comin’ doll. I’m comin’.” He walked over to his side of the bed and slid in and lay, albeit, way lower but right next to you. His metal arm curled under his head as his flesh palm went under your hoodie and rested on your mid torso. How could skin be so soft? Seriously, how?
“Mm, your hand is warm.”
“Yeah?” You nodded as your eyes drooped shut, every time you breathed in your nose would slightly whistle and your throat would crackle on a breath out. Yet, he still found you adorable looking so tired.
“James?” Bucky blinked but didn't look away from you.
“Yeah doll?”
“I wish you were home more… I miss you so much.” By this point, the cold and flu tablets had made your brain so drowsy that you didn't care what you said. Too tired to even figure out what you were saying before it fell out. You couldn't even see how hard that hit Bucky. He felt like he was right back there again, falling from that train and plummeting to his death.
“...” He stayed silent, he just watched you slowly fall asleep and allow it to take over you gently. When your breathing became even but still dry, he sat up and decided to share your mountain of pillows. He didn't care that he was close enough to get sick from you, he didn't care that even if you turned in your sleep, there was a high chance you’d accidentally cough right into his face or chest. None of that mattered. Not now. Not ever. But especially not now.
“I’m so sorry doll, I promise, I’ll be around more. Okay? As soon as you’re better I’m taking you out. We’re going to go get some lunch, go see a movie or somethin’. Then dinner.” He didn't even realise it until something wet went down his face. He was… crying. Hadn't done that in a while.
“Look at you, huh? Makin’ me cry.” He quickly wiped the tear away before tucking you into him. His flesh hand stayed on your stomach while his metal arm wrapped around your back. The top of your head then became a planting ground for multiple kisses short and long as his shoulders shook slightly. Sam was right even in his joke, he needed to stop being a grump all the time. He could stay a grump, but fuck it, he needed to show you actually meant something to him. On how precious you really were, how you helped him finally realise he didn't need to stay locked up and away from people for the rest of his time.
He placed one final kiss onto your head before muttering repeatedly that he loves you so much, that the world will never hurt you when he is around and that he’ll battle this sickness for you.
“I love babydoll… So much. Now you have sweet dreams for me, okay?”
Bucky didn't sleep that night, he made sure that every shuddered breath or cough wasn't your last.
You woke up alone when the sun had finally risen. Your head was pounding slightly and your nose was extremely blocked. But at least, your body was warm. No cold spot to the touch.
You slowly sat up with a grunt, a groan and a violent cough before finally being up straight. The noise of a pan and two quiet voices came from the kitchen. One was definitely Bucky’s. But you couldn't place the others' voice. So you slipped out of bed, putting on your house slippers and walking into the hallway. Bucky stood over the stove flipping what seemed to be pancakes and Sam sitting at the kitchen counter nursing a mug filled with coffee in his hand. Both their eyes immediately went to you.
“G’morning doll. I was going to let you sleep in…” Bucky quickly put the pancake onto the pile before coming over to you and feeling your forehead. He grimaced. “You still have a temperature. Not as bad as last night, but still pretty hot to the touch.”
“You find me hot?” It was only a tad tease, expecting to get an eye roll or a muted glare. But to get a scoff laugh and a grin? Not something you were expecting from Bucky.
“Yeah, I find you very hot. So hot that you should go eat breakfast and then take medicine. That's an order.” From behind them in the kitchen, Sam couldn't help but smile. He’d definitely need to tell Steve that their sourpuss of a friend was finally shattering all over and allowing the spark of him to filter through.
“Yes sir.” You did a weak mock salute (your muscles still feeling like goo) and followed him into the kitchen. “Hi Sam.”
“Hey. Feeling any better?” He mainly came to check up on Bucky as he hadn't heard from him in a while, only to find out that you had been struck with the flu, well, then his care shifted.
“Mm, better than I did two days ago. I’m not seeing sparkles anymore.”
“Well I would say that's a decent step.” You smiled a little and nodded before a plate with 3 pancakes was put into your hands.
You gasped.
“You made me… banana and chocolate chip?” You hadn't had these since you and Bucky last went to go and see your parents 3 years ago. They visited here during that time or the both of you would meet them half way. But, this has always been your favourite. Since childhood.
“Yeah, well, I tried my best. Don't count on them being good. But I just, you seemed way too down for my liking. I missed your… smile.” Sam choked on his coffee but neither of you looked towards him, you stayed on each other.
Your eyes started to well up with tears as you sniffled. This was definitely amped up by the sickness but you couldn't help it. Not when, the, James Buchanan Barnes, who would barely even crack a smile at the funniest joke, has just opened up to you in the most vulnerable way you have ever seen him. He noticed you were smiling as much, fuck, he missed your smile!
“H-Hey why are you cryin’? Did I say it wrong? Shit sweetheart ‘m so sorry—” You cut him off with a peck to the lips and cheek.
“You didn't say anything wrong Bucky… You said it all perfectly.” You gave him a pure, genuine sweet smile before grabbing the mug of hot lemon tea behind him and your packaging of pills. You gave him one more final peck on the lips as a thank you before disappearing into the living room. Leaving a stunned Bucky and an even more shocked Sam.
“Wow—”
“Not a word from you, Wilson.”
And from that day on, Bucky made sure to be more open. More loving, more happy, more genuine. Sure, he was still in a grumpy mood. Especially when he would have nightmares the night before but by the end of the day, he wouldn't be grunting and eye rolling anymore since you decided to just be, you.
The amazing you.
He wonders what type of ring you like the most…
Thank you for reading!! Please consider showing some support through reblogging or leaving comments! <3
I hope you enjoyed this little two parter series! I am considering on making a headcanon list for this to, finish it off I suppose? Yeah, I probably will.
Tags (List is open!): @hellilovedit @cruel-serpent
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Summary: You get sick with a serious hard-hitting cold. Bucky decides, even through his grumpiness, it's finally time to show more of a softer side to help you get your light back.
Ingredients: no use of y/n, established relationship (bf!Bucky, gf!reader), reader is fem (uses she/her), Bucky is a right up grump, but he finally shows some softness, 18+ only even if there isn't smut or nsfw, mentions of mucus, mentions of vomit, Non-sexual nudity, Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers mentioned, fluff, angst (on Bucky's end), Bucky being a carer, so much fluff with grumps.
Calories: 1.4k
Chef's Note: This is actually perfect for me to write atm. As I have a death giving cold (I cannot breathe-) But anyways! I hope you enjoy!!
Part One , Part Two
The first thing he noticed was the way you started to cough constantly. It would be light at first, like you just haven't drunk enough water or maybe even swallowed something wrong. Nothing that really caught his attention at all, until your... attitude was, bleak. Mild. Like all the sun you had inside of you was starting to be covered by large storm clouds, that inched only slowly until all the rays of light were to disappear from his skin.
Your smile was smaller, sometimes forced. Your eyes wouldn't spark up whenever you saw something of your interests or just general knowledge. You didn't even perk up when he hesitantly gave you your favourite mug filled with hot chocolate. But that was 2 days ago now. Bucky had just come home from spending a night at the Tower due to some... discrepancies. However, those are now at peace. But what is not at peace is Bucky's heart as he walks in to hear retching from the bathroom.
He happened to mention to Sam about your mood. And how you were slowly becoming more bored than happy, which Sam, being Sam, only responded with one thing that has been stuck in Bucky's mind the whole day.
"Well maybe you should stop being a grunting grump and step up a little."
Sam meant it as a tease and Bucky knew that. But it still slashed a part of him that he forgot existed. It existed before applying for the army, it existed before the train. Fuck, it existed before everything bad that ever happened to him. It slashed his care, his deep-love, even if he would be flirting with every woman he saw back in the 40s, this was different. Not that you were different, you were still a bright, intelligent and gorgeous woman but this entire relationship, was the difference.
You saw him as James Buchanan Barnes. Not The Winter Soldier, not the guy that fell from a train and was presumed that he plummeted to his death. He was just, Bucky. The normal guy, who just happened to have a metal arm. Who you loved, with every inch of your shining soul. And all he did to return that was minimal soft moments, grunts and eye rolls. And now you were as sick as a sailor with seasickness on the most violent moving ship ever made.
And what was he doing? He was standing in the doorway, a duffle bag in one hand, and groceries in the other. Like a complete idiot. He needed to be in the bathroom with you, petting your back, whispering that it'll be okay and just let the vomit come up.
... The bags fell to the floor with a very loud thump. He threw his cap off and booked it down the hall of your small home before he practically threw himself into the bathroom.
"Sweetheart, hey, hey it's okay." He rushed his way over and immediately started to rub your back gently. "I know it hurts, trust me I do. But it's gotta come up, okay? Bad for it to stay there, yeah?" You nodded only to gag again and bring up chunks of mucus.
"I'm sorry James... I'm so sorry..."
"Hey hey, none of tha' okay? I should be the one that's saying sorry. Because I'm guessing this started last night? Yeah? While I was gone?" He already knew the answer, especially once your coughing had started he should've just stayed home. Helped you out.
"C'mon... I'll help you clean your face up then we'll get you a hot shower runnin' alright? Hot shower, those warm pyjamas and then lots and lots of medicine." You proceeded to side glance him, because what is with this behaviour?
You'd been sick around him plenty of times before, and he never changed from the ol' lovable grump. But this was... different. Unexpected, is probably a better word to describe it all. Yes, your Bucky could be soft, but in the rarest of moments. This was just... almost like a stranger of a man just broke into your home and happened to look like Bucky.
However, the shattered exterior with rushed softness dispersed once he cleaned your face and started to help you undress while he set up the shower. His hands were gentle but fast, not wanting you to get worse and freeze. Plus, he made sure there was plenty of steam and heat from the shower but not enough to dry you out completely before helping you in.
"...Buck?" He grunted quietly in response as he got your nightly routine ready on the bathroom counter. "Thank you..."
Bucky stayed quiet for a moment, he hated how your voice sounded so... bland. It's usually so much more lively, energetic but at a pace he could handle. Now? Now it was practically non-existent. If he wasn't so grumpy all the time maybe he would've noticed you getting sick earlier and helped you before it got to this.
"You're welcome... I'll go get your pyjamas ready. Call out if you need me, 'kay?" He then left the bathroom quietly, turning on the heater before putting your towel in the dryer and grabbing your winter based pj's.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:・*❆ ₊⋆
The joint kitchen and dining room strongly smelt of chicken, garlic and ginger. It raked over your body like a calming wave of breath. No, seriously, your nose slightly unblocked as soon as it hit you. Bucky stood over the stove as he stirred something in the brand new cook pot you got last week. He looked domestic, calm, like the world beyond the windows and door of your home wasn't as dangerous as it was. No alien invasions, no HYDRA based issues, none of it. Just the four walls of your home and everything inside.
“That smells good…” You padded over to him, wrapping your arms around your own waist to get slightly warmer from Bucky’s hoodie that you stole.
He didn't look up from the pot, grunting quietly as he grabbed a bowl from the left of him, scooping some contents into it. The steam was spinning and swirling around him.
“Here, it’ll help clear you up.” He handed it to you without looking back, he was scared too. He didn't want to see the light gone from your eyes. The small but exhausted smile would only make him die a little more than he already was.
“Thank you James…” You gave him a small and quick kiss onto his Henley covered shoulderblade before making your way into the warm living room. Leaving alone a Bucky who just kept staring at the bubbling oil that surrounded the seasoned chicken breasts.
He needed to follow Sam’s advice, but the way he acted when he got home only scared himself slightly. He was terrified to break what he has up, because what if by the time he fully shatters from his grumpy shell exterior, you’re taken from him? The only solid light in his life that was stronger than Sam and Steve combined.
He huffed before serving his own bowl and stalking into the living room. His steps and pace calculated, like if he made one wrong move you’d disappear, like this entire sickness was reminding him that you wouldn't ever be as strong as he was, you were just, you.
That's all he needed, couldn't lose that now. No. He would kill this sickness off for you, all you needed to do was just rest.
“This is really good. Oh my goodness.” You scoffed the final piece into your mouth as he sat down next to you. He muttered a quiet, ‘thanks, glad you enjoy it.’, before focusing on whatever game show was playing on the TV before you. His thoughts still sprinting around in circles of every possibility he could take to get the best solution. That solution being that you get healthy and back to normal ASAP.
“Just follow what Sam said. Stop being a grunt, be the boyfriend she needs you to be.”
“Mmm, James? Can you hear me from there?” His head snapped up from his bowl to you, like a dog being asked if it wants a treat.
“Huh? What?”
You glanced back at the TV before back at him. Repeating and reading out the trivia question to him. “Which U.S. president won the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for his heroism during World War II?”
“Oh, uh… John F. Kennedy. I think.” That then came up onto the screen as the answer, you gave a quiet, real, giggle before petting his head playfully.
“Such a smart cookie.” You cooed. He only grunted in slight embarrassment and dismay before hiding the grin into his bowl of chicken.
final chef's note!! : I've decided to make this a two parter as I feel this COULD have some more potential behind it. (thoughts? feelings? emotions?)
F - fluff S - smut A - angst
♡ - series ☆ - one shot ◇ - imagines and drabbles
last updated - 27/05/2026
@alisonwritesimagines ——————————
♡ reputation | F. A.
⤷ you first meet the winter soldier persona that bucky worked so hard to hide.
@aquaticmercy ——————————
☆ have we met before? | F. A.
⤷ america chavez says that you and bucky are together in every universe.
@brookghaib-blog ——————————
♡ another version of you | F.
⤷ in order to find a piece of secret information that would change her life, y/n goes back to the 40's to retrieve, where she meet bucky barnes before it all. how could she love someone she couldn't have ? how could she love someone who doesn't exist anymore? how could she love a version of someone she could never retrieve?
⤷ [ part 2 ]
♡ i wish you knew | A.
⤷ after losing her husband under mysterious circumstances, y/n builds a quiet life in brooklyn, finding unexpected comfort in two neighbors: yori and his friend bucky barnes. as her bond withbucky deepens, she begins to heal—unaware that he’s hiding a dark secret: he was the one who killed her husband.
⤷ [ part 2 ]
@dontpulltohardman ——————————
☆ the arm bandit | F.
⤷ as your daughter grows, her fascination with bucky’s metal arm gives you a run for your money.
@eufezco ——————————
☆ bring your bucky to school day | F.
⤷ bucky shows up for family friday day for your daughter.
◇ bucky barnes x reader | F. A.
⤷ about asking wanda for help to protect bucky
☆ civil war!bucky x fem!reader | F. A.
☆ imgonnagetyouback | A.
⤷ set during avengers: endgame, you time travel to 1943 to see bucky but you end up meeting a very different version of him.
◇ bucky barnes x reader | S.
⤷ bucky's sexual drive had been in negative numbers for so long.
@fru1t4fr0gs ——————————
♡ you and me | S. A.
⤷ after being captured and ‘enhanced’ by HYDRA, you flee to romania only to form an unlikely alliance with the man who once tried to kill you.
♡ snow and pine | S. A.
⤷ you fought the winter soldier. you survived. now, captured by HYDRA, you plan to escape on your own.
⤷ [ part 2 ]
☆ you drive me crazy | S. A.
⤷ the thunderbolts are used to you and bucky’s harmless teasing and bickering, but in all of the time the two of you have been together they’ve never seen you fight. however, when an argument breaks out after a mission, they realize that your relationship is a lot more passionate (and entertaining) than they previously thought.
@iamthatonefangirl ——————————
☆ quiet | A.
⤷ it was quiet. when bucky wrapped his arm around your waist to keep you upright, unable to walk on your own, he did it without a word. he did not respond when you thanked him; there was no need for you to thank him. he would always help you, no questions asked.
@imtaashu ——————————
☆ staring problem | F.
⤷ you’re not supposed to see it. the way he stares. the way he smiles when you’re not looking. but today… you catch him.
☆ mine, always | F.
⤷ you post a cute selfie, and the internet does what it does best—starts flirting. but bucky sees it before you even finish writing a caption. and before you know it, your ultra-private boyfriend turns very public with a possessive Instagram story that just says one word: mine.
☆ google search history | F.
⤷ bucky leaves his laptop open. you peek. what you find in his search history sends you into a full meltdown of the best kind.
☆ she's spoken for | F.
⤷ when someone from your past gets too friendly at an avengers party, bucky’s quiet possessiveness surfaces. He’s never loud or mean just gentle hands, sharp eyes, and soft whispers that remind you exactly who you belong to. but beneath it all? a little boy afraid you’ll realize you deserve someone better. not on your watch.
☆ your name, my dog tags | F.
⤷ it starts with a missing hoodie. then a vanishing water bottle. then your name shows up on bucky’s dog tags. everyone else sees what’s happening except you two. until bucky finally decides... maybe it’s time to make it official.
@kbzonceblog ——————————
☆ hand in babysitting | F.
⤷ you're sister drops off her kids without any warning. begrudgingly, you agree to look after them. you're surprised, however, to stumble upon your very brooding teammate looking after them already.
@kinanabinks ——————————
☆ big mouth | F. A.
⤷ you have a bad habit of running your mouth when you're tipsy. luckily, your best friend is always prepared to help you out of any trouble that big mouth of yours gets you in.
@knowledgeableknitter ——————————
♡ the new avengers... and their mom | F. S. A.
⤷ kay romano is the new curvy / plus sized nanny for the new avengers. she cooks for them, cleans, and patches up their wounds. as she ingratiates herself with each of the team, none is more enthralled with her than bucky barnes, the brooding super soldier with old school gentleman's charm. and while they may flirt and share longing glances, will either of them ever make a move? or will misunderstandings tear them apart?
♡ ours to keep | F. A.
☆ secret admirer | F. A.
⤷ bucky is learning to live with feelings he doesn’t quite know what to do with. and even though he barely speaks to you, he’s been quietly leaving you little gifts he knows you'll like. you’re not supposed to notice, but you do. especially on your birthday, when you finally confront him.
@lolab4t ——————————
♡ off duty | F. S.
⤷ after a rare night off, you stumble back into avengers tower at 2 am.. tipsy, feet hurting, and definitely not expecting to run into bucky barnes on the couch.
⤷ [ part 2 ]
@m4rv3l-girl ——————————
☆ a secret worth spilling | F. A.
⤷ bucky x reader are having a baby but noone knows yet. reader can feel her belly get chubby and while in the kitchen grabbing a snack, sharon and a few other agents comment on it and say if reader keeps gaining weight bucky won't be interested, reader leaves the snack and goes back thier shared room and hides away, bucky hears the quiet sobs and immediately rushes to you and asks what's wrong, you explain that you overheard someone talking about you but wouldn't say who but bucky finds out and makes a big scene and spills the secret of your baby
@magical-reid ——————————
☆ the bucky barnes cake conspiracy | F.
⤷ when wanda convinces you and natasha to do the “hear me out” cake trend, you think it’s just harmless fun. that is, until every single one of your picks is a different version of bucky barnes, the entire tower gets involved, and bucky himself finds out in the most humiliating way possible—via wanda’s viral video.
@redemptive-truth ——————————
♡ right where you left me | A.
⤷ after accidentally slipping through a portal into an alternate earth, she discovers that this world’s version of herself is dead—and that version of herself had an unexpected, mysterious bond with bucky barnes
⤷ [ part 2 ]
@saltyjoy ——————————
☆ whose cat is it anyway? | F.
⤷ for the longest time, you thought the cat roaming the tower wasn’t owned by anybody. then you eventually realize that the “tower cat” does, in fact, have a name, and is owned by none other than bucky barnes himself, the one team member you aren’t exactly best friends with. after bucky finds out that alpine has become fond of you, he starts giving you odd looks and passive-aggressive comments. this leads you to the conclusion that he is jealous of you for taking his cat. however, as time goes on, you come to the realization that it might be the other way around.
@sergeantbarnessdoll ——————————
☆ shouldn't have snapped | F. A.
⤷ bucky accidentally snaps at you and then you two confess your love for each other.
☆ sparing you | F. A.
⤷ bucky spares you when he’s in winter soldier mode.
@ssvbse ——————————
☆ sunglasses | F. S.
⤷ bucky gets caught staring through his sunglasses.
@wandererling ——————————
☆ drunk | F.
⤷ you take care of your drunk bucky.
@weeinertoad ——————————
♡ blood stained snow | F. S. A.
⤷ reader has been enhanced through experimentation, she has blood control abilities, and is part of british SHIELD. she and a group of others are sent to the US as a part of an integration program between the sister agencies. reader befriends bucky barnes (the winter soldier), their relationship grows until bucky relapses into the winter soldier and attacks her, straining their already odd relationship.
⤷ [ part 2 part 3 part 4 ]
@wildflowersandvibranium ——————————
◇ still you | F. A.
⤷ you hadn’t expected him. not today. not when your hair was scraped back in a frizzy ponytail , your glasses slipping down your nose, sweatshirt three sizes too big and eyes puffy from crying—again.
@wintersoldiersoul ——————————
☆ bucky x pregnant!reader | F. A.
@wkemeup ——————————
☆ purgatory | A.
⤷ while on a mission, bucky becomes dissociated into the winter soldier. but instead of becoming a threat, his instinct is to protect.
AU Summary: Bucky is no longer the Winter Soldier. He's something more. He's a husband, and he's going to be a father. While his past is still there, it won't define him. He'll put down his roots with his family and live the best life possible.
AU Warnings: Domesticated life, established relationship, pregnancy, smut, feels, slight angst, more warnings to come.
A/N: We deserve a life with Bucky, okay? I hope you lovelies enjoy this AU! Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesn’t take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it.
As if he could ever say “no” to you.
“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer.
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.
“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.
You were beautiful.
“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.
“Not at all,” his best friend replied.
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
You and Sprout.
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”
Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect.
The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
“Jerk.”
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”
The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.
That wouldn’t happen again.
“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”
…He’s fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low.
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.
This was his fight.
“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you.
But he wasn’t going to stay silent.
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.
“Hey, man! You-”
“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.
The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.
“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.
“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”
“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”
“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.
He wasn’t.
“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play.
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
“I-I really didn’t mean-”
“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.
“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.
“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”
“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.”
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze.
“Move.”
The prick didn’t need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too.
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.
“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.
“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”
“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.
“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.
Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
The idiot practically ran to his car.
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.
“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”
Bucky stared at you in awe.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.
“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same.
“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly.
Always thinking of me.
“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to.
“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed.
Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.
“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully.
It was true.
Chet was trash.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.
“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.
“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.
He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.
And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.
I love you both so much.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Thinking about, Congressman!Bucky watching his pretty little wife hump his pillow from the crack in the doorway.
Tags/warnings: Congressman!Bucky x Wife!Reader, Masturbation(F&M), Consensual Voyeurism, Reader has a vagina, Kinda Porn no plot?? lmk if I have missed any
A/N: This is not proofread, it's 12am. There will be spelling mistakes or storyline errors.
He had stayed late at work, filing out paperwork, doing boring shit. And you patiently waited for him so you could both eat dinner, fuck like rabbits, shower, then go to bed together, like you both usually do. You were wearing that cute baby blue lacy set underneath your lounge clothes, knowing it’s the one that makes Bucky’s mouth water and his tip leaky. Truth be told, You had been pent up since the morning, when you watched him flex his back muscles while pulling on his shirt.
So, to say you were disappointed when you had found out Bucky would be staying later, was an understatement. You cried a little bit, you just wanted to be held by your husband while he made love to you, whispering those dirty words in your ear that you love so much.
2 hours had passed since Bucky had called you, you had already put away the leftovers inside some tuper wear, making sure to leave the correct amount of portions for Bucky knowing he’s a little stingy with his diet. You had showered, fingering yourself a bit just to relieve some tension, and done your skincare routine.
You weren’t very tired when you had slipped on your sleepwear but you were still very horny for your husband, who was still supposed to be at the office. An idea popped into your head, and you quickly shimmed out of your sleep shorts. You dipped your finger through your folds, finding it still sticky and sweet.
You hopped onto your bed and smirked while looking at Bucky’s designated pillow. Straddling your hips over the sides of the pillow, placing your dripping wet pussy onto your husbands pillow. Whimpering at the texture against your sensitive clit. You moved your hips softly at first, thinking about Bucky’s hands roaming across your body. You thought about the way his giant hands cupped your breast, the way his tongue darts out to lick your nipples. Your hips gradually pick up speed, while you hump the pillow, softly shaking the bed.
You had been so caught up in the fantasy of your husband fucking you, that you hadn’t even heard the door to your shared apartment open and close.
Bucky strides into the apartment, petting Alpine as he make his way into the kitchen in search of the leftovers from the dinner you made. You knew that by this hour, you both would’ve been curled up in bed. Infact, he expected you to be asleep already, he felt bad for not being able to do your shared night routine together.
Bucky rubbed his hand over his stubble as he picks up the container that holds his diner, before turning and placing it in the microwave. Before he could even push in the numbers to start heating up his food, he hears a whimper come from the bedroom. His eyebrow raised in suspicion, wondering if you were having a nightmare perhaps. His heart clenching at the idea of his lover being alone while having a bad dream, so he slowly makes his way towards your shared bedroom. Yet, Bucky stops dead in his tracks as he peaks through the crack in the doorframe. His mouth goes dry as he watches you, his perfect beautiful shy little wife, humping the life out of his pillow like you were in heat.
He watches as your plump thighs clench around the pillow, the way your ass squishes against the cushion as you rub down onto the fabric. He attempts to hold back his own moan while hearing your whimpers and moans. Bucky’s hand travels down to his pants, that know feel entirely too tight. He waste no time pulling down the zipper and freeing his now aching leaking cock. A soft groan escapes from his mouth when he wraps his hand around his thick shaft. Rubbing up and down in motion with your own thrust onto his pillow.
You’re so close to your orgasm, the feeling of the fabric against your clit becoming too much as you get closer and closer to the edge. You aggressively hump the pillow more and more. Squeezing your thighs around it as if it was Bucky himself. You flop yourself onto the pillow that you know realize smells heavily of his scent. You moan as you dig your head further into the pillow, breathing in his scent before you finally feel the knot inside you untie.
Bucky speeds up his jerk while he watched you finally cum. He whispers praises under his breath that he wishes you could’ve heard while masturbating. “You’re such a good girl baby -fuck, cumming all over my pillow. My dirty little wife.” His hand pumps faster over his shaft, the precum and spit acting as a lubricant. Though Bucky wishes it was your cunt instead. He humps his hand before coating his hand in his sticky release.
You whimper as your slick and cum coat your husband’s pillow, feeling it soak the object beneath you. You’re just coming down from your high when you feel a strong hand grip your shoulder. You tense, becoming startled by the person who had just tugged on your shoulder, before you realize it’s Bucky.
You take notice of the shade of pink across his cheeks, as you let your eyes wander down to his open pants, where his cock is set loose and proud.
Joel is your grumpy patrol partner who doesn’t even talk to you in the streets of Jackson. But one night a man grabs your arm at the Tipsy Bison, and Joel’s decided he doesn’t like it.
tw: smut, fem reader, afab reader, unspecified age gap, reader is smaller than Joel (shorter, can be picked up by him), oral (m! receiving), p in v sex, crying, fighting, blood, drinking, Joel may be out of character but I don’t care, not proofread.
Word count: 8.1k
masterlist
MDNI!
—
Joel was seething. You’d never seen him like this, rage burning in his gaze and his hands balled into fists at his sides as he was pushed toward the door. Of course you’d seen him in fights before, dealing with raiders and infected on patrol was a bloody business at best, but the second the new guy, Jake? Jack, at the Tipsy Bison put a hand on you—just touching your arm—Joel exploded.
You didn’t even have time to blink before the man grabbing your arm was on the ground, ugly bruises blossoming on his face. You didn’t even launch into action to get Joel off of him, shock leaving you frozen. You only remained plastered against the bar, gaping at Joel’s savage expression and the way his fists bludgeoned Jack's face. The drink in your hand spilled over the sides a bit, a sticky combination of fruit juice and alcohol coating your skin and absorbing in the sleeve of your sweater.
You were already tipsy, your face hot and your eyes a bit glassy. You were more loose with your expressions, the careful filter you kept starting to deteriorate. By the time a bar fight broke out, you were already more than a few drinks in, your heart pounding in your chest along with the soft music and a thin layer of sweat starting to prickle at the back of your neck.
Joel had stayed quiet that night, sticking to the secluded booth in the back of the bar that he usually haunted. There was no acknowledgement of each other, his chocolate-colored eyes had landed on you for a moment when you walked in, shadowed over by his dark brow in its permanent scowl. As always, he didn’t speak to you despite the fact that you spent most mornings together patrolling the outskirts of Jackson.
He wasn’t your biggest fan, even going so far as to complain to his brother when the two of you had been assigned together. Tommy was giving you a shot on the patrol, you were newer to Jackson and needed a job. You could handle a gun and didn’t seem completely clueless, so he figured he would stick you with Joel to see if you made it out on the other side.
But, nevertheless, Joel was now being pulled off Jack by a few other patrons. They hauled him up by the collar of his canvas jacket, his knuckles bloodied and a snarl on his face as Jack scrambled away. You still stood wide-eyed and dopey, your voice caught in your throat as you struggled for something to say.
Joel wouldn’t look at you, eyes drilling into Jack as he was shoved toward the door. He kept hissing threats through his teeth, snippets of ‘I’ll break your fucking arm if you ever touch her again,’ audible above the music as he grappled with the men trying to contain him.
Your gaze traced the outline of his aquiline nose, the way his lips were pursed beneath his dark mustache. It was a struggle to push him out the door. You flinched when it slammed shut behind him, spilling more of your drink.
“You better get your damn dog on a leash.” It was one of the older women in the neighborhood, her brows drawn and a disgusted expression on her face as she regarded you. You finally snapped out of your shocked stupor, looking at Jack’s bloodied and swollen face as he was picked up and put into a booth.
What was Joel even thinking?
You downed your drink in a few gulps, setting the empty glass on the bar before pushing yourself away from the bar top. Wind swept inside the Tipsy Bison as you forced the door open, providing a moment of relief from the humid heat of the bar. It was starting to get cold out, dried leaves swirling in the breeze as autumn settled into the bones of Jackson.
You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself as you peered out into the darkness. The leaves crunched under your shoes as you took a few tentative steps, the sweater you wore offering you little protection from the wind.
Joel leaned against the wall of a nearby business, his head tilted back and his throat bared to the dim light of the moon. He was sucking in deep breaths through his mouth, his bloody knuckles limp at his sides. His jacket was off-kilter from where he’d been thrown out the door, his hair mussed.
“Joel?” You approached him like you would a wild animal, on high alert and prepared for any sudden movement.
He looked at you with a bored expression, the moonlight catching on the silver hair that splintered at his temples and in his patchy beard. You hesitated, stopping your approach for a moment before pressing on until you were a few feet in front of him. His dark curls stuck up in every direction, they were a little long now that winter was approaching.
“What the hell was that?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest as your weight settled so one hip popped out to the side. You sounded more aggressive than you intended to, the words coming out like an accusation rather than a question.
It was times like this that made the age and size difference between you and Joel apparent. He stood up straight, towering over you a bit as he cleared his throat. Sometimes he made you feel like you were still just a dumb teenager instead of a woman in her mid twenties. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice a deep grumble with a slight southern twang to it.
A scoff leaves your mouth before you can even stop it, the alcohol reducing your filter to near non-existence. “What do you mean, Joel? I watched you beat the shit out of that guy for what? Touching my arm?” You were a little too loud, your voice ricocheting off the buildings around you. Under different circumstances, you would have cringed and apologized immediately, but something forced you to soldier on.
Thankfully no one else was outside that night—it was too cold and still too early for the Tipsy Bison to have a last call. It felt like a standoff. His dark eyes were trained on your face, his mouth drawn into a scowl. You usually backed down to him, acquiescing to his stubborn nature.
“And so what if it was?” Joel grumbled, his attitude matching your own. The way he crossed his arms made his biceps bulge under the fabric of his jacket—your breath hitched for a moment before you glanced away.
You shook your head, disbelief coloring your expression as his words settled in. “You don’t even like me!” You can’t help but gesture wildly, your hands moving like they had minds of their own.
He ignored you regularly. There was an unspoken rule of only acknowledging one another on patrols together. The woods outside of Jackson were the only place that Joel would actually talk to you, otherwise you acted like perfect strangers in town.
His jaw clenched as he pushed off the wall, taking a few steps closer to you. “Who said I didn’t like you?” he asked, his voice lower as his head dipped toward yours.
He couldn’t be serious.
Your eyebrows shot up, disbelief making you smile incredulously. “What, so ignoring me in public and complaining about me to Tommy is how you treat your friends?” You were moments away from leaving and letting Joel find a new patrol partner.
You spent too much time defending Joel from his reputation as the town pariah, arguing that he wasn’t the animal everyone thought he was. He had a hard time blending in, bigger than most everyone except for his brother and unapproachable to a fault. It seemed that Tommy and Ellie were the only people he willingly spoke to, otherwise keeping largely to himself.
Sometimes you wondered if he heard the rumors going around about him—speculation that he used to be a hunter, a smuggler, a heartless killer. You never had it in you to ask him about it.
Not that he would tell you, anyways.
Joel’s scowl deepened, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. His silence did nothing but rile you up, it felt like an admission to the fact that you were right. You huffed, the autumnal breeze making dried leaves stick to your jeans and your breath clouding in the air.
“Well, Joel, you should really figure out how to act like an adult,” you snapped, shaking your head as you started to turn away from him. “You’re way too old to be beating up boys at a bar for touching someone you don’t even give a damn about.”
The Tipsy Bison called to you, warm light spilling out the windows and the people moving inside. Your friends were still in there, giggling with one another at the bar. You could see others nursing Jack in a booth, pressing ice wrapped in towels against his face as his blood turned them pink.
“I didn’t like how he was grabbing ya,” Joel finally said after you’d taken a few steps away. The admission made you stop in your tracks, looking back over your shoulder at the man. He looked sheepish as he admitted it, his gaze on the floor like a toddler getting scolded. He cleared his throat, taking a deep breath before redirecting his eyes to the sky. “You didn’t… you didn’t hear how he was talking about you… didn’t want you with a guy like that.”
Your eyebrows shot up, your lips parting slightly. Your head tilted up to look at him properly, eyes narrowed slightly as you evaluated him. He seemed shockingly sincere, the awkward expression on his face sealing the deal. “Careful Joel, I’m almost starting to think you care about me.”
There was something in the way his eyes shifted to meet yours that almost made your heart stop.
“Never said I didn’t care,” he mumbled, one of his baseball mitt hands coming to rub the back of his neck. The blood on his knuckles was drying, turning to a rust color under the moonlight. You couldn’t help but purse your lips, tilting your head to one side. It was hard to understand, the alcohol making you feel like you were buzzing as you mulled over Joel’s words.
He cleared his throat again, shuffling a little closer to you in the process. “When I talked to Tommy, I wasn’t complainin’ about you,” Joel said. His cheeks were flushed, making you wonder if he was cold or just from the alcohol. He was notorious for sucking down bourbon like it was water, especially on nights when he had nothing to do the next day.
“You weren’t?” you asked, probing the older man a bit. You had only walked by when Joel was talking to his brother, catching your name in their hushed whispers and Joel’s strained expression. You’d assumed it was because he was stuck with you, a newer recruit, a woman.
Joel sighed, shaking his head. It felt like you were pulling every word from his throat. “Tommy… he uh… he put us together because he thought it would be good for me,” he said, hesitating between parts of his sentence. “Thought you’d be good for me.”
“Good for you?” The alcohol made your voice soft around the edges, the question tumbling out of you before you had the sense to stop it. Joel stepped closer, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. He was close enough that you could see the scar on his ear, the scars littering his bloodied hands and the ones across his nose. Sure, you’d seen them on patrol as you walked shoulder to shoulder, but for some reason you find yourself trying to memorize every detail about him in the moonlight.
“Yeah, sweetheart, good for me,” Joel mumbled, looking down at his boots for a moment before making eye contact with you again. Sweetheart. The nickname rattled around in your mind, echoing in time with your heartbeat. You would’ve punched anyone else for calling you sweetheart, but it sounded good coming from Joel.
Your face heated up, an odd smile quirking up the corners of your mouth as you struggled to find words to say. “You’re a liar, Joel,” you manage to spit out.
He let out a chuckle, the kind that hardly made any noise and just let out a sharp breath of air. You earned one every now and then, it always made you beam when you could get him to chuckle on patrol. “Yeah? I could’ve switched a long time ago,” Joel murmured, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Tommy offered to let me switch.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, a sliver of your combative nature rising up your throat. You wanted to argue with the older man, inform him that he was wrong.
Joel must have picked up at the way your jaw twitched, your expression twisting. “It’s nice to listen to ya blabber in the mornings,” he said, his tone lighter than it had been. It was almost easy to forget what happened in the Tipsy Bison, the way you watched him beat Jack’s face into a pulp.
You huffed, shaking your head. There was a small smile on your face as the heat continued to rise on your cheeks. “Then why do you act like I’m a stranger when I see you around?” you asked Joel. You scraped your teeth over your lower lip, scuffing the toe of your shoe in the dirt.
Joel’s face fell a bit, his eyes softening as he became serious once more. “You don’t want to be around me anyways, people would judge ya.” It was like he didn’t want to admit it, his voice low and mumbling.
You hummed your disagreement, deciding to be bold and step even closer to the huge man in front of you. He towered a head over most people in Jackson, strong and wide and sturdy. You looked over his tanned, weathered skin, his dark curls that were starting to show age through scattered silver strands. “You don’t seem too bad to me,” you said, nearly a whisper.
You saw how Ellie looked at him like he was her favorite person in the world. If that girl could trust him, then so could you.
Joel’s warmth radiated onto you in the cool evening, the smell of bourbon on his breath and blood on his hands. He shook his head, maintaining the closeness you’d established. “Sweetheart, you know most of the shit they say about me around this town is true.”
You’d figured as much. You’d watched Joel kill raiders without a blink of an eye and jump into action whenever infected approached the high, protective walls around Jackson. The first time you’d witnessed it, his precision took your breath away. Now it was something that you had come to depend on.
“I assumed as much,” you said with a shrug, folding your arms over your chest and tucking your hands under your armpits to keep them warm. “Never mattered to me,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek for a moment.
You considered going back to the bar to avoid the chill, but you didn’t feel like having to answer questions about you and Joel all night. Everyone would want to know what he said to you out here, would have their own ideas about why he did it. There were a few breaths of silence. “But, I should probably go home.”
“Not gonna go back inside?” Joel asked, nodding his chin toward the Tipsy Bison. His gaze was still focused on you. You thought about it for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at the bar. It had lost its appeal.
“Just home, Joel. Have a good night… thanks for protecting my honor and stuff,” you said with a small smile. There was a lightness in the way you spoke, your eyes sparkling in the darkness.
You started to walk toward your house, living in the opposite direction from Joel. “Make sure you clean up those hands of yours, don’t want to have to get another patrol partner any time soon,” you said without looking back, dead leaves crunching under your feet with each step.
You heard his heavy footfalls behind you until Joel fell into step at your side. “Mind helping me out? Not great at first aid,” he said, holding his knuckles out in front of him. They were blown apart.
“Jesus, Joel,” you muttered, grabbing one of his wrists to inspect his hand as you walked. His wrist was warm and thick in your hand, he didn’t pull away. The wounds overlapped a number of scars beneath them, a snippet of Joel’s past violence. “Were you trying to kill him or just teach him a lesson?”
“I don’t pull my punches,” Joel said with a noncommittal shrug, making you roll your eyes. Of course he didn’t. Joel definitely taught him a lesson. You dropped his wrist, not giving him a response as you followed the path to your home.
Your house was one of the smaller ones, the yellow paint starting to peel off the siding and the wall around Jackson casting a shadow over it in the moonlight. Joel was grumbling about your proximity to the wall as you opened your front door and flicked on the lights.
“Take off your boots before you track mud in, I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” you tell Joel, toeing your shoes off before you head to one of the bathrooms. You can still hear him complaining as his heavy boots hit the floor, his lumbering footsteps going to the kitchen. The layout for all of the homes in Jackson was relatively the same, the sub-development it had been converted from seemed fairly cookie-cutter.
Joel sat patiently at the counter as you brought in the first aid kit, setting it down on the stone countertop and flicking it open. He seemed calm and unconcerned, more like a seasoned veteran to first aid than a novice. “I find it hard to believe that you’re bad at this,” you murmured, opening an alcohol wipe to start cleaning his knuckles.
Joel placed his big, catcher’s mitt hands flat on the counter for you to work. His jaw tensed a few times as you wiped over the largest knuckle on each of his hands. “I’m here for your gentle touch, sweetheart,” he muttered, sarcasm biting his tone and making you laugh.
“I’m not a nurse for a reason,” you said, smearing ointment onto the wounds with your fingertips. You tried to be careful, not applying too much pressure to the irritated skin.
Joel chuckled, watching your movements as you pulled out a roll of gauze and loosely wrapped his wounds to cover them. He flexed his hands as soon as you were finished, the gauze stretching tight when he made fists. “Good as new,” you said, leaning against the countertop. You both looked down at his bandaged wounds, lingering in the closeness before you stepped away.
“Now, you should hold off on bar fights for a while.” Mirth glittered in your eyes as you grabbed a wine bottle from one of the shelves in your kitchen. You grabbed two glasses without asking, methodically going through the motions of opening the bottle and pouring.
It felt like you and Joel were sprinting head-first at a line the two of you had never crossed before. There was a shift from coworkers to something else, and it started the second Joel pounced on Jack. You found yourself studying his face as you handed him a wine glass, categorizing his features as you took a sip. He was handsome, but he always had been—you just didn’t let yourself recognize it.
“No promises,” Joel grumbled, taking a long drink. You watched him swallow, your eyes partially lidded before you remembered yourself. You felt your cheeks and ears heat up as you took another drink, unclenching your fist at your side and focusing on the stretch of the bones and ligaments.
“You really didn’t need to beat Jack up, I can handle myself,” you murmured, your lashes fluttering as you redirected your gaze to Joel.
He just snorted softly, shaking his head. His expression twisted into amusement, the papery wrinkles of his crow’s feet becoming pronounced. Your brows furrowed, your head tilting as you prepared to argue the fact that you could, in fact, defend yourself. “His name is Jake.”
Embarrassment made blood rush to your face so quickly you almost felt light headed. A sheepish smile settled on your features, a giggle working its way through your throat. “He even let me call him Jack like… five times the other day,” you said into your wine glass, a guilty look on your face.
“Poor boy’s got it bad then,” Joel said, smirking at you. His dark eyes appeared even darker in the lighting of your kitchen.
“Don’t worry, I think you scared him enough,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. You picked your glass up off the counter, walking out of the kitchen to your cozy living room.
Joel came to sit on the couch as you stoked a fire to life, burning some of the dried kindling you kept in a bucket near the fireplace to coax the logs to life. You could feel his eyes on your back as you crouched, the flames breathing warmth over you as they crackled. The combination of his gaze, the fire, and the wine you kept sucking down in mouthfuls made a sweat prickle at the back of your neck as you stood up straight.
He made himself comfortable, lounging on the couch with an arm draped on the back of it. He’d brought the bottle of wine, it sat on the coffee table next to his empty glass. One of your eyebrows arched as you sat next to him, leaving enough space between the two of you that you could twist and bring your knees and feet up onto the sofa.
“You really made yourself at home.”
Joel cracked an easy smile, the fire illuminating the deep shadows of scowl lines on his forehead. You felt the urge to smooth them out with your fingertips. “I’ve got a habit of doing that,” he said, his dark gaze sliding to the fireplace. One of the logs popped, sending sparks through the hearth.
There was a lapse of silence where you reached over and filled up his wine glass again. You felt surprisingly comfortable next to him, relaxing your side against the cushioned back of the couch as you faced Joel. “The ladies at the Tipsy Bison called you my guard dog.”
That made him outright snicker. “Yeah? I’m your guard dog, huh?” he asked, clearly teasing. The way his flannel clung to his shoulders was heavenly, wrapped around every well-defined muscle like a second skin. The wine was staining his mouth purple, you were enraptured as his tongue darted out to catch any remaining drops on his lips.
You cleared your throat, blinking as you nodded. “Said I should get you on a leash,” you mumbled, the heat on your cheeks spreading to your neck and ears. You gulped the wine to break some of the tension, your nose scrunching as you swallowed.
There was a shift, it would’ve gone unnoticed if you weren’t paying attention.
Joel stretched a bit, tilting his head back as he finished the rest of the wine in one gulp before setting the glass on the coffee table. When he sat back, he’d moved closer to you. Your knee was nearly touching his thigh, that inch of empty space feeling electric.
“Do you want me on a leash?” he asked, his voice deep. There was something different to his tone, the harsh edges of his voice rounded out more than usual. The question made your breath stutter in your chest. The sincerity in his expression caught you off guard. You opened your mouth to speak, only silence coming out. “If there was anyone who could convince me, it would probably be you, sweetheart.”
You choked on your wine, awkward and clumsy as you sat up straight to prevent it from coming out of your nose. Part of you felt like Joel had turned you inside out as you spluttered, confusion and self-consciousness running rampant.. Finally you got a hold of yourself, sucking in wet breaths with tears in your eyes.
“You okay?” His voice was sweet and soft when he asked, as though he hadn’t caused it. You nodded, waiving off his concern as his paw of a hand grabbed your shoulder. His touch was napalm, igniting your skin through your thin sweater.
“Just surprised me,” you choked out, wiping away the tears with the heel of your hand as you sniffled. Joel’s hand stayed where it was, his thumb rubbing along your collarbone over the black fabric. He did nothing but hum his acknowledgement, patiently waiting for you to catch your breath.
Another cough rattled through you before you could breathe again. Joel’s eyebrows were raised as he watched you, mirth sparkling in his eyes. “You are so full of shit, Joel Miller,” you finally said, pushing his shoulder lightly.
He still was touching you, leaning forward into your space as he did so. Your breaths were shallow, apprehensive and giddy in all the right ways.
“You think I’m full of shit?” he asked, smirking.
“I know you are.” You couldn’t help but flirt, batting your eyelashes and smirking at Joel. You felt electric, lightning just crackling under your skin with the potential thrill of him reciprocating. Sure, you were risking a decent work relationship, but you could get a new patrol partner.
He hummed thoughtfully, his hand creeping toward the back of your neck. The stretch of his fingers to the meat of his palm spanned nearly three-quarters of the circumference of your throat, something that should’ve chilled you to the bone. Excitement sparked in your belly as you swallowed against the firm press of his thumb on your windpipe.
“You don’t seem like an ‘on the leash’ kind of guy,” you murmured, the feeling of the gauze you’d wrapped around his knuckles rubbing against your soft skin making you shiver slightly.
“No, guess I don’t,” Joel agreed, his dark brown gaze shifting from your eyes to your mouth and back. It was so quick, but the thrill that followed made you feel like you were glowing. You slicked your tongue over your lower lip, making it shine in the firelight.
The way he spoke made you press your thighs together, the stiff seam of your jeans pressing against you in the perfect way if you shifted how you were sitting. Joel moved as well, his thighs spreading just a bit, a palm quickly smoothing over his lap in an action he probably didn’t think he would notice.
“Sweetheart, we should just get this out of the way.”
Your brow furrowed in confusion before Joel was pulling you toward him, his lips slotting over yours. A soft, startled noise was muffled against Joel’s mouth, shock dissipating quickly as your eyes slid shut. His mustache tickled your upper lip as you accidentally bumped your nose against his.
When he pulled back, there was a hint of a smile on his face. Your face felt like it was on fire, a goofy grin gracing your features as your gaze flickered over him.
Joel’s other hand crept onto your jean-clad thigh, a calloused thumb stroking along the frayed hole at your knee. “So, was that weird for you?” you asked like an insecure teenager, your teeth digging into your lower lip as you waited for his answer.
Your heart was pounding, the irrational side of your brain wondering if he was able to hear it. He surely felt it against his palm, his heavy hand resting near your pulse as he kept you close on the couch. He smiled at your question, shaking his head no as he pulled you back in for a second kiss. It was quicker, a messy stamp of his mouth over yours.
“Didn’t think you’d be into an old man like me,” he said with a chuckle. If you didn’t know better it almost seemed like Joel felt bashful. The apples of his cheeks were dusted pink, whether it was from the kiss or the wine you didn’t know.
Your eyebrow arched, a grin still on your face. “You’re not old,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. Your hands were pressed into your lap, part of you not knowing what to do with them. You looked up at Joel through your eyelashes before your gaze dragged down his torso and to his jeans. The flannel he wore was thin, the fabric well-worn and not tucked into his blue jeans.
“I should, um, thank you,” you murmured, shifting to put your empty wine glass on the coffee table.
Joel chuckled, still watching you like a hawk that set sights on its prey. “Last I checked, you were just lecturing me about fighting your own battles,” he teased, curiosity shining deep in his chocolate eyes as you got off your couch.
The wine must have gotten to your head, because you would’ve thought you were losing your mind. You moved to stand between Joel’s legs, slowly sinking to your knees on the squishy gray carpet that covered your living room. “I don’t have to thank you if you don’t want me to, Joel,” you murmured, your hands hovering over his thick thighs for a moment before resting on them.
He looked dumbfounded and giddy, his hands already resting on the black, leather belt he wore around his waist. “No, sweetheart, you’ve got a…uh… promising idea,” Joel said with a smile, shifting his legs so they bracketed you and his knees pressed against the coffee table.
You laughed softly, hands roaming up his muscular thighs to where his belt rested just under the soft layer of fat covering his stomach. “You sure? I can always get back up,” you said teasingly, working your fingers under the tongue of his belt and pulling the buckle open. It clinked as it fell off to the sides, you didn’t bother pulling it from the belt loops.
Joel shook his head, leaning back farther into the couch and shifting his hips toward you. “M’sure,” he answered, preoccupied on the way your fingers popped open the button of his jeans and worked the zipper down.
He was already hard, the outline of his cock pressing against the denim and toward his thigh. You reached into his black boxers, pulling it out of its confinement with a satisfied sigh.
He was big, bigger than any other guy you’d been with. You held the base of his cock, fingers against the curly, dark hair that covered his pubic bone and ran up toward his belly button. It was hot to the touch, the head already leaking precum that followed the path of the prominent veins down his shaft. It was more pink than the rest of him, the head a shade darker than the rest.
You licked your lips, almost embarrassed to find yourself drooling as you braced your forearm on his thigh and kitten-licked at the underside of Joel’s cock. He grunted at the contact, his hands digging into the plush cushion of the couch as his hips twitched toward your face.
“Eager,” you mumbled, a smile on your face as you looked up at Joel through your eyelashes. He was already looking down at you, his lips parted in anticipation and his breaths heavier than they were. You licked the tip of his cock again, the salty taste of his precum on your tongue. There’s something about the way that Joel lets a breath out through his teeth that makes you feel like you were set on fire.
You let out a breathy chuckle, wrapping your lips around the head of him and hollowing out your cheeks on your descent toward his lap. It was a lot to take, your eyes watering as you swallowed more of Joel’s cock. His moans and sighs were enough to keep you going, your lips curled over your teeth and your head bobbing up and down.
One of his hands found the curve of your jaw, calloused fingers tracing it before hooking around the back of your head. You were fine with his direction, letting Joel gently press your head down to dictate your speed.
The taste of him was salty and heady, a musk that was distinctly Joel filling your nose as you drooled and sucked his cock. It was slick with your spit, the mix of your saliva and his precum coating your lips and chin. You still had your hand wrapped around the base of him and moving in tandem with your mouth, ensuring you could get everything that your throat couldn’t fit.
“Goddamn, sweetheart, you suck cock like you were made for it,” Joel said, his words punctuated with soft sighs and moans. It made you want to live permanently with his praise, your gaze flicking up to meet Joel’s for a moment.
He was completely blissed out, his head tilted back toward the ceiling as he bit his full lower lip between his teeth. His Adam’s apple kept moving erratically in his throat, like he couldn’t decide whether to breathe or not. His hand still cupped the black of your head, half-thought praises falling frantically from his lips. Joel was barely speaking in sentences, some words falling to the wayside of his soft grunts.
Feeling emboldened, you moved your hand away and tried to relax your jaw as your head descended far enough that your nose was pressed firmly against Joel’s pubic hair. It smelled surprisingly clean, just the undertone of musk clinging to the dark, curly thatch of hair as you resisted the urge to choke around his cock.
It was thick and heavy in your throat as you swallowed around him, eliciting groans and his hand pressing tightly against the back of your head. Tears burned in your eyes as Joel’s thick cock twitched in your throat, your hands spread flat on your thighs as he moaned your praises.
Joel barely thrusted his hips toward your awaiting mouth, your eyes slipped shut so you could focus on relaxing your throat. Lungs burning, you finally pulled off to suck in deep breaths. Your hand resumed what your mouth had been doing moments before, taking Joel in your fist and using your saliva as lubrication.
“Look at how pretty you are,” Joel murmured, his southern accent thicker than normal as the hand on the back of your head shifted to cup your cheek. Your eyes were watery with a few tears tracking down your face, your lips swollen and saliva coating the entirety of your chin.
You smiled, stroking his cock as you struggled to regain your breath. “Didn’t know you were such a good girl,” Joel drawled, dragging his thumb through the saliva on your chin and smearing the pad of it across your parted lips.
“When I want to be.” Your voice was thick and raspy, your eyes partially lidded. Your knees were digging into the carpet, his legs keeping you where you sat.
He smirked at that. Joel gently moved your hand away from his cock, his arms winding beneath your armpits and lifted you back up to the couch. You squealed in the back of your throat, surprised by his strength as he settled you against the arm of the couch and twisted to face you.
Large hands yanked your sweater over your head to reveal the black bra you wore, a soft groan coming from Joel. He didn’t waste time, finding the back closure and popping it open. You helped him, guiding the thin straps down your arms and tossing the garment aside.
“Christ,” Joel mumbled, his thick fingers brushing over one of your nipples. A jolt of electricity traveled down your spine at the touch, warmth blooming on your cheeks.
You were impatient, panties already soaked through and feeling uncomfortable as you popped open the button on your jeans. “Joel, I need you,” you murmured, leaning forward to kiss him as you shimmied your pants and underwear over your hips.
“So impatient,” he muttered between presses of your lips, pulling away so he could look at you properly. The firelight illuminated the curves and shadows that littered your body, stretch marks and scars visible on your skin. Self-consciousness reared its ugly head for a moment, your gaze fluttering away from Joel’s intensity as he just stared at you.
He grabbed your thighs, pulling you toward him until your back hit the couch. “Joel…” you whined as he pressed your thighs apart, his dark eyes focused on your sex.
He spread the slicked lips apart with his thumb, making you cover your face with your hands out of embarrassment. “Look at you…” he mumbled, hardly even talking to you. He let go of your other thigh, his fingertips teasing your clenching hole to gather some of the wetness dripping down you and smearing it across your clit.
You gasped, your back arching at the contact against the nerves. Joel’s fingers were calloused and thick and warm, drawing tight, slow circles over your clit as his other hand pressed into the crease between your inner thigh and your pubic bone. It kept your hips from squirming away from him.
“You’re so sensitive, sweetheart,” Joel said, the smile audible in his voice. You’d kept your hands over your face, your moans muffled by your palms as you resisted the urge to snap your thighs closed. You felt vulnerable and exposed under him.
“You’re teasing,” you mumbled, your hips twitching in an attempt to get more friction from his calloused fingers. He kept his touch agonizingly light, making you whine and whimper in your desperation for more from him. He chuckled, fingers dipping to tease your entrance again before trailing back up to your clit.
“Let me see ya,” Joel said, his hand leaving the nestle of your thigh to wrap around your wrists and pull them away from your face. He held both in one hand, keeping your wrists captive against your sternum.
Your breaths were heavy, his fingers strumming over the swollen bump of your clit pulling moans from your throat. Joel’s eyes were partially lidded as he looked down at you, a smirk growing on his face at your desperate expression. “Joel, please,” you begged, your cunt clenching around empty space as you wished he would just fucking fill you up already.
He chuckled, clicking his tongue against his teeth with mock disapproval. “If you’re so desperate, get up and turn around, sweetheart,” he said, pulling you up by your wrists. “My knees aren’t what they used to be, help an old man out.”
You’d normally take that opportunity to make a joke at his expense, but you just let him move you around like a doll. He guided you so you were kneeling on the couch, your chest pressed against the back of it. You arched your back as much as you could, sticking your ass out and hoping you looked pretty as you looked at Joel over your shoulder. He didn’t even bother getting undressed, just standing up behind you and taking his cock in his hand.
His other hand still rubbed over your cunt, smearing your arousal over your swollen lips and onto your inner thighs. Much to your relief, he pressed two thick fingers inside you. The sensation made you groan, resting your weight on your elbows and your knees as you pushed back against his fingers. They slid in so easy you were almost embarrassed.
“You’ll take me just fine, sweetheart,” Joel murmured, approval echoing in his voice. He crooked his fingers to press and massage the spongy spot inside of you, making your mouth fall open and your legs jerk.
You twisted enough to glare at him, Joel covered in shadow from the fire crackling behind him. “Quit being an asshole, Joel,” you said through your teeth, making him chuckle.
“Where are your manners, sweetheart?” he asked, pulling his fingers from your cunt. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a sigh before grabbing your hip with a hand. His wet fingers smeared against your heated skin as he pulled you back a little more, making your back arch like a bow pulled too tight.
He slid the blunt head of his cock between your folds until it tapped against your clit, making him when you whimpered. Joel finally granted you what you wanted, lining up with your entrance and pressing his way in. His cock caught, sliding in so slow that it made you squirm.
“Relax, sweetheart.” Joel’s big hand slid up and down your curved spine, calloused fingers feeling each and every notch of your vertebrae. Your pussy fluttered around him, stretched out and so eager as he bullied his way inside of you. The breath you took in was frantic and overwhelmed, it felt as though he was pushing all of the air out of your body. The two fingers he had pressed inside of you as a test didn’t prepare you at all for his thick cock.
You could hardly breathe, you’d never taken a cock this big inside of you without any preparation–but you were too impatient to wait for him to stretch you out on his fingers. You were pathetic, whining and wheezing as your hands clenched against the cushions on the back of your couch.
You’d never felt anything better in your life.
After what felt like ages, Joel was fully seated inside of you. His coarse jeans were pressed against your soft thighs, the two of you breathing heavily like you’d run a marathon.
“You’ve gotta relax. Feels like you’re gonna squeeze my dick off,” Joel said, slowly grinding his pelvis against the swell of your ass. You nodded, trying to take in deep breaths and get used to the feeling of being stretched full.
“Sorry,” you muttered as you focused on becoming pliant, your taught muscles slowly releasing. His beard rasped against the back of your neck as he kissed you there, a moment of intimacy to calm you down. It felt like a reward, your breaths slowing as you unclenched around Joel and welcomed him deeper.
The sound you made when Joel pulled out and pressed back in was pathetic. It felt like he was sawing you in half, carving a space for his cock inside of you with each thrust. There was some caution to his movements, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he grit his teeth.
“So fucking tight, sweetheart,” Joel said, his voice muffled as his mouth pressed against your neck. Each thrust coaxed a gasp from you, your nails digging into the fabric of the couch as you took whatever Joel is willing to give. Your vision was blurry from the overwhelmed tears brimming your eyes.
The sound of your bodies smacking together filled your living room, the open belt still threaded through Joel’s pants clinking on the off beat. He maintained his pace like a machine, drilling into the gummy spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head.
Your nipples were sensitive, rubbing against the coarse fabric of the couch cushions with every thrust. The noises you made were absolutely undignified, the sounds of someone being fucked completely stupid. He was filling you up so perfectly and the knowledge that it was Joel, your hardass patrol partner who never gave affection to anyone, it made you feel like you’d touched a live wire.
“Tell me how it feels, sweetheart,” Joel said, a wide hand reaching around you to fondle your breast. He used it to bring you back, curving your spine so the back of your head was pressed against his collarbone and you looked up at where the wall and ceiling met.
You felt helpless and primal, your mind scattered a million different places. “So good,” you gasped stupidly, hardly able to form words. Your hands grabbed his forearm and fisted in his flannel behind you, an effort to anchor yourself to him.
“I know,” he murmured, kissing the shell of your ear. You were vaguely aware of tears running down your cheeks, your mouth hanging open as you struggled to stay afloat. You were already lost, a sea of sensation pulling you under with only the places where you and Joel were pressed together serving as your lifeline.
Joel’s free hand reached around your belly, finding your neglected clit with practiced ease. You moaned his name like a broken record, your eyebrows furrowing. He rubbed it hard and fast, matching the pace he was rutting into you with. You already felt heat pooling in your lower abdomen.
“Oh god,” you gasped, already shaking from head to toe and your grip tightening around his forearm. “Joel I’m—yes, yes, yes—“
It felt like your whole world shattered as you came with a shout, your muscles convulsing. You clamped around Joel’s cock like a vise, your hips twitching wildly. Pleasure flooded through you from head to toe, warm and fuzzy and all-consuming. The sensation was simultaneously too much and not enough, Joel steadily fucking you through it as your vision went white.
Joel had to pull himself away from you, letting you slump forward on the couch cushion as you came down from your orgasm. You were clenching around nothing, whining at how cruel he was to leave you empty.
The wet, sticky sounds coming from him made you turn your head as you went boneless on the couch. Joel’s cheeks were red as he tugged at his cock, a hand squeezing the flesh of your ass. His dark eyes were focused on you, all loose limbed and spent.
He finally noticed you looking, his mouth open and panting. He took in your fucked out expression, your eyelashes clumped with tears and cheeks red. He’d made a mess of you, the dazed look on your face his undoing as he let out a grunt. He sunk his teeth into his lower lip as he came, spurting thick come over your ass as his fingers dug into you.
You sighed as you felt his hot come land on your ass and back, pooling in the curve of your spine. You were still floaty and out of it, vaguely aware of him milking the last spurts of his spend from his thick cock.
“Jesus,” he grumbled, swaying for a moment before sitting down on the couch next to you. He gathered you in his arms, pulling you onto his lap and against his chest as you went perfectly limp.
You nuzzled against his neck, humming your affection as his hand rubbed up and down your back. The motion smeared his come along your skin, his fingers rubbing it in like body lotion. It was like he’d stuck your brain in a blender, the mush of the aftermath hardly able to form more than feelings as you pressed your forehead against his beard.
“I’ll beat up the whole town if this is the thanks I get,” Joel said, pressing a kiss to your temple. His barrel chest shook beneath you with a chuckle, his hands never straying from your body.
“No one’s gonna want to touch me with a ten-foot pole,” you muttered after a moment of silence, it took you a beat to even process what Joel was saying. He snickered, seeming pleased with himself as you melted deeper into his embrace.
“Good, I should be the only one touching you,” he said, making warmth bloom in your chest. “Unless I’m assuming things.”
You smiled, a sleepy look still on your face as you wound your arms around his neck and snuggled in closer. “So this wasn’t a spur of the moment thing?” you asked, sounding shy as you said it.
Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “You know how many times I had to go home after patrol and take a cold shower just because you bumped my arm or bent over to pick something up? Felt like a damn teenager.”
You giggled, picking your head up to look at Joel properly. He looked so soft and sweet around the edges, that normal fire and flintiness was gone from his dark eyes. “You gonna stay tonight?”
He pulled you in for a kiss, it was sweet and over all too soon. “If you’ll let me,” Joel said, sounding earnest.
You nodded, tucking your head back against his neck. You were starting to succumb to your drowsy state, your eyes sliding shut as you puddled into Joel. You were vaguely aware of him lifting you off the couch, his good-natured grumbling about carrying you up the stairs filling your ears.
This was sooooo amazing!!!! 😍 I am such a possessive and jealous Joel slut 😂 so this was such a treat for me!!!!! Once again, such amazing writing and chemistry between the characters 🤩
Finally finishing the request for a Joel Miller fic inspired by "Jealous" by Nick Jonas for @prettyinpunk85 (I hope you like it)
You get new neighbors in Jackson, Joel doesn't like how much attention they pay to you so he decides to teach them a lesson.
tw: afab and fem reader, p in v sex, alludes to curvy reader, age gap (twenty years), exhibitionism, some dubcon, dirty talk, no use of y/n, unsafe sex (do as i say not as fanfic writes), oral (f receiving), fingering, finger sucking, jealous joel, written from joel's perspective (may be bad)
Word Count: 4.8k
MDNI
masterlist
—
Joel didn’t know what to do with himself when you’d happily announced that you had new neighbors. The house next to his in Jackson had been empty for some time, it was yours until you decided to move in with him and Ellie. He was hoping the neighbors would be a family, or maybe some older survivors. Really, someone you could be friends with, he knew you were way too extroverted for just his company.
But instead the new neighbors were his nightmare: two guys–in their twenties.
You were young for Joel, he knew that. Part of him had always attributed your interest in him to the fact that choices were limited in the zombie apocalypse. He hadn’t even known how to flirt with you, awkwardly leaving tattered books he had found during supply runs on your front porch, sometimes accompanied by wilted wildflowers. One day he had left you a bookshelf he’d built, endless hours spent in his studio sanding the wood to perfection and carving flowers into the border. You had to ask him to come over to help you move it inside.
That was over two years ago, and he still had no clue why a pretty thing like you had decided to even talk to him, let alone be with him. To be honest, no one else in Jackson understood it, either. You worked at the small bakery on Main Street and wanted to convert one of the buildings into a library. You liked to sew pretty dresses and planted superficial flowers outside of the house in the summertime.
Joel was nothing of the sort, keeping everyone at an arm’s length aside from Tommy and Ellie. He stayed on the fringes of community events, always present but never participating. Ellie was loud enough for the both of them, boisterous and friendly and everything he wasn’t. He was happy to watch her thrive.
So the first time she asked him to go to the bakery so she could hang out with a friend, he reluctantly agreed. He’d introduced himself to you like a complete idiot, blushing when you laughed and informed him that you were neighbors. Joel had become enamored with you from the second he saw your smile, the way your eyes crinkled at the edges and your cheeks lifted. He could’ve died a happy man right there at the counter.
From then on, he claimed that bakery visits were firmly his responsibility.
He sucked up every piece of information you gave him, starting with your favorite items at the shop and spiraling until he knew that you loved wildflowers and what books you liked to read. Joel was greedy, he wanted to know everything about you–he wanted to be the only person that knew everything about you.
That was when he started leaving you gifts at your door, and the rest was history.
So when you swatted his hand away from the cooling cookies on the rack in the kitchen, his brown eyes regarded you with betrayal. “They’re for the neighbors,” you informed him, untying your cute, frilly little apron and hanging it on the hook he’d installed.
The neighbors.
They had already become adversaries in a war that only he knew existed. Joel sighed, heavy boots plodding against the floor until he could wrap his arms around your waist and pull your back to his chest. “Now why are you giving the neighbors my cookies?” he asked, nuzzling the tip of his nose against your temple.
“To be friendly, Joel,” you said with a giggle, turning in his arms to look up at him. His big, scarred hands were on the small of your back, fingertips rubbing gentle circles through your shirt. He swore his heart stopped every time you looked up at him, your thick eyelashes fluttering as your lips quirked into a smile. “Something that you are unfamiliar with.”
He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “M’friendly,” he protested, pecking you on the lips as though it would prove his point.
“Oh yeah?” you asked, leaning up and kissing the corner of his lip once before squirming out of his grip. You retrieved one of the few plates that didn’t have a chip missing from the cabinet, transferring the cookies onto it with care. “It took you how many months to talk to me?”
Even if the question wasn’t rhetorical, he decided to treat it that way. He moved closer to you, a possessive hand curling around your waist and lips meeting your shoulder. “To prove you wrong, I’ll come with you to introduce ourselves to the neighbors.” He wanted to keep an eye on them, let them know that his pretty girlfriend was in fact taken before they got any wrong ideas.
Your brow furrowed, immediately suspicious of his motives. “Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”
He smiled, trying to be sweet and smooth like he used to be when he was younger. Before everything. “Maybe I just want to be nice, wildflower. Ever thought of that?”
Your eyes dragging across him let him know that you weren’t convinced. The two of you stared at one another, waiting to see who would cave first. Apparently it was you. “Fine, but I know you’re up to something.”
Joel’s hand was firmly planted on the small of your back as you stepped out into the afternoon sun, the whole world looking like it was dipped in gold. You went up the rickety porch stairs first, Joel only a half step behind you as you adjusted the plate to one hand to knock on the door.
He was staring at the way the blue paint was starting to peel, thinking about how no self-respecting man would let his house fall into disrepair like that. No mind that they had only moved in a few days ago, they should’ve repainted the front door by now–it was people’s first impression whenever they walked up to the house.
It took a moment after you knocked for the door to swing open, two blonde idiots who looked like they were straight out of a magazine advertisement standing on the other side. Their blue eyes lit up when they saw you, easy smiles gracing their features like they hadn’t been battle-hardened by the outbreak.
Not like Joel was.
Joel’s fingers dug into your back, his expression hardening. They tempered their excitement when they saw him, standing so close to you that he could practically be your shadow.
He loathed the way they were looking at you, his jaw set tight and flexing beneath his beard. You were talking, he could hear the notes of your voice like you were speaking underwater–he was too focused on the dopey smiles in front of you to even pay attention to what was being said. You made them laugh, they said something back to you. Probably their names if he had to guess.
Before he even realized, you were tugging him back down their porch steps and into your shared home, flitting away to make Joel his own personal batch of cookies like nothing had happened.
–
Three times that week he had come home to find them loitering outside the front door or talking to you along the edge of the freshly painted picket fence. They were always showering you with compliments, be it about your cookies or the flowers you’d carefully planted in the boxes Joel had built you. They scattered whenever Joel was there, making excuses about chores that needed to get done or errands that needed to be finished.
But he knew better.
Of course, you talked about the nice boys next door over dinner, it took everything in him to not immediately scowl at the mention of them. The fact that you referred to them as boys was laughable, they were closer to your age than he was—maybe a few years difference between you at most. Nothing compared to his whopping couple decades. He tried to brush the thought away as quickly as it sprouted.
He humored you, knowing that you just thought that everyone was kind and friendly and honest because you were. That was what he loved about you.
–
The last straw was when he was out in the back installing a porch swing for you to read on. They were doing something, near enough to the tall fence splitting the yards that he could hear them talking as clear as day.
Joel almost went over there to give them a piece of his mind, listening to them speculate about why you were with him. They were laughing as they bet that he couldn’t even get it up anymore, that there was no way he was taking care of you like a man was supposed to.
He was old, angry. And you… you weren’t.
He was seething by the time they finished up and went into their house, his hands nearly shaking when he finished screwing the brackets into the roof. Back in the QZ, Joel would have probably fought them—killed them, if he was honest with himself.
It would be easy to bust down their door and give them his retribution, he wasn’t always the domesticated beast he’d become for you. But nevertheless, he sucked it up. You would be devastated if he fought with them, as much as he would love to feel their skin split under his knuckles. He couldn’t do that to you.
—
It was a few evenings later that he got what he wanted: an opportunity for his revenge. You were on the porch swing with him, the two of you nestled together in the orange rays of the sunset. You both were reading, Joel’s arm tucked around your shoulders so your chin was pressed against his bicep.
You always were fully immersed in your books, an earthquake could happen and you would have no clue. So you didn’t hear your neighbors’ back door slide open, but Joel did.
He barely moved, didn’t bother to say a word as his broad hand moved from cupping your shoulder to gently graze around the side of your breast. It was a lazy day for the two of you, you were only dressed in one of Joel’s flannels and pajama shorts that were so loose around your thighs you may as well have never put them on.
You immediately shivered at his touch, your thumb slipping between the pages of your book to hold your place. “Joel, the neighbors,” you whispered, twisting so you could look up at him.
“Went on a hunting trip, they’re not home,” he said loud enough for them to hear. Hopefully they would have the good sense to shut up. His thumb circled your already stiff nipple, a smirk stretching across his features conspiratorially. “C’mon, Ellie’s at a friend’s house and no one’s here—let’s test out the porch swing.”
Your lips were already parted, the heat building on the back of your neck so intense Joel could feel it through his shirt. “Joel,” you whined in the way that made him get hard as a fucking rock in his pants.
“Yeah?” he asked, suddenly playing dumb as though he hadn’t started it.
You pouted, your brow furrowing and bottom lip jutting out as you arched your tit further into his hand. He acquiesced immediately—he always did—pinching your nipple through the well worn fabric of his flannel. His reward was a soft moan from you, your body both melting into and arching away from his.
“What’s my girl want?” Joel asked, his voice a deep rasp as he stamped his lips against your temple. The small of your back was pressed against his oblique, your cheek squishing into his collarbone as he watched your thick thighs press together. He kept toying with your nipple, his free hand setting his book aside and pulling yours from your clutch. “C’mon, you gotta tell me. Can’t read minds.”
You huffed, you always hated it when he made you ask for what you wanted. “Joel please,” you whined, pressing your heels against the cushion that covered the wooden seat and sitting up so you were flush against him.
“Please what?” His free hand skimmed down your side, snapping the stretched-out, elastic waistband of your shorts. It made you squeak, a quiet giggle coming from your throat.
“God, please just touch me,” you whined, your impatience making him chuckle darkly. His hand moved from your waist, tracing over the pudge of your stomach and dipping into your loose sleep shorts. There was nothing beneath, just your soft skin and the curly patch of hair on your pubic bone.
“No panties? You slut,” Joel teased, his fingers traveling even further down until they sunk into your cunt. You were wet and warm, almost scalding his skin as he parted the lips of your sex to find your swollen clit. “And already so soaked.”
You moaned, a hand winding around his bicep as your back arched. He kissed the crown of your head as he rubbed your clit between the pads of his pointer and middle fingers, slow and soft. He knew you’d complain, beg him for more. He just wondered how long it would take until you did.
Not long at all, it was maybe half a minute when you rocked your hips impatiently against his hand. “Joel, you’re being mean.” You were loud, louder than you would ever mean to be with the threat of someone possibly catching you.
Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Mean? Not true,” he countered, increasing the pressure he was putting on your clit. If he strained his ears he could hear how wet you were, a quiet squelching noise barely muffled by the fabric of your shorts. You pressed your hips further against his hand, your teeth digging into your lower lip to keep your noises to a minimum.
He dipped to gather more slick at your fluttering entrance, teasing it for a moment before returning to your clit. You were being so good for him, so sweet. His other hand unbuttoned the flannel you were wearing down to your navel, freeing your breast for him to knead and squeeze in his broad palm.
Your eyebrows bunched together, your lips parting as your gaze was stuck on where his hand disappeared beneath your shorts. “Feeling good?” he asked, relishing in your moan of agreement as you nodded.
Joel smirked, pulling his hand from your shorts. “No–oh my god,” you protested, nearly up in arms. If looks could kill, he would be struck dead. He stood, his dark eyes briefly looking over the fence to see the neighbors still on their porch, their jaws dropped to their chests.
His smile widened as he sank to his knees in front of you, your protests dropping off as you lifted your hips so he could take your shorts off. A wicked grin stretched on your features, you sucked your bottom lip back into your mouth as your gaze roved over him. You settled so your ass was almost hanging off the porch swing, spreading your legs without Joel having to direct you to do so.
“You want me to eat this pretty pussy of yours?” he asked, rough hands smoothing along the insides of your soft thighs. Joel wasn’t a man with a weakness for pretty things, but there was something about your slick and puffy pussy dripping for him that made his heart nearly stop.
“Fuck, please, Joel.” He loved the way you begged.
Joel pressed his mouth to the soaking mess of your sex, moaning at your salty-sweet taste on his tongue. He could never get enough of you, settling one leg over the curve of his shoulder as his other hand pressed your knee to your chest. The sun was shining in his eyes, but he didn’t let it stop him from looking up at your face. He lapped at your cunt with firm, long strokes, practically drinking from you.
In a moment of generosity, he pressed the middle and ring finger of his free hand knuckle-deep in your pussy, pulling a loud and broken moan from your chest. He was smiling into your pussy, suckling at your swollen clit as he pumped his fingers into you.
Your fingers tangled into his dark brown curls, grabbing at them in a way that sent shivers down his spine as you pulled his head flush against you. Joel loved the way your soft thighs pressed against his ears, almost muffling the sweet sounds falling from your pretty lips. Almost. Being outside had made you reckless, the promise of Ellie and the neighbors being gone letting you reach a volume that he hadn’t heard in a long time.
Of course, Joel knew better. He ate you like a starving man, proud that every sound you made was heard by the two men–boys–sitting on the other side of the fence.
His knees on the concrete ached, his back protesting being curled so he could keep his mouth pressed tightly against your weepy cunt. The pain was worth it, every second of it was worth it just to make you fall apart. Just to remind the world that you were his and his alone.
Your head had fallen back to rest on the bench, your eyes scrunched closed as you gasped. Joel’s fingers crooked inside of you, finding the spongy spot at the front of your cunt. It made you writhe, the hand keeping you spread apart for him pinning you down and forcing you to be somewhat still as he pressed at that spot mercilessly. His eyes remained on you as much as they could, taking in every heaving breath and the way your breasts moved under the fabric of his unbuttoned shirt.
It was only moments more until you were coming apart at the seams. You’d squirmed out of his hold, your heels digging into his broad back. Your legs clamped around his head, your back nearly broken with an arch. The sound you made was almost wounded, a desperate cry of his name as your legs spasmed and you practically gushed over his hand.
He worked you through the aftershocks, your pussy fluttering deliciously around his thick fingers. Your hold on his hair loosened just enough for him to pull away, mouthing at the crease between your thigh and your cunt. You came back to yourself, breathing again as your legs relaxed to rest on his shoulder. He peppered sticky, wet kisses on your inner thighs.
“Joel, oh my god,” you sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face as you panted. A laugh left your chest, making him grin like an idiot as he rested his facial-hair covered cheek against your leg and caught his breath.
“Clean these up for me,” he requested, his soaked fingertips now pressing at her bottom lip. They glistened in the afternoon sunlight, a sticky film coating the entirety of them. You narrowed your eyes at him for a moment, your bratty streak coming through before you submitted and opened your mouth to let his fingers slide against your warm tongue.
You sealed your lips around them, sucking your slick off earnestly and rolling your tongue along his digits. “What a good girl, sucking on my fingers like that,” Joel said as he stood, making eye contact with the neighbors before looking back down at you. His knees protested the movement, cracking a bit as he straightened.
He had to check to see if they were paying attention, the blush across their faces visible from across the yard.
A hum against his fingers brought Joel’s attention back to you. You watched him through your thick eyelashes, the sight alone making him feel like he was going to blow his load.
Your hands found the tie at his sweatpants, pulling the bow apart impatiently. You let go of his fingers with a pop, your soft lips shiny with a mix of your spit and slick as you started to pull his sweatpants down. “Wanna suck your cock, Joel,” you said, almost sounding drunk on it as your fingers hooked in the elastic waist.
He couldn’t help his smirk, his hand caressing your cheek and jaw as he looked down at you. He could feel two sets of eyes burning into him as he let the silence hang for a moment. You were being so perfect for him and you didn’t even know the extent of it.
“Nuh uh, not tonight,” Joel said, stooping down to press a wet kiss to your forehead. Your whine of protest made his chest puff up with pride.
He shook his head with a smirk, kneeling down on the cracked concrete again. His poor knees–he would certainly regret the entire escapade tomorrow. Really, he wanted to get you up on his lap and have you ride him until you were crying–but he didn’t want to risk you seeing the neighbors. Or the neighbors seeing any more of you than the back of your head.
Grabbing you by the waist, he pulled you so your entire ass was hanging off the porch swing. The only thing keeping you from falling was his hands and your legs hooking around him for some stability. You were already grabbing at him, fingers twisting in the shirt he still wore. “Want me to fuck you?”
“Uh huh,” you panted desperately, nodding with a frantic look in your eye. “Please, Joel.”
He smiled, pushing his sweatpants down around his thighs and taking his cock into his hand. You moaned as he rubbed the tip of it along the seam of your pussy and pressed it against your clit.
“Fuck,” you whimpered as the blunt head of his cock caught, Joel filled you with a quick slot of his hips.
Your head fell back, a whine pulling from your throat as you bore down around him. He almost lost his mind right there, no matter how many times you’d had sex you still were so tight. You both stilled, panting and gripping at one another as you become acquainted, blinking in the afternoon sun.
“God, I love this pussy,” Joel grunted, trying to talk you through it as he started thrusting gently. No matter how quiet he was in his normal life, as soon as he felt you squeezing around his cock he started running his mouth. The hinges of the swing creaked a little as it moved back and forth, his hands anchored to your hips.
He took you slow, wanting to savor the moment as much as possible. Bitten down grunts and grit teeth were met with your sweet mewls and dulcet moans as he split you apart. One of your hands reached for his, your fingers lacing with his before he pressed your knuckles onto the cushion of the swing. “Wanna hold my hand, sweet girl?” he asked, voice borderline condescending as he did.
You nodded pathetically, gasping every time he rutted inside of you. He’d reduced you to mush, partially formed words dying against your lips as he hit home against the spot inside you that always made your breath lock up in your chest.
“Who do you belong to?” Joel asked, squeezing your hand to get you to come back down to earth. You looked a mess, completely fucked out as you blinked slowly and took a deep breath. It took you a minute to really focus on him, your hand weakly squeezing back.
“You, Joel,” you answered, teeth scraping along your plump lower lip as you fisted the open flannel still draped around your shoulders.
He chuckled darkly, leaning down toward you as he kept up his almost machine-like pace. “Louder, be a good girl,” he murmured, pressing a wet and sloppy kiss to your throat. You clenched around him at the praise, it had always been one of your weaknesses.
“Joel, m’yours,” you gasped, words broken up by the reverb of his thrusts and the slap of his heavy balls against your ass.
He never had reason to doubt that he was who you wanted to be with, but the reassurance helped ground him. The whole week he’d been wondering if he was holding you back, if you actually wanted something else from life. But with the way you were taking his cock? The way you moaned for him? Hell, the way you looked at him was more than enough. There was no mistaking it for anything other than love.
“That’s right, you’re mine.” You shifted under him, the angle of your spine letting him hit deeper inside of you. His hand left your waist to grab the soft cheek of your ass, keeping you steady and supported. “No one else’s, right?”
“Yeah, Joel. Just yours.” The assurance was breathy, your voice faltering in your throat as you started to go rigid. You were looking up at Joel so sweetly, tears starting to glisten in your eyes as you tugged against the fabric of his flannel that you wore on the porch swing that he built you at his house. He had a mean possessive streak, but look at you–so happy to be his.
He lost himself. He worked on pure instinct, pistoning into you as he became blind with the desire to pin you down and fill you. You whined as he slammed into you, his sweaty forehead pressing against your sternum and his hands gripping you tight. He could feel you draw up like a spring beneath him.
You lurched on a wail, your cunt clenching around him so tightly that it almost hurt as you came. Joel moaned in sympathy with you, greedily taking in every expression you made beneath him. You whimpered and mumbled unintelligibly, your grip tightening around the hand you still clasped as your limbs locked up.
Joel lost all semblance of coordination and control, hitching up one of your thighs and driving himself deep into you. Instinct dictated his every move, overriding common sense as he grunted above you like an animal.
He thought his jaw would crack in half from how hard he was clenching it, mumbling nonsense to you through his teeth. There was a lurch deep in his stomach, his abdomen starting to flex as he fell out of his rhythm. It was only a moment more before it felt like his skin was too tight and everything was too hot and he was spilling inside you while groaning your name.
You were so full that you were leaking around him, come dripping down his balls and splattering on the concrete. Both of you were shaking, breathing each other’s air as your foreheads pressed together. Love filled your expression, making him smile tiredly.
You felt for him, your fingertips caressing his jaw as you brought him in for a gentle kiss. You always brought him back, reminded him to be soft with you when he nearly forgot. His tongue licked into your mouth for a moment before he ducked his head and lazily sucked at your breasts, his hips grinding against yours. You both hissed.
“Want me to run a bath for us?” he asked, his voice thick as he mouthed at the skin of your sternum.
“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding weakly as your fingers skated up from his beard to curl into his hair. It was sweaty at the nape, curling more violently than before.
He hummed good-naturedly, pulling out of you with a groan before tucking himself back away in his sweatpants. Joel looked down at the mess he made of you, his come already running down the crack of your ass and dripping onto the concrete. He moaned at the sight, even the shitty porn magazines he’d found on supply runs didn’t compare to this.
He helped you back into your shorts, a fist closing your flannel around your chest as you both shakily stood. You were like a newborn fawn, knees knocking together as you leaned into Joel’s chest. He chuckled breathily, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and holding you close. A soft I love you was whispered against your temple, a gentle reply following from you.
Joel glanced over the fence as he walked you to the sliding glass door, a proud glint in his eye as he met the shocked stares of your new neighbors. He winked at them, squeezing you tighter before bringing you inside with him.
Summary: When your heater breaks in the dead of winter, you get more than you bargained for when Joel Miller arrives to fix it.
Warnings: language, some fluff, the stress and fear that comes with living in the wilderness during a zombie apocalypse, competency kink (a little), smut (18+ MDNI), dirty talk
WC: 4.2K
Adjusting to life in Jackson was tough. You had been on your own for so long, you found it nearly impossible to ever fully relax. You were grateful Tommy and Maria took you in after one of their patrols stumbled across you freezing in the thick Wyoming wilderness, but to be yanked from the brink of death and dropped into some thriving community that seemingly even managed to still celebrate the holidays was too jarring.
So, you kept to yourself for a while. You pitched in around the stables. It was where you felt most comfortable: less people, more animals. You didn't go to the dining hall to eat and you didn't visit the bar for a drink. You had a clear cut path from your house to the stables and back, and you rarely ever strayed.
Unfortunately, while Jackson had a lot to offer and did incredibly well at reviving civilization, things still did break. Like your space heater.
You piled on extra blankets for a week, and then you moved to the living room to sleep on the tiny sofa in front of the fireplace, but eventually your back was screaming at you for it and the cold weather wouldn't let up for at least another two months, so you had no choice but to ask for help.
Tommy was shocked you hadn't said something sooner and apologized for making you feel like you couldn't ask for help, even though it wasn't at all his fault or anyone else's except your own, and promised to have his brother stop by that afternoon to take a look at it.
While you kept to yourself and hardly socialized at all, that didn't stop you from overhearing things at the stables. You knew of Tommy's brother. How people whispered rumors behind his back and fell silent whenever he stepped foot inside the building.
Did you know he slit a raider's throat and made the guy's girlfriend watch?
He beat the shit out of Seth the other night just for looking at him wrong.
Back in Boston, I heard he knocked some guy's teeth down his throat for taking the last of the beef jerky.
Someone told me he only sleeps two hours a night.
He fixed Greg's shower and told him not to fuck it up again or else he'll be taking baths in the kitchen sink.
Were you intimidated? Maybe a little. But you had been on your own for so long, fighting and scratching and clawing to stay alive. Some asshole wasn't going to shake you up.
Then you saw him.
Well, you'd seen him before, sure. But just glimpses in the barn or passing by him on the street. Never up close.
When you opened your front door later that afternoon, you were a little taken aback. He was so much more handsome than you had thought. He was built like a refrigerator; broad and strong. His cheeks and chin were dusted in a patchy, greying beard, growing right below a hooked nose and deep, velvety brown eyes. There were a few scars littering his bronzed skin but what drew your attention more was his hair. His fucking hair. Loose, mostly grey curls that fell past his ear and down the back of his neck. Not long enough to pull into a ponytail, like Tommy, but give it a few more months and he might. He had them pushed back from his face, making the silken locks look like a cascading river so enticing, you had to hold yourself back from touching them.
He said your name and readjusted the toolbox in his hand and you blinked yourself back to life before stepping aside to let him in. When he passed you, you were hit with the strong scent of wood shavings and coffee, an intoxicating combination that had your brain buffering once again.
"Tommy said you needed your heater looked at?"
You nodded and pointed up the stairs. "It's in my bedroom. Can I, uh, get you something to drink? Coffee?"
He perked up at that once he slid off his jacket and shoes. "You got coffee?"
You nodded and walked toward the kitchen, rummaging through your meager belongings until you found the precious tin can. "That's the one thing I always made sure I grabbed if I ever saw it out there. If we have to live like this, at least I'm still having my coffee."
Joel grinned and set the toolbox down on your counter, watching as you filled up a kettle with water. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest. He couldn't believe how lucky he was that your stupid heater broke, giving him the perfect excuse to finally meet you so he could stop pining from afar. "You don't like it much here, then?"
You startled at that, giving him a look of surprise before lighting your stove.
"No, I didn't mean here, I just meant... you know... the world in general."
"I know, I'm just teasin' you," he said a little awkwardly with a soft chuckle. You turned around, leaning against your counter and crossing your arms over your chest. You had just spoken a few words but so far, nothing about this man screamed scary. In fact, he seemed rather... sweet.
"How long have you been here?" you asked while you waited for the water to boil.
"'Bout five years," he said thoughtfully, scratching his chin. "You're new, though."
You nodded, your fingers fidgeting underneath your bicep. "Yeah. I think it's been almost a month. I'm not really sure, never bothered keeping track of the days out there."
Joel studied you up for a moment, picking up on your eyes shifting over your surroundings, your foot tapping anxiously on the floor, and the way you kept your back protected when you spoke to him.
"I remember when we first got here," Joel said. Your fidgeting paused and you looked at him again. "It was tough. Acclimatin' to this kind of life. Hard to sleep. Hard to trust anyone. It took time but eventually, you start sleepin' soundly again and that guard comes down. You'll see."
A slow smile spread across your face and you looked down shyly at your feet. "Am I that obvious?"
Joel laughed and strolled over to the two mugs and can of instant coffee you had sitting out. "Wouldn't say it's obvious but I haven't seen you at the dining hall one time. In fact, pretty sure this is the first time I've heard your voice." Your cheeks warmed up behind his back and you bit your lower lip. So he's noticed you enough to realize you never went to the dining hall.
"It's a pretty one," he said over his shoulder, focusing on scooping the correct amount of coffee into each mug. "Your voice, I mean. Shame you been keepin' it hidden all this time."
"O-oh," you stuttered, completely flustered by his compliments. This was not at all the man everyone made him out to be. "Thank you."
Joel carefully poured the boiling water into each mug before giving them each a stir, then handed you one. "You're welcome, darlin'. Now why don't you show me to your bedroom?"
Your eyes must have bugged out of your head because at first, he frowned, then after he realized what he said, turned a shade of pink you didn't know he was capable of.
"I mean, for the heater."
"Yeah, oh Christ, I know," you said, waving him off and heading for the stairs, your mug clutched so tightly in one hand you thought it might break. You lead Joel to the first door on the left and stepped back so he had room to swing his toolbox through the narrow door with him.
"I don't know what happened," you said, trailing in after him while he began to set out some tools on the ground. When he knelt down, he groaned at the creak in his knees and you quickly grabbed a spare pillow. "Here, kneel on this," you offered. He looked up at the pillow, then at you, and shook his head.
"I ain't kneelin' on your pillow."
"It's a spare. I only use the one. And honestly, even that seems too much sometimes."
He sighed and hesitated for only a moment longer before taking the pillow from your hand. "Thank you," he said softly. You smiled and sat down on the edge of your bed after putting your coffee on the end table with his.
"Anyway. As I was saying, I don't know what happened. It was working fine and then one day it just wouldn't turn on. I tried other outlets and I didn't see any issues with the cord, so I just gave up."
Joel began to unscrew the back of the heater while he listened. "So you gave up and slept in the cold for two weeks?"
"Nothing I wasn't used to."
He couldn't argue with that.
The two of you sat in a comfortable silence while he worked until he began to hum some old country song under his breath, making you smile again. You couldn't remember the last time you smiled so much.
"What're you smilin' for?" he asked with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.
"You aren't at all the way people say you are," you said boldly.
He quirked an eyebrow and turned his attention back to his work. "And what have you heard?"
You shrugged and leaned back on your hands. "Threatened a man after breaking his shower. Knocked out some guy named Seth. That you only sleep two hours a night," you chuckled at the last one when you heard how silly it sounded.
"Well," Joel said with a heavy sigh. "I didn't threaten anyone about their shower. Just reminded him he's gotta take care of the pipes or else the whole place'll rot."
You grinned to yourself as he continued to explain the rumors.
"I did punch Seth but he said somethin' real nasty 'bout my girl and, well, that just don't sit right with me."
Your grin slid right off your face. "Your girl?"
He stopped what he was doing and swiveled around to face you. "My - Ellie. Her name's Ellie. She's, uh, well... she ain't my daughter, but..."
Relief flooded your veins. "Oh. I thought you meant -"
"No, no," Joel said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "No, not like that." He twirled a wrench around in between his fingers as he nervously bit the inside of his cheek before adding, "Don't got anyone like that."
Your mouth formed a silent oh. Message received.
Joel cleared his throat again and turned back to the heater. "And the sleep thing, well, they got me there," he chuckled with a shake of his head. "Although some nights are better than others."
"I know what you mean," you said with a nod. After a moment of silence, Joel smiled to himself.
"Imagine y'do if you ain't got any heat at night."
You giggled and he smiled again, this time his chest swelling when he heard you laugh.
Joel continued to work on the heater while you studied him quietly. He took you by complete surprise. The last thing you expected was to make a friend out of the fearsome Joel Miller. It didn't hurt that he was so easy on the eyes, either. How old was he? Your gaze roamed over his greying hair and the crinkles next to his eyes. Older than you, definitely, but it was hard to tell by how much.
You couldn't even remember the last time you were interested in anyone. It must have been when you were in the Atlanta QZ, and that was years ago.
"Alright, let's give her a run," Joel suddenly said. When you refocused on him, you saw he had put the heater back together and was fixing it upright. He plugged it into the wall and hovered his finger over the power button before glancing back at you. "Ready?"
You nodded and swung your legs back and forth over the edge of your bed, then he winked at you, sending warmth all over your body. Jesus, if Joel kept giving you little looks like that, you wouldn't have much need for a heater anymore.
He pressed the button and sure enough, the coils inside the heater began to glow orange and heat started to fill the room.
"Oh!" you exclaimed, jumping off the bed in excitement. "Thank you!" you added, kneeling on the floor as well so you could warm your hands in front of the heater.
"Anytime," Joel murmured, and it wasn't until you heard the deep timber of his voice next to you that you realized he was so close. You tilted your face, smiling shyly at him next to you. Up close, you could see the fine lines in his face in much more detail, each one calling out to you to trace with your fingertip. When you met his gaze, you found he had been examining you, as well. Quickly, you looked away and stood up.
"Is there anythin' else?" Joel asked as he began to pack up his toolbox. You shook your head.
"No, I think that'll do it."
"You sure? Thought I saw that faucet drippin' in the kitchen."
You frowned. "No, I didn't notice that," you said slowly.
"What 'bout those windows?" he asked, standing up with a grunt and gesturing to the two bedroom windows on the other side of the room. "Need help hangin' curtains?"
You looked where he was pointing. "No, never really bothered me. Besides, it faces the backyard. No one can see in."
He laughed softly and rubbed his chin before shooting you a sheepish look. "I'm tryin' to find a reason to stay, sweetheart."
Your eyes widened and once again, you felt your cheeks heat up.
"Oh," you said, shyly dropping your gaze to the floor to hide your smile. "I would like that."
"Yeah?" he asked, and you nodded.
"Yeah. You're, um," you shifted your weight nervously, "you're sweet. And nice."
Joel huffed and set his toolbox back down. "I ain't nice all the time," he warned. "But you ain't gotta worry 'bout that."
"No?" you questioned, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as he began to close the distance between you.
He sighed and cupped your face with both hands. Your body instantly melted at his touch, your knees practically giving out when he dragged his thumb across your lip, saving it from your teeth. "Am I readin' this wrong?" he asked, his eyes darting all over your face. You quickly shook your head and stepped even closer.
"Thank Christ," he breathed before capturing your lips in a deep kiss. It had been several years and you were a little rusty, but you quickly found it was like riding a bike.
Joel's kiss lit a fire in you, one that had gone dormant for so long. Your fingers curled around the lapels of his flannel, the material warm and soft, just like him, and with the confidence boost that came from his hands dropping to grab excitedly at your hips, you walked him backwards until he bumped against the edge of your mattress.
He sat down on your bed with an oomph and you crawled into his lap, not once breaking the kiss.
"Wish I got to know you sooner," he whispered, tipping his head back when your lips traveled down his neck. Fuck, even his neck was sexy. "Always so skittish and shy," he continued, his palms gliding up and down your back.
You laughed softly against his skin and leaned back. "You still don't really know me."
He grinned and shrugged. "I'd like to, if you're willin'," he said, his vulnerability making your chest ache. You sunk your teeth into your lower lip again and nodded.
"Good," he said, his hands roaming further past your waist to cup your ass. "'Cause I like what I know so far."
"You're full of surprises," you told him, giggling when he gave your ass a firm squeeze. "You're so much more... you're more gentle and sweet than I expected."
Joel smirked and tugged you closer so you felt his erection trapped within his jeans. "I can be gentle," he told you, nipping at your jaw. "Or I can be rough. Whatever you like."
You swallowed when you caught the mischievous glint in his dark eyes. "Oh, yeah?"
"Mhmm," he said, and before you could blink he had spun you around so your back was pressed into the mattress while he hovered above you. You had to admit, he was adorable. He had to be pushing sixty but he was talking like a man half his age. After you heard the way his knees creaked when he was fixing your heater, you figured he was all talk, or maybe he just needed the ego boost to hype himself up.
But the speed in which he removed your clothes should have been the first sign that your impression of him was wrong. When he buried himself inside you, his surprisingly thick length stretching you open and nudging the furthest depths of you, you got the message.
When you gasped and tipped your head back, his big hand immediately rose to cup the side of your face and tilt it back down so he could watch your face as you unraveled beneath him. Each little noise and moan seemed to egg him on, like he fed off your sounds and the way your face twisted in pleasure when his coarse hair rubbed against your clit with each roll of his hips.
"Wanna see you," he explained, eyes scanning all over your face. "Wanna watch you take it. You'll keep your eyes on me, won't you? Hm? You'll be good for me, yeah?"
You nodded, your mind a muddled mess. The only thing you could seem to focus on was the slow and deliberate drag of his heavy cock in and out of you. Joel pressed your knees back against your chest as far as you could handle and pushed inside you further with a rough grunt. He managed to get so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach and the sensation left you breathless.
"So fuckin' pretty, y'know that?" he groaned, gazing down at you without breaking rhythm. His long locks loosened and hung past his eyes, tempting you to smooth them back. "Wanted to get to know you f'so long but I couldn't ever catch your eye," he admitted with a little smirk. You moaned when his hips began to swirl, switching the angle ever so slightly and setting your nerves alight.
"I-I... oh, god," you whined, already struggling to keep your eyes on him like he asked. "I didn't know."
He lunged forward and crashed his mouth against yours hungrily, his exhale fanning over your cheek. Then just as suddenly as he kissed you, he leaned back and pulled out.
"Turn over," he instructed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he dragged in air. You did as you were told and shakily held yourself up on your hands and knees.
"Fuck," he muttered behind you. Your face went hot and you tucked your chin into your shoulder as you waited for him to enter you again, but he chose to take an extra minute to glide his hand over the curves of your hips and ass. If you had been able to see him, you would have seen a look of awe and appreciation on his face.
"Always wondered what you had hidden under all those clothes," he said as he lined himself up at your entrance. You cried out his name when he finally slid back inside, the angle already too intense and he hadn't even begun to move. "Goddamn, wanna run my tongue over every fuckin' inch of you, baby," he growled, fingers gripping your sides as he tried to ground himself.
He gave you a few gentle thrusts to get used to it before he couldn't hold back any longer. He pounded into you, his eyes fixed on your ass and the way it bounced with every snap of his hips. One hand slowly reached down to trace your spine, marveling at the way your body welcomed him. Then you arched your back and you both moaned at the slight change and he could feel his stomach begin to tense in anticipation of his release.
"So fuckin' tight," he said through clenched teeth. You could hear him breathing heavily as his thrusts grew sloppy and you began to panic, sensing he was about to come before you were ready. But then as if he read your mind, one of his hands snaked around your front to draw fast circles over your clit.
"C'mon, give it t'me," he said with a grunt. "Wanna feel this perfect pussy squeeze me, want you to be feelin' me for fuckin' days, sweetheart."
"Oh, shit," you gasped, mouth hanging open in a mixture of ecstasy and surprise. You wondered how on earth everyone in town had so much to say about Joel's reputation but somehow managed to leave out how mind-blowing he happened to be in bed.
"Christ, honey. Ain't gonna last much longer," he groaned, his fingers working even faster between your legs. He pounded into you harder, punching the air from your lungs and pushing you closer and closer to your peak. Your breaths were coming in shallow pants and you could feel the swell building deep inside you, threatening to unleash at any second. You reached behind you frantically, searching for some part of him to hold onto when you found his hand pressed firmly onto your hip. Your fingers clasped over his as you felt the pressure build up quickly and you knew in that moment this one encounter was going to single-handedly ruin you.
The moment you fell apart while practically screaming his name, your cunt pulsing around him and your body shaking, he almost made a huge mistake. Finally getting to witness what you looked like when you came was more than enough, but hearing his name over and over while your body shook with pleasure? It was too much and he was only just a man who was holding on by his goddamn fingernails as it was. But fortunately, he managed to pull out just in time to paint your lower back with his cum. He knew he was making some ungodly sounds as relief flooded his veins, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had been daydreaming about taking you apart like that for weeks and now that he finally had you, there was no turning back.
"Oh, fuck," he gasped, lifting his chin towards the ceiling while dragging in deep lungfuls of air. You collapsed flat onto your stomach with a grunt and he tilted his face back down to grin as how spent you looked.
Still got it.
"I'll be right back, darlin'," he told you. You mumbled something tiredly in response before he slipped out of your room to get a washcloth from your bathroom and returned quickly to clean you up.
"Thank you," you said, turning your face so you could watch him gently wipe up his mess. His eyes flickered to yours and he smirked.
"You thankin' me for fixin' the heater, for fuckin' you, or for cleanin' you up?"
You giggled, your voice a little hoarse when you replied, "All of the above."
You flipped over onto your back and his eyes immediately drifted down your naked body, his breath catching in the back of his throat at how perfect you were. Even better than he ever imagined.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, letting the rag fall to the floor so he could glide his hand up your thigh, over your hips and stomach to one of your breasts which, he realized far too late, had gone neglected. Next time.
"So are you," you whispered back, bringing a hand up to play with the long curls resting on the back of his neck. He shook his head shyly and looked away.
"I need a haircut."
"I like it just the way it is," you told him, twisting a lock of hair around one finger and watching as it loosely bounced back when you let it go. "Gives me something to grab onto," you joked. A wide smile stretched across his face and his eyes looked like he was staring at the tree on Christmas morning.
"So, uh," Joel began when the silence stretched on for too long. "I meant it earlier. 'Bout gettin' to know you better." He couldn't remember the last time he felt so nervous. He could feel his face heating up and he prayed you didn't notice. "I know you don't like goin' to the dining hall but I'd really like to have dinner with you. I can't make much but I can make stew, if y'wanna-"
"I would go to the dining hall with you," you said, cutting him off. His eyes snapped back up to yours and he shot you a nervous smile.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you said with a little shrug before sitting up and draping your arms around his shoulders. "As long as you're there, I'll go."
He grinned and leaned forward to kiss you, still in complete disbelief his wildest fantasy actually came true.
"How 'bout tomorrow, then?" he asked a little breathlessly when he broke the kiss.
Your eyes lit up and you nodded. "It's a date."
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Jesus Christ this was everything I could ever want in a Joel one shot and MORE!!!!!!! 😍🫨 The nervous, softie energy was so tender and then Joel taking command was just perfection 🫠💖 Another masterpiece, thank you @punkshort 🤩🤩🤩🤩
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