hi! i am a new writer; you can find more info here. here is my master list so far. this will be updated as i go. - amethyst 💟
18+ blog!!! | requests open
master lists
marvel 🫧
arcane 🦋
the last of us 🌿
blog details
i currently write both gender-neutral and f!reader and each post will be clearly labeled. if it simply says reader (ex. fwb!reader) it is neutral. i try my best to make things inclusive...so if anything isn't right just let me know and i will make the edits!
i accept requests! however, please use discretion for things that are really dark. while i may depict mental health (and include warnings for that) i have a preference to not detail sa, non-con, etc.
this blog is 18+ so while it may be hard to enforce this rule, i am requesting no minors and absolutely will never write anything about minor characters that includes smut.
i will not age up characters. any characters i write for will canonically be an adult. (ex. ekko in arcane who canonically is 20 by the end of the series, and the one-shot i wrote takes place after the finale)
this list is not exhaustive, and i reserve the right to delete/ignore any requests/comments that go too far for my liking.
tag lists 🏷️
the master post to all of my current tag lists is linked above, i will update as i make them and they may include series as well as characters. commenting on these posts is the only way to be added to the list.
i often make a tag list post or master list that hosts the tags for a certain work. check the links on a post before spamming! if i haven't made one yet, just let me know and i will start one!
character tag lists will be for every post about that character. if you do not want to be tagged at any time...even if its every week or months later, do not comment
unless i say otherwise, i do not take requests for tags in reblogs, comments on an installment, or through private message.
you can delete your name if you'd like to be removed from the tag list, but i may not realize its gone. keep this in mind if you ever sign up to be tagged.
content: muse painting you while you finish (oh my gosh)
tags: 18+ smut, minors dni, porn w/no plot really, slight dom!muse, fingering (reader receiving), mentions of blood, a scalpel, and an accidental cut if that makes you uncomfy (the cut is not with a blade), reader doesn’t show bastian is muse (assume its prior to him being on the news and his little hideout is kept tidy so reader doesn’t know)
notes: meant to post this so damn long ago but im swamped with everything. also at one point I realized this was a bit self-indulgent...bc I might be into an artist right now lol
。·:*:·ﾟ★,。·:*:·ﾟ☆
The gravelly path along the train tracks was one you knew intrinsically, as if it were a required part of your anatomy. It was one you’d traveled often, mostly in search of the man you were entranced by. You couldn’t explain why, and neither could he.
Bastian was someone who would linger, always in the background. He’d watch you often, blissfully unaware that you knew of his stares. Where the attention would usually make you uncomfortable, this made you tingle in excitement. Where this would unsettle you with other men, you found yourself craving this man’s gaze.
He frequented this specific bookstore…so you became a repeat customer.
Admittedly, not an avid reader, you wandered around aimlessly often. He’d watch your hands trailing over books and smirk at your indecision. Occasionally, your eyes would light up at a work you recognized, recollection creasing your face in delight. Each change allowed him to see you more intently…really embed your features in his mind.
The intricacies of you flooded his brain, nestled, until finally…the dam broke.
He approached you one day, not meaning to startle, but rather to make himself known. He had one goal, a single most motivation.
His throat cleared, bobbing against the skin of his neck. “I’d like to paint you.”
It dumbfounded you. He was so abrupt. A sound escaped him that you could only imagine until now, a voice so reserved yet anxious that it made you weak. The nerves made his vocal cords shake, a sound you could only imagine would echo in your ears for several minutes if you let it...the both of you wrapped in each other.
“You—wanna paint me?”
“I can make you beautiful…if you’d let me.”
So you found yourself in what you’d best call a workshop, one tucked underneath a railroad. The ambient sound would resound and bounce off the walls, creating a continuous hum that soothed you.
This was all against your better judgment, too, letting someone paint you. Meeting him in an area so desolate and arriving alone felt idiotic. Yet you couldn’t help the draw—the feeling of magnetism that felt like needles on your skin. The sensation became a comfort to you, so you returned whenever Bastian called.
You let him paint you often and it showed. Despite this being the epicenter for all his creations, almost all of it had signs of you. He was able to capture you in a light you’d never seen yourself, a mirror never quite doing you justice. He’d call you beautiful, his inspiration, his muse…all of which you grew to believe with unwavering certainty.
You observed him, back turned to you, as he worked on another piece. It was red, they always were. No matter the opacity, the maroon lines were present in every work of his. You didn’t question it, attributing to artistic vision that you must’ve lacked.
“So,” you clasped your hands together, sitting down in one of his chairs. “What’s on the agenda today?”
He turned at the sound of your voice, acknowledging it but already well aware you were here. The man held a blade and pointed it, “You’re always on the agenda.” He discarded the tools he was using, placing them in an order he preferred. “I wanna try something different today, though.”
You watched him cross the room, a canvas and a stand in hand now. He got closer, nestling his materials just next to you. Even more aware of the sound of your own breathing, you realized it was quick and short, anticipating the way he’d undoubtedly be tearing you apart soon.
“Hi.” He spoke softly, a slight waver in his voice that you always loved.
You watched him kneel in front of you. “Hi.” You smiled at that, the way he was always so willing to tend to you before anything else.
“Did you,” you motioned to your pants, “Did you want these off?”
“Please.”
He answered quickly, not a hint of hesitation in his voice. There was an uptick in tone, though, one that only occurred when he found himself slipping into comfort with you. He’d let you do anything to him, without a doubt. But Bastian sometimes liked to show his dedication to you by making you come and do so with him nestled in front of you…no other place he’d rather be.
You observed him as you stood up to undo and slide your pants off, a look of adoration in his eyes as he peered through his lashes. You sat back down slowly, gliding your legs open for him to fully look at you. He was like that often, looking at every detail and imagining just how amazing you’d look on yet another canvas of his.
He’d fulfill that wish today—to make a portrait of you at your most vulnerable.
Without thinking, he let a single finger swipe over your wetness, already building at the thought of his hands on you. Bastian was calculated, deliberately sliding a single finger into you simply to watch the way your chin tilted. He reached his free hand over to the side, then grasped a pint of paint from just beside both of you.
As your breath became more ragged, he dragged his finger in and out of you. He remained so slow, curling the single finger and tilting his head at your reaction. He went to work on his painting, creating a rough sketch of the outline of your face. He used his hand, no brush, wanting to encapsulate the rawness of your reactions to him.
You reached down to grip his wrist, shocked at how good it felt with only a single finger. He could tell you wanted more and obliged without a second thought. He let you writhe into him and slid in two more of his fingers at the moment your skin met his, ignoring the tightness he met with. He knew you liked it this way, the tension. The resistance inside your walls made it that much sweeter; you were able to feel each crease of his hand on you.
He kept going, speeding up slightly as he continued to paint. He didn’t miss the furrow of your brows, how one of them raised slightly higher than the other. It was as if you were questioning the sensation, that it could be this good. He made note of the way your cheeks puffed out, releasing the slightest bit of air every few seconds. He’d dip a finger into the paint and continue on you, digging into you just sharply enough to get a new reaction. The dedication to his craft is one you noticed, especially when you realized how good he was with both of his hands.
The thought of him painting with such ease as he unraveled you with a similar skill had you dripping even more. You thought of the parallel, that he could do both things so well simultaneously. He knew you like he knew the art he’d been at for years. Bastian knew that sweet spot in you like he knew each of these canvases, and it turned you on so much.
The wetness from you seeped onto his fingers and back into you, a squelching sound now playing in his ears that Bastian could fall asleep to. He was meticulous, eyes falling closed to let the sound guide his movement. Art often relied on pressure, on how hard or soft the strokes of a hand could be. He noticed his push into you was lighter now, fingers guiding themselves in and out with little resistance compared to before. He let his free hand swipe over the canvas, rogue lines of red hitting and dragging over the edges.
Your hand still rested on him, now pushing him into you faster. The speed was torturous now, so much quicker than before, and driving you toward the sort of climax that would have your eyes completely unfocused. Your eyes met his, his examining gaze going between the details of your face.
His eyes glazed over, his entire being enveloped by the sounds and reactions he was getting from you. He watched you swirl on his hand, circling yourself for a new sensation. He obliged, now pressing his thumb onto you and letting it drive his fingers into you harder. Bastian’s movements sped up in your peripheral as your jaw dropped, slackened at the way he was at your walls.
Bastian admired the way you looked, a slight sheen on your forehead, mouth agape. He let his hand move on its own, eyes still on you.
“You’re beautiful like this.” Your breath hitched. “You always are, but this-“ he continued, pumping into you. “You're picturesque.”
You gasped then, stilling your writhing on him as you came. You gripped his wrist tighter now, body shaking at the way he continued into you. He didn’t care about the aftershocks, only that your face continued to twist in a way that would make for amazing additions to his art. He sped up, fingers moving impossibly faster. The screeching in your voice resounded in the room, now heard over the ambient sounds of his workshop.
Your fingers dug into his skin, eventually breaking the flesh there. He gasped slightly, looking up at you as a small trickle of blood started to form. His movements slowed, watching his arm in intrigue.
“Fuck,” your voice faltered, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, I’m okay.”
He slipped out of you slowly, quickly turning to wash his arm and hands. The ambient sound returned, this time no longer drowned out by your cracking voice, moans, and whines.
Bastian was delicate with you, kneeling again and letting a hand glide over the drops of sweat on your forehead. He offered a small towel, then, letting you clean yourself up. He looked between you and the canvas, lips slightly twisted in anticipation of your reaction.
"It's nice...different." You nodded as you spoke, never having seen yourself this way. "It's raw. I like it, I think."
"Really?"
You nodded again, this time reassuring him with a smile. "I might have to take this one home."
Ex boyfriend!Dick who you break it off on good terms with, the reason doesn't matter, just the wrong time for you both.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who still stops by your work every once in a while, to catch up, he says. He takes the time to memorize your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes shine when you mention a cute cat you saw on social media last week.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who gets details when he can't stop by your work from Kori, casually bringing you up in conversation and asking how you're doing, if you've baked anything new, if you're seeing anyone.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who drops flowers off on your birthday or Valentine's day, out of habit, he doesn't even think about it when he picks up a bouquet of your favorite flowers and drops them off at your work or on your windowsill.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who stops by your place on a crisp October night, 5 or 6 months after your breakup. His eyes are duller, lacking that usual shine you find yourself looking for. He says he just needed to see you, just had a bad night and that he'd leave if you wanted him to.
You invite him inside instead.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who feels a tiny spark of hope when he sees that you still have that picture of your first date up, you kissing his cheek and him grinning widely at the camera, both of your hair windswept from a night at the beach.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who watches you flush and laugh when he brings up the picture, your eyes darting to the frame and he sees your eyes soften just so, he sees all the micro expressions you thought you were good at smoothing out.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who sits with you on your couch, talking for hours about mundane things. The weather in Blüdhaven recently, what recipes you've tested lately, his patrols. It feels so right, so natural that Dick wonders why you two split up at all.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who finds himself getting tangled up in you again, his lips crushing against yours and he groans, you taste like his own sanctuary.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who helps you lean back against the couch, kissing down your body reverently and slowly, giving you the time to pull away, he slides your shorts and underwear down your legs and leans over your pussy, kissing the joint of your thigh and breathing you in before diving in to taste you.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who eats you out like a man possessed, one arm closed over your stomach to hold you down and he sucks your clit like he's got a vendetta against her, being forced away from her for so long, you taste like his own personal temple that he gladly worships, his altar, his home.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who's tongue traces letters into your clit that for the life of you, you can't focus enough to understand. Until you do, until you realize he's tracing the word 'mine' into your cunt over, and over again.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who watches and listens to you the entire time, his piercing blue eyes locked in on every part of your bruised lips, every furrow of your eyebrows and every flare of your nose. He hears every little hitch in your breathing, every gasp and choked moan and he revels in it.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who's eyes flutter shut when you come, listening to the beautiful sounds you make and holding you firmly to the couch as your back arches and he doesn't stop eating you out until you're begging, pushing desperately at his head to get him to let up, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the overstimulation.
Ex boyfriend!Dick who grins lazily as he crawls over your spent form, his eyes shining that sparkly shade of blue again that makes your own lips turn up in response and he dips down to kiss your throat, then your jaw, then your chin and finally his lips catch yours in a slow, mind numbing kiss.
Ex boyfriend! Dick who takes you out on a date the next day, claiming that it was the least he could do after the night before, his hand held firmly in yours as you stroll the beach and still holding yours over the table when you both spot at a ma and pa pizza shop for a bite to eat.
Ex boyfriend! Dick who drops you off at home that evening, smiling boyishly as you kiss him goodnight, he finds that now is as good a time as any to get you back, and he knocks on your door.
♥︎ a.n - first time writing smut but the thought came to me and the world deserves more Ex bf Dick, damnit.
tags: baker!reader, past hurt/comfort & wound tending, frank pov, nightmares, flashbacks of canon-typical violence/death, consensual sneaking in, Yearning, outercourse, PiV, creampie, cumplay
a/n: since this started as a kinktober fic, it felt right to end it as one - I wanted to do one last little chapter, part 3 of just once but works as a one-shot as well!
He wants to leave a piece of him with you. Cock already twitching at the thought of himself dripping out of you all day. The slick cling of cotton and tender ache between your thighs a constant reminder as you go about your day.
Make you think of him as much as he does you.
Frank shouldn’t be here.
Should’ve just rolled over, went back to sleep.
It was all just a fucking dream. The storm outside brought in - rain dripping into his eyes. All that red, dampening his palm where he pressed down to stop the staunch. Pooling on the concrete below.
None of it was real. Old wounds ripped open, winding their way into his subconscious.
He’d left behind an eyeless corpse. Put two bullets into Russo himself. The final nail in the coffin, even if the night will haunt him until the end of his days. Even as he’s tried to move on - the dark stubble on his jaw growing long.
But it had been enough that he’d tugged on his jeans. The cord of his boots biting into fingers as they were laced tight, a dark hood pulled up as he had woven through the streets. The autumn air cool in the late-night hour, the metal of the fire escape like ice as he had scaled his way up.
Fingers catching on the worn wooden window frame. A beat, as he had stood, stock-still.
Letting all the reasons why he shouldn’t run through his mind again, all the while his hands still move.
Lifting, pushing.
For a moment, he hopes it won’t budge.
That maybe you’d free him. That you’d moved on, and that with time - he could learn to do the same.
Even the thought has something winding around his ribs, green and burning like acid. But he tells himself he’d try.
The window gives, though. A smooth slide of rope as the wood moves up. More easily than nights he remembers before.
Maybe you’ve cleaned it up, recently - and that thought has something else inside him flaring to life.
It’s familiar, the way his back bends. The curl as he fits through the frame. Boots touching down on the hardwood floor.
A quick step to the patterned floral rug, one’s he’s helped you clean with baking soda and vinegar - the evidence of another night scrubbed away.
And you’re there.
Features soft, freed of the worry you carry for him. Because of him. Sleeping so sweetly, and it slips from him without thinking.
“Shouldn’t leave this unlocked, sweetheart.”
The residual panic from the dream tinges his words. A whetstone with the way they sharpen - the city lights cutting across your face as you try to blink awake at the sound of his voice.
It echoes in his head, again.
Bad fucking idea.
His hand still lingers on the windowsill. Can still slip back through - let you think this is just a dream-
“Take the spare,” You yawn, as if it’s that simple. “And maybe I’ll stop.”
It comes out sleepy, the heel of your hand pressing into your eyes. A jolt in his stomach that steals his breath for a moment - thinking about the extra key that lives in the coffee cup by your front door, collecting dust.
You don’t mean it. You can’t.
That’s meant for someone else. Not for someone like him.
“You hurt?” The bedside lamp clicks on, bare legs swinging out from the thick nest of blankets.
That’s what gets him moving. Three long steps taking him to the side of the bed. A hand catching at your thigh, urging you back into the warmth before you can wake fully.
“‘m fine, sweetheart.” Frank rasps, “Go back to bed.”
“Only if you come with me.” Your fingers reach out, curling around his hand with a tug, “No-“
“Boots, though.” He can’t help the slight tug of his lips, already reaching down to loosen the laces with the other, “I know.”
His boots are left, lined up beneath your bed. An old habit, your eyes catching on the roll of broad shoulder. Jacket slung over a chair. T-shirt tugged off with it.
A soft sound when his hands drop to loosen his belt. A silent assurance he’s here to stay, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes soften with your smile, as you shift back to make room for him.
The hours he snatched were scant compared to the ones spent awake. A bone-deep weariness already easing as he switches the light back off, slipping beneath the covers with you.
But not the itch inside - his fingers curled into fists, as if that would be enough. Trying to sink into the stillness, and shed the weight he’s been carrying.
It only lasts a moment before your thigh is hitched over his waist. One more, before he’s had enough - rolling you beneath him.
Slowly easing down, until he’s pressed against you, and you unfurl so sweetly around him.
Thighs inching wide to make room, a muffled hum as the heel of your foot hooks around his shin - skin still chilled from the long walk over.
Frank defrosts in your arms. Contrary to the dream where you bled out in his - yours instead wrap around, drag him close.
You’re more open, in the late hours like this. Still toeing the line of sleep, languid in the way you sigh - arching to meet him.
He knows from experience that it won’t last long. The soft hum that turns needy when his mouth presses to your throat.
Teeth skimming your skin, testing against the edge of your jaw. How your breath turns shorter, his name something certain as it passes through your lips.
As you moan beneath him, a hand dragging down his chest. Across old scars and ones you’ve tended, tracing over muscle and the scattering of dark hair. Toying with the elastic band of his boxers, and he’s too happy to let you explore.
“Thought I was still dreaming,” Your voice drips like honey, sweet and smooth.
There’s a jolt in his belly. His own nightmare flickering at the corner of his mind, all while his hips hitch into your touch.
“You dreamin’ about me?” It comes out rough. A hint of something almost like hope.
Desperate to find out what waits on the other side of sleep, for someone who’s not trapped between the echoes of their past or an alcohol-soaked oblivion.
“Mhm,” You squirm, as his hands mimic your path - slowly bunching up the over-sized fabric of the shirt you’re sleeping in.
“What were we doin’?”
Tugging it off, a rough exhale of breath as he finds you bare beneath, fingertips tracing over your hip.
There’s a little, embarrassed huff. Your face tucking into his neck, and fuck - now he needs to know.
His fingers trace circles - the curve of your thigh, dipping down to the crease. Coaxing it from you.
“Tell me, baby.”
You moan, as your hand finally dips beneath. Finding him hard for you already, his hips bucking into the cup of your hand.
“I was out. A party or something. I was looking for you, I think. Needed to find you.”
His heart still lingers in the pit of his stomach, but your fingers are still skimming along his length. Oblivious to the flashes of images in his mind, replaying his own.
“You found me first. I knew it was a dream then, because you didn’t have this,” You tease, your other hand shifting to tug at the edge of his beard, “Backed me into a corner and kissed me. A-And-“
So different than his own. That tight knot easing, as his curiosity piques. As you finally wrap around him and squeeze.
“And?“ He prompts, fingers part on either side of your clit. Feather-like strokes as you hips jerk into his touch, breath hitching.
“A-and that was it. I woke up.” Your answer comes a little too quickly.
“You sure?” Frank can’t help the way his lips tug up, “Nothing else happened?”
You squirm, as your head shakes - and he can’t help picturing what the rest might have been. Were you dreaming about him eating your pretty little cunt again?
He can’t pretend he hasn’t thought about that, himself. Half-temped to slip down the mattress and hoist your thighs on either side of his head, tonguing at your clit until you soaked his beard.
Instead, he can’t help but give in.
Always bending, when it comes to you. So fucking greedy, and it’s all he can do to stay away when it gets to be too much.
When he wants too much.
Letting himself sink into it tonight. He’s already here, after all.
Letting his mouth drop to yours just as his thick fingers part you. Proof that you hadn’t been entirely truthful, as they slide up your slit. Fucking drenched, and he can’t help the groan that rattles in his chest. One that you echo, as they slip against your clit.
Drawing circles as your lips part. The sweep of tongue and scrape of teeth as he licks into your mouth, deepening the kiss as he teases at your entrance.
Something low slipping from him, when you finally suck in a breath.
“Maybe you’re still dreaming.”
“Yeah,“ It’s dazed, and there’s the curve of a smile against his mouth, “Think I am.”
Something twists, deep in his chest.
His hand has to shift to make way for the way you arch against him. Fisting in the sheets as your tits crush against his chest, hand curving against his neck to tug him closer.
Legs inching wider as one hooks around his hip, and he’s all too happy to keep you beneath him. Let your lips press along his jaw, as you rock against him.
He’s hard. Blood rushing south, trading the stroking tease of your fingers for the warm heat between your thighs.
Letting his cock slip down, sending him against you each time you move. Acting out your dream, or a fantasy - he doesn’t give a fuck which, as long as you keep moving.
As long as you let him meet you, match you. A rough “fuck” rumbled out as you his shaft grows slick with your need.
The way his name comes out hushed as the head of his cock catches on your opening. Slipping past in a slick slide against the curve of your ass, as you clench around nothing.
There’s something he needs, but he can’t voice it. Not fully.
It’s in the harsh pant of his breath, at the way your hips hitch, roll. Rubbing yourself against him, the little whine again when his cock slips between you again.
Bumping up against your clit, nails biting into his shoulders.
It comes out a different way. Filtered and roundabout, low and rasping.
“You still takin’ those pills?”
He’s watched you take them a dozen times. The pack sits on the little ledge in your bathroom - default jingle on your phone familiar, enough that the sound of it on the street stops him in his tracks.
“Yes.” It’s sighed out.
Frank still gives you a moment.
So sure you’ll stop him. You should, after all.
Shouldn’t even be letting a man like him put his hands on you.
Much less let him bury himself inside you, with nothing between them.
Should just yank that drawer of your side table open. Embrace that thin layer of space between them, even if the thought has never been more unwelcome.
You must sense his hesitance. Or you’re too wound up in your own need - these few seconds your own form of torture. Knowing what he’s asking - because of course, you do.
“Fuck, I want to feel you,” The hands at the back his neck slip forward. Thumbs pressed against his jaw, forcing him to watch the way your lips form the words.
“Please.”
He doesn’t expect you to beg for it.
It’s happened in his dreams - ones that fill the empty stretches of daytime - but that’s all they were. Moments of greed that slip into his consciousness. Teeth gritted as the phantom echo of your cunt squeezes around him, eyes sliding shut as he paints the shower tile with his spend.
Aching to feel you bare. The tight slick heat, all his.
His teeth grit. A hand pinching at your hip as the other fists his cock. Still just a hairsbreadth away, as he fits himself against you. Slowly pushing in, as your warmth surrounds him.
This time, each expression is cataloged by moonlight.
Always too dark, before. Too far away - bent over the kitchen island. A palm flattened against your shoulder blades, as your back arched on the mattress. Pressed up against the bathroom door in the dead of night.
The pinch of your brow and how your eyes widen as you take him. That shaky, inhale of breath as something soft slips from him without thought.
“You can take it.” Another shift of his hips, as you give around him, “Always so fuckin’ good at takin’ it. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
Your answering hum pitches high.
So damn snug, even with how wet you are for him. Clutching around each inch he gives you, until the curl of his fingers are pressed against your folds. Until you’re making room for the rest of him, his thigh nudging against yours as he finally pushes flush.
And the bliss of holding himself there, fully hilted in you, is short-lived. As good at it feels, he has to move.
He can go slower, later.
Another night, when his blood isn’t pounding. When this urge doesn’t crackle through him, needing to make the most of what he’s given.
You move with him - the roll that starts at his hips, curving up to his shoulders. Fucking you into the mattress. Pink scrapes along his back with the way you cling to him, your nails making their own marks among his scars.
He growls at how wet you are for him, the slick slide into warmth and the slap of his skin against yours as you take him, again and again. How your breath goes ragged when he shifts. Palms flattening against the mattress, pushing himself up. Hands skimming along your sides to grasp at your hips, bringing them with him.
Tilting, sending his cock against a spot his fingers know well.
“Oh god.” You moan, and Frank swears he can feel his cock twitch inside you, “There.”
“Yeah?” It’s gritted out, as he strokes against it again.
His palm dragging against your abdomen, thumb pressed snug against your clit. Giving you something to grind against, as he looks down.
You’re splayed out below him. Pale light tracing your curves - the sway of your tits, one of your hands cupping and pinching as the other latches onto his wrist.
Thighs hooked around his hips, knees biting into tender ribs. A flicker of pain flares to life each time he ruts into you washes over him, melding with the pleasure.
“Please-“ It’s slips out on an exhale. Your fingers flexing and tugging, urging his fingers to press harder.
Your breathing growing short, with each brutal thrust. Stealing your breath and he swears he feels a tremor in your thighs, a stiffness in the way your back arches.
“You gonna come, sweetheart?” It’s low and rough, his fingers swirling against slick skin, “Gonna come on this cock with nothing between us?”
“Yes,” The words come quickly now. “Oh my god, yes. I need it-“
And fuck - he loves hearing what you need, as long as it’s him.
Giving it to you, until you’re moaning beneath him, pitching high and loud and he hopes that fucker next door can hear what he’s doing to you, as you fall apart beneath him.
A flutter in his stomach as the way you grip him as you come, making a mess of his cock. Slick and hot and fluttering around him, far better than he had imagined.
And it’s only after the bite of your knees ebb, that he realizes how close he’s been to the edge as well. Holding himself there, teeth gritted so you could seek your end first.
He won’t - can’t - last long, now.
Another stroke, and he’s almost there.
“Where do you want it?” It builds and builds. That sharp twinge, as his muscles tighten.
Desperation in the way he hilts himself each time. Sinking into your wet warmth as you wrap around every inch of him, gripping him as if to keep him there.
You’d look pretty with his come on your tits. Painted across your stomach. Christ - smeared against your pussy.
“In me.” You whimper, and he doesn’t miss the way your thighs tighten around his hips.
The way your words make him stutter. Rhythm going sloppy as he growls - hips snapping harder. Bringing him closer, lower until he’s just arched over you again.
“Yeah? You gonna take that, too?”
He’s already let himself fall this far tonight. Too late to turn back now and play the man he should be. Not that he could, not with the low tightening in his belly, a plucked string of pleasure from your pleas.
You moan tell him everything. That you want this as well, have been thinking about him filling you. That just his cock hasn’t been enough - that you need more.
His head dips, pressing into the curve of your neck as he comes. Thrusts shallow and sloppy, and goosebumps raise against your skin, at the way he groans in your ear.
Rough and filthy, as your legs tighten - driving him deeper as his spend spills into you.
Hips flexing with each jerk of his cock. Shallow thrusts so he can stay deep. Make sure every fuckin’ drop ends up where it should be.
Going still, while all the sharp edges of his mind finally goes soft, bones turning leaden. Finally shedding the nightmare that’s followed like him a shadow.
You whine when he leaves you empty, and it almost does him in.
It’s enough that he’s moving without thinking. The mattress dipping as he settling on his side - a hand tracing down your sternum, stomach.
Ghost-light when they meet the juncture of your thighs. Swirling through the slick that dampens your skin, the shine of where he leaks from you. Gathering it up on two fingers, before he’s pushing it back back in.
And fuck, he’s never had you like this.
A second round isn’t unusual, but he’s always spent himself against skin or silicone. The noise filthy as he finger-fucks his come deeper inside you, feeling the tight warmth of your needy little cunt around his fingers.
He wants to leave a piece of him with you. Cock already twitching at the thought of himself dripping out of you all day. The slick cling of cotton and tender ache between your thighs a constant reminder as you go about your day.
Make you think of him as much as he does you.
“Greedy thing, isn’t she?” Frank’s voice is a purr in your ear, “Help me out, baby.”
Your fingers are quick to join him. Snaking down your torso, timing the circling press of your fingers with the crook of his.
Gasping when his mouth presses against your throat. Shoulder. Closing around the tight peaks of your tits - bearing down around fingers stroke inside you, again and again.
“Frank,” You gasp, “Gonna make me come, I-“
Another whine, as your eyes slip closed. Sharp breaths hissed through your teeth, as the tension inside you winds tighter and tighter.
He needs it. Needs one more, after the night he’s had.
“Good fucking girl,” Frank croons, “Know you’re almost there.”
Accustomed to your tells, even when your words fail you. The tightening of muscles and the slope of your brows. How you tilt toward him, fingers pressing harder. Senseless babble rushing together - gasps melding with pleas, as his come-soaked fingers crook.
Wrenching another from you, as you shatter again. Working you through it, even as your own coordination fails - fingers leaving your clit to bite into his wrist. His own voice low and rough, the words lost in the night.
There you go. That’s it, sweetheart.
Give me another.
So fuckin’ gorgeous when you come. You know that?
Better than a dream, he’s certain.
The room is dark, as you drift back down. A burst of stars slipping back to the painted pattern on your ceiling.
Achingly aware of the way you feel against him. Curved into his side, a damn near perfect fit. Enough to make him content to stay where he is.
Senses dulled to world outside.
But with it, the slow realization is like a knife to the jut. Shoved deep and twisting, until it’s lethal.
Something he’s known deep down, but hadn’t wanted to admit. Slashes the pieces and tucked them all away before they could make something recognizable, but right now they’re fitting together again too quickly to ignore.
It’s been there, ever since the beginning.
The first peek of your wide, determined eyes as he bled out on your fire escape. Your smile. The laugh that slips out, and the flicker of pride when he’s the one that pulls it from you. The hours spent in the low light of your kitchen, feeling like the only two people awake.
That first kiss, tucked away in the bathroom, and every moment that’s followed.
It makes him certain.
That this won’t ever be enough.
After part ii, I honestly just wanted to write a fic where it’s clear just how much he’s been thinking about her, too (in the form of a scene where he’s too desperate to wrap it) - I’m personally imagining this as an au where maybe Frank finds a way to stick around💖 thank you so much for reading!!
blurb - Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each other’s lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar man—older, harder, and still devastatingly him—all the pain resurfaces.
warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???
author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...
One shot requested by: anyomous
wc: 18.3 k
Mwah!
“Joel…”
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”
He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.
“You ain’t leavin’ yet,” he said against your hair.
You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. “Joel—”
“My birthday is tonight,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. “Keyword: Tonight.”
“You’re not six.”
“Don’t need to be,” he muttered, “To wanna spend it with my wife.”
Somewhere down the hall, Sarah’s laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.
“Joel,” you whispered again, gentler this time. “It’s an ER shift. You know I can’t just—”
“I know, I know.”
He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.
“I packed you dinner,” he said finally, nodding toward the counter.
Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.
You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadn’t watched him make sure your thermos didn’t leak and your sandwich didn’t get squished while you changed into your scrubs.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did,” he cut in, quiet but sure. “You forget to eat when it gets busy.”
“I do not forget.”
“Mm,” he said, unconvinced. “That’s why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ain’t seen food in a week.”
You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.
And that’s when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.
“Ew,” Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. “Not this again.”
Joel didn’t even look her way. “What’s this ‘gain?”
“You being a total sap,” she said, hopping up on one of the stools. “She’s just going to work.”
Joel’s head turned slowly to his kid. “You don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re dramatic.”
You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.
Joel lifted a brow at her. “You done?”
“Not even close,” she said sweetly. “Stop hogging her.”
He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’d wanna talk to her so bad, huh?”
“Maybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.”
Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. “Uh-huh. I’ll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.”
You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.
“Did it get fixed?”
Her grin was instant, mischievous, like she’d been waiting for that cue all night.
“You bet it did.”
She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.
Joel’s watch. Working.
You hadn’t seen it tick since—well, since ever. Not once in all the years you’d known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. “He deserves it,” she said softly.
You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. “You did good, baby.”
Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.
“When I’m back in the morning,” you murmured against her hair, “Your dad gets me, then it’s all you and me, okay?”
She pulled back, grinning. “Deal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.”
You smoothed her hair from her face. “Then we’ll find you the perfect one. Promise.”
Her eyes sparkled. “It’s gonna be the best.”
You smiled, meaning it. “It will.”
For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.
Then you glanced up—and froze.
“Shoot,” you muttered. “I’m late.”
You moved fast—badge, phone, keys—but she was still standing there, smiling at you.
“I love you, Sarah!” you called as you backed toward the door.
“Love you too!”
The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadn’t quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.
The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.
“Hey!”
You turned.
Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.
“What—?”
Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.
Steady. Familiar.
You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. “Happy birthday,” you murmured.
His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, baby.”
He kissed you again—slower this time—and then rested his forehead against yours.
“You sure you can’t call in sick?” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Y‘know I can’t.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try.”
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joel’s jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.
“Tomorrow morning,” you promised quietly. “I’m all yours.”
He nodded once, like he was filing it away. “All mine,” he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.
You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.
“Go on,” he said, smiling now. “‘Fore I think of another excuse to keep you.”
You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.
Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. “Text me when you get there.”
“I always do.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still.”
You looked up at him for a moment—just a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.
Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.
The taillights disappeared down the street.
And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.
That was the last quiet night.
┈┈・┈┈
The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossil—half-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.
You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.
The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like it’s been waiting for you all these years.
You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.
Good.
Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counter—some old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.
You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.
Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the corner—torn, mold creeping up the side. But it’s shelter.
You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.
You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but there’s always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if you’re lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.
Outside, the wind changes pitch—sharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.
You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.
Wyoming. You’d always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.
The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonder—not for the first time—why food never tastes like anything anymore.
The silence stretches long and thin.
Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The storm’s closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.
The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.
You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.
You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.
You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.
You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.
For a moment—just a flicker—you see it again.
The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.
You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.
Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldn’t even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at you—you’d dropped it. You remember that clearly. You’d dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.
You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.
The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.
You sit for a while, just breathing.
Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklace—its chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.
Your wedding ring.
It still fits around your finger, though you haven’t worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the inside—J.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.
Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joel’s hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.
Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.
Half the roof gone, windows shattered. You’d stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.
The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. There’d been blood by the entryway—dark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.
That had meant something. You’d clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.
“They made it out,” you’d whispered into your old bedroom. “He got her out. He always does.”
Now, years later, you still hold the ring like it’s proof that somewhere, somehow, they’re still alive.
That Sarah’s grown—thirty-eight now, if you’ve done the math right—maybe with her father’s strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.
You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.
That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.
The wind howls against the window. And then—a noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.
It’s faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.
You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.
Another sound. Closer this time.
You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is human—not the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.
You don’t take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.
Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and there—under a hanging sign that reads ‘SNACKS’ in flaking red paint—is a person.
She’s young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then you’re beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.
“Don’t make noise,” you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.
She makes a sound—a sharp intake—but you clamp harder until it’s a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.
You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesn’t flinch. “Who are you with?”
Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.
“Nod if you’re alone.”
Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You don’t believe her.
“Walk.”
She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.
Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look new—canvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.
“Community,” you mutter.
The girl mumbles behind your glove—garbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You can’t tell if it’s anger or a plan.
You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. “You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. There’s defiance there. “You don’t wanna do this.”
“That right?”
“Yeah,” she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. “Because—”
She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But it’s enough. Your instincts snap tight.
You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.
They’re cold. Wild. Protective.
He’s holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.
“I’ll slit her throat before you take a step.” you snarl.
He doesn’t blink.
You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.
“Back off, I swear I’ll—”
“I’ll kill you ‘fore you can.” he interrupts, stepping closer. There’s a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but can’t name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.
Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerks—twists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.
“Stop movin’, Ellie!” The man yells.
“Goddammit!”
She spits, and the world completely inverts—just by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.
“Kill her already, Joel!”
Joel.
The name stops you cold.
Joel.
It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip falters—barely, but enough.
Joel.
“...What did you just say?” you whisper.
The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.
Then—pain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.
For a second, you don’t feel it. Not really. Your body’s in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.
Two against one. You’ve been in worse. You’ve survived worse. But still—your pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.
The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.
Except the softest call you’ve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.
You haven’t heard it in years. You’d forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. You’d forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.
You look up.
The man’s eyes are on you—wide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like he’s staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.
“Stay back,” you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.
He doesn’t. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. “Joel! What are you—?”
No.
No, no, no.
The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his face—
It’s him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.
Your Joel Miller.
Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyes—same as the day you lost saw him.
Your breath catches in your throat. “Joel…”
The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.
“Darlin’...”
You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You can’t do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.
Your knees go weak. You can feel pain now—the slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesn’t stop the tremor.
Joel takes another step.
“Don’t…” you manage, breathless. “Don’t—come any closer.”
You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.
The girl’s hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. “What are you waiting for?! She’s…she’s—why are you hesitating—”
You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if she’s going to finish the job for Joel, and that’s when you see it—the blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.
“Christ…” you whisper.
You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.
Then, you fall.
Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.
You forgot this.
The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrified—words you can’t quite catch, just the vibration of them.
Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your head—barely—and see his face. That face.
The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldn’t sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought you’d never touch again.
You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.
He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you can’t really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.
You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.
He yells something over his shoulder—maybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You can’t tell. The world’s shrinking too fast.
Then—his voice, raw, breaking:
“Not ’gain. Not ’gain.”
You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like he’s said this before.
Again?
The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?
The thought makes you smile. You look up at him—just once more—and the sight fills you whole.
Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.
He calls your name again, but you don’t hear it. The world folds inward—black and quiet.
┈┈・┈┈
The church wasn’t much.
A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no music—just the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.
It was perfect.
Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.
“C’mon now, darlin’,” he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. “Your daddy’s a little busy right now, alright? You’ll see him in a minute.”
Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joel’s shoulders stiffen and then sag.
You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.
“I swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jus’—” He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She don’t like sittin’ still. Guess that’s my fault.”
“She just wants her daddy,” you said softly.
Joel’s eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. “Well, can’t say I blame her for that.”
“You always this confident at the altar?”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Confidence or stupidity—hard to tell.”
There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about ‘should’ve brought snacks.’ Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.
“Still time to back out, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”
You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?”
“I mean—not like that, darlin’. Jus’... y‘know I’m not exactly prime real estate.”
“Joel Miller…” you said, voice full of mock outrage.
“What?” he said, laughing now. “I’m jus’ bein’ honest!”
You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.
“Never,” you whispered.
He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.
The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of you—your hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.
Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.
When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
And when Joel finally whispered, “For as long as I got breath…”, you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.
┈┈・┈┈
You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t your own.
Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from… a heater? For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.
You jolt upright—too fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.
That’s when you hear it again.
You whip your head toward the sound—instinct first, reason later—and shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.
“Hey—hey, easy, easy.”
That voice.
Joel’s sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face you’ve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannel’s frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He must’ve just woken up.
It’s all impossible. It has to be.
“Joel?”
His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. “Yeah, darlin’. It’s me.”
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the same—warm brown, flecked with gold—and that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.
For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around you—wind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outside—but all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joel’s shaky breath.
You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joel’s expression crumples.
“Stop movin’,” he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “You’ll rip the stitches.”
You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.
His jaw works, like he’s trying to find something to say.
But all that comes out is your name.
It roots you to the floor.
You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.
He says it again. Softer this time.
Your breath stumbles. There’s a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.
When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinch— from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His hand’s rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.
Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.
For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing—fast, uneven, disbelieving.
And then—
You take a step back. Another. Another.
Distance.
You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joel’s brow furrows. “It’s alright,” he says, voice low, coaxing, like you’re some frightened animal.
You shake your head, breath catching. “No—no, it’s not.”
“Darlin’, it’s me—”
“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. “Don’t call me that.”
His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.
You can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body won’t stay still—your fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.
He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here… it was all too much, him standing here, alive.
“I knew you died,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I knew and I still believed—"
“I didn’t,” he interrupts, desperate. “I didn’t die, darlin’. I—”
“Stop!” You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. “Stop calling me that!”
“You’re shakin’. Lemme me—”
“No!” You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. “You can’t—no—you can’t just—”
Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You can’t fill your lungs, can’t find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.
He’s reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.
And then—
Bang.
The door slams open.
“Joel!” Tommy’s voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.
You stare at him. He’s got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.
You make a small, broken sound in your throat. It’s too much—the sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.
Tommy’s eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. “Step outside, brother.”
“Hell no,” Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. “My wife’s panickin’, Tommy—”
You twitch at that word—wife—and your breath catches, shuddering.
Tommy lifts a hand. “Out. Now.”
“Tommy—”
“Joel.” His tone hardens. “Get out.”
The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joel’s chest heaves. His jaw flexes.
Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that look—raw, gutted—undoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.
Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smile’s thin, a shade of what it used to be. “Why don’t you sit down, huh? Maria’s comin’ over real soon. She’ll take care of you.”
You don’t even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.
Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.
You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.
You don’t cry. You just listen.
Through the crack of the door, their voices filter in—muted, low, but heated.
“You’re overwhelmin’ her, Joel. Can’t you see that?”
Joel’s voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. “She knows me, Tommy. She—she looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, dry. “Don’t mean she can handle you right now.”
“I ain’t some stranger, dammit! I’m her husband. That’s my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thought—”
“You thought a lotta things, but that don’t change what’s in front of you. I get it.”
A pause. You imagine Joel’s face—the way he presses his lips together when he’s holding back something too big to say.
Then his voice again, lower. “You didn’t see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didn’t forget.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“She belongs with me. She should live with me—get used to things ‘gain, get used to me.”
“The hell she should,” Tommy snaps. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard come outta your mouth, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”
“Why? Why the hell not? Y’think I can jus’—what—leave her sittin’ in some damn corner, pretendin’ like she didn’t spend almost half her life with me?”
Tommy doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.
When he does speak, his voice is steady. “’Cause she’s scared of you, Joel.”
The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.
“She flinched when you touched her.”
Joel says nothing.
“She damn near stopped breathin’ when you got closer,” Tommy goes on, quieter now. “And not ‘cause she don’t care. It’s ‘cause she’s been out there, alone. Y’know what that does to a person.”
Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.
Tommy sighs. “Y’think she had folks lookin’ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, she’s been walkin’ ‘lone for years. One, two, five, ten—Christ, maybe since the whole damn thing started.”
A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.
“She ain’t the same person you lost. And neither are you.”
The words twist deep, where you don’t want them to reach.
Eventually, you hear the floor creak again—Tommy’s boots moving away, Joel’s slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.
You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.
He’s alive.
He’s here.
And you don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.
┈┈・┈┈
To say you’re skittish is an understatement.
Tommy and Maria’s house feels too clean. Too normal. Every sound—every creak, every low murmur from the kitchen—puts your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you don’t belong here.
The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.
Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.
Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.
Beds. Nightstands. Floors that don’t creak from rot.
Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.
You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.
Almost.
But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.
They never complained. Not once.
Maria—she tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like she’s seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.
He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. “Healin’ good,” he says. “Maria’s been keepin’ the bandages clean. You’re lucky she’s the one runnin’ the place.”
You nod. You never know what to say back.
He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. “Jackson’s different,” he tells you. “We got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.”
You hum under your breath, skeptical. “Sounds like a QZ,” you croak out before you can stop yourself.
Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. “Ain’t no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardin’ food. We look out for each other here.”
You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,
“I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t what I said.”
He means it. You can tell.
Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.
Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.
You’re sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.
When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. “Got someone who wants to see you,” she says.
Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. “Who?”
Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. “A visitor.”
You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. “Alright.”
She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wall—Tommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his father’s grin. You pause for half a second, staring.
A son. You hadn’t known.
Your pulse stutters.
Maria’s voice pulls you back. “You doin’ okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie.
Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if it’s Joel? What if he came here, decided he’d had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice already—low, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.
No. You can’t do that. Not yet.
Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. “Don’t worry. She’s kind. Sometimes.”
She.
The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.
Then you see her.
Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her hands—a knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hair’s brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.
It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.
Maria’s voice is light. “Ellie. I brought her.”
Right. Ellie.
She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.
Her mouth opens first. “Uh… hey.”
You nod once, your throat too tight for words.
She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You, uh… you probably don’t remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kinda…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. “Y’know. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.”
“I remember.”
“Oh.” She blinks too, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Cool.”
Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. “I’ll let y’all talk.”
You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.
The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. “I wanna… apologize.”
She says that last word like it’s a grater dragged across her throat.
You raise an eyebrow.
“For—uh—stickin’ you like a pig.”
Your frown comes without effort. “You stabbed me.”
“Yeah. Guess that’s another word for it. My bad.”
You just stare at her.
She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, “You were sneakin’ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I just—look, I didn’t know who you were, okay?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because she’s just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.
“I’ll live,” you say quietly.
She sighs, quick and relieved. “Yeah, looks like it.”
Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.
“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You were… married to Joel?”
You stiffen. That one hits bone.
“Okay, too soon.”
You shake your head. “No, it’s—” You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. “Yes. We were married.”
“Wow.” She whistles softly. “I mean, huh. You and Joel. That’s—” She stops, shakes her head, smirking. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothin’. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, y’know?”
“He wasn’t always.”
“Yeah?”
“He liked to dance.”
That makes her laugh—loud, surprised. “Bullshit.”
“He did. Badly.”
She snorts. “Okay, now I gotta see that someday.”
You don’t answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like she’s working up the nerve to keep going.
“So… you guys got, uh…” She squints. “What’s the word—divorced? Before the outbreak? You said ‘were married’.”
The question hits you like cold water.
“No,” you say softly. “No, we didn’t.”
“Oh.” She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. “Just been a long time, huh?”
You exhale through your nose. “Yeah. Long time.”
Ellie is easy in a way you’ve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesn’t know how to sit still. She reminds you of… you, before the world before it burned down.
You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long she’s been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.
She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn she’s got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.
And then—
Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “You… you must’ve known Sarah, then.”
The name slices through you like wire.
Sarah.
You blink, too slow, too hard.
“Sarah,” you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. “Of course I do.” You can’t stop the small laugh that breaks out of you—shaky, a little too high. “God, how did I not ask? I didn’t even—she’s grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does she—does she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball she’d kick around the kitchen—drove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floor—”
You stop. Because Ellie isn’t smiling.
She’s staring at you.
And her whole face has gone still.
“Oh.”
Just that.
And you know.
Instantly.
Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t feel anything.
“No,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. “No. Not Sarah.”
Ellie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches you, stricken.
You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. “No, she—she’s just a kid. She is—she—”
You don’t finish. The words choke, collapse.
Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.
You see Sarah’s hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something she’d drawn.
Gone. Forever fourteen.
Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasn’t true.
You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isn’t human—it’s raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.
Ellie’s eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. “Hey, hey, I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellie’s voice is muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. You don’t even hear what she’s saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarah’s voice calling for you in the dark.
Your throat closes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.
“She’s gone,” you whisper to no one. “She’s gone. Sarah’s gone.”
Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. “Hey—hey, slow down. It’s okay. You’re safe, you hear me?”
You shake your head. “No. No, I—she—” You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. “She’s just a kid. She—she calls me—she calls me mama—”
Maria’s eyes soften, and that’s worse. You can’t bear it. Her pity feels like fire.
You hear Tommy’s boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. “What happened?”
Ellie’s voice, trembling. “I—I told her about Sarah.”
Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. “Christ almighty.” He doesn’t look at you for long—maybe he can’t.
You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.
You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like it’s tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.
“She’s gone,” you whisper, voice trembling. “She’s gone, and I didn’t—”
Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.
Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between them—understanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. “I’ll get him,” he says, and he’s gone before Maria can stop him.
Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. “I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “I wasn’t there.”
Maria’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.
A sound—heavy boots, the door opening. You don’t have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.
Joel’s frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.
“Darlin’,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.
You shake your head, stepping back.
He doesn’t listen. He never did. In three long strides he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.
“Don’t—don’t touch me—” You push at him weakly. “She’s gone, Joel. She’s gone.”
He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, shaking. “I know, baby, I know.”
You pound your fists against him, but the strength’s gone from your body. “You don’t—”
“I do,” he cuts in, desperate. “I do.”
You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.
“She’s gone,” you whisper, smaller now. “Our girl. She—”
He doesn’t let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.
Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.
He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. “Don’t—don’t do that,” you rasp.
He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You wanna know what happened?”
You don’t answer, but he tells you anyway.
He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragments—him and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommy’s truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.
“\We were tryin’ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told him—told him to take us down. I was holdin’ her when he fired.” He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. “She was scared. Cryin’. I told her I had her. That I wasn’t gonna let go.”
You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. “You held her,” you say, the words barely forming. “You—”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t—” His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.
You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.
You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.
You reach out.
He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.
You cry until you can’t anymore—quietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t move to fix it.
Now it’s just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because there’s nothing else left to do.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
Joel didn’t give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.
He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldn’t get his head bitten off. But when he looked at you—eyes blank, body barely holding itself upright—he just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.
The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it should’ve been—like he’d gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didn’t thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.
The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didn’t come in.
By the third night, he’d moved a chair into your room and sat there while you slept—if you could call it that.
Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. You’d wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, “You’re alright,” though neither of you believed it.
By the end of the first week, he’d stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.
Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.
Tonight is like every one of those nights.
It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joel’s there in a second, just coming off his patrol.
“Hey,” he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. “Hey, now. Look at me.”
You don’t. You can’t. You’re somewhere else entirely.
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. “You’re safe,” he tries again. “You’re right here, darlin’.”
That word—it tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
But it isn’t. It isn’t okay.
Your voice comes out hoarse, like you haven’t spoken in years. “She was scared.”
Joel freezes.
“She was—she was scared, and I wasn’t there.”
He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“I just know it.”
His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue—but then he just lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, only it’s broken right down the middle.
Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. “I was supposed to protect her,” he chokes out. “That was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.”
Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.
He doesn’t flinch away.
“She was—she was so little,” you whisper.
He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. “She was,” he breathes.
Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.
When you finally speak, it’s a wish you didn’t plan to say.
“I wish Ellie’s knife killed me.”
Joel’s head snaps up.
“What?”
You meet his eyes—really meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. “That knife,” you say, voice breaking. “When she stabbed me—I didn’t think it then. But now…” Your throat locks. “It should’ve killed me. I can’t… can’t live in a world that took Sarah.”
He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something he’d buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.
“Don’t say that,” he rasps.
“Joel—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. “Don’t you ever say that. You hear me?”
You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.
“I can’t lose you too,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I ain’t strong ‘nough for that.”
“You already lost me.”
“No. No, you’re still here. You’re breathin’. You’re here.”
Something inside you caves in. You don’t know which one of you moves first, but suddenly he’s holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.
You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.
He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. There’s no logic in the way he looks at you—just devastation and recognition, like you’re both staring into the same pit and realizing you’ve been standing beside each other the whole time.
He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.
But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.
He looks up, startled at first, like he’s not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.
“Don’t,” you whisper.
He blinks. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t go.”
The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they sound—but they’re true. Every piece of you feels hollow when he’s not near.
Joel’s throat works. He studies you like he’s trying to find the right answer in your face. “You sure?” he murmurs.
You nod, but it’s shaky. He still doesn’t move.
“I mean it,” he says again, voice rough. “You—don’t gotta say things you don’t—”
“I said don’t go.”
That’s all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinking—your hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like you’re checking to make sure he’s real.
He doesn’t stop you. You pull him closer.
He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like he’s fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.
You tug him down until he’s lying beside you.
You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at first—two unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.
You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither does he.
He exhales against your temple, like he’s afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.
His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You don’t realize you’re crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.
He whispers something you can’t quite catch. Maybe it’s your name. Maybe it’s hers. You don’t ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touch—your shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.
It’s clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.
You both crack there—slow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.
And this new ritual continues.
Time folds in on itself—weeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.
The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.
By late November, you’ve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You don’t always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.
He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think he’s waiting to see if you’ll join him. You rarely do.
Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimes—only simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes she’d drown in syrup, not the chicken stew she’d claim was “better than school lunch.” You can’t.
The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn she’s been staying there. She has her own rhythm—friends, her girlfriend. It’s soft, watching her have something sweet.
Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmers’ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.
“Maybe next week,” you say
He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.
And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.
Sometimes you thank him.
Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.
Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilot—bare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.
You’re about to shower, something you’ve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.
But when you open the drawer for clothes—nothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans you’ve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.
You curse softly under your breath.
Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joel’s handwriting—blocky, uneven.
Went to help at the barn.
Didn’t get to the laundry yet. My bad.
You can borrow whatever of mine you need.
—J.M.
You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.
Your face warms. You forgot he’s been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.
Your bras.
Your panties.
God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.
The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:
Stay warm. Water heater’s touchy again—let it run first.
You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.
You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.
When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they don’t like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find it—cedar and faint tobacco.
Soft flannel. His.
You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You haven’t worn Joel’s clothes in years—a whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.
You hesitate anyway.
“Jesus,” you whisper to no one. “You’re ridiculous.”
You slip it on.
The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.
And suddenly you’re back there. In that other life.
The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way he’d leave his boots by the door and say, “I’ll get ‘em later,” and you’d roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when he’d come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.
You don’t mean to move, but you do—backward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.
“Goddamn you,” you whisper into the cotton.
But what you mean is thank you.
It’s like being wrapped in him. And God, you’re terrified of what it means. Not of him—never of him—but of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.
He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.
Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than this—or so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.
Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.
No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Don’t do this.
But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.
C’mon, darlin’. Let go for me.
You’re lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.
Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.
You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; you’re already drenched. When’s the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesn’t leave room for want.
You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.
Please, Joel. Touch me. I’ve been so cold.
One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.
You take me so good, baby. Always have.
You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.
Your breast spills free—flushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.
You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.
The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.
You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?
You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.
The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You don’t move to cover yourself.
The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.
Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but it’s drowned by the slow creep of something else.
Guilt, maybe.
You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:
You might be falling in love with your husband again.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
He was early.
You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked… nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.
When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. “You look—uh. Nice.”
You smiled. “You too.”
He was wearing his usual—plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans—but somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like he’d actually wiped them off before coming.
The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.
“So,” Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. “Uh—”
You looked up. “Uh?”
“I should probably jus’—jus’ say this upfront.”
You set your menu down, a small smile forming. “Okay.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. “I got a kid,” he blurted. “Her name’s Sarah. She’s one. Almost two.”
He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.
“She’s… well, she’s my whole damn world. I jus’ don’t wanna waste anyone’s time pretendin’ otherwise.”
He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasn’t something he said often—probably something he practiced in his head on the way here.
“You love her.”
He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. “Yeah. More’n I thought I could love anythin’, to be honest. It’s jus’ been me and her since—well, since birth.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “So that’s kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethin’ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitin’.”
You grinned. “You sound like a good dad.”
That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didn’t quite know what to do with the words. “You ain’t—uh—you’re not scared off?”
“By a good dad?” you teased. “No. I think that’s actually kind of attractive.”
His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s a first.”
After that, the tension broke.
You asked him about his work—how long he’d been building houses—and his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics he’d probably hate.
And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.
“She’s wild,” Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Got more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was ‘too old’ to play hide and seek.”
You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.
“She’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askin’ me if there’s any still walkin’ ‘round Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe there’s one hidin’ in the Hill Country.”
“She sounds smart.”
“Too damn smart, sometimes.” He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, “Her mama—well. She ain’t ‘round. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to figure it out best I can.”
You didn’t press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.
Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twice—quick, flickering glances that he pretended didn’t happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that “wouldn’t fill a bird.”
It was nice. Simple.
By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.
“Joel—”
“Nope.”
“C’mon, at least let me—”
“Darlin’, don’t even try.”
You stared at him, fighting a smile. “Darlin’?”
He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. “Oh. Uh—slipped out. Sorry.”
You laughed. “Don’t be.”
He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.
When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.
At your front door, he stopped.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.”
“Me too.”
He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. “If you wanna… maybe—I don’t know—keep goin’. Not tonight, I mean—well, maybe tonight, but not like that—jus’… I mean, if you wanna see me ‘gain.”
You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.
“Sorry,” you said between breaths. “You’re just—”
“Terrible at this?”
“Adorable,” you corrected.
“Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”
You stepped closer, your voice quieter. “Then I guess you were overdue.”
And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.
It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.
“You wanna come inside?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. “Sarah’s with Tommy.”
You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. “Right. So you should probably—”
“I’ll jus’ pay him more,” he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.
That made you laugh. “You sure?”
He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.
The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.
And that, was the start of it all.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.
The crowds gathered around the tree—families, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.
Tommy’s got Benji in his arms. The kid’s nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.
You lean a little closer, smile softly. “He’s about two minutes from a faceplant.”
Tommy grins, voice low so he doesn’t wake the boy. “Yeah, he’s a fighter though. Ain’t givin’ in easy.”
Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. “Want me to take him?”
Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. “Hey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?”
Aunt. You’re not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.
He’s warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought you’d forgotten.
Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. “You always were good with kids,” he says.
You smile, brushing a curl from Benji’s forehead. “Guess it’s like riding a bike.”
“Yeah,” Tommy murmurs. “One hell of a bike.”
You don’t respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benji’s lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. He’s got that same Miller look—those brown eyes, that furrow even when he’s half-asleep. You’ve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.
Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.
Maria’s speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.
“There’s my boys,” she says, coming over.
She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Maria’s shoulder.
“Out cold,” she whispers, smiling.
You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once he’s gone.
The music starts again—a few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. You’d almost forgotten you brought yours.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. “This is for Benji.”
Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details careful—each line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop who’d carved it by hand.
“Look at this,” Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. “You serious? You got this for him?”
You shrug, a little bashful. “He’s obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.”
Maria smiles, kissing her son’s temple. “He’s gonna love it.”
You hand her two more small bundles—one for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything you’ve felt in years.
Tommy whistles low. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.
“This one’s from us.”
“You didn’t—”
“Jus’ open it,” he says, voice low.
The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.
It’s a photo.
A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.
You and Joel—both asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarah’s in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like she’s in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadow—Tommy, holding the camera.
Your throat closes.
You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. “Tommy… how—”
“After the outbreak,” he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. “First couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepin’ it safe.”
You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesn’t stop the ache building in your chest.
“I thought they were all gone,” you whisper.
Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.
You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you don’t drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.
Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.
You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. “Thank you,” you murmur.
Tommy’s face is all soft lines. “Go eat. You look like you’ll fall into the fire otherwise.” He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like he’s offering you heaven on a platter.
It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.
A man steps in front of you—too close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. He’s around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like it’s a badge.
“You lookin’ lonely,” he says, grin crooked. “Mind if I—”
“I’m not,” you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.
He doesn’t take the hint, following you. “Come on, lighten up. I’ve got a bottle with your name on it.”
“Not interested,” you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.
He laughs like you’re the joke. “Someone’s touchy. You look like you could use a good time.”
“Or maybe you could use a lesson,” you say. “Either way, back off.”
People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The man’s jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.
“Don’t,” you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.
He bends, leans in. “I said—”
You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.
“Jesus—” he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Don’t touch any woman who doesn’t want it. Fuck off asshole.”
He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.
The he moves.
Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neck—hard—and cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the man’s face.
You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesn’t get the chance.
A blur of motion—then the man’s body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.
You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.
Joel’s there.
Not the quiet Joel. Not the ‘coffee in the morning’ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas station—feral and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”
The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then he’s on him.
Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.
Joel doesn’t hear. He’s somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.
“Joel!” you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. “Joel, stop!”
He doesn’t.
You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.
That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyes—they’re wild. Like he doesn’t even recognize where he is.
Then he sees you.
The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyone’s staring. No one moves.
Joel’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his hands—bloodied and shaking—on your face.
“Hey. Hey, look at me. You okay?” His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. “He hurt you? Tell me if he did.”
You shake your head, swallowing hard. You’re fine. You were fine. You always were.
He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.
Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommy’s face through the haze—brows drawn, mouth tight. Maria’s beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesn’t change.
You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.
The fear comes slow.
Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you can’t stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.
He doesn’t speak until you’re well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.
Then you pull away.
“Stop,” you say.
He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like this—softer really, though the blood on his hands hasn’t dried yet.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I’m—so sorry, darlin’.”
You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. “No. It’s not that. I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”
His brow furrows. “Can’t do what?”
“This,” you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. “You. Me. The way you—look at me like I’m still…” You stop, shaking your head. “Like we’re still the same people.”
He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“You scare me, Joel.”
The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesn’t block.
He blinks. “What?”
“You scare me,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like I’m still yours.”
“You are mine.”
You close your eyes. The snow’s starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I jus’—he touched you, and I saw red. I couldn’t—hell, I ain’t proud of it, but I’d do it ‘gain if it meant—”
“Joel.” You interrupt, firm. “Just stop.”
He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.
You take a step back. Then another. “You keep saying you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’re still justifying it. You think it’s love, but it’s not. It’s fear. It’s control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you won’t lose me again.”
His chest rises and falls, ragged. “You don’t understand—”
“You were my husband,” you say, your voice shaking now. “You were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And now—now you’re back, and I don’t know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I can’t. You smother me, Joel.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to smother you, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”
“I don’t need you to keep me alive,” you fire back. “I already did that for twenty years without you.”
He takes a step closer, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to not care ‘bout you. You understand? I don’t know how to turn that off. I’ve already lost everythin’ once, I can’t—”
“But you aren’t my husband anymore.”
He stops cold.
The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like he’s trying to recognize a face in a dream—one that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.
“No.”
“Joel—”
“No.” He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to me.”
You step forward, voice soft. “Joel, listen to me—”
“You don’t get to just say that like it’s some Goddamn fact. Like it ain’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. “Y’think I can jus’ stop bein’ your husband ‘cause the world went to shit?”
You feel your throat close. “That’s not what I—”
“‘Cause I never stopped.” His voice cracks, raw and broken. “Not for one second. Every day, I—” He presses a fist against his chest, like he’s trying to hold something in. “I woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkin’ of you. When I saw—when I saw Ellie—I thought, ‘you’d like her,’ because I still—still thought about what you’d like.”
“Joel…”
He’s breathing hard now, his voice shaking. “Y’think I don’t know what I am? What I’ve done? Y’think I don’t hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I never—” He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.
“Don’t—stop—”
But he’s already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.
The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.
You go still.
Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.
“I didn’t wear it for twenty-somethin’ years, carried it ‘round in my pocket,” he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. “Couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. But when I found you ‘gain, when I—when I saw you—” His hand trembles as he grips the ring. “I started wearin’ it ‘gain.”
You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.
“I thought of you every day,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Beat myself bloody over losin’ you and Sarah. Over not savin’ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ain’t your husband.” His voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”
You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isn’t fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Because your hands are already moving.
You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.
Joel’s breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.
“You… you didn’t have it, when you left. How did you—”
“I couldn’t let it go.”
He makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and suddenly he’s moving.
The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then you’re both crashing together like you’ve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding you upright.
The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You don’t even notice.
You taste salt—tears, his or yours, you can’t tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.
“Please,” he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. “Don’t—don’t go.”
“No,” you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes him—low, guttural, broken.
“C’mon,” he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. “Let’s go… home.”
“Okay.”
He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.
Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellie’s there.
Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like he’s relearning your weight against his.
You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. “Joel—” you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t care. Keep goin’,” he insists.
He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. “No. Joel, c’mon. Sit.”
He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, he’s already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.
“Take it off,” you instruct softly.
He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, he’s different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you don’t need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.
Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.
“You need to be careful. You aren’t young anymore, can’t heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.”
He doesn’t answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.
You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.
You can tell he’s unsure what to say, and for once, it’s the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.
Joel’s thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. He’s watching you, and it makes your chest ache.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.
You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. There’s something in the way he exhales, a tension you’ve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.
There’s a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until it’s just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.
You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.
Both of you know what the other wants. Words aren’t needed in a relationship like yours and Joel’s.
“I… are you sure?” you still check. “It might be too much. And your side might be—”
“Darlin’.”
“Yes?”
He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Stop talkin’.”
You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yours—soft, tentative.
Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like you’d dreamed of for countless nights.
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.
The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.
In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. It’s been years since you’ve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.
Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.
Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. “Hey… are you ‘kay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.
“I’m fine,” you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. “It’s just… been a while.”
His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. “You’re ain’t alone in that.”
Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.
Joel’s hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.
Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. “Look at you.”
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but there’s no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, he’s easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.
He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.
Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound that’s half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “One thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckin’… soft.”
You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.
“Touch yourself. Wanna see.”
You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.
Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.
“Keep goin’,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Need somethin’ pretty to watch. My cock… it don’t work the same no more, but you—” He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. “You’re doin’ so good.”
His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joel’s breath grows uneven.
He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.
“I’m… sorry,” you mumble, eyes dropping. “My body’s not what it used to be.”
Joel’s hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. “Get that the fuck outta your head,” he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. “I ain’t a catch, darlin’ no more. Look at me—gray hairs, creaky knees. But you? You’re still everythin’.”
You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.
Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. “C’mere,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.
You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.
“Joel, don’t show off!” you say, swatting at his back.
He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. “Don’t matter if I’m sixty or thirty-six, darlin’. I’m makin’ sure you don’t lift a damn finger.”
The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.
“Sit,” he says, his voice low and commanding.
Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. “I’m… I’m too heavy,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
“’Gain with this? Sit, darlin’. I ain’t askin’.” His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.
You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joel’s hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.
The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.
Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, “Keep touchin’ me.” he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. “You’re so good,” you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. “Joel, I—”
His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joel’s hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.
You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joel’s thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.
The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.
“Joel—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. “I’m close—oh fuck—shit, shit, shit!”
He doesn’t respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.
You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.
Joel’s hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.
“Joel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.
He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. “What, you don’t like it?” he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. “Thought you’d be used to me by now.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joel’s gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels different—different to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .
You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of him—his weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyes—hits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.
“I’ve missed you.”
He groans like you stabbed him.
“...I love you.”
He lets out a sound that’s half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. “I love you too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. “Always have. Always fuckin’ will.”
Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. It’s love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.
His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what you’ve both lost.
His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. “Missed you so damn much,” he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. “Thought I’d never get this ‘gain.”
“Me too,” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if we’d ever—”
“Don’t think all that,” he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”
You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.
His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.
You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joel’s movements falter slightly, his own release building. “Your close…” he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.
“Yes…” you breathe, your voice trembling. “You?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but it’s laced with something else. “Together, alright? Stay with me.”
His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.
You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.
Your bodies shudder together. You’re both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words aren’t needed.
Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.
“More than okay,” you whisper. “You?”
“I’m good.” His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.
His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.
He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. “Sit with me.” He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.
No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.
Joel’s hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.
He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.
“What are you doing.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Are you going to make me guess?”
Mwah!
“Joel…”
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”
He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.
“Joel, what are you doing with our rings?”
He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.
Then he began to speak, low and raw.
“I loved you ‘fore everythin’, y’know?”
“I know baby.”
“I loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkin’ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losin’ myself trying to find you ‘gain. And I… I still love you. Always have, always will.”
Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.
“I never stopped,” you whisper. “Not once.”
“I know darlin’.”
His hand lifts yours, and together you trade rings—his for yours, yours for his—as a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.
“I vow,” he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “To keep findin’ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ain’t ever let you feel alone, not ‘gain. You are my heart, my home, my life.
He swallowed.
“My wife.”
You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. “And I vow… I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.”
You smiled wider than you have in years.
“My husband.”
The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.
You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meet—slow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.
And you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.
omg my blog is one year old today….everyone say ty jayce talis omg
my first things were daredevil and punisher related but jayce actually had me in a chokehold and writing seriously for the first time ever. it was so fun to express myself in a different way that i’d never before.
shoutout everyone who was nice to me as well….I miss writing honestly 💟
content: what you and jayce have is something unique. he cares about you implicitly. so much so that he will go out of his way to use hextech to satisfy you...but you cant let the way he looks at you be any more than that.
warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, angst, happy ending, chapter-specific tags on each post
thank yall for the love on this short series, i wanted to post it in one single link for yall to refer to if you ever want to revisit it!
pairing: clark kent x reader
summary: calling it a situationship would be generous. clark kent is your coworker, your lunch buddy. your go-to plus-one for weddings, holiday parties, and three different thanksgiving dinners. you're the kind of friends who share takeout on each other’s couches and sometimes fall asleep there. friends who kiss, occasionally, during high-stakes stakeouts and tequila-soaked birthdays.
just friends, though.
word count: 5k
warnings: 18+ mdni, situationship to lovers, fake dating, mutual pining, slow burn, jealousy, confessions, domestic fluff, emotionally avoidant reader, brief smut, happy ending | playlist ♬.ᐟ
The second Perry introduces you as Clark’s girlfriend, the champagne goes down the wrong pipe.
Which is to say, you almost die.
Right there. In four-inch heels. In a dress worth a quarter of your yearly income. Choking on a $80 glass of vintage Dom Pérignon while fighting the violent, full-body urge to dive into the nearest ornamental koi pond.
Clark, of course, notices immediately.
Because he’s Clark.
Because he’s standing two inches to your left, warm and solid and unnervingly gravitational. Wearing a suit so perfectly tailored it looks like it was sewn directly onto his DNA. Smelling like bergamot and something woodsy you’ve never been able to name, but now permanently associate with the sound of his laugh in your apartment at 1 a.m.
And because the second you start hacking like a Dickensian orphan, his hand is on your back. Guiding you away from the crowd like you’re a spooked horse, and not a grown woman brought to her knees by a two-syllable word.
“Did Perry just—?” you rasp, coughing up remnants of French bubbles and the last of your dignity.
“Yeah.” Clark says, voice maddeningly even.
You whip your gaze to him, blinking through the watery aftermath of your near-death experience. He looks down at you with those absurdly sincere eyes—soft with concern, brows pulled together, mouth pressed like he’s fighting a smile and failing spectacularly.
As if he didn’t just let his boss reclassify your situationship in front of Metropolis’ glitterati.
Well.
Situationship is being generous.
Clark Kent is your coworker. Your lunch buddy. Your plus-one to weddings, holiday parties, and three separate Thanksgiving dinners. Your 2 a.m. ‘why’s my radiator making murder sounds’ hotline. He knows your coffee order, your backup coffee order, and the fact that you’ve watched Zootopia six times and still tear up when Judy apologizes.
Just friends, though.
The kind of friends who text good morning and good night with clockwork regularity. Who eat takeout on each other’s couches and occasionally, accidentally, fall asleep there.
The kind of friends who’ve kissed once, after an adrenaline-fueled stakeout involving a high-speed car chase. Twice, if you count that city-wide blackout incident (it was cold, there was an editor deadline). Plus that night on your birthday when you were barefoot and tequila-blasted.
Okay, so. Three times.
Still. It doesn’t matter.
Because if there’s one thing you’ve made clear—crystal, etched-in-stone clear—it’s this:
You do not date your coworkers.
You’ve told him that. Out loud. Possibly more than once. Possibly more for your benefit than his.
But still. It was said.
And now, thanks to Perry White’s tactless cannonball into polite conversation, the entire, champagne-soaked room thinks you’re Clark Kent’s girlfriend.
All because your boss has the tact of a sledgehammer and the observational skills of a meddling grandmother.
And you know Perry doesn’t mean to stir trouble. He just has this thing—this deeply inconvenient habit—of assuming things with such ironclad confidence that people around him spiral into identity crises trying to catch up.
He did it to Jimmy once. Referred to Eve Teschmacher as his fiancée at a staff party, and Eve spent the rest of the night making Pinterest boards while Jimmy stared wistfully out a window like a Victorian widow.
Now, apparently, it’s your turn.
The G-word dropped like a live grenade, right in front of donors, council members, and a man you’re 90% sure owns your entire apartment building.
Because this crowd loves a wholesome office romance. It sells well with old money.
Only—you’re not Clark’s girlfriend.
Which is why you end up marching him off the dance floor like a woman preparing to commit a very polite, very public homicide.
You duck behind a decorative ficus, dragging all six-foot-four of Kansas sunshine and understated muscle with you. You wedge yourself between the waxy fronds and the wall, your champagne flute dangling like an accessory to crime.
The ficus doesn’t judge. The ficus understands.
Clark follows, bemused and obedient. Of course he does. Because he’s Clark. If you walked into the ocean with that look on your face, he’d probably roll up his slacks and follow you in, just to make sure you didn’t drown out of spite.
Now it’s just you, him, and the oppressive weight of whatever the hell that was.
“Since when are we dating?!” You hiss.
Clark blinks at you. That dumb, beautiful blink that usually precedes something devastatingly earnest.
“We’re not.”
You point your flute at him like a weapon. “Try telling Perry White that.”
Clark’s face doesn’t even twitch. No panic. If anything, he looks… amused.
You narrow your eyes. “Wait. Did you know he was going to say that?”
He has the audacity to look sheepish. Sheepish, like a golden retriever who just chewed through your slipper and is now asking for belly rubs.
He rubs the back of his neck. His glasses slip. You resist the deeply feral urge to fix them.
“He asked who I was bringing. Your name came up. And he just kind of... assumed.”
“And you didn’t correct him?”
He shrugs, helpless. “I didn’t get the chance! He turned and started yelling at Jimmy about photos for the Sunday editorial.”
“So, you lied by omission.”
He looks deeply offended at that. “I didn’t lie. I just… didn’t not-lie.”
“You—” You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a shriek. “Clark. That’s an affirmative gesture.”
“I panicked!”
“You do not panic!”
“I do!” He winces. “…sometimes.”
You stare at him like he’s lost his mind. Like you’ve lost your mind, which, frankly, might be true. Because you’re currently hiding behind a $2,000 shrub, accusing the most decent man in the tri-state area of emotional subterfuge. And he’s just standing there. Tall and warm and somehow still so Clark about it.
“You didn’t think to give me a heads-up?” you ask. It comes out quieter than you intended. A little too vulnerable. A little too real.
That lands. He falters, gaze softening.
“Well, I figured if I told you, you wouldn’t come.”
Oh.
Well.
That koi pond’s looking pretty inviting again. Maybe you could just slowly tip over. Become part of the landscaping.
To his credit, Clark looks abashed. Not guilty, exactly, because guilt would imply he thinks he did something wrong, that he thinks he shouldn’t have done it. And he doesn’t.
He’s not apologizing for what he did. He’s just hoping you'll understand.
“I didn’t think he’d bring it up so publicly,” he says, quieter. “I just… I wanted you here.”
And there it is.
The truth.
Devastatingly simple. So very Clark.
Not calculated. Not strategic.
Just: he wanted you here.
Your brain is doing that thing it does sometimes—going absolutely, irreparably blank, like someone yanked the cord on your central nervous system. You’re vaguely aware that you’re blinking at him. Possibly breathing through your mouth. Possibly functioning as a human person and not, say, a potato in a backless dress.
And Clark—sweet, earnest, idiot Clark—sees your stunned silence and mistakes it for discomfort.
“I can fix it,” he offers gently. “I’ll talk to Perry. Tell him it was a misunderstanding. You don’t have to pretend.”
And it’s the way he says it—careful, soft, leaving space for you to bolt—that makes your heart ache.
Because here’s the thing about Clark. The infuriating, utterly devastating thing.
He never asks for more.
Not when he walks you home after work (he never asks to come up). Not when you grip his hand after a bad interview to keep yours from shaking (he lets go the moment you’re calm). Not when you pass out on him in the back of a cab (you woke up tucked into your couch, blanket pulled over you, with a sticky note on the coffee table that said: Lock your door next time – C.)
Not even after that tequila-flavored birthday kiss, where you smeared lip gloss all over his face then bolted after. Like a bad SNL skit about some drunk, commitment-phobic Cinderella.
And still—he let you run.
He never pushed, never assumed. Just waited.
Like he’s doing now.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because somewhere between the newsroom coffees and late-night stakeouts, Clark Kent stopped feeling like an almost and started feeling like a constant.
And constants are hard to ignore.
Every time you came close to being brave—your hand hanging too long on his arm, a goodbye that lingered like an apology—he’d just smiled. Quiet. Steady. Waiting for you to take the wheel, to take the first turn.
And you never did.
Because you didn’t know how to make that turn without demolishing the fortress you’d built in your head. The one labeled Professionalism. The one with a drawbridge made of Healthy Boundaries and a moat full of Reasons Why This Would Be A Terrible Idea.
(“It’s nothing personal,” you’d told him. “I just hate when things get messy, you know?”)
And now, you’re here. Wearing a dress that should belong to someone brave enough to own the word girlfriend, standing next to a man who’s taken up residence in your head longer than you dared admit.
You release a slow, quiet breath.
You stare at Clark. At the soft furrow in his brow. At the way he’s watching you like this could still go either way.
You sigh.
“Fine.” You try for a thin smile. “Let’s just get through tonight. Free wine, fancy cheese. Public deception. What could go wrong?”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies you for a beat, eyes tracing your face like it’s a puzzle he’s halfway through solving.
Then he smiles. Offers his arm.
You take it.
And it is, in no uncertain terms, the first of a hundred bad decisions you make that night.
⟢
The ballroom smells like champagne and generational wealth.
Not in the cute, Gatsby-party kind of way, but in the I own two private islands and casually commit tax fraud kind of way. Everything here glitters, but none of it’s gold—it’s just money. Inherited, laundered, bottled in Chanel and weaponized with dental work.
And you?
You’re on Clark Kent’s arm like you belong here.
Which is objectively hilarious, because the only thing less believable than you fitting in with this crowd is the way Clark’s looking at you, like you’re the sun and the moon and possibly the reason crops grow.
Like this isn’t pretend.
“Stop that,” you mutter, snagging a new flute of champagne from a passing tray.
“Stop what?”
“That face. The…” You wave your fingers vaguely in his direction. “The you face.”
Clark blinks. “I only have one face.”
“Yeah, well, it’s being extremely rude right now.”
He just laughs, quiet and fond. Like you just said something brilliant and not… whatever that was.
You want to be annoyed by how warm it makes you feel. Want to hate how your brain is already cataloguing every inch of this moment like it’s something to keep. His laugh. His dimples. His arm, warm and steady against yours.
And you really want to hate how good he is at this, at making you feel like you belong here. Like you’re the only person worth talking to in a room full of senators, tech CEOs, and women who have themed rooms for their dogs.
You do a slow lap around the room, grazing shoulders, laughing at the right beats, touching his arm just often enough to sell it.
It works.
For twenty minutes.
Until you see her.
⟢
She arrives like a Bond villain in couture.
Crimson dress. Cheekbones that could cut glass. A walk like she’s never tripped in her life and never will. She’s not just beautiful, she’s designed. Engineered. The kind of woman perfume commercials are based on but rarely deliver. The kind who definitely doesn’t choke on champagne or second-guess every decision that’s led her to this night.
And she is zeroing in on Clark like a heat-seeking missile with a point to prove.
You clock her before he does. Of course you do, you're in survival mode. You’ve been scanning the room since you stepped into this nest of designer shoes and whispered nepotism, and she registers as an immediate threat to your fake girlfriend equilibrium.
Not because she’s stunning. (She is, but that’s not the point.)
Not because she’s poised. (She is, but again, not the point.)
But because she walks like she’s been here.
Specifically, like she’s seen Clark Kent in fewer layers.
Clark turns just in time to catch her smile.
“Well,” she purrs, silk over steel. “If it isn’t my dear old Clark.”
You can’t help but recoil a little.
She steps into his space like she owns it. Her perfume hits a second later: spiced rose and something solvent-adjacent that makes your eyes sting. You want to sneeze and maybe commit a felony.
“If I’d known you were coming,” she murmurs, voice syrup-sweet, “I’d have worn something more impressive.”
Clark laughs, sheepish.
And then—he does it.
The Tell.
That tiny, nervous hand-to-the-back-of-the-neck thing. Most people think it’s adorable.
But you know better. You’ve studied his micro-expressions like a thesis project. You know exactly what this means: he’s uncomfortable.
And that?
That’s when you do your thing.
The irrational thing.
The stupid, impulsive, completely not in line with the boundaries you’ve constructed thing.
You reach for his hand.
And you know, objectively, that it’s insane. You’re a grown woman. A professional. You once ghosted a guy for calling you his girl before the drinks arrived. And yet, here you are, reverting to some prehistoric lizard-brain instinct, like a cavewoman staking her claim.
And it’s not jealousy. Please. You’re just… stating a fact. With your body. With your skin on his. A casual, totally normal, not-at-all possessive gesture that says, Hi, yes, this one’s mine. Move along now, thanks. (well, not really, but the sentiment still stands.)
Clark stills for a beat.
Then, like it’s nothing, like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before, he laces his fingers through yours.
His thumb sweeps over your knuckles, once.
Your stomach drops like a trapdoor.
The woman in red notices. Her gaze flicks to your hands, then rises, slow and surgical, to your face.
She smiles.
“So. You must be the girlfriend.”
The word lands like a trigger.
Your fingers twitch, just slightly. Clark feels it. He squeezes back, the same way he does when you’re bracing for a hostile interview subject or one of Perry’s pre-deadline tantrums. It’s comforting. Familiar. Terrible.
You manage a tight smile. “That’s me.”
She tilts her head. “And how did you two meet?”
Oh great. A pop quiz. Fantastic.
Your brain immediately queues up rom-com tropes like a panicked Netflix algorithm: Bookstore? Farmer’s market? Coffee spill on the subway?
But Clark beats you to it.
“We met at a press event,” he says smoothly. “Urban renewal project a few years back.”
Your head snaps toward him.
Because that—that actually happened.
It wasn’t a date. Wasn’t even notable at the time. Just a dreary Tuesday outside City Hall. The heat lamps weren’t working. The mayor was late. You were freelancing for the Star, he was already with the Planet, and you’d both been assigned to cover the same nothingburger speech about revitalizing the east end.
He’d offered you his coat without a word. You’d taken it without thanks, shivering and suspicious. Then you spent the next twenty minutes ranting about corrupt zoning and the death of civic architecture while he stood next to you, silent and warm, like a human space heater with good manners.
Afterward, you ended up at a diner.
Not a date. Just two reporters swapping quotes and insults over stale coffee and off-brand syrup.
He’d ordered pancakes at 9 p.m. You’d let him steal your fries. And somewhere between your fifth sidewalk-related rant and your third refill, you made him laugh so hard he choked.
You’d felt it, then, sitting next to a bottle of ketchup.
The click.
The terrifying, bone-deep tug that said:
Oh no. I like this one.
Six months later, fate handed you a desk across from his.
And the rest is… well, apparently public knowledge now.
“Yep,” you nod, voice a little strangled. “Urban renewal. Very romantic.”
The woman hums, like she’s storing ammo for later. Then, with a smile sharp enough to cut glass, she glides away toward a man in cufflinks worth more than your car.
You don’t breathe until she’s gone.
“Um, I didn’t realize we were using real stories?” you mutter, heart still thumping.
Clark glances down at you. “Sorry, I panicked.”
“You don’t panic.”
He doesn’t argue. But something in his face shifts, soft and sad and unreadable. He looks at you like he’s about to say something honest.
You glance down, quick.
You're still holding his hand. So is he.
He lets go.
Slowly, like he’s waiting for you to stop him.
You don’t.
⟢
The balcony is blessedly empty.
Probably because it’s humid as hell out here, and everyone inside cares more about keeping their blowouts intact than breathing in the sticky, unfiltered city air. But you? You need this. The suffocating heat. The wide open pace. The faint echo of taxi horns and distant sirens—a reminder that you’re not actually trapped in some weird Jane Austen adaptation directed by Jordan Peele.
You lean forward, pressing your hands on the railing, trying to coax your pulse back to a human tempo.
Clark follows you out, but stays a careful two steps behind. Like he knows the precise radius of your storm and refuses to step inside without permission. It’s a quiet kindness. Space that doesn’t feel like distance.
You inhale slowly, eyes closing for a beat.
The air tastes like rain and asphalt. Like real life.
Clark’s voice is soft behind you. “You okay?”
You nod without turning. “Just needed to get out before I jumped into that koi pond.”
He chuckles, quiet.
Then, before your brain can filter it:
“Just to clarify, do all your exes look like they model for French perfume ads? Or was it just the one?”
He blinks, startled. “Exes?”
You squint at him. “Don’t play dumb. That woman back there? Looked at you like she wanted to climb you like a rope in gym class.”
Clark’s ears go red. Not metaphorically red. Actually red. Like, visible, cartoon-blush red. The tips go first, then the flush creeps down his neck like a slow tide. He shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck.
“She didn’t—”
“She did,” you cut in. “Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t ask if you came pre-assembled or if she gets to unwrap you herself.”
He groans into his palm. “Can we not—"
“She was practically eye-fucking you in 4K,” you press on, smiling now. “Dilated pupils, Clark. That’s science. Fight, flight, or—”
He covers his face with both hands. “Please stop.”
“—or fuck,” you finish sweetly. “The third F, my friend.”
Clark makes a noise that might be a cough or a laugh or the beginning of a stroke. His palms drag down his face, like peeling off his skin might end this conversation.
And yet—he’s smiling.
Blushing, grinning, breathless in that way that makes your stomach do its new favorite party trick: the trapdoor plummet.
When he drops his hands, his smile softens. His eyes hold yours.
You look away first, swallowing hard. Your brain is a foggy slideshow of every touch, every almost, every loaded glance you shoved into a junk drawer so you didn’t have to think about this.
A sharp twist of frustration curls in your gut. At the stupid spark of jealousy in your stomach. At the fact that he still hasn’t really answered question. At the way he’s looking at you now, like you’d handed him the key to your diary and asked him to read the entry titled Things I Pretend Not to Want.
Then:
“She’s married.”
You blink. “What?”
He shifts, sliding his hands into his pockets. “To James Rourke.”
You turn, brows climbing. “Councilman Rourke? The guy who tried to bulldoze the community garden to build condos for cats?”
“That’s the one.”
You gape at the skyline. “She… she looked at you like she wanted to eat you alive.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking to the ground. “Well, I guess I’m pretty… digestible.”
You turn to look at him.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?
Clark is digestible. Soft-spoken. Palatable. Quiet in a way people mistake for easy.
The kind of man that most people think they can swallow in one bite.
Until you get close.
And then? He’s anything but easy.
He’s dense with layers.
Steady like a metronome. Kindness like bedrock. Justice braided into his bones, so rooted it makes the rest of the world seem shallow.
Unshakable, once he’s decided someone is worth his time.
You stare out at the city, trying to give shape to whatever soup of feeling is currently flooding your system.
Clark’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Do you remember what you said that night? First time we met.”
You blink, squinting over at him. “I said a lot of things. Mostly bullshit about gentrification. Think I also insulted the mayor’s hairline.”
He smiles. “Yeah. But before that.”
Your brow furrows, trying to catch up. “I don’t—what?”
“You said you didn’t trust anyone who orders pancakes after noon. Said they’re either emotionally stunted or hiding something.”
You snort. “I stand by that.”
“I know. And I remember thinking…” He steps a little closer, voice softening. “Gosh, I hope she doesn’t notice I’m hiding how much I like her.”
Your brain promptly bluescreens. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Because surely, surely, this man did not just say that.
Because what the hell does he mean, he liked you?
Back then? That was years ago.
You were still covering city council meetings with a flip phone and a caffeine addiction. Still wearing drugstore eyeliner that smudged by 11 a.m. You weren’t polished or poised. You were barely sleeping, freelancing three jobs, and still flinching every time someone called you “ambitious” like it was a slur.
You weren’t anyone worth noticing.
But he had.
Not just noticed—liked. Enough to hope you didn’t see it.
And now he’s just… stating it. Like a weather update.
“You what?” you croak, voice thin.
Clark shrugs, all slow warmth and maddening calm.
“I liked you,” he says, plainly. “Still do.”
The words hit harder the second time.
Silence hums between you, thick with all the jokes you used as armor, all the near-misses you dismissed because it was easier to pretend you didn’t see. You’ve built a fortress around your heart brick by sarcastic brick.
And now? You’re standing outside it.
You think of that woman from earlier. About how she looked at Clark, at the surface-level version of him. The tall, handsome, suit-and-glasses archetype.
But she didn’t want him.
She didn’t want the man who brings you tea when you’re on deadline. Who once read zoning laws just to help you win a bet. Who blushes when you call him cute but doesn’t flinch when you snap at him.
She didn’t want the man who holds your sharp edges like they’re sacred.
But you do.
You always have.
You feel it then, the full gravity of it. The years of soft glances and half-steps, all the ways he’s waited for you to arrive.
And you realize, with bone-deep certainty, that nothing is going back to normal after this.
Not the easy friendship. Not the 2 a.m. radiator calls. Not the fake labels or the dumb rules.
This is the edge. The point of no return.
You take a quiet breath. Turn to him.
And before your brain can interfere—before fear or logic or whatever else you’ve used to stall can catch up—you kiss him.
Clark freezes for half a second, then exhales against your mouth, bending down until you’re no longer reaching. Your fingers slide under his open collar, brushing the warm skin at the base of his neck. His hands settle at your waist, thumbs tracing slow arcs through the fabric.
When you tilt your chin to deepen the kiss, he follows.
It tastes like every moment you’ve spent beside him, ignoring the inevitable. All the ways he stayed. All the ways you let him.
And when it breaks—eventually, reluctantly—it’s only because you remembered that oxygen remains necessary, and that people still exist. Somewhere behind you, a poor waiter probably just got a front-row seat to the collapse of your entire emotional perimeter.
Clark exhales slowly, forehead resting against yours. You feel his heartbeat thudding against your chest. Or maybe it’s yours. It’s hard to tell the line when you’re this close.
“So… was that still part of the cover?” He murmurs, smiling.
You groan, muffling it into his shoulder. “God, you’re such a dork.”
He chuckles. “Taking that as a no, then?”
You ease back just enough to see his face. Watch the way his lashes lower, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s bracing for whatever you’ll say—or won’t. His hands remain exactly where they are.
“…Okay.” You whisper.
His brows lift. “Okay?”
“Okay, as in… I’m not gonna run. Not gonna spiral. I’m… I’m going to be normal about this.”
His smile grows, slow and warm.
He nods, once.
“Okay.”
⟢
Later, after you’ve thrown together a half-hearted excuse for leaving the gala two hours early—after Perry shoots you a knowing glance at the way your fingers lace together as you explain—after the cab ride home where his knuckles brush yours again and again, too often for it to be an accident—
You’ll finally talk.
Shoulder to shoulder on your too-small couch, feet tangled under a worn throw blanket.
You’ll say too much, probably. Little truths and big fears. Maybe you’ll laugh. Maybe cry a little. He’ll listen the way he always does, patient and unflinching. And when your voice starts to fray, he’ll take your hand.
You'll kiss him first, again, sliding into his lap the way you’ve wanted to all night.
His hands will fumble with the zipper as he helps you out of your dress—too big, too eager—but you’ll only laugh, feeling breathless at the way he’s a little clumsy when it’s just the two of you.
He’ll lift you, carry you to bed with your legs around his waist. Lay you down and kiss his way from your collarbone to the curve of your hip, tasting skin, making up for lost time.
He’ll press into you slowly, watching your face, voice hitching as he breathes out your name.
He’ll make you come with his hand between your bodies, hips rolling deep and firm and relentless until you arch under him, nails digging into his shoulder while he buries his face in your neck.
Afterward, you’ll suggest pizza. You’ll call him a freak for liking pineapple and he’ll call you a coward. You’ll end up with half-and-half.
He’ll put on Zootopia for you again. You’ll roll your eyes but watch the whole thing anyway. Doze off on his shoulder right as the credits roll.
There will be ordinary days. Good days. Hard days. Days where the world feels too heavy and you forget what it’s like to breathe easy.
But through it all, there will be this:
The way he’s looking at you now. While you’re standing on the balcony of a grand ballroom, wrapped up in the gentle embrace of a summer night and the man who's filled the silence inside you without ever saying a word.
And the quiet, bone-deep certainty you first felt in that diner eight years ago, ketchup on your lips and denial lodged in your throat:
Oh no. I like this one.
Only now, there’s no more oh no.
Just a steady, unshakable yes.
⟢⟢⟢
epilogue
The smoke alarm is going off again.
You’re barefoot in Clark’s kitchen, wearing his too-big flannel, waving a dish towel at the ceiling like you’re trying to scare off a ghost. The toaster has betrayed you. Again.
“Why,” you cough, “do you even own a four-slice toaster? Are you secretly feeding orphans in the walls?”
From the hall, his voice floats in, warm with laughter. “It came in a bundle with the blender!”
“That’s not a real answer!”
He appears behind the island, hair damp, towel slung around his neck, looking far too pleased with himself for a man whose only contribution to breakfast was peeling a banana.
You point the towel at him. “This is why you need to cook.”
“You said you were sick of my pancakes!”
“Yeah, well, maybe you can cook something other than pancakes.”
“Toast?”
You try to scowl. You really do. But it’s hard to maintain righteous indignation when Clark Kent is shirtless and moving toward you like that, all soft edges and fond grins. He takes the towel from your hand, tosses it aside, and kisses you with the kind of patience that still makes your knees go stupid.
“Morning,” he murmurs, like it’s brand new. Like he didn’t just spend the better part of sunrise with your thighs on his shoulders. Like he wasn’t the reason you had to crawl out of bed on unsteady legs, sore in all the best ways.
“Hi,” you breathe, brain pleasantly short-circuited.
This is the part no one ever talks about.
Not the kiss. Not the confession. Not even the mind-numbing sex.
The after.
The everyday.
The toothbrush beside yours. The quiet negotiations of drawer space and dinner preferences. Grocery lists written in two sets of handwriting. Your earrings on his nightstand and his socks tangled with yours in the laundry basket.
The inevitable moment when the blush fades, when the thrill settles, and you finally, fully see the other person.
And still choose to stay.
He reaches past you to unplug the offending toaster, fingers brushing your hip. “You’re staying here tonight, right?”
You blink. “Clark. I practically live here.”
“Right, but—you said you needed time. To ease into the whole label thing.”
You just stare at him. “You bought me a toothbrush.”
He hums. “I bought you three.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Okay, okay. Fine. I’m your girlfriend.”
His smile widens. “You’re my girlfriend.” He tastes the words like they’re something sweet. Then, with a teasing glint: “Want me to get you a mug?”
You groan. “Absolutely not.”
“A shirt?”
“I will smother you with that shirt.”
He’s laughing again, wrapping you up in his arms like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
And maybe it is now.
This is your new normal: mornings that smell like coffee and burnt toast. A love so steady, so deeply woven into every inch of the ordinary that you don’t even notice it; until one day, you realize it’s always been there.
You kiss him again, soft and certain. Punctuation at the end of a promise.
The smoke alarm chirps once more.
You don’t even flinch.
⟢
You say it exactly one week later.
Half-asleep in his hoodie, one of his three toothbrushes lodged in your mouth. Clark’s sitting up in bed, talking you through his latest draft on a new infrastructure bill.
You mumble the words through minty foam, not even thinking.
Then you freeze.
He does too.
For half a second, the world goes still. Then Clark gently closes the laptop, sets it aside, and gets up without a word. He crosses the room in two long strides, smiling the whole way.
He cups your face in both hands, foam and all.
Then, standing there in his bathroom—with mint in the air and toothpaste on his thumb and his bare feet sinking into a dog-shaped bathmat—he says it back.
“I love you too.”
a/n: liked this fic? i'll never know unless you tell me! reblogs/comments are always appreciated <3
pairing: Older!Joel x F!Reader
word count: 2.5k
summary: Joel gets hearing aids. He finds out just how much he's been missing out on.
content/warnings: SMUT, peepaw joel (late 60s), unspecified age gap, established relationship, pussy eating, piv, he cries when he cums, they are IN LOVE your honor
a/n: Hi friends! This was intended as part of a multi-chapter fic that I simply have not had the time or brain to finish. I'm hoping I'll get back to it at some point, but I hope you enjoy this little piece 👉👈 hoping there's nothing that I left in that requires context of the whole?? thank you to @ems-chaos-corner for designing the banner!! 🩷
Joel hadn’t planned to tell you right away when he got his hearing aids.
This thing between you was good. You felt solid. So in sync, most of the time. You’d been through enough together that he knew your foundation wouldn’t–couldn’t– be easily shaken.
But this didn’t feel like a small thing. Sure, you knew his age. You’d met him when you were volunteering at the goddamned senior center.
Hearing aids, though, were a step too far.
Because that meant he was officially old. People would think he was your dad, even more so than they do already. Or maybe even his caretaker, god forbid.
He looks alright, he supposes, for being a few years shy of seventy. But his bones ache, his hair is more grey than not, and wrinkles line his face. He has to face the fact that he’s an old man. And, while he’s facing the facts, he needs to admit to himself that he really can’t hear for shit these days.
He’s a tired, deaf, selfish old man, and he can’t bear to lose you just yet.
—
You’re out of town for the weekend when he gets the hearing aids. It’s perfect, really, because he can learn how to use them. They’re fairly low profile, and he’s let his hair grow longer these days, making them easier to hide.
Sunday night, you arrive back home. You show up at your door, weekend bag slung over your shoulder. As you pull out your keys, Joel beats you to the lock, swinging the door open wide for you. You’re exhausted, and it must show in the bags under your eyes, but you can’t help but smile the moment you see him.
He reaches to relieve you of your bag and you shrug it off, letting him put it down by the entryway bench.
“You have a good time, baby?” he asks.
“It was fucking wonderful. I really needed that,” you smile, reaching up to kiss Joel, “I’m really glad to be home now though-”
And then you kiss him again and hum against his lips, a happy little sound.
Joel’s never heard it before.
He wants to hear it again. He has to hear it again–
He kisses you again, a little bit deeper. Presses himself towards you and hears the way you moan against him, breathy and soft and desperate. What he’d felt only as vibration before now has a pitch he didn’t know he’d been missing.
Need hits him like a freight train, suddenly urgent and dizzying. In a moment, he’s hard and wanting, pulse pounding fast.
"Honey," he sighs, lips still hovering over yours, hot breath tickling against your skin. You look at him, glancing across his face, reading in it whatever he happens to be showing. He wonders if it looks like reverence. "I need you baby, I need you right now--"
You’re surprised at his abrupt enthusiasm, a crease between your furrowed brows, but a smile plays on your lips.
"I should probably go shower,” you tell him, turning towards the bathroom.
"Nuh uh," he shakes his head and reaches for you, pulling you close. "You don’t gotta. Unless ya really wanna. I just need you right fuckin’ now, baby. Want you any way you’ll have me."
You scrutinize him, looking him up and down. For a moment, he’s certain you’ve clocked him, that you know what he’s hiding.
Instead of challenging him, though, your expression softens. You shrug, like it’s simple. “I’m yours.”
It's been a while since he's greeted you like this, and you’re certain you must be missing something for him to be so turned on, so out of the blue. Sure, you’d been gone for the weekend, but it was just a weekend, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve been apart, nor the longest.
He’s desperate though, more desperate than he knows how to be. He can’t keep his hands off of you, can’t stop touching you. His hands trace up and down your sides, making you gasp and whine at his attention. You revel in it.
When he gets you to the bedroom, he tries to pace himself. To savor it. He means to slow himself down.
He peels your clothes off, piece by piece. Gentle fingers fumble with the buttons, and he kisses that spot behind your ear that makes your breath hitch.
When it does, though– when that sweet gasp passes your lips, Joel is changed. Any restrained passion he’d been trying to keep in check dissolves, replaced by desperate frenzy.
He rids you of the rest of your clothes, strewn garments in your wake as he guides you to bed.
Joel has always been a generous lover, always watching and learning. In the early days with him, he’d ask you to show him what you like. He’d keep his eyes on you, attentive, reading you with care as he’d replicate the ways you know to give yourself pleasure, as though ensuring your gratification were his life’s only goal.
You’re used to his eyes on you, watching how your body reacts to his touch, touching you gently when you need softness, being firm when you need redirection.
So, it’s always been good. But it’s never been quite like this.
He pushes you down onto the bed and grabs you by the knees, shoving them apart, making you gasp. He hums and grabs you, lifts you, and scoots you back towards the headboard. Resets your legs so your thighs are spread again for him and he’s slotted between them. You can feel his cock, fat and heavy against his thigh, straining against his jeans– and fuck the fucking denim– he’s still wearing his clothes.
It’s not fair.
“Get naked, Joel,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”
You can see a blush spread across his cheeks and nose, but he doesn’t look bashful as he used to be. He looks hungry. A smirk twitches on his lips.
You’re bare for him, and so so ready. And, you think distantly, you’re so incredibly comfortable with him. There was a time you would have shrunk away from this kind of touch that allows you to be so seen. For him, though, you love little more than to lean back and spread your legs, so bare and exposed, all for him. To show him every part of yourself, and simply trust that he won’t frighten.
He makes quick work of his clothes. Grabs his t-shirt by the back of the neck and rips it over his head. Unbuttons his jeans and shucks them and his boxers off in one go, his cock bouncing heavy between his legs. You let out a breath, watching.
He slips his arms under your legs and slots back in, rests his body face down on the bed, presses himself in between your thighs.
He examines your cunt; runs a gentle thumb from your navel to just above your clit and presses down with just the lightest pressure. And then a little more, till you’re squirming and whining and his nostrils are flaring, his breaths coming out as pants at your response. He drags wet, broken kisses down your body. His lips trace your tummy, the dips of your hips, down down down til he spits on your shiny seam, making your clit nice and wet.
You tremble, just a little, in anticipation of feeling him on you. But he doesn’t move towards you. He looks up at you, brown eyes looking at you with such love and concern. And then he looks back down, to where you’re spread for him. He hums, affirming.
“Oh– would you look at that– she needs t’ be filled up, don’t she?” he asks, breath hot against your soft cunt, his words making you jerk against him, trying to find some friction. He grins against you as you sigh, pretty little asshole and pussy both visibly clenching in tandem mere inches from his face.
He stills you, hands clutching your hips, holding you down.
“I think she might need a kiss first, though, huh baby?”
“Mhmm-”, you sigh.
Your breath hitches as he places a gentle kiss against your lips before he slips his tongue between them, gentle, languid- He lets you card your fingers through his hair as he licks into you, humming in affirmation when you grab on tight. He noses at your clit and draws a yelp out of you, groaning, the rumble of it vibrating against your skin.
There’s no rush as he pulls you apart. Just a little bit of time and some very precise pressure. You can feel yourself start to build as he flicks a pointed tongue against your clit. His focus is exact, and in no time at all, your breaths are shallow and desperate, your hips rocking up to meet his strokes, to feel his scruff against your thighs.
He’s eating you out like he needs it to live. Loud slurps punctuate softer licks as he buries his face between your legs. He’s so responsive, growling at every reaction you make.
He barely brakes for air, but when he does, it’s punctuated with filth. “That’s a good girl, yeah, say my name just like that–”
All you can do is breathe his name, a soft prayer, Joel, Joel, JOEL–
You chant, till the pull within you builds and breaks, sending you sobbing on his tongue, bliss coursing through every part of you.
Sounds that he didn’t know he’d been missing surrounding him like the most beautiful symphony, your sighs, gasps, moans– He knows it’s useless speaking with his pussy-stuffed mouth, but he growls into you, letting you ride his face through it, prolonging your orgasm, and not stopping until you can’t handle any more.
When the stimulation becomes too much, you yank his head back by the hair. He grins up at you, sheepish. He's panting, wipes his slick mouth with the back of his hand, and stares at you, so fucking hungry. “Probably a good thing you had me stop where you did,” he tells you, “Nearly came now just from eating you-
"I love you--" you sigh, barely able to think, the intensity of your climax making you fuck-drunk and languid. A smile breaks through the hungry, wild expression on Joel's face, and he draws himself up and pulls you toward him so you're seated.
"I love you, too," he presses his forehead against yours, damp curls tickling your brow, till he pulls back and swipes his hair away, pressing back against you.
You hum, so comfortable and happy, and Joel sighs.
It takes you a few minutes to fully come back to yourself, Joel holding you close the whole time. When you do, you know you need more. You pull back gently, shifting yourself apart from him until you’re able to straddle him. He’s still hard, painfully so, and neither of you need to say a word. You lift yourself, line him up with your swollen pussy, and sink down slowly, inch by stiff inch. Your eyelids flutter shut at the sensation. He watches you in awe and adoration.
He reaches around you, grabs your ass with each of his hands, and starts to rock you gently.
“Yes–” you hiss, and tilt your hips to match each thrust.
It’s gentle at first, careful, and considered as he fucks you in his lap. But then, you adjust your position just a little and start to bounce, taking more with each thrust, grinding hard against him as he fucks up into you and hits just the right spot.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fUCK!--” you cry, sensation overwhelming you.
Everything is so much, so deliciously overwhelming, every little breath and moan and gasp that passes your lips finally tipping him over the edge.
“Honey–,” he hums, “I’m– I’m close, not gonna last–”
“Give it to me.”
“Fuck–” He keeps rocking into you, but his movements still just a little as he lets go. You can feel the way his cock pulses and shudders in you, his balls throbbing, your insides coated with cum, all of this sending you over again.
He whines as your clenching pussy chokes him, drawing even more from him.
It’s pure ecstasy.
You close your eyes for a moment, trying to reduce the overwhelm. When you come back down, your breathing starting to even out, you open your eyes to discover–
Joel, staring at you, reverential, with tears streaming down his cheeks.
You’ve only seen Joel cry a handful of times, and never once while he was still inside you–
“Oh fuck, babe, what is it?” you ask, suddenly panicked.
He shakes his head, thumbing his tears away, “No, no,” he tries to reassure, “Nothing’s wrong–”
But that doesn’t reassure you. The love of your life is balls-deep in you, crying, and you don’t know why.
“I promise,” he insists, and then he tucks his hair back behind one ear.
It only takes you a moment.
“Joel Miller. Did you get fucking hearing aids and not tell me?”
He laughs; a wet, spluttery thing.
“I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on so much- I–”
You let him collect his words, his thoughts. You love that he tries, even when it’s hard. He makes sure you understand.
“I never heard you like that before, baby-” he tells you, “Those gasps and moans. All those sounds you make for me. I can hear them now. And I could’ve been hearing them this whole damn time if I hadn’t been too proud.”
He shakes his head, frustrated.
“I was worried you’d think I was too old.”
Your eyes widen. Somehow, that wasn’t what you’d expected.
“Baby, you know I know how old you are, right? I met you at the fuckin’ Senior Center,” you frown.
He glares at you. Some of the puffiness around his eyes dulls the intended effect.
You know it’s not exactly that, though. It’s really just the irrational fear that you both have, of losing the other when you’d only just found one another, manifesting in any way it can.
So you press your lips to his, and hold him close. He’s still sheathed inside you, and you can feel him start to twitch hard again.
“You know,” you tease, rocking your hips again, “I think the hearing aids are kind of sexy.”
Joel scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“No, I mean it–” you insist, “You’ve always been attentive. But– I don’t know. I know it’s something that’s been bothering you–and I also know you weren’t super into the idea, getting hearing aids– I guess I’m proud of you.”
He snorts, but you can see the smile he’s trying to hide.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he shakes his head, “I just– I shouldn’t have put it off so long.”
“It’s okay, old man,” you tease, pulling forward to kiss him gently. Still seated on him, you roll your hips with just a little more vigor than you’d intended, cutting yourself off with a gasp.
He groans.
“Lets find out what other sounds you’ve been missing out on-”
Bucky and Steve just want to help you feel less stressed ᝰ.ᐟ
MINORS DNI 18+ | Kinktober Day Sixteen ☆
Kinks: threesome, first time, Eiffel tower
The first time Bucky Barnes heard you sing, he forgot there was a war outside.
It was 1942, summer bleeding into autumn, and the little Brooklyn bar you performed at was thick with smoke and chatter.
The piano keys were old, a little out of tune, but your voice made them sound like velvet. You sang like the world wasn’t ending, soft, golden, heartbreak tucked into every note.
He leaned against the bar, hat tilted, pretending to nurse his drink while you swayed in that glittering blue dress. You didn’t belong in a place like that, too bright, too alive. You belonged in lights. Or maybe heaven.
Beside him, Steve Rogers, still small then, still all nerves and sketches and quiet awe, couldn’t even look directly at you without blushing to the roots of his hair. Every time you glanced their way, he’d duck behind his glass like it might make him invisible.
“She smiled at me, Buck,” he whispered once, dazed.
Bucky had grinned, lazy and confident. “She smiled at everyone, pal.”
But he knew it wasn’t true. You had smiled at Steve, shyly, like you saw something no one else did.
When the war came, things changed.
Steve went off to become Captain America, the papers said. Bucky went too, just in a different way, mud and gunfire, missions that didn’t always have songs waiting at the end of them. The nights were colder. The music quieter.
Then, months later, Steve walked back into that same bar. Taller. Broader. Different. The whole world seemed to pause and look.
And you were there, same stage, same blue dress, same voice that made men forget their names. But when you saw him, your breath caught mid-note.
He smiled, soft and shy, like he didn’t know he’d become something impossible.
After your set, he waited by the stage, hat in hand, nerves flickering like a bad radio signal. “You remember me?” he asked, almost boyishly.
You laughed, breathless. “Steve Rogers? The one who used to sit in the corner with Sergeant Barnes and never say a word?”
He nodded, cheeks flushed even under the golden light. “That’d be me.”
Your gaze swept over him, the uniform, the broad shoulders, the way he suddenly looked like he could hold the whole world and still be gentle. “You’ve… changed.”
“Little bit,” he said, smiling. “Still me, though.”
And from the corner, Bucky watched.
He’d just gotten back from the front, bruised, tired, still half a soldier. He was used to the way people looked at Steve now, with awe and a little disbelief. But watching you look at him like that burned in a way no battlefield ever had.
Later that night, after you’d gone home, they sat outside under the flickering streetlight, the city quiet around them. Bucky nudged Steve with his shoulder.
“So,” he drawled. “You planning on asking her out now that you can actually reach the top shelf?”
Steve flushed scarlet. “I— I was thinking about it.”
Bucky smirked. “Well, that’s a problem. Because I was thinking about it too.”
Steve turned, surprised. “You?”
“Yeah, me,” Bucky said, lighting a cigarette. The flame reflected in his eyes. “You were busy getting turned into a national hero. Some of us had to keep her company.”
Steve looked down at the cracked pavement, a little smile tugging at his lips. “Guess we’re both cowards then. Neither of us ever asked.”
Bucky exhaled, smoke curling up into the night. “Not anymore, pal. Next time we’re both in town, I’m asking.”
Steve’s jaw tightened, friendly, but stubborn. “Guess we’ll see who she says yes to.”
They both laughed, low and quiet, the kind of laugh that carried the weight of years, of friendship, of war, of all the things they’d never said.
You didn’t know any of that, of course.
You just knew that every time either of them walked into the bar, your heart did something strange, skipping beats like a scratched record.
Steve, with his soft eyes and quiet words. Bucky, with his grin and his charm and the way he looked at you like you were a promise.
Sometimes you thought the world might end before either of them got around to asking you to dinner.
But until then, you sang.
And if your voice trembled just a little more when they were both in the crowd, well… that was between you and the microphone.
Bucky tipped his head back, exhaling smoke toward the yellowed streetlight. “Well, that settles it then,” he said, voice easy but laced with challenge. “I’m asking her out tomorrow.”
Steve’s head snapped up. “Tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Bucky said, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. “War or not, a fella shouldn’t wait too long to ask a dame like that out. She’s probably got half the neighbourhood lined up for a dance.”
Steve crossed his arms, jaw set. “You can’t just call dibs, Buck.”
Bucky grinned around his cigarette. “Sure I can. Been warming that bar stool for months, haven’t I? You were too busy sketching in your notebook to make a move.”
Steve bristled, a little, then a lot. “Well, maybe I was waiting till I could give her a real date. You know, without passing out halfway through the walk home.”
That made Bucky laugh, really laugh, deep and rough and fond. “Alright, big guy. You think you can handle her now?”
Steve looked toward the bar’s glowing windows, where your voice still drifted through like smoke. “I can try.”
Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. “Then maybe we both will.”
Steve blinked. “What, at the same time?”
Bucky smirked. “Why not? Let the lady decide. Fair’s fair.”
The next evening, the bar buzzed with the hum of off-duty soldiers and the soft crackle of a record player. You stood at the piano, a pearl hairpin catching the low light, your voice curling through the haze of cigarette smoke and laughter.
When your set ended, you smiled, waved, and started to collect your things, until you noticed two very familiar figures heading your way.
Both of them. Together.
Steve was in his uniform again, posture stiff, hair combed perfectly, eyes too earnest for his own good. Bucky looked effortless as always, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, grin sharp enough to cut glass.
You blinked. “Well, this looks serious.”
Bucky leaned on the piano, all charm. “Doll, got a question for you.”
Steve cleared his throat, stepping closer. “Actually— so do I.”
You looked between them, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Oh? And what’s that?”
Bucky shot Steve a smirk. “You free tomorrow night?”
Steve jumped in, quick: “For dinner. Or, uh— maybe dancing. Whatever you’d prefer.”
You blinked again, then laughed, soft and musical, the kind of sound that made every man in the room forget what he was doing. “Wait, wait. You’re both asking me out?”
They glanced at each other, neither backing down, both half-smiling like it was a duel they’d been preparing for all their lives.
“That’s right,” Bucky said, folding his arms.
Steve nodded, steady. “Guess we are.”
You looked from one to the other, from Steve’s hopeful blue eyes to Bucky’s cocky grin, and something wickedly playful lit behind your lashes.
“Well…” you said, tilting your head. “I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to turn either of you down.”
Bucky’s brow arched. “So what’s that mean, sweetheart?”
You smiled, slow, dazzling, impossible to read. “It means you can both take me out. One date. Same night. I’ll see which one of you’s better company.”
They both froze, identical flickers of surprise crossing their faces, then Bucky let out a low whistle. “You sure you’re not the one who’s dangerous here, doll?”
You winked, reaching for your coat. “Soldiers, please. I sing for a living. I can handle two men and a dinner.”
And as you walked toward the door, heels clicking in time with the music, both of them watched, half in awe, half in panic.
Steve exhaled first, a soft, nervous laugh. “We’re in trouble, Buck.”
Bucky grinned, eyes still on the door. “Yeah, pal. The best kind.”
Dinner was at a tiny Italian place two blocks from the bar, candlelight flickering against checkered tablecloths. The air smelled of garlic and red wine, and the gramophone in the corner played a scratchy Ella record that made everything feel a little too perfect.
You sat between them, the picture of calm, one gloved hand resting on your chin, eyes bright as you sipped your drink. But inside? Your pulse was a jitterbug.
Steve was trying. He really was. He sat up straight, asked about your favourite songs, told you about sketching old buildings in Brooklyn, but every word came out a touch too rehearsed, his spoon clinking against his glass every time he forgot where to set it.
It was sweet, painfully so.
Bucky, on the other hand, was a whole different kind of trouble. He leaned back in his chair, charm easy as breathing, cutting in with low jokes that made the waiter blush and you hide your smile behind your napkin.
Every time you laughed, his grin widened, lazy and confident. He fed off it like it was oxygen.
“See, doll?” Bucky teased when you reached for a second piece of bread. “Knew you’d like this place. Told Stevie it had the best spaghetti in town.”
Steve shot him a look over his glass. “That’s because it’s the only place left that still takes his IOUs.”
You giggled, and Bucky’s grin turned smug. “He’s just jealous I’ve got good taste.”
“Oh, you both do,” you said, eyes flicking between them. “In very different ways.”
The night blurred pleasantly after that, laughter, candlelight, a little too much wine. Steve relaxed by inches, telling stories from before the war that made you smile softly, while Bucky kept up a steady stream of playful remarks that had you nearly spilling your drink more than once.
When the check came, both men reached for it at the same time. Their hands brushed; their glares met. You hid another smile.
Outside, the city was warm and gold and humming. The walk to your door felt too short, too easy. You could feel both of them watching you, one set of eyes soft and nervous, the other sharp and glinting.
You stopped at your front steps, turning to face them, a faint breeze stirring your hair. “Well,” you said, voice lilting, “thank you both for dinner.”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Anytime,” he said quietly.
Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets, smirk just shy of cocky. “That an invitation, sweetheart?”
You held his gaze, then Steve’s. The streetlight caught the pearl pin still in your hair. “Depends,” you murmured, stepping backward toward your door. “You boys play nice?”
Inside, your apartment felt smaller with them crowding the doorway, Steve’s broad shoulders brushing the frame, Bucky’s silhouette sharp against the dim hall light. You flicked on a lamp, its glow pooling over the worn rug, the upright piano in the corner. The air hummed with tension thicker than the bar’s smoke.
“Drink?” you offered, moving toward the kitchenette. Bucky followed, effortless, leaning against the icebox while you poured three fingers of cheap bourbon.
Steve lingered near the piano, fingertips tracing the sheet music left open on the stand. His thumb brushed a smudged pencil marking. “You wrote this?” he asked, voice low.
You handed Bucky his glass. “Just tweaked it.” His fingers brushed yours, deliberate, lingering. Heat sparked up your wrist.
Bucky took a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Sounds like heartbreak.”
“Sounds like hope,” Steve countered softly, turning. The lamplight caught the blue in his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw.
You laughed, nerves fluttering. “Maybe both.”
Silence stretched, heavy, charged. Bucky set his glass down with a soft clink. “Enough music talk.” He stepped closer, crowding you against the counter. His knuckle grazed your jaw, rough and warm. “We’re here for you, doll. Not the piano.”
Steve moved then, crossing the room in two strides. He didn’t touch you, but his presence at Bucky’s shoulder was a wall of heat, solid and undeniable. “Buck’s right,” he murmured. His gaze dropped to your mouth. “We’ve waited long enough.”
Your pulse hammered against your ribs. You looked from Bucky’s hungry stare to Steve’s earnest intensity. “Both of you?” you breathed.
Bucky’s hand slid to your waist, possessive. “Unless you’ve got a preference.”
Steve’s palm settled on your lower back, steadying. “We share everything,” he said, simple as truth.
You arched into the twin points of contact, Bucky’s grip firm, Steve’s touch a brand through your dress. “Then stop talking,” you whispered.
Bucky’s mouth crashed onto yours first, hot, demanding, tasting of bourbon and smoke. You gasped, and Steve’s lips found the exposed curve of your neck, open-mouthed and reverent. His teeth scraped skin as Bucky deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours.
Hands roamed, Bucky’s tugging at your zipper, Steve’s cupping your breast through silk. The world narrowed to touch, heat, the ragged harmony of their breaths against your skin.
The zipper gave. Cool air hit your spine. Steve groaned into your shoulder. "Christ, you're—"
Bucky tore his mouth away, eyes dark as he watched Steve’s hands explore your bare shoulders. "Better than the songs, pal?"
Steve’s answer was a low growl, fingers tightening. "Shut up and kiss her again."
You laughed, breathless, dizzy. "Boys."
They obeyed.
Bucky claimed your mouth again, fierce and possessive, while Steve’s hands slid the blue silk from your shoulders. The dress pooled at your feet like fallen sky.
Cool air kissed your skin, but their heat was everywhere, Bucky’s thigh pressing between yours, Steve’s broad palms mapping the curve of your waist, your hips. You gasped as Steve’s teeth grazed your shoulder, his groan vibrating against your spine. "So soft," he murmured, wonder in the rasp. "Always wondered…"
"Less wondering," Bucky growled against your lips. He spun you abruptly, your back flush to his chest. His hand splayed low on your stomach, holding you steady as Steve froze before you, eyes raking your lace-clad body.
"Look at him," Bucky murmured, breath hot on your ear. His other hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding slick heat through silk. "Look how bad he wants you."
Steve’s gaze locked onto Bucky’s fingers moving against you. His throat worked as he fumbled with his belt, uniform trousers dropping. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, already leaking.
A ragged sound escaped him when Bucky hooked his thumb under the lace, pulling it aside to expose your wetness. "Taste him," Bucky commanded, voice rough. He pushed you forward gently. "See if she sings sweeter than she looks."
You bent over. Steve’s fingers tangled in your hair, trembling. "You don’t have to—"
"Shut up, Rogers," you breathed, and took him into your mouth.
Salt, heat, the faint musk of wool and soap flooded your senses. Steve gasped, hips jerking. Above you, Bucky chuckled darkly, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts.
"Good girl," he praised, kneading. His cock pressed against your backside, hard and insistent through his slacks. "Take him deeper."
You obeyed, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling. Steve groaned, head falling back. His thrusts grew shallow, urgent. Bucky’s fingers pinched your nipples through the lace, sharp and sweet.
The dual sensation, Steve’s thickness stretching your lips, Bucky’s rough touch, made you moan around him.
"Christ, Buck," Steve choked out. "She’s—"
"Told you," Bucky cut in. He released your breasts, hands sliding down your hips. "Hold still."
Fabric ripped. Cool air hit your bare skin as he tore the lace panties away. Then his palm cracked against your ass, once, sharp. You cried out around Steve’s cock, vibration drawing a guttural groan from him.
Bucky’s zipper rasped. His fingers parted you from behind, testing your wetness. "Ready?" he murmured, not waiting. He drove into you in one brutal thrust. You arched, gagging around Steve as Bucky filled you, stretching, burning. He gripped your hips, pulling you back onto him. "That’s it. Take us both."
Steve’s fingers tightened in your hair. "Look at me." You lifted your eyes, tears blurring his face. His thumb brushed your cheek. "So pretty like this," he whispered, awe warring with hunger. "Sucking me while Buck fucks you."
Bucky’s pace was relentless, each snap of his hips grinding you onto Steve. You whimpered, the fullness overwhelming. Steve brushed sweaty hair from your brow. "You can take it," he murmured, thrusting gently into your mouth. "Our good girl."
Bucky leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back. His teeth sank into your shoulder as he pounded harder. "Feel that?" he growled against your skin. "Both of us owning you." His hand slid between your legs, finding your clit. "Come for us."
You shattered, a silent scream around Steve’s cock, body clamping down on Bucky’s. Steve cursed, spilling hot down your throat as Bucky roared, hips stuttering, filling you deep.
Later, you lay tangled between them on your narrow bed, sweat cooling on your skin. Bucky traced idle patterns on your hip, cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. Steve’s fingers brushed your hair, gentle, like you might break.
"Still think she’s too good for us?" Bucky murmured, voice rough with satisfaction.
Steve flushed, but his hand stayed steady on your shoulder. "Never said she wasn’t."
Bucky chuckled, stubbing out his cigarette. He rolled onto his side, facing Steve. "Always knew you were a sap, Rogers." His grin turned wicked, sharp-edged. "But damn… seeing you come undone?"
He leaned in suddenly, catching Steve’s mouth in a hard, mocking kiss, all teeth and dominance. Steve stiffened, startled, but didn’t pull away. Bucky broke it with a low laugh. "That’s trouble, pal. The best kind."
Steve wiped his mouth, eyes dark. "Shut up, Buck."
omg i did that thing where i forgot this was an outlet again??
anyways i got such cute jayce merch in the recent weeks and it’s been so fun keeping him alive bc nobody cares about him anymore 💔
also extremely debating discontinuing every series just bc i take so long to finish them. but every series is planned so i could just drop how they were going to end theoretically… who knows
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
origamiaround
2087
