I've been writing fanfic for around 4 or 5 years but not very consistently. I really like the MCU & Pedro Pascal (Will write for both)
I will write for: MCU, Any Pedro Pascal Character, Supernatural, Animal Hospital, Star Wars, Sturniolo Triplets(Mostly Matt), Rafe Cameron(OBX), TWD, TLOU, Resident Evil
I will NOT write: MLM(Don't know how to), any kink I find uncomfortable
ALSO! If I'm in a LOT of fandoms. So even if it's not explicitly stated I will write for it doesn't mean I will flat out say no. Try and see if I will write it!
TW: Mentions of loss, alcohol, sexual jokes/mentions
Also I lowkey haven't seen all the punisher series... So this is kinda based off of other fanfics of him I've read.
You noticed it slowly. You noticed the way your friends drifted away, maybe they’d go out for drinks without you or go to see a movie you’ve expressed wanting to see. It hurt. You didn’t try to deny it. Some nights you’d see the posts. A picture at the local river, all 3 of them smiling, while you sat at home watching their life in pictures. It hurt more on your birthday. You texted them, telling them your plan to have drinks and just talk. None of them came. After that you swore you would never have a party again.
You silenced their posts and tried to live again. You went to clubs, bars, anything to try and talk to someone. Most of the attention you gathered was from old men, you always doubted you were pretty, so their attention felt nice for your ego. Maybe you’d go home with one and see pictures of different women on their fireplace. A ring on a nightstand, flowers on dressers. It made you sick.
You isolated yourself again, trying to get over the fact you had become a homewrecker, sure none of the other women knew, but you still hated yourself for it. You hated yourself more than the men who would lie and say they were divorced while they actively were married, sometimes with kids.
It was your friend’s birthday, you expected an invite, but left with nothing. You stalked their socials, everyone was posting something, you debated if you should post something. But with what photos? You had stuff from highschool and maybe 1 or 2 recent photos. You just shut off your phone and went to the therapist you’d been seeing for the past month. He was nice. That was about as positive as you could feel about him. He picked apart your life and you never left with anything insightful. It’s been almost a year since your friends stopped inviting you and he tried to give advice, but it never really helped. You left feeling worse about yourself and decided to drive by your friend’s house. Wish them a happy birthday and maybe share a drink.
You drove down their street and noticed the balloons tied to the mailbox, their favorite color. You heard a laugh and saw that the backyard was open. You abandoned your plan and drove back to some sketchy bar. It was only around 6 so the bar was slow.
“Long time no see” The bartender, Lia, smiled at you as you slid onto the barstool, “Your usual?” You nodded and she went off to make it. She dropped it off and you opened a tab. You got through around 4 drinks in a few hours. The bar was filling up and you looked around. Most of the men looked like they were just looking for a quick hookup and leave in the morning which isn’t what you needed. Your eyes eventually landed on an older looking man with a dark liquid. He had scars peppered across his face and was wearing black on black.
You slid off the seat, grabbing your drink. You held it close to your chest as you walked over to where he was sitting.
He glanced up, “Yes?”
“Can I sit here?” You nodded at the booth across from him and he just nodded. You slid in and watched him. He raised an eyebrow at you and you glanced down at your drink.
“Lightweight?” He motioned at your drink which was something blue and fruity.
“No, just didn’t want to have a hangover next morning? What ‘bout you. That looks like pure alcohol”
“Pretty much is. Expensive too” He took a small sip and you nodded. When you first came here men would try to buy you drinks like that. Around $80 for 3 ounces. So this man has some money, “So why’d a pretty thing like you come over here” And you blushed. It was stupid.
“I thought you looked good” You said sheepishly and he nodded.
You have now been dating Frank for 6 months. You loved him and he loved you. But sometimes you’d be scrolling on some social media and your friend would pop up and it’d fill your stomach with dread. You really only had him. What if he left. And you couldn’t really bring up your thoughts of loneliness because how could you even compare to him. He lost his family, wife and two kids. He knew loneliness better than you, which made you hesitant to even mutter the fact you felt isolated from everyone besides him.
You kept going to therapy, he still was no help but had gotten excited when you told him about Frank. Said some bullshit about going out of your comfort zone but you knew deep down it was not you that brought Frank home. It was the 4 drinks you had, but it worked. You now had someone to talk to sometimes, and probably were fine. Even though deep down you weren’t. Frank had gotten protective of you, which just furthered your worry about telling him how you felt. What if he freaked out? Thought he wasn’t enough? Or that he was going to lose you? You knew him losing his family had messed him up and it reflected in you and him.
Now, it was your birthday. He knew. He marked it on your shared calendar with hearts drawn around it. He worked overtime more which only made you imagine what he might get you. And yet, you didn’t want a party. What was the point of a party with only 2 people? So, you “forgot” to change the calendar to the next month in hopes he’d forget.
Except you woke up on your birthday with breakfast in bed. He had cooked you a whole 3 course breakfast. Sat in bed with you and ate, pressing kisses to your head. He cleaned up the meal while you showered and you heard something fall and a string of curses from his mouth so you could only imagine what was going on downstairs. You stepped out of the shower and put on one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. Going downstairs, you saw a two-tiered cake with 4 or 5 gifts on the table.
“What is this?”
“Your birthday present” He wrapped his arms around your waist and bit and sucked your neck, “Open them” His voice was so soft you burst out in tears, “Woah woah woah what’s wrong” He turned you around and let you sob into his chest, rubbing your back.
“Why do all this?” You babbled.
“Because it’s your birthday and I love you” He was so sure of his words and that made it worse.
“It’s only us though. A birthday is supposed to be fun. With friends” He knew about the falling out with your friends but never knew you hurt this bad because of it.
“You don’t need your friends here to have fun. I got you”
You shook your head, “You don’t get it. I’m so lonely. You go off to work and I’m stuck. I only see you and my stupid therapist who tries to tell me to make new friends instead telling me to let go of my old ones”
“Baby” He whispers, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How am I supposed to be seen when you have it way worse. You lost your family. I just lost some stupid highschool friends”
“It’s not stupid if you feel this way” He wiped your face, “Besides… Why would you want them here? I notice the way you avoid every social media app like the plague. You don’t want to see them. You don’t want to think about how they let you down. So why invite them”
You go to answer, “Well-”
“Because you’re a people pleaser” His tone is firm. “You want them to be happy even if it means forcing yourself to be unhappy. You wouldn’t want them here. You know they’d push you aside like they always do. Your birthday is supposed to be your day. With your people. With me” He pulls you back in, “Losing people suck. It’s an unexplainable pain. It hurts and you wonder why they pushed you away. Watching them be happy with other people isn’t going to change how your stomach flips when you see them in some southern country wearing bikinis and smiling with each other”
You laugh, “You gave me a better talk in 5 minutes than my therapist has in a year” He smiled down at you.
“Now will you wipe your tears and open what I got you?” He kissed your forehead and you nod, “They’re numbered” You step forward and grab the first one. You bite your lip and look at him before pulling at the paper to open it. Inside was a pretty white flowy top. The next box was a skirt you were eyeing at the mall last week.
The third was some lacy lingerie, “Frank!”
“What? I thought you’d look good in it”
“This gift doesn’t count cause it’ll be ripped within a week”
“You’re not wrong. That’s why there's more in the box” You pour out the box and a $500 Victoria’s Secret gift card falls out and you glare at him before grabbing the final box. You open it up and pull out a jewelry box. Inside is a gorgeous diamond necklace, a silver chain, like the rest of your jewelry.
You smiled at him, “Thank you”
“C’mere pretty girl. Let me put it on” You eagerly hand him the box and he pulls it out. He brushed any hair aside so it doesn’t get caught and claps it, “There you go” He kisses your neck before hugging you. “Feel better?” You nod and he pressed a sweet kiss to the side of your mouth, “Now go get ready, wear what I bought you, even the lacy stuff. I’m taking you out to dinner and then we’re coming back here” You knew what he meant, so you gathered up the gifts and went upstairs to change…
You had woken up miserably, turning over to find your husband, Harlow, already gone, working. Within a minute of being up you felt nauseous. You pushed through and found yourself in the kitchen, with no appetite. You searched through multiple shelves trying to find something appetizing along with being fine on your stomach. Eventually you made some of your favorite tea—which even if nonnutritional—would fill you up. You sat down on the couch and turned on the AC while you drank the steaming liquid. You rubbed the back of your neck and found it wet. You scooted into Harlow’s spot on the couch since it was closest to the blowing air.
Once your tea was finished you rinsed out the cup so it didn’t stain and went back into the, now freezing, living room. You turned the AC back up to 70 and grabbed a blanket. Your head had started to hurt which resulted in you taking some medicine and falling asleep on the couch.
You woke up and still no Harlow. Usually the early shifts resulted in him being home early. Your stomach rumbled and you forced yourself up. Two steps later, your vision turned black and you had to force yourself to sit down before you inevitably passed out. Once your vision had gotten back to normal you toasted two pieces of bread and curled up on the couch. You scarfed down the two pieces of toast and had fallen back asleep almost instantly.
“Darlin’?” Harlow’s voice snapped you out of sleep. You sat up, smoothing out your hair
“Living room” Your voice squeaked, too hoarse.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine”
“You’re red” He placed a hand against your cheek, “Fever maybe”
“I’m fine, just tired” He sat down next to you and laid your head in his lap, carding his fingers through your hair.
“You are not fine. You’re hot and red. I also imagine you’re freezing” He wasn’t wrong. You had goosebumps on your skin even though you had heat radiating off your skin and a flushed face. You buried your face in his lap and he kept just running his fingers through your hair, “You could’ve called”
“Didn’t wanna bother” You mumbled, already feeling sleepy again.
“Don’t worry. You wouldn’t have”
“Tell me about your day” You closed your eyes, just wanting to listen to his soothing voice that somehow always made you feel better.
“Well, I had to train a new intern… and fix the cameras in the building” You hummed, “Then, a fire broke out and almost killed said intern” Another quieter hum, “Then an ambulance came by, and they seemed to handle it alright” That was the last thing you heard before falling asleep again.
You woke up to the sound of a kettle whistling, “Harlow?”
“Making us tea Darlin’” He came back with a mug of mint tea and your favorite tea, “Should help your throat. The lymph nodes are quite swollen” He brought a finger to your neck and massaged it, feeling around, monitoring if it’d changed in size. You sat up and took a sip, feeling the way it hurt each time the warm liquid attempted to soothe it.
“What do you think is wrong?”
“Could be a one day virus. If you wake up worse I’ll take you in. Have my head doctor treat you. Okay?”
“Okay” You mumbled, gulping down the rest of the tea. You watched as Harlow continued to sip on his favorite mint tea. He was a picky man, only accepting mint tea made from the brand that the hospital buys (Which results in him stealing from the staff room). He gets up to grab his favorite book and starts reading out loud to you as you drift back into sleep.
You wake up and you’ve been moved to bed. Harlow spooning you, his hot breath hitting your neck. You still felt cold, despite the furnace of a man beside you. You squirmed, trying to grab another blanket from the bottom on the bed and managed to wake him up.
“You okay?”
“Cold. Just want the blanket” He sat up and reached for the blanket, tucking you in.
“What time is it?”
You squinted at the clock, “2”
“Thank you. Go back to sleep” And you listened, snuggling closer and falling back asleep.
He carefully woke you up the next morning, a gentle shake of the shoulder every few minutes until you woke.
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay” You tried to speak but it only came out a rasp.
“Are you sure?” He had a teasing tone and you buried your face in the pillow. Not only did you feel miserable, you couldn’t speak without whispering, “You’re coming in today. No arguments”
You forced yourself up and managed to put on something presentable, a simple jacket and loose pants. Harlow had gotten dressed for his shift. A blue button up and red tie. He went to the coat rack and put on his white doctor jacket.
“Ready?” You just nodded, not wanting to strain your voice any further. He grabbed his briefcase and grabbed his cup with mint tea inside before leading both of you to the garage. He got you settled in first before getting in the driver’s seat and heading to the hospital.
He pulled into a spot and helped you out, heading inside, “Doctor! I need help”
One of his favorite co-workers came up, “Harlow? Yes?”
“Will you run a scan” He nodded at you, “They don’t feel well”
“Of course. Come to room 2” You walked to room 2 as Harlow clocked in for the day, “Lay down and I’ll treat you” You laid on the bed as the doctor worked on diagnosing you. He swabbed your mouth and sent it to be tested in the lab, alongside taking a blood sample to check for any under-lying issues that may be making your sickness worse. You laid in that barren room for hours. Listening to workers talk and patients being checked in. You even thought you might’ve heard a gunshot but just chalked it up to sickness hallucinations.
Eventually Harlow and the doctor came back with a clipboard, “Is it bad” you whispered, trying to save your voice.
“Could be worse” The doctor shrugged and you looked at Harlow who read the results to himself.
“It’s a pretty easy treatment,” Harlow nodded at the other doctor.
“What do I have?” You were getting anxious, couldn’t they just tell you what you had and treat you.
“You’re Canadian,” The doctor said.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s quite common,” Harlow shrugged.
“How do you treat it?”
“Maple syrup” Both doctors spoke at the same time.
“It’s that simple?”
“Yep!” They said in unison again before exiting the room. Harlow came back with a shot of maple syrup.
“Here, take this,” He handed it to you and you drank it down, though it was painful. He sat down next to you, “Should only take around 20 minutes before you feel better,” You nodded and started to feel drowsy, “Ah yes, it does have some side effects. Usually it doesn’t do this, unless you’re sick”
You eventually felt better, almost completely cured. You couldn’t believe it was truly that simple. You would’ve just taken medicine after medicine until you got better naturally. But, this whole Canadian sickness made you appreciate your husband even more.
Humanized Versions of Animal Hospital characters & I think I kept it gender neutral
Reader is implied intern
TW: Stalking, Kidnapping, Manipulation, BIG threat of violence
I looked around the room, the check in window, the security cameras, and the abnormal shutters on the window. I had two other employees with me, a nurse and a doctor. They left the room as soon as the first patient came in.
“You’re our secretary” The nurse called out and the patient came up to the window. She dropped a clipboard and I stamped her in and gave her the badge.
“Room 1” The patient nodded and walked over to where my coworkers were waiting. Another patient came in and I did the same routine, stamping, taking a picture, checking them in, then printing off their badge, “Room 2” I tried my best to give him a smile as I grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine.
The doctor and nurse treated the patients and the doctor came in.
“Good job. Make sure to watch out for any dangerous patients. Use those shutters and the cameras to check for anything suspicious” I nodded and pulled up the camera feed as she walked away to the backroom.
The nurse ran inside the office and stole the newly brewed coffee as I checked in the next patient, their picture showed they had a large smile with crooked teeth and completely off from what they genuinely looked out. I panicked and slammed the shutters closed.
“You good?” The doctor called out and I nodded, opening the shutters again. A man walked in with a briefcase, suit and tie, alongside glasses.
He gave me a tired smile, “I’m Ron. From Accounting. You ever wonder why they constantly have to hire new people” I glanced at him as I stamped his paper, “Never mind” I took his picture and he seemed more normal than the last and I printed his badge.
“Room 2” He walked away, still holding that large briefcase. I looked at the computer to decide how many more people I needed the check in and saw 3 more. The next one that came in looked normal on the cameras and his photos, so I allowed him in. I checked in the next two patients and went to observe the other 2 working.
The doctor came by once they had finished treating the patients and opened up a shop and added in another window for checking in. I bought a chocolate bar and went back to checking people in. The first patient of the shift was odd looking on the camera, bloodshot eyes and they were even lopsided. I slammed the shutters shut and once I was sure he had left I opened them back up and was met eye to eye with a man in a white button up, brown plaid pants, and a hat.
He had a mustache and kindly spoke, “Hey there friend, I’m Barney. Would you make me a coffee, I’ve had a long day” It was a strange request but I obliged, I was nice. I brewed up the cup and checked in the remaining normal patients for the day. I gave him his coffee and he smiled, “Thanks friend, I needed this… I’ll remember this” He then left. Strange but he seemed like a kind man.
The doctor arrived again, looking worried, “Some patients may seem… unstable to put it simply. Watch the cameras and their photos. Stay alert. You will get a taser. Use it wisely.” She walked off and I continued my next shift.
Today there were 5 patients. I checked in the first two and Ron then walked in.
“Still here? Huh. The last guy got eaten by the monster under the bed. That’s why I always carry maple syrup” He placed his papers down and slid a container of maple syrup to me. I took it and put it next to the coffee machine as I sent him to room 5.
I was down to 2 more patients and Barney walked back in, “Hello friend! Can I get another coffee?” I instantly worked to brew another cup just for him. I shoved it into his hands, “You are the best… May I ask you a favor?” I nodded and he slid a suitcase across the desk, “Hold onto this for me? Okay?”
“Okay” I nodded, grabbing the heavy suitcase and putting it under the counter.
“You are the best!” He left with the mug and new thing of coffee. The last two patients came by and I got them checked in. I watched the nurse and doctor treat all the patients.
Dr. Harlow ran inside, “There’s been a massive anomaly attack! 6 people were killed and so many more were injured! The ambulance is coming now!” I looked at the other two and they told me to grab the taser just in case anyone was infected. I stood near the front as all the patients were wheeled in. I noticed someone was already turning into an anomaly and I tazed them. I then stood in the middle area of the two hallways and watched everyone leave.
The doctor then came back, “Good job. All of you. The emergency is over for now, be prepared for more ambulances. There’ll be more anomaly attacks” Our shift ended and we came back the next day.
Before my day even started I saw Barney, “My friend! I would love another coffee” I brewed up the pot and gave it to him, “I want to ask for a favor. Would you take a photo of me?” I nodded and snapped a photo, letting it develop. The picture looked wrong, but he looked so good so why would I even suspect something was off with him, “You truly are a friend. Thank you,” He took the photo and wrote something down before handing it back to me. I looked at the photo and there was a phone number on it. Was he hitting on me? I didn’t have much time to dwell on it since the next two patients came in. I got them checked in and saw that Ron had come back.
“Do you want to know a secret? They’re… testing something here. The patients aren’t sick. They’re infected.” And with that he gave me his clipboard and anytime I’d try to ask a question he’d shut it down. I was getting ready to check in the last patient when I saw Barney again.
“Hello! Can I get a coffee friend?” I happily made him a coffee, “I’ve been thinking. I want to ask you for a favor” I nodded, leaning against the desk, “Would you get me a scalpel?”
“What” I stood up.
“A scalpel. I know you keep them in the surgery room”
“But why?”
“Don’t ask questions like that” His voice dropped to a tone that I couldn’t tell if it was threatening or sweet. I just nodded and snuck into the surgery hall. I came back and cautiously handed him the scalpel, “Just what I needed, Thanks Friend!” He walked into the office.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking my suitcase with me. Bye friend” He tucked the scalpel inside one of his pockets and grabbed his suitcase, leaving.
That night I tossed and turned in bed, thinking about Barney’s number. I got up and grabbed the photo. I typed the number in and texted him.
“Hello”
“Friend?” Barney replied.
“Yes”
“Thank you again for the scalpel, it’s come in handy”
“What did you use it for?”
“Don’t worry your sweet head” I didn’t answer for a second as I processed his answer. He then double texted, “I will need to go now friend” I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the night.
I woke up for my shift the next morning and Barney hadn’t sent me another message. I hoped he would come in while I worked. I made my way to the hospital and checked in.
Ron came first and spoke to me again, “I work for the Corporation, I process the paperwork every night…” He pinched his nose. “Some people go mad over it. You know... hollowed eyes and stuff…It's grueling work. That's why coffee is important” The coffee comment reminded me of Barney as I checked Ron in. I checked in 2 patients and one of them was an anomaly.
Barney walked in and I perked up, “My dearest friend” his tone wasn’t as upbeat, “Something came up. I need to hide with you” I instantly let him in the office, “Thank you so much, friend. I feel much safer now” I continued to work, very aware of Barney’s breathing behind me. I noticed someone in a blue uniform walking in and Barney slammed the shutters closed.
“What’s wrong?” I felt something press against my throat. The same scalpel I had given to him.
“Don’t talk. He’s after me” I trembled in his grip. An arm around my waist and the blade against my neck.
I heard the policeman knock on the shutters, “Excuse me! We’re tracking a dangerous killer! We want information”
Barney whispered against my ear, “Friends do not turn each other to the police” I nodded and melted into the touch. I had no plans on turning him in.
“Miss?” The officer knocked again and Barney’s grip got rougher, “Miss? Anything suspicious?”
“Talk” Barney pulled the blade back slightly.
“Nothing suspicious, officer!” My voice squeaked and Barney shoved me.
“Okay miss! Call if you see anything!” The officer left but Barney didn’t open the shutters up.
“See friend. It wasn’t hard. Just had to keep your pretty mouth shut” I still looked at him with wide eyes, terrified, “I don’t want to hurt you” He caressed my face and another knock came from the window, “It’s probably just a patient. Don’t worry” He grabbed his suitcase and set it on the counter while I pressed myself against the wall, near the taser. I went to grab it and he pointed the blade at me, “Don’t think about it” I instinctively dropped it, “Good. Come here”
I stumbled over to him, “What?”
“Look at this” He opened his suitcase and I just saw so many pictures of me. Ones of me working or even in my small apartment. There was one from the other night from when I was texting him. There was an envelope and he opened it, showing me pictures of my old lovers. I couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead, “Be good tonight” He grabbed a thing of coffee and left.
I continued the rest of my shift, my hands trembling. I went home and looked around, paranoid of if he was there. I deleted his number from my phone and just hoped he wouldn’t come back and do something else.
I got on my computer and searched up about him. The article wrote that he would murder people’s past lovers. That with his mode of operations. Stalk someone and find out about past relationships and attack them just so he could have them all to himself. I shut my laptop and stayed awake all night, nervous.
Once I had gotten myself asleep I heard the thunder crackle and shot up. I turned over and saw a figure. I screamed as Barney’s dark eyes and wicked smile came into view.
He grabbed my wrist, “Come with me friend” I tried to fight but he was much bigger. He took me to his place which smelt like metal and coffee. He sat me down on the couch and started a pot of coffee. He made both of us fancy cups, with milk, sugar, and whatever syrups he could find.
“Now friend.” He smiled, “You’re all mine now” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I blacked out.
Okay I'm easing my way back into smut so bear with me
Image from Pinterest
Wc: 1619
TW: Smut, vomit, she kinda accidently starves herself
also posted on AO3
“1! 2! 3! 4! 5! 6! 7! 8!” The loud voice called out as my feet ached. But I knew if I stopped I’d be thrown into some room and tortured until I could barely breathe. I looked at the girls around me, as flawless as we were supposed to be. Then a crash and she called out “Stop! All of you!” We all turned and someone had fallen. My stomach lurched, two guards ran in and pulled her out as she screamed. The counting continued, like nothing happened.
I tossed and turned all night, my bottom bunk mate gone now. I didn’t know if she would’ve just been beaten and sent back to bed or if they would’ve sent her off to some HYDRA officer. I eventually managed to get myself to sleep by the time the guards checked on us.
Breakfast was normal. Everyone pretended it was normal. Like she wasn’t gone. Like the only girl who actually understood me wasn’t gone. I had my answer and imagined the next time HYDRA was here they’d show her off like a prize. It made me sick. I forced my breakfast down, knowing if I passed out I’d end up like her. I started off training one-on-one with some trainer. I greeted him and he worked me until I felt like I was going to be sick. At lunch I took a few bites and felt that familiar feeling. I threw my tray away and managed to make it to the bathroom as I threw up. I was so screwed. The second we got to class I knew I was going to collapse. I sat in the bathroom as long as I could until I forced myself to class.
I laced up my point shoes and started the routine we were performing next week for some HYDRA officials while they drank something and talked about their next plans with us and their own soldiers. We didn’t get counting today. I forced myself to repeat 1 through 8 over and over, ignoring the way my stomach churned and my ankle slowly giving out. I got two more turns in before she stopped the music. She stormed over to a girl and screamed, “Sloppy! Straighten your legs more” before forcing her into a needle. Complete straight leg and painful looking. She finally dropped the leg and sat back down at her chair as we ran the sequence again.
That night, my friend still hadn’t returned and now another girl was missing. I swear I could hear her screams through the walls even though I knew I was probably hallucinating.
The next day started the same, breakfast while nauseous and then turning training I fell. He gave me a look and helped me up and forced me to train through it. A sprained ankle I assumed and hoped. After training he forced me to the infirmary and they wrapped it, another missed lunch. I managed to get out of class by doing training analysis all night. And bed. Again.
Every other day or so another girl would go missing and my weight drops. And my head hurts and everything is spiraling until I’m in class and my leg gives out and everything goes black.
I was awake in the infirmary. Two guards perk up, “Come” I scramble up, and follow them, my heart pounding. They bring me to some room and force me inside. No instructions.
I was shoved into some bathroom. A simple bathroom probably found in a normal family home. There is a piece of paper on the counter. “Shower and change into the given clothes. You are to serve this HYDRA soldier as your punishment” my heart dropped. I looked at the given clothes and it was some shorts and a tank top. Something strictly forbidden usually. They couldn’t even specify which soldier I would be serving. But I did what I was told: a quick shower and new clothes. The door on the other side was unlocked and I walked into a dark bedroom. I sat on the bed and heard the door open.
I saw the smudged paint around the eyes and the metal arm. The Winter Soldier. I somewhat recognized him since I’d seen him teach some of the older girls. He didn’t speak. Just stripped off the tactical belt and went to the bathroom. Eventually he commanded “Приходить (come)” I got off the bed and he looked at me expectantly. I looked at where he was looking and he was staring at the bath faucet. I kneeled on the edge of the tub and started the hot water. “Насколько жарко? (How Hot?)” My question was simple and he just nodded so I assumed he just wanted it as hot as it could go. Once it was full he stripped off his clothes and I glanced away as he lowered himself into the bath. I had gotten the rhythm and grabbed a washcloth and started to wash the black eyeshadow from around his eyes. Then I cleaned the rest of him up and kneeled next to his side, eyes averted down, as he soaked in the hot water.
“Залезай (Get in)” My eyes shot up, “прошу прощения? (excuse me?)” He spoke more sternly, “Залезай” I nodded, now knowing if I disobeyed if he would tell the guards and I’d be in more trouble. I slipped off the clothes and slid into the bath nervously. He pulled me against him and I was shaking, even though the warmth felt nice compared to the cold shower I had taken earlier.
We sat there for probably 20 more minutes until he forced us up. “Мне сказали, что я могу делать с тобой всё, что захочу. (They told me I could do whatever I wanted with you)” I nodded, too terrified to disobey. He threw me on the bed and I yelped. He climbed in between my legs and spread them. I squirmed under his touch and he shushed me. He sat up and slowly lined himself up to my entrance. I assumed he would’ve been gentle with the way he was getting ready but the second his tip was inside he forced himself all the way in, no gentleness, but what could I really expect from The Winter Soldier. His metal arm gripped my hip way too tight as the other one settled roughly in my hair as he started thrusting. It was too fast, it felt exactly like how I’ve been feeling all week with all the disappearances.
“Ч-что случилось с д-другими девочками? (w-what happened to the o-other girls?)” I wasn’t expecting a real answer, it was just a slight hope he may know where everyone was being taken. He grunted, “Не задавай вопросов, если не хочешь услышать правду. (Don't ask questions you don't want the truth from)” I nodded. So it was bad. It made my stomach do a flip which timed up exactly with his thrust. It felt so good. Too good. My heart pounded as he got more controlled. A few more slams inside me and I felt his cum inside. If I was anyone else I’d worry but I was a Widow and we couldn’t get pregnant. He pulled out and collapsed on the bed.
“Приостановление (stay)” A simple command I couldn’t deny. I laid on the bed and eventually fell asleep.
The morning came too quickly. That night felt like a relief from the normal activities of the red room. I heard a deep voice “солдат (soldier)” The winter soldier jolted up as a man stepped in. Behind him I saw my friend and my heart dropped. Why did he want me to stay when he probably knew this is what I would’ve seen. The man escorted the winter soldier out of the room and I didn’t know what to do. The note didn’t give me any insight and now that the winter soldier was gone I had no one to refer to.
I counted and laid there for 15 hours and 18 minutes before a guard came in. He forced me up and led me outside the room. “Why did you stay overnight?” a simple command and my response came instantly, “The winter soldier told me to stay. I was told to obey him.” the guard nodded, “Good” I was given a day off because of the soldier’s rough treatment, which was surprising considering I was forced to work through my sprained ankle less than a week ago.
The other girls were shocked to see I was back. They assumed I suffered the same fate as everyone else, getting sold off to the elite HYDRA soldiers. People asked, but I just shook my head. I couldn’t tell anyone how the “punishment” felt more like I was given a break from this grueling experience I was forced into. Some of the older girls who had met the winter soldier asked if I was serving him. They could tell somehow. But I would just give a nod and nothing else. Most of them shuddered at the thought since he was quite harsh in his classes he taught.
A few years later I had somehow made it past most of the training and not killed or sold off in the process. I was now doing field work. My first class was with the Winter Soldier. A part of my stomach flipped but not in an unpleasant way. I was excited for a chance to learn after all the night I’d spent servicing him. After that first night he was pleased and requested me more. All of this led to me getting suggested for field work early and a special spot of favoritism in his class.
Sam x reader with an oral fixation who is unaware that she has one so she has unhealthy habits such as chewing her tails, chewing her hoodie strings, clenching her teeth, picking her gums, just to ease that light ache that’s always there. Sammy notices and decides to do something about it, maybe buys one of those chew necklaces or buys her chewing gum?? Idk, sorry if this is poorly written 🥲 it’s 1am and I’m losing it lol!! Love youuu
⋆˚꩜｡ something to chew on,
pairing. sam winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount. 393 genre. fluff
warnings. gentle discussion of coping habits, oral fixation, self-soothing behaviors, soft caretaking, sam winchester being quietly observant
notes. STOP PUTTING THINGS IN YOUR MOUTH!!! tho tysm for requesting. ily 🤭🩷
<𝟑 .ᐟ consider supporting my work on ko-fi 🩷
Sam notices before you do.
He notices because you’re always chewing on something.
The frayed end of your hoodie string disappears between your teeth when you’re researching. Your nails hover at your mouth when you’re thinking too hard. You clench your jaw when you’re stressed, work it side to side until he hears it pop faintly in the quiet of the bunker. Sometimes he catches you picking at your gums absentmindedly, eyes unfocused, like there’s an itch you can’t quite reach.
You don’t even realize you’re doing it.
Sam does.
At first, he just gently intervenes—his thumb brushing your chin away from your sleeve, murmuring, “Hey,” in that soft voice that always pulls you back into your body. You apologize every time, a little embarrassed.
“Sorry. Bad habit.”
He hums, unconvinced. Files it away.
A few days later, he comes back from a supply run with an extra bag. Not weapons. Not books. He sets it on the table between you like it’s nothing.
“What’s this?” you ask.
Sam rubs the back of his neck, shy in that endearing way he gets when he’s trying very hard not to sound like he’s overstepping. “Uh. I noticed you chew on stuff when you’re anxious. Or thinking. Or just… existing.”
You blink. “I do?”
He gives you a look. Fond. Gentle. Yes, sweetheart, constantly.
Inside the bag is a pack of sugar-free gum and a simple silicone chew necklace—plain, discreet, soft-looking.
“It’s not a big deal,” he adds quickly. “I just thought… maybe something safer than your hoodie strings. Or your teeth.”
Something in your chest loosens. “You noticed all that?”
Sam shrugs, smiling. “Kinda my thing.”
You try the necklace first, feeling ridiculous—until you don’t. The ache you never realized you carried eases almost immediately. Your shoulders drop. Your jaw unclenches.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh.”
Sam’s eyes soften like he’s just watched you come home to yourself.
“That better?” he asks.
You nod, chewing thoughtfully. “Why does this help?”
“Probably just your brain asking for input,” he says. “Nothing wrong with that.”
You lean into him, head resting against his shoulder, still chewing. Sam presses a kiss into your hair, relief humming quietly through him.
Later, when he catches you gnawing on the necklace during a tough research session, he just smiles to himself.
Sometimes love looks like noticing the small things.
And doing something about them.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule
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i need to fuck him i need to fuck him i need to fuck him i need to fuck him i need to fuck him i need to fuck him i need to fuck him i need to fuck him and choke him and slap him and spit in his mouth and make him cry and babble and limp for the following week because i plowed his boypussy for hours on end i need to fuck him i need to fuck him i need to fuck him
- summary: the ‘sweetheart’ of jackson has both the miller brothers wrapped around her finger—and they’re ready to take what she’s willing to give
- warnings: sex, threesome (m/m/f), rough sex, oral (m receiving), hair pulling, light spanking, cum eating/swallowing, sort of cucking, alcohol consumption, manhandling, creampie, light fingering, joel lovessss ass, kissing, neck kissing, thigh riding, orgasms
- word count: 10.3k 😮💨😮💨
very roughly inspired by the song ‘the giver’ by chappell roan…. writing that as i forgot about it being the inspo a third of the way through
on ao3
masterlist
Being the sweetheart of Jackson comes with its perks.
You’re not one to join patrol shifts. Not one to dig perimeter trenches or be on the lookout for infected or raiders in the distance. Hell, you barely raise your voice in town, and folks just seem to gravitate to you.
Not once have you had any real work to do like everyone else–you sit and look pretty while the world is practically in flames around you. The comfortable town of Jackson keeps you safe from the apocalyptic world outside, and it’s virtually all you know now. Just sunsets dusted over the sky like gold, wooden porches, horses, movies every Friday night.
It’s never too serious with you, and that’s how you like to keep it. You have the freedom to head out to bars and drink your heart away, sing alone and spend your time however you like it.
Nobody expects much out of you. You’re always in your pretty cowboy boots and tiny tanks, glossed lips, baking for your neighbors and planting flowers.
Maybe it’s your baking. Sugar-dusted pies and muffins that everyone swears are to die for. Or maybe the wildflowers you insist on planting on wooden walkways to bring pops of color to the town saddened by the reality of the outbreak. Or, it could be your smile–looking stitched by sunlight, a certain sweetness that can only come with a warning.
The rumors say you came from a QZ in Colorado, wearing boots too clean for the end of the world. Some women are skeptical, but many of the men in town are stunned. Two, in particular. They’re wrapped around your pretty finger.
And you, on the other hand, don’t care. You wear that sneaky smile proudly and walk around Jackson calling everyone ‘darling.’ Handing out cookies to children, making friends with the community’s animals alongside Ellie, and sending an occasional wink to the many older and married men of the little ‘commie’ town. Cowboys are a favorite of yours.
You don’t normally need a map to find trouble–or to find men. They find you, and you hear it in the boots clacking on porches and smell it in the sweat and whiskey of Saturday night bonfires.
You’ve learned how to read a glance. To read pauses, sense held breaths. Quite familiarized with stares.
It’s in your nature.
So, you sit and look pretty on a daily basis, humming along to old country songs with the warmest voice and making your rounds. While you don’t have your own job, you seem to always help everyone else. You’re a giver.
When a job needs to be done, they know they can call you.
And that’s why everyone seems so devout to you–Jackson’s angel and heartbreaker all at once.
Tommy Miller, though, is a flirt. The man could sweet talk a bloater if he thought it’d wink back. The kind that talks to anything that breathes–but in an effective manner.
He’s attractive. A smile that belongs on a billboard and the warmest laugh ever that makes women peek over their shoulders. Lucky for Jackson, there weren’t many billboards left–so Tommy’s handsome face is kept safe in the borders of the town.
And unlucky for you, the man knows how to work that charm a little too well. Often in your direction.
A walking distraction dressed in boots and a perfect Southern twang, he carries himself well despite going through hell–still comes out the other side with a wink and the occasional joke. Where his brother, Joel, is more silence and tension, Tommy is easy laughter and a lazy arm slung around your waist. Before you can even realize he’s too close.
He always seems to be smiling, even if his mouth physically isn’t.
And it’s unfair. It makes you forget what you’re doing. What day it is. Your own name.
Tommy’s hair is always a little tousled by the wind, messy like he’d just taken off a hat or came in from a horse ride. His tan and freckled face seems to season him, and he wears it proudly. Comfortably. He’s gorgeous.
Strong, sure, after years of patrol and learning to fend and survive after the outbreak. But he doesn’t wear it. He’s laid back, like he’s not trying to intimidate, like he’s so casual and comfortable in his own skin that he doesn’t feel the need to flaunt. He’s the embodiment of warmth wrapped into a gorgeous body of a man–steady hands and touches.
An occasional shoulder bump, knee grazing yours under the table. Even his arm slung around your shoulders while he plants a wet kiss on your rosy cheek during a bonfire. Each touch lingers just enough to make you wonder whether or not he meant it, or if he’s just that friendly.
Joel, on the other hand, is a harder read.
Tommy is all sunshine stirred into sawdust, and Joel is dusk. Slower movements, eyes that see more than he lets on–he doesn’t say as much as his brother. He’s older, and you can tell. You sometimes see him holding the small of his back when he stands up or hear the crack of his knees when he leans down.
And when he does talk, it’s usually gruffer and quieter. About something pragmatic, not flirtatious in the slightest.
He fixes fences, carries crates by, drops things off you don’t ask for with a small “figured you could use it.”
Not much for compliments.
But he watches, and you enjoy that. The quiet is nice sometimes in contrast to Tommy’s outward flirtation and neverending sweet talk. From across the town square, behind his guitar, over the rim of his coffee mug at his favorite diner in Jackson–he’s always just there. Watching.
Noticing you. The feeling of his dark eyes burning into you makes the rest of the world go quiet, even managing to mute a drunk Tommy on saturday nights.
Joel has the raw and rough kind of beauty that also doesn’t flaunt itself, but creeps up on you. Broad hands, calloused and rough and capable from years of both contracting and fighting infected. His forearms are tanned from work, sleeves always pushed up to keep out of the way. A salt-and-pepper scruff covering his jaw that doesn’t behave very well, and his hair always sloppily pushed back with his hand.
Compared to Tommy, it’s like he doesn’t own a mirror. Rugged and hardened and messy but so, so gorgeous. Carries himself like a man. The most masculine you’ve ever seen. Big frame, thick and warm like a large space heater. Makes you wonder if all of him is that big.
He’s older, but not in a way that makes him seem out of place. More like he’s earned the scars and little creaks and marks dug into the crevices of his handsome face. He looks like a fighter and still doesn’t deserve to rest, like he’s carrying something you can’t figure out.
And his voice–god–his voice. Gravelly, but smooth and bourbon-like, hiding something a little dangerous beneath it’s drawl. Everything about him gets to you. The way he keeps greater distance, doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t let himself get close like his brother does, but it ruins you even more.
So you flirt a little more with Tommy when Joel’s around. Maybe you like watching him try not to look.
Yes, ma’am. No, darlin.’
Their matching Texan accents ring in your head, drawing you to them while you head out in Jackson with an unsurprising batch of cookies–baked to perfection and nestled in tupperware–in your arms.
The sun today is high, but not cruel, casting a warmth over the town that makes it look as golden and sugary as the pies you normally whip up. Kids are running barefoot down the road while their fathers work on splitting wood. Someone is playing their radio out of an open window.
You can hear the faint and tinny country music over the hum of townspeople going about their normal afternoon routines. Taking your time for a nice stroll, you have an apron tied around your waist and maybe a hint of flour streaked across your denim-clad thigh. Like your badge of honor.
And, like always, you’re not in a rush. What’s the rush when there's a dozen voices calling out to you when you pass by the men working?
“Smells like cinnamon again.” One calls out, giving you a charming smirk while obnoxiously chewing on his gum. Hot.
You laughed, but waved them off. Okay, maybe you gave him a wink.
But it’s just a batch of cookies, nothing too fancy. Chocolate chip with a sprinkle of coarse sea salt on top for the added flavor: your signature. You’re not trying to cause a stir, it just comes to you. People happen to notice when you walk by, smelling of baked goods and looking like the sweetest girl Wyoming has ever seen.
And then, like an answer to a distant prayer, there he is. Your favorite of Jackson’s men.
Tommy Miller, shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to his broad chest and shoulder blades with streaks of sweat. He’s standing in the gravel yard beside a pile of fresh cut logs. An axe in one hand and a rag in the other.
He’s mid-wiping the sweat off his forehead when he catches sight of you, dragging it along the back of his neck right after while he presents his usual ever-charming smile. Cheeky, but slow. And so, so handsome.
Normally, you just shoot him a smile and offer a small glance up and down–occasionally narrowing in on his crotch. So you do the same–smile, wave, move on with your day.
“Hey, hold on.” This time, his voice pulls you back. Easy, like he doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet. Needs a good look at you, a taste of the cookies you’re holding. Maybe of something else.
He seems to take interest in the outfit under your apron when you stop: a pretty little white tank made of cotton and decorated with innocent lace. Big jeans held up by a dark cherry-colored red belt, matching maroon cowgirl boots thrown on your feet. And maybe he wants to know if what you’re wearing underneath would match the so-perfectly planned boots and belt technique.
He doesn’t move, not really. One hand is still resting on the axe handle, the other now supporting his weight against the chopping block. Leaned over and propped up on his hand, shamelessly checking you out. Sweaty. Gorgeous.
“You in a rush? He smiles, tilting his head just slightly to the left.
“Uh-uh. Not unless there’s a line somewhere waiting on these cookies.”
You giggle and lift the tupperware, showing off the newest batch of everyone’s favorite sweets. Better than the bakery’s, that’s for sure. Your smile distracts him for a second, the pretty gloss pasted over your lips luring him in like a siren.
Tommy chuckles, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. Kind of makes him look like an asshole. But you like it.
“As far as I know, I’m the only one who should be getting a fresh one.” He raises his eyebrows, letting go of the chopping block of wood and setting his trusty axe down. He steps closer, resting his thick fingers on the lid of the container.
“Please?”
He looks down at you, a manipulative smirk crossing his face. His gaze is switching between your face–your lips, eyes, freckled skin–to the batch of cookies you’re supporting. Almost begging.
When he moves closer, you catch a whiff of his scent. Most people wouldn’t exactly enjoy the smell of a man’s sweat after chopping wood for an hour in the summer, wearing a long sleeve shirt, but something about it is alluring to you. Anything that relates to masculinity is alluring to you, really. Musk and the faint scent of cedar from his cologne that was barely holding on but also accentuated by the aroma of the wood surrounding you.
“Fine. One.” You give in to that smile, any woman would. Stepping back, you set the container down on a nearby block of wood, crouching down next to it. You flick your hair back and Tommy is soon gazing at your profile now, the way you bite your lip in focus to get a cookie out for him. Also, the way your ass looks when you crouch down in the dust like that.
You grab one with a napkin, shutting the lid and standing back up to return to him.
“Here. Guess you’re special today. These are actually meant for the preschool.”
Tommy looks at you for a moment, and this time, his flirting is a little quieter. Muted. Softer. “Special? Not sure I’ve heard that one before.”
You roll your eyes, handing him the warm treat carefully before crossing your arms over your chest.
“Then nobody’s been looking close enough.” You snort, motioning for him to try the cookie. Your words shut him up for a second, eyes flicking up and down as if deciding something. Looking for the right kind of words.
But he ignores the feeling, taking a big bite of the cookie. You watch his lips as his teeth sink down into the dessert, the way his tongue darts out to clean the crumbs off his bottom lip while he chews.
And, as usual, his face displays his reaction to the taste shamelessly. He leans his head back, the cookie eliciting a small groan of pleasure from the back of his throat. His head bobs up and down with a nod of approval, of complete satisfaction at the taste of a single bite.
Upon swallowing, he looks down at the treat in his hand and grumbles in delight. “Mmhm. Sweetheart, that’s it. You’ve mastered it this time.”
His reaction is a little dramatic, but it makes you laugh. Makes you proud. Draws out that sweet giggle of yours that he loves so much, which makes him proud in return.
“It’s the same recipe as always. I did not master it, sweetheart.” You answer, playfully mocking the nickname he likes to use on you. Something about the way that Tommy is an expert flirt changes the way you flirt back. You don’t go easy on him, you’re a little ruder with it–sassy.
“Yeah, sweetheart. You did.” He rolls his eyes dramatically and mocks back, expression quickly changing back to an amused grin. He finishes the cookie in two short bites, stuffing his face and rubbing the crumbs off on his thighs.
You go back to the block of wood to pick up your cookies so you can carry on with your day, but Tommy follows. He steps right behind you, wrapping a warm and rough hand around your wrist before you can pick up the container.
“Hey–hey.” He stops you with a laugh, making your head turn to look up at him.
You try your best to seem annoyed, but it’s all performative. Really, you’d stay here as long as he wanted. Stay and watch him chop wood, feed him cookies to his heart’s desire.
“One more. C’mon.” Tommy grins, holding a hand out so you bless him with another.
“No, Tommy.” You groan, keeping your hands on the container to ensure it stays shut and he doesn’t cheat you for more treats. “They’re for the kids. I’m not gonna keep giving away my cookies to a grown ass man. You had one.”
He grumbles like a petulant child, pouting down at you. It’s annoying, but a little funny. Makes you want to give in and give him all the desserts in the world.
“It’s not for me,” he starts explaining, shaking his head in protest. “For Joel. He’s on patrol, I’m sure he’d appreciate a little snack when he returns.”
The fact that it’s for Joel makes you a little more receptive to the idea. You’re a sucker for that man, for whatever reason. And, unluckily for you, Tommy knows that. Joel Miller is your weakness.
You sigh, shaking your head and slowly opening the container back up. Tommy grins at the sight of the lid coming up and your hand reaching in for a second.
“Atta’girl.” His hand lands on the small of your back while you’re leaned over to get Joel’s treat, a warm presence that brings a flush up your neck and ears. Tommy’s always been a touchy one, especially in comparison to his brother. He loves to swing an arm around your shoulder and ruffle your hair whenever he can. Loves to say things like ‘atta’girl’ and ‘good job’ to watch how you get as red as a tomato.
Once the cookie is wrapped up in a napkin and kept safe in his pocket for Joel, he straightens his back and lets you stand back up, removing his hand from your spine. He rubs the back of his neck, something that would seem sheepish if it was anyone else. But on Tommy, it seems practiced. Like he knows just how to make you wanna lean in even more.
“Speaking of him,” he starts, pointedly. “There’s a bonfire tonight. Out past the paddock fence.”
You nod, knowing of it–you’re planning on going already, actually, but you listen anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Couple folks are bringin’ instruments. Drinks and whatnot. I might even get Joel to bring out his old guitar.”
You lift an eyebrow in intrigue, especially by the sound of Joel bringing out his guitar. You’d love to hear him play–love to see his big fingers work the chords and strings under the light of a fire.
“You’re working real hard to make it sound casual, Tommy.” You giggle and tilt your head, finally picking up the container of cookies once and for all.
He snorts and shakes his head, wiping the sweat dripping down the back of his neck again. It catches your attention, distracting you, drawing you to the sight of little beads against his hot, tanned skin.
He gives you a crooked, stupid grin. “Yeah, well. I ain’t askin’ the whole town if they’re going. Just you.”
Your heart does the little thing–not jumping, not exactly skipping. But warming up. By the idea of Tommy only asking you about the bonfire. Like he wants you there. It felt like settling into a chair that feels just right.
You let your gaze drift down to the sweat-streaked white shirt clinging to his shoulders and the way the sun is catching on his temples. The crumb of the cookie still left on the corner of his mouth. Hell, he could be selling sins door-to-door and you’d still buy it. Of course you wanna go.
“I was already planning on going. But since you’re asking so sweetly…” You start, drawing out the words teasingly.
“That a yes?” He perks up, the grin on his handsome face growing exponentially.
“I guess so. Depends. Will you save me a seat with you and your brother?” You grin and lean back, fingers drumming against the tupperware in your arms.
Tommy nods obediently, crossing his arms over his chest. They look big that way, especially when the sweat seeps through the white shirt he’s wearing and makes it a little see-through.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fuck, that always gets you weak. Being called ma’am–by none other than Tommy Miller, in particular, has you aching. The things you would do to hear that in a not-so-innocent context invade your mind.
“M’kay. As long as you two behave–and don’t talk through all the music–I’ll be there. See you tonight, Miller.”
You lift the tupperware in a little sort of a wave, sauntered off before he can even say anything else. Left with the little cookie in his pocket saved for Joel. Oh, it’s gonna be a long night. He’s in trouble.
Later that night, the sun starts to dip low and spill gold light into your kitchen window. That sweet, syrupy light that makes your skin glow. Makes you wanna dance in the kitchen and mess around.
You spent the day baking and then handing out cookies to the kids at Jackson’s preschool–it was adorable. But now, you’re getting ready for a night of drinking by a fire. A self-proclaimed “date” with both of the Miller brothers at once. With the town’s two hottest and beaten up men.
You’re standing barefoot in front of the mirror, one boot on while you weigh the options. Black, brown, or red? The outfit you settled for was a tiny old denim skirt held low on your hips and supported with the same belt as earlier. Paired with a little red gingham top you’d stitched yourself from scraps.
It was only the right option because it hugs your waist perfectly and clings to your chest, enough to surely make Tommy lose his train of thought mid conversation.
As hard as you tried to tell yourself this should just be another normal night, another bonfire, another excuse to laugh and drink with friends–it isn’t. You know why you’re going. You’re going to get drunk and mess with two brothers to the best of your ability. Fuck it.
Tugging a brush through your hair and letting it fall around your shoulder in lazy curls, not too fussy, you stared in the mirror. A dull red lipstick painted over your lips, highlighted by a smooth cherry-flavored gloss. Vanilla perfume on your wrists, lotioned legs–you smell as sweet as the cookies from earlier. Maybe Joel and Tommy would want a bite of you instead.
Sure, the world is over outside of Jackson. But tucked safely in the town, your biggest worry is how good you look tonight. And which brother you’d choose. Or if you’re even going to settle for one.
Your mind drifted as you put on all your jewelry.
Tommy. Sweet-talking and warmed from years in the sun. The biggest flirt you know. He makes you feel like the only woman in the room, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. There’s something so easy about him, which makes you feel comfortable.
He’s never boring, just familiar. Worn-in and all feel-good.
The only issue with Tommy is his flirtatious nature. Sure, it works on you, and makes you feel seen. But if he’s that good with his words, touch, and eyes, he must have too much experience. You’re sure he sweet talks every single woman in this town the same way he does with you, which makes you uneasy.
He flirts and doesn’t try to hide it. Makes it clear as day that he wants you. But might also want other women, so you’re not sure if he’s the perfect choice.
Then there's Joel.
Quieter, broader, and stiller. Doesn’t flirt or talk you up the way his brother does, but hovers. Makes you feel pretty with his eyes rather than his words.
He looks for too long, staring at you, whether you’re paying attention or not. His rougher voice settles low in your stomach when he speaks, smoke curling around your ribs and heating up your insides–all the way into your cervix, actually.
He’s much harder to pin down and slower to trust, but Lord, he’s worth the chase. You just know it.
Something about the fact that he makes it so much harder to tell if he wants you than Tommy arouses you. The slow burn of it all, confusion at each of his lingering glances. It gets you wondering, which eventually leaves you more hot and bothered than Tommy can get you. If Joel’d ever let himself get closer, he’d hold on tighter than his brother can.
Tommy is more a sunrise and Joel is a storm on the horizon. But they’re both fucking beautiful and dangerous, all at the same time.
You tap on your bottom lip in the mirror’s reflection, weighing the options. Most days, you don’t let the thought linger for two long. Jackson is small and gossip gets around quick, and you don’t want to ruin the existing flirtatious friendship with one brother and the stolen glances you exchange with the other.
Truth be told, most men wouldn’t be able to handle it very well if they were to find out that one woman was sharing attention with both him and his brother.
But, fuck, the idea of it?
Two men, both strong and stubborn and so big. So much bigger than you. Older, beaten by years of working. They’re burdened, and it makes them hotter to you in some sick way.
One with charm and one with intense heat, both circling you as if wanting to worship you and warn you off at the same time. What would it feel like to be in the middle of that want–to have Tommy’s hot breath and mouth on your neck and Joel’s big hands holding your hips down?
You exhale, slow and deliberate. Your thighs squeeze together and you allow yourself a single quiet smirk in the mirror.
No harm in thinking of it, right? After all, tonight’s just a bonfire. A little whiskey and music and possibly a seat between the Miller brothers on a bench. Not so bad.
So, you settle on the red boots. They match your belt and lipstick, after all. Lacing them up and giving yourself a last look, you head out.
The supposed ‘sweetheart’ of Jackson, ready to stir up trouble and, hopefully, have her way with at least one brother.
Later that night, you arrive just past nine. The bonfire is crackling tall and bright, its flames licking up at the starry sky. The scent of smoke curls through the air, sweetened by sap and pine of the surrounding forest. The low hum of voices–and a guitar being tuned–fills the space.
Tommy catches your eye first, sitting on a hay bale near the fire with one boot planted in the dirt and the other propped up on a small stump. He smiles, not flashy this time, but warm. Warmer than the fire, warmer than the heat beginning to return to your belly.
He knows exactly who you’re here to see.
Joel’s nearby, hiding more out in the corner, further from the fire. He’s tuning his guitar held across his lap, catching sight of you.
The signature look. He doesn’t smile or wave yet, just lips tightening in a greeting as he holds your gaze. Enough to make your breath catch in your chest. He looks back down like it’s nothing, deciding the strings of his old guitar need more attention than you do.
Fair enough, you’re already getting enough in that little outfit. From the men around the fire–Tommy, obviously.
You make your way over with a friendly smile, the firelight catching on your smooth bare legs. The glint of your lip gloss and shine of your hair not going unnoticed by the first brother.
“C’mere. Finally made it!” Tommy pats the spot next to him, thigh brushing yours while you sit. His gaze is quickly drawn to your lap, how short the skirt is–low on your waist but still only mere inches away from exposing your panties.
The warmth of the fire pressing on the two of you and making his skin glow more than it already does feels good, settling the moment into something comfortable. The familiar hum of the forest at night around you, all of your friends and neighbors gathered around the fire.
“I did make it. Can’t deny an invite from you.” You flash a smile back at Tommy, already entirely turned toward his body. With a little bit of whiskey on his breath and a more relaxed outfit now, he seems even more genial to see you tonight.
“Yeah? He chuckles, lifting the hand that isn’t occupied with a bottle to settle it on your thigh. Your smooth, shaven, and moisturized patch of skin that’s all free for him to touch. The bonfire is heating your skin up, and so is Tommy’s touch, making you feel like you’re truly on fire.
“You look good, though. I’m likin’ the gingham on you.” He nods casually, moving the hand up to toy with the bow on the straps of the top. “Lookin’ like a little cowgirl. Would never guess you’re not from the South.”
His voice is so sweet and lazy, more laid back than normally, most likely due to the bottle of whiskey in his other hand.
“Made this top myself,” you answer, stealing the bottle from his hand and taking a long swig. The feeling of it burns your throat, makes you almost sputter. You’re still so young compared to Tommy, and the intolerance to the strong alcohol reminds him of the fact.
He raises his eyebrows, shifting to face you more, forgetting entirely about the fire and his brother thirty feet away, tuning away at a guitar.
“Looks real good. I like it.” He takes the bottle back and drinks, slowly, before setting it down on the ground in front of the hay bale. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the apron and all the flour on your jeans.”
That makes you giggle. Of course you’re known to everyone in Jackson as the sweet girl who bakes, constantly lost in a cloud of flour and never seen without an apron. Valid comment.
“Is that a compliment or an insult, Miller?
“Both,” he chuckles and leans his head back to gaze down your body again, eyes narrowing down on your chest–the way the homemade shirt squeezes your breasts together perfectly. With the way you’re sitting, he’s got a great view down your chest. And you certainly notice–but, obviously, don’t mind. You’re not one to dislike attention.
The whiskey is rough but sweet, lighting your stomach up, and it slowly brings everything around you into a softer blur. The music presses pause on the rest of the world when Joel starts playing his guitar. Low and easy, something old and slow that sinks into your skin.
Everyone quiets down a tiny bit and limits their conversation as Joel gets up and moves closer. Inevitably, he comes right over, plopping down and sandwiching you between you and his brother.
The weight of the two men on your sides is two very different kinds of attention. Tommy’s is neverending, letting you know how he feels. His hand gravitated back to your thigh possessively when Joel sat down, silently pulling your leg against his.
And Joel’s was muted. Barely looking, focused on his guitar. But every chance he got to look away, it drifted toward your lap with his brother’s hand resting on it. If the guitar wasn’t strewn across his body and covering him, it’d be hard to miss the tent forming over his crotch.
The conversations around you died down to a low whisper, leaving you able to soak up Tommy’s touch and Joel’s music. His fingers stretched out on your thigh while he let out a satisfied sigh, lazy and confident and familiar on the skin.
He’d occasionally lean in, whispering all up close in your ear–on purpose, obviously. His breath is warm and smells of the whiskey and faintly of a cigarette he must’ve smoked before you showed up. His touch is unmoving, keeping you grounded by his side like you’re his.
His whispers are a random assortment, making you laugh and quiver all at once. He’d mention something stupid, like making fun of someone across the fire, or he’d lean in and remind you how good your tits look in that little top.
Joel’s playing slowed after a while, then stopped altogether. When he sets his guitar aside without ceremony the conversations pick up around you again.
You can finally take a breath as Tommy backs up and it isn’t as quiet anymore. But within seconds, it all gets more intense. Joel finally lets himself lean in and speak, smelling dangerously of cedar and something darker.
His thigh brushes yours, jaw clenching when he gives you a polite nod.
“Cookie was good earlier. Tommy gave it to me when I got back.”
You don’t even register what he’s talking about for a moment, awfully distracted by the feel of both their thighs pressing into the sides of yours, especially when accompanied by Tommy’s hand that seems to keep moving higher and higher.
“Oh, right. Thanks.” For a girl who’s normally confident, you choke up a little. Tommy laughs to himself, covering his mouth and letting his thumb rub the inside skin of your thigh.
Fuck, they’re actually getting you nervous. This isn’t what you planned for. You turn to look at Joel upon sensing he’s gonna speak again, the slow pull of attraction tightening in your belly.
But he whispers, glancing at Tommy leaning back with his hand splayed so intimately on your leg.
“You’re lettin’ my brother get real close tonight, huh?”
He questions, finally letting on a small smirk. He’s fucking into this. They planned this. And you’re only just now realizing.
It overwhelms you, but it makes the wetness build in your panties more than it may ever have before. The idea that the two brothers actually discussed this beforehand–sharing you–gets you weak.
“Pretty dangerous sittin’ between us like this.” Tommy interrupts before you can respond to Joel, making your head snap back around to him. You almost let out a nervous whimper, you can’t even register what’s happening. But somehow, you’re into it. You let it happen.
“Okay? I like it here.” You manage out with a gulp, eyes trained on Tommy before his brother’s hand lands on your other thigh. Still sassy. Both of them tighten their grips, squeezing at the supple flesh shamelessly as if you’re not all in public right now.
Too gone to care.
Joel snorts, shaking his head, and you look over at him now. He’s smiling, which isn’t too common of a sight. Must really be satisfied with their work right now.
“Careful what you ask for, baby.” He whispers and strokes your skin, hand moving up and down tantalizingly. You don’t know who to look at. Hell, you don’t actually know what you just asked for.
The moment goes entirely silent, the three of you exchanging glances. You–confused, but into it. The two men–seemingly have practiced this scenario millions of times before actually illustrating it.
Tommy’s watching you with a little half-smile, like he’s been waiting for this moment for longer than either of them would like to admit. His gaze zeroes in on your chest yet again, almost predatorily. Then, to Joel–his gaze is unreadable but filled with more desire than you’d like to imagine.
It hits you. Not fear or nerves, but want. This isn’t something to be scared of. Fuck, you were hoping for it in your bedroom while you were getting ready. You wore this outfit just for the hopes of this happening. Said ‘fuck it,’ so why would you be afraid?
In return, you let your hands rest on both of theirs, fingers trailing lightly over their knuckles. Your thumbs brush their skin, and nobody moves. The fire crackles and everyone nearby is laughing, drinking, and–most importantly–distracted.
As if reading your mind, Tommy leans in.
“We could get outta here,” he whispers, almost too casual. “Back to mine. Joel’s. Yours. Wherever you want.”
Your eyes flicker up to his, licking your lips and letting the overwhelming desire shine through once he essentially confirms what’s about to happen.
“Only if you want to.” Joel adds, ever the gentleman compared to his brother.
Their hands slide a little higher on your thigh, wanting and ready, and nothing else is exchanged but a quiet nod of approval from you.
Yet again, you’re the one left breathless.
The next thing you know, you’re at Joel’s, laid out on his bed like prey.
His place wasn’t far from the bonfire, a quiet little house on the edge of Jackson, tucked behind fencing and lots of trees. Quiet in the same way he is. You’ve been here before, dropping off food or supplies, but never like this. Never with your heart thumping this hard, two sets of heavy footsteps made by boots following behind you, two sets of warm hands ready to explore you and converge the different flavors of need in one space.
Joel opened the door without second-guessing anything, no more ‘are you sure?’ The two men gave you a look for confirmation when you reached the bedroom, and that’s all they needed. You, on the other hand, didn’t even have to answer.
Inside his house is warm, very lived-in. Very Joel. An old lamp in the corner and a woodworking table in the living room where he carves little animals and whatnot. He walks ahead, dropping his guitar in its case by the couch while Tommy peels off his jacket and throws it mindlessly on the floor.
You stood quietly for a second to process, and they both just looked at you. The air shifts, thick. So, so heated.
And this time, the older brother moves first–stepping close once you’re in his bedroom. You don’t stop him. His hand comes to your waist, rough and solid, checking one last time that you’re still good with a raise of his eyebrows.
You nod wordlessly, and Joel lifts you up by the waist.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear before tossing you gently onto the bed. Neither of them took the time to get their boots off–or yours. Nothing stopping the three of you.
He climbs over you while Tommy stands back for a bit to watch. In seconds, you feel the first pair of lips on yours–firm and grounding. One big hand on the back of your neck, the other slipping underneath you to the small of your back, pulling you up against him as if he needs it.
Joel tastes amazing. Darker than you imagine Tommy will. More tobacco, stronger liquor.
Tommy steps forward finally, climbing onto the bed next to the two of you and smoothing a hand over your hip. While his brother is on top of you, kissing you, he waits his turn and instead lets his lips brush your shoulder.
Their energy is different, obviously, but they move together in harmony. Joel is slower, more intense, seemingly controlling the moment. Tommy is more free and tactical, his touch lighter but never giving up.
And you let yourself be used.
Growing up as brothers, they had to learn to share. And, naturally, they carried that ability into adulthood. So Joel gets off, freeing your body to his brother.
Tommy laughs, diving right in and attaching his lips to yours. It’s softer but more playful, like you don’t have to take him seriously in the way you just had to with Joel. He encourages you with his hands on your waist, squeezing and tickling at your sides teasingly.
“Tommy,” you gasp and giggle, leaning your head back and breaking the kiss.
“What?” He chuckles in return, peppering the kisses down your chin and to your neck, focusing on the soft area just beneath your ear. That way, when he whispers, it feels even better.
You don’t respond, laughing and laying back while he works at your neck so perfectly. Everything is revolving around you right now. They just want to give you everything.
In minutes, you’re forgetting where you are, overwhelmed by the feeling of not one, but two sets of hands exploring you and worshipping you in every way possible.
“Pretty little thing,” Tommy would laugh, sitting up and tangling his hand in your hair to give it a tug.
Joel was more quiet, but still whispered little instructions. He was more of a guidance while his brother was the fun part: both necessary in the moment.
“C’mere,” Joel whispered, moving back on the bed after you all actually took the moment to remove your shoes. He sits back against the headboard and pillows, spreading his meaty thighs and patting the right one. He pulls you into his lap, wrapping a hand around your waist to get you nice and close.
You comply, climbing right up and settling yourself on his thigh–legs spread and straddling his denim-clad leg. You’re surely leaking and making a mess on it, your skirt pushed up to your waist.
Joel’s head dips down, nose brushing your jaw while he murmurs and begins to guide your hips.
“Good girl. C’mon, you can move, sweet girl.” He manages out, hoarsely, with a bite at your sensitive earlobe. It makes you shudder, following his orders and shifting your hips.
The feeling of his jeans pressed against your clothed pussy elicit quiet gasps from your lips, leaning in and resting your head on his shoulder. He keeps an arm wrapped around you, grounding you against him and ensuring you feel safe while getting off on his thigh like this.
By the foot of the bed, Tommy is forgotten now while Joel’s scent and touch invades your brain. He’s fine with waiting his turn, though. He undoes the buckle of his belt, the clank of metal not disturbing you and his brother.
Discarding his jeans, Tommy pulls himself out of his boxers shamelessly, unable to help himself. He’s been hard since you sat down with him at the bonfire in that pretty outfit. Hell, since he saw you earlier today and you gave him a cookie.
He begins to stroke himself–one hand moving up and down the shaft, stretching himself, while the other rests under his balls and gently tugs at them to heighten the pleasure. His eyes are trained on the way your hips move back and forth on Joel’s leg, the small wet patch he can see forming on the denim fabric, even through your panties.
“She looks so good on you like that, doesn’t she?” Tommy groans, thumb brushing over the tip of his own cock while his brother nods.
“Mm–real pretty.” Joel grumbles, leaning back and letting his head hit the wall when you let out a particularly pretty little moan. His big hands come back to your waist, squeezing it and holding you tight to guide you in a slower rhythm.
You whine, opening your eyes back up to look into his. Eyebrows furrowing, you pout and try to speed up again.
“Baby,” Joel chuckles, squeezing you harder to keep you in place, to keep you going the speed he wants you to. “Gotta slow down for me, yeah? Be good. Take it slow, relax.”
His words are meant to be soothing and encouraging, but the low tone of his voice that gets you so wet only makes it all worse.
“Want–wanna go faster. Please, Joel.” You whimper, trying to rut your hips and speed up the agonizingly slow pace he’s got you going at. “Feels good.”
“I know, I know it feels good.” He sighs, giving up for now and letting you do it how you want to. Tommy laughs from across the bed, amusement and arousal all wrapped into one while he jerks himself off to the sight of you and his brother.
Joel only lets you get off on his thigh for maybe a generous twenty seconds before lifting you up, patting your ass in the process. The pressure was building in your belly, tiring you out, making you feel so good. You were approaching an orgasm in a short time, motivated by the arousal the scene itself produced in your brain, but soon were stopped by his big hands.
“Joel.” You frown, writhing on the bed and reaching down to touch yourself instead when he sets you down.
Tommy sits up, abandoning his achingly hard cock, crawling up to you and grabbing at your wrist.
“Uh-uh. Don’t gotta do that, angel.” He laughs, collecting both of your wrists in one hand and pushing them back. You’re pinned down and whining under him, but eventually give up protesting when you remember it's you versus two–very, very large–men.
He passes your wrists to Joel, who holds them with even more ease due to the size of his hands.
“Let’s make sure Tommy gets some lovin’ too, sweet girl.” Joel kisses you once, a soft peck, holding you down for a moment to let his brother get settled. Both of you watch as Tommy fully discards his boxers, stripping off his shirt and socks in the process until he’s entirely bare.
The man is a work of art. Tanned skin, some sun damage from always working outside–little spots all over his body, and freckles. He’s covered in hair, which you’d always expected due to the thick head of it he carries.
His lower stomach, especially. It’s got the most gorgeous spread of tiny hairs leading to something even more beautiful–thick and wiry. Not graying just yet. His cock is long but thin, already red and twitching from jerking himself off to the sight of you just a couple minutes ago. The fat tip of it is leaking desperately, just begging to be treated.
Tommy lays back, seated against the headboard like Joel was, his legs spread out wide. His head tips back lazily, sinking into the bed and patting his thighs.
Joel lets your wrists go, and you’re lunging forward like an animal in seconds. His thick, hairy thighs open to accommodate you while you kneel between them on the bed.
“Nice n’ big.” You whisper and giggle, hands on his thighs while you sort of nestle your head down for now. Nuzzling into his crotch, you worship Tommy’s cock–nose exploring every crevice, tongue darting out under his heavy balls.
He moans out quietly, hand finding your hair before you even begin and wrapping it up into a tight makeshift ponytail.
“Look at you, baby.” Tommy praises, lifting his hips up to encourage you to take him. You were resting your head on his thigh and taking a moment, but the sight of him literally aching for you has you moving quickly.
You grab the base of his cock, giving it a slight squeeze to draw more noises out of the man. Satisfied by a little grunt, you snicker and open your mouth, taking his tip into it eagerly.
“Fuck.” He jolts, head tipping back and eyes shutting happily. You focus on only the tip for a moment, swirling your tongue around the head and collecting the embarrassing amount of precum before sinking your head down and taking as much of his length as you can.
You sputter for a moment, just as you did earlier on the whiskey, but regain your bearings and start to move. His tip is hitting the back of your throat as if urging you to take more, but you physically can’t. He’s so big,
Tommy’s hand tightens in your hair, a little rude with the way he’s tugging and forcing your head down.
“Jesus, Tommy.” Joel interrupts after watching carefully for a few moments. “Careful with ‘er. She’s gonna gag.”
The older brother’s hand comes to your back, gently stroking it to keep you grounded while his brother forces your head down on his cock. Tommy doesn’t mind too much, easing up on the pushing but not entirely stopping. He’s always been much less of a gentleman.
“You’re okay, angel. Go slow if you have to.” Joel whispers to you, patting your back before standing up and discarding his own clothes. You hear the sound of fabric and a belt hitting the floor, and want nothing more than to look.
But you can’t, because his brother is holding your head down on his dick. It’s not all bad, though. You’re still eagerly taking it, hollowing your cheeks and sucking him with near-perfect technique. He’s very vocal, noisily encouraging you to somehow work him even better.
The mattress sinks as Joel returns from undressing, and while you can’t see, you feel where he’s going. While your head is buried between Tommy’s thighs, Joel gently unfolds your body and pulls your skirt off for you, leaving you in pretty panties and that damn gingham top.
He smiles, stretching the elastic of your underwear and letting it snap back against your skin. You gasp.
“Tommy, look at this.” He rubs your ass, giving it a gentle smack, showing off the fabric. It’s little cherries over the same red gingham that your top is made of. Matching, making you look like the prettiest cowgirl they’ve ever seen.
Tommy snorts, opening his eyes and giving your head another push down on his lap at the sight.
“How cute. Bet you wore 'em just for us, ain’t that right?” He smiles and uses his free hand to cup the side of your face, stroking it with a thumb while you suck on him so perfectly. “Fuckin’ slut.”
Joel shoots him a glance to be nice, because he’s already pushing your head down. He shouldn’t be calling you a slut like that.
“Ignore him.” He advises you, rubbing the skin of your ass that’s now pink from the little slap. He pulls at the fabric, tugging it down gently and working it over your feet before throwing them on the floor. On his way back to your ass, he kisses the back of your feet, ankles, calves, and thighs, leaving a trail of fire all the way to where he really wants to be.
His fingers go straight to the source, not even bothering to spread your legs. He digs two digits into your folds, groaning lewdly at the filthy feeling of how wet you are. Soaking his fingers, soaking the bed underneath you. Genuinely dripping for the two brothers.
“If only you could feel how wet this girl is,” Joel huffs in amusement, slipping his fingers back out and gripping the supple flesh of your ass again. The loss of touch elicits a quiet whine from the lips you have wrapped around Tommy’s cock.
“I bet.” Tommy answers, groaning and leaning his head back yet again in pleasure when he hits particularly deep in that warm, wet mouth of yours.
Joel grabs at your body with a mix of gentleness and fervor, lifting your hips until your knees are able to support your weight. Your head is down between his brother’s legs, your back arched, and your ass in the air for him to do whatever he desires with.
He leans over you, pressing a trail of kisses down your back–the center of it. Between your shoulder blades and down your spine, while his fingers trail all over your soft skin. Exploring. Taking his time.
He ends the trail at your back dimples, the spot where your butt and the small of your back meet. One last little kiss before he sits back up, spreading your legs just a bit so he can fit.
Once Joel ensures you’re not overwhelmed with what you’re doing with Tommy, he grabs his own cock and strokes it before gently pressing it against your ass. You moan around the other man’s length, and Joel taps him to let you have a break.
Tommy releases his grip on your hair, gasping when your mouth comes off of him–a string of spit connects his crotch and your mouth due to the excessive slobbering you’d been doing. Dirty and beautiful.
“Fuck.” The two men say, almost in perfect unison.
You take a moment to catch your breath, glancing back at Joel behind you when you remember he’d gotten undressed.
And, lord, he’s somehow more perfect than Tommy.
He’s built. Broad, hairy chest and a little tummy coming over his hips. Looks like he works out but certainly doesn’t deny a beer when offered. He’s hairier, even, a thicker and grayer trail leading to his pubic bone that’s pressed against your ass currently.
Older. Seemingly more experienced. He’s scarred and hardened, and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. The mere sight of him makes you moan.
Both of them laugh at the little strained moan you let out, Joel’s hand rubbing your hip while Tommy’s strokes your hair.
“You like him that much?” Tommy chuckles, kissing your forehead.
You nod mindlessly, still searching for the air you’d lost when your head was getting pushed down.
“Mm–mmhm. Like Joel. A lot. Fuck.” You manage out, dropping your head back on Tommy’s thighs and resting it there.
Joel smirks and lets the hand on your hip travel back to your ass, rubbing it before gripping his cock and giving it a few small strokes. “Yeah, baby?”
You nod again and groan against the fatty flesh of the thigh under you, kissing his warm skin. Your hips naturally move backward when you feel movement behind you, subconsciously begging for Joel. Your back arches as well, giving him quite the sight.
“You want it? Gonna take me good with my brother’s cock in your mouth?”
He smiles, teasing your dripping hole with his own leaking tip. Of course you want it. You’ve been dreaming of this all day–maybe even weeks before. But back then, it was a fantasy. Never a possibility in your mind. Now, you’re bent over, face down and ass up between the two of them. You couldn’t want it more.
“Yes, please.” You gasp out, arching more and forcing your ass back against Joel’s cock. You feel him twitch.
He hums in approval, not saying anything else before lining himself up. At the feeling of him against you, you know what you’re supposed to do in return. Tommy is back in your mouth in mere seconds, and you’re sucking and slurping to the best of your ability in hopes that it’ll get you more. More of Joel. More praise. More cock.
Joel slides in once Tommy looks satisfied, slowly stretching your tight pussy out. The noises are filthy, squelching and wet.
“Fuck–” He groans, panting and bracing himself by gripping your lower back. He isn’t even fully in yet and he’s ready to come all over you. He’s dreamed of painting you in ropes of release, of fucking you senseless and filling you up with his seed. Now it’s happening, and, God, he doesn’t know if he can even handle a minute.
You whine around Tommy, but he doesn’t push your head down again. He knows it probably hurts a bit, given the Millers are genetically big men. They let you adjust to Joel before resuming, going nice and slow.
“Pretty. So fuckin’ pretty, taking me this good. Just like that.” Joel becomes more vocal as he moves inside you, picking up the pace slowly, ensuring you’ve adjusted enough to take his size before doing anything you can’t handle.
The praise makes your head spin. Apparently, Tommy’s is too. You feel him twitch more in your mouth, see the way his hips are stuttering with each little bob of your head.
So you pick up pace. And so does Joel. Everything gets more intense.
Sucking in your cheeks, you take Tommy’s cock so deep that it hits your uvula, resulting in a soft gag. His first instinct is to let you take a break, but you continue despite the tears spilling from your eyes and the urge to vomit increasing.
Your hands fiddle with his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze that draws out the loudest moan of the night from the man. Success.
If you could smile, you’d be doing it. But he’s so deep in your mouth that you can’t move a muscle–not until you feel hot strings of release fill your throat.
You didn’t realize Tommy was that close, but he fills your mouth up more than it’s ever been stuffed. You’ve never felt a man come so hard. So much. He’s shaking as he finishes, piping it into your mouth and seeing it dribble down your chin as he pulls out.
“Ah-” he whimpers, actually whimpers, when your lips reattach to his tip to give it a final kiss.
Joel sees his brother’s orgasm, getting a little jealous. He would give anything to be filling your pretty mouth with his come right now, cleaning it off your lips where it spills out. But he remembers he’s the one inside you, and he has a better dumpster than Tommy does right now.
Once Tommy’s cock is removed from your mouth, he knows he can go a little harder. He wants to go a little harder. He can actually hear your pretty little moans and whimpers now that you’re not occupied.
When Joel starts hitting your cervix, the lewd noises slipping from your throat are unstoppable. You still haven’t swallowed the come, gurgling while moaning and trying to keep it in your mouth–almost to savor it.
His hand comes forward to grip your hair, remaking that damn makeshift ponytail his brother was just using. He tugs, forcing your back to arch as your head flies back with a whimper. He’s fucking you harder now, one hand gripping your hair and the other on your hip to press your cunt as close to him as he can possibly get it, pounding into you at a near-painful speed.
“Joel,” you cry out, more tears slipping from your pretty eyes that are quickly cleaned off by Tommy. You gasp and finally swallow his come, groaning in satisfaction and letting your head fall forward until it’s rudely tugged back by the other brother.
“You got it, darlin.’ You can take it. C’mon now, don’t go dumb on me.”
He groans, the hand on your hip giving your ass a solid smack. You cry out again, squealing with the mix of pain and pleasure. Pain, mostly now, as he’s fucking you deep and painfully harsh.
“Hold her still. She’s shakin,’ Tommy.” Joel leans forward with a growl, draping his body over yours and letting his head fall to your shoulder while he fucks you from behind. His teeth bare, nibbling on any exposed skin he can get, licking and sucking and kissing like an animal.
Tommy’s hands come to your shoulders, holding you still and shushing you while you cry under Joel’s hard body. “Almost there, angel. We’ve got you.”
And within the next minute, you and Joel’s orgasms approach at once. You can tell with him because his pace gets sloppy, hips slamming into your ass uncontrollably and inconsistently. He can tell with you because you’re impossibly more vocal, whimpering out and trembling.
When your thighs start to shake, he snakes a hand down your body and attaches his index and middle finger to your clit. That’s your weakness.
It’s not even eight seconds after he touches your clit that you’re coming, gasping and writhing and falling forward against Tommy. Joel follows suit, finishing deep inside you and smacking your ass as he comes.
The next thirty seconds go silent. You fell forward against Tommy, he pulled you into his arms. Joel’s now-soft cock slipped out, leaving you pumped full of his seed.
Tommy strokes your hair, kissing your forehead in an attempt to get your shaking body down from the intense high his brother had just given you. The other man lays next to the two of you, senseless now and in his own little world. His eyes are pressed shut, sexy pants coming from his mouth and into his pillow.
The room is quiet and hazy, heavy with sweat and the familiar scent of sex. It’s absolutely filthy. Wrecked.
Your limbs are all tangled up, breath catching. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s earned.
The sheets are tangled and damp, clinging to your thighs when Joel manages to sit up. He grumbles, moving closer and cuddling into your side that isn’t occupied by his brother.
On the floor are your clothes, laying scattered and forgotten. Tommy is on your other side, hand curled over your hip and quiet breath in your neck where his head is buried. Joel is curling onto your left, kissing your sweaty shoulder and arm, anywhere he can get.
And you–God. You’re spent, utterly and completely fucked-out. Used. Wrecked.
You’re past satisfied, actually sure that your bones probably aren’t solid anymore. Your limbs are too heavy to move, cheek pressed to Tommy’s chest and an arm slung over his brother’s body. They hold you like they’re afraid you’ll float off somewhere.
“Nothin’ left in me now.” Joel mumbles, lips brushing your skin. His voice is hoarse and dried out, more of an exhale than actual speech. “Not movin’ at all.”
The only part of him that can move is his fingers, trailing so slowly up and down your spine.
Tommy nods and huffs in agreement, kissing your cheek and pulling you closer. You just smile–lazy and slow and perfectly wrecked. Everything aches in the best kind of way. You feel as if you’ve been pulled apart and put back together with hands that know exactly what they’re doing.
Your throat is burning, hips stinging from Joel’s grip, your pussy leaking out his seed. And no one said much. They didn’t have to.
The air is thick and sticky, but also soft. Comfortable. Hearts beating in sync and bodies pressed so closely that you can’t tell where one ended and the next began.
Tommy is the last to speak–“Might have to stay here ‘til winter. Jus’hibernating.”—and you laugh. Blissed out and tangled between the men. Just laughed, warm and slow, like the fire hadn’t gone out yet.
WOO that was a journey to write. I’m going to hell. Love yall though 💋💋
TUMBLR ONLY LETS ME TAG 50 👎👎 I’m so sorry to everyone else ik i got like over 100 asking to be tagged so i tried my best
- summary: the ‘sweetheart’ of jackson has both the miller brothers wrapped around her finger—and they’re ready to take what she’s willing to give
- warnings: sex, threesome (m/m/f), rough sex, oral (m receiving), hair pulling, light spanking, cum eating/swallowing, sort of cucking, alcohol consumption, manhandling, creampie, light fingering, joel lovessss ass, kissing, neck kissing, thigh riding, orgasms
- word count: 10.3k 😮💨😮💨
very roughly inspired by the song ‘the giver’ by chappell roan…. writing that as i forgot about it being the inspo a third of the way through
on ao3
masterlist
Being the sweetheart of Jackson comes with its perks.
You’re not one to join patrol shifts. Not one to dig perimeter trenches or be on the lookout for infected or raiders in the distance. Hell, you barely raise your voice in town, and folks just seem to gravitate to you.
Not once have you had any real work to do like everyone else–you sit and look pretty while the world is practically in flames around you. The comfortable town of Jackson keeps you safe from the apocalyptic world outside, and it’s virtually all you know now. Just sunsets dusted over the sky like gold, wooden porches, horses, movies every Friday night.
It’s never too serious with you, and that’s how you like to keep it. You have the freedom to head out to bars and drink your heart away, sing alone and spend your time however you like it.
Nobody expects much out of you. You’re always in your pretty cowboy boots and tiny tanks, glossed lips, baking for your neighbors and planting flowers.
Maybe it’s your baking. Sugar-dusted pies and muffins that everyone swears are to die for. Or maybe the wildflowers you insist on planting on wooden walkways to bring pops of color to the town saddened by the reality of the outbreak. Or, it could be your smile–looking stitched by sunlight, a certain sweetness that can only come with a warning.
The rumors say you came from a QZ in Colorado, wearing boots too clean for the end of the world. Some women are skeptical, but many of the men in town are stunned. Two, in particular. They’re wrapped around your pretty finger.
And you, on the other hand, don’t care. You wear that sneaky smile proudly and walk around Jackson calling everyone ‘darling.’ Handing out cookies to children, making friends with the community’s animals alongside Ellie, and sending an occasional wink to the many older and married men of the little ‘commie’ town. Cowboys are a favorite of yours.
You don’t normally need a map to find trouble–or to find men. They find you, and you hear it in the boots clacking on porches and smell it in the sweat and whiskey of Saturday night bonfires.
You’ve learned how to read a glance. To read pauses, sense held breaths. Quite familiarized with stares.
It’s in your nature.
So, you sit and look pretty on a daily basis, humming along to old country songs with the warmest voice and making your rounds. While you don’t have your own job, you seem to always help everyone else. You’re a giver.
When a job needs to be done, they know they can call you.
And that’s why everyone seems so devout to you–Jackson’s angel and heartbreaker all at once.
Tommy Miller, though, is a flirt. The man could sweet talk a bloater if he thought it’d wink back. The kind that talks to anything that breathes–but in an effective manner.
He’s attractive. A smile that belongs on a billboard and the warmest laugh ever that makes women peek over their shoulders. Lucky for Jackson, there weren’t many billboards left–so Tommy’s handsome face is kept safe in the borders of the town.
And unlucky for you, the man knows how to work that charm a little too well. Often in your direction.
A walking distraction dressed in boots and a perfect Southern twang, he carries himself well despite going through hell–still comes out the other side with a wink and the occasional joke. Where his brother, Joel, is more silence and tension, Tommy is easy laughter and a lazy arm slung around your waist. Before you can even realize he’s too close.
He always seems to be smiling, even if his mouth physically isn’t.
And it’s unfair. It makes you forget what you’re doing. What day it is. Your own name.
Tommy’s hair is always a little tousled by the wind, messy like he’d just taken off a hat or came in from a horse ride. His tan and freckled face seems to season him, and he wears it proudly. Comfortably. He’s gorgeous.
Strong, sure, after years of patrol and learning to fend and survive after the outbreak. But he doesn’t wear it. He’s laid back, like he’s not trying to intimidate, like he’s so casual and comfortable in his own skin that he doesn’t feel the need to flaunt. He’s the embodiment of warmth wrapped into a gorgeous body of a man–steady hands and touches.
An occasional shoulder bump, knee grazing yours under the table. Even his arm slung around your shoulders while he plants a wet kiss on your rosy cheek during a bonfire. Each touch lingers just enough to make you wonder whether or not he meant it, or if he’s just that friendly.
Joel, on the other hand, is a harder read.
Tommy is all sunshine stirred into sawdust, and Joel is dusk. Slower movements, eyes that see more than he lets on–he doesn’t say as much as his brother. He’s older, and you can tell. You sometimes see him holding the small of his back when he stands up or hear the crack of his knees when he leans down.
And when he does talk, it’s usually gruffer and quieter. About something pragmatic, not flirtatious in the slightest.
He fixes fences, carries crates by, drops things off you don’t ask for with a small “figured you could use it.”
Not much for compliments.
But he watches, and you enjoy that. The quiet is nice sometimes in contrast to Tommy’s outward flirtation and neverending sweet talk. From across the town square, behind his guitar, over the rim of his coffee mug at his favorite diner in Jackson–he’s always just there. Watching.
Noticing you. The feeling of his dark eyes burning into you makes the rest of the world go quiet, even managing to mute a drunk Tommy on saturday nights.
Joel has the raw and rough kind of beauty that also doesn’t flaunt itself, but creeps up on you. Broad hands, calloused and rough and capable from years of both contracting and fighting infected. His forearms are tanned from work, sleeves always pushed up to keep out of the way. A salt-and-pepper scruff covering his jaw that doesn’t behave very well, and his hair always sloppily pushed back with his hand.
Compared to Tommy, it’s like he doesn’t own a mirror. Rugged and hardened and messy but so, so gorgeous. Carries himself like a man. The most masculine you’ve ever seen. Big frame, thick and warm like a large space heater. Makes you wonder if all of him is that big.
He’s older, but not in a way that makes him seem out of place. More like he’s earned the scars and little creaks and marks dug into the crevices of his handsome face. He looks like a fighter and still doesn’t deserve to rest, like he’s carrying something you can’t figure out.
And his voice–god–his voice. Gravelly, but smooth and bourbon-like, hiding something a little dangerous beneath it’s drawl. Everything about him gets to you. The way he keeps greater distance, doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t let himself get close like his brother does, but it ruins you even more.
So you flirt a little more with Tommy when Joel’s around. Maybe you like watching him try not to look.
Yes, ma’am. No, darlin.’
Their matching Texan accents ring in your head, drawing you to them while you head out in Jackson with an unsurprising batch of cookies–baked to perfection and nestled in tupperware–in your arms.
The sun today is high, but not cruel, casting a warmth over the town that makes it look as golden and sugary as the pies you normally whip up. Kids are running barefoot down the road while their fathers work on splitting wood. Someone is playing their radio out of an open window.
You can hear the faint and tinny country music over the hum of townspeople going about their normal afternoon routines. Taking your time for a nice stroll, you have an apron tied around your waist and maybe a hint of flour streaked across your denim-clad thigh. Like your badge of honor.
And, like always, you’re not in a rush. What’s the rush when there's a dozen voices calling out to you when you pass by the men working?
“Smells like cinnamon again.” One calls out, giving you a charming smirk while obnoxiously chewing on his gum. Hot.
You laughed, but waved them off. Okay, maybe you gave him a wink.
But it’s just a batch of cookies, nothing too fancy. Chocolate chip with a sprinkle of coarse sea salt on top for the added flavor: your signature. You’re not trying to cause a stir, it just comes to you. People happen to notice when you walk by, smelling of baked goods and looking like the sweetest girl Wyoming has ever seen.
And then, like an answer to a distant prayer, there he is. Your favorite of Jackson’s men.
Tommy Miller, shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to his broad chest and shoulder blades with streaks of sweat. He’s standing in the gravel yard beside a pile of fresh cut logs. An axe in one hand and a rag in the other.
He’s mid-wiping the sweat off his forehead when he catches sight of you, dragging it along the back of his neck right after while he presents his usual ever-charming smile. Cheeky, but slow. And so, so handsome.
Normally, you just shoot him a smile and offer a small glance up and down–occasionally narrowing in on his crotch. So you do the same–smile, wave, move on with your day.
“Hey, hold on.” This time, his voice pulls you back. Easy, like he doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet. Needs a good look at you, a taste of the cookies you’re holding. Maybe of something else.
He seems to take interest in the outfit under your apron when you stop: a pretty little white tank made of cotton and decorated with innocent lace. Big jeans held up by a dark cherry-colored red belt, matching maroon cowgirl boots thrown on your feet. And maybe he wants to know if what you’re wearing underneath would match the so-perfectly planned boots and belt technique.
He doesn’t move, not really. One hand is still resting on the axe handle, the other now supporting his weight against the chopping block. Leaned over and propped up on his hand, shamelessly checking you out. Sweaty. Gorgeous.
“You in a rush? He smiles, tilting his head just slightly to the left.
“Uh-uh. Not unless there’s a line somewhere waiting on these cookies.”
You giggle and lift the tupperware, showing off the newest batch of everyone’s favorite sweets. Better than the bakery’s, that’s for sure. Your smile distracts him for a second, the pretty gloss pasted over your lips luring him in like a siren.
Tommy chuckles, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. Kind of makes him look like an asshole. But you like it.
“As far as I know, I’m the only one who should be getting a fresh one.” He raises his eyebrows, letting go of the chopping block of wood and setting his trusty axe down. He steps closer, resting his thick fingers on the lid of the container.
“Please?”
He looks down at you, a manipulative smirk crossing his face. His gaze is switching between your face–your lips, eyes, freckled skin–to the batch of cookies you’re supporting. Almost begging.
When he moves closer, you catch a whiff of his scent. Most people wouldn’t exactly enjoy the smell of a man’s sweat after chopping wood for an hour in the summer, wearing a long sleeve shirt, but something about it is alluring to you. Anything that relates to masculinity is alluring to you, really. Musk and the faint scent of cedar from his cologne that was barely holding on but also accentuated by the aroma of the wood surrounding you.
“Fine. One.” You give in to that smile, any woman would. Stepping back, you set the container down on a nearby block of wood, crouching down next to it. You flick your hair back and Tommy is soon gazing at your profile now, the way you bite your lip in focus to get a cookie out for him. Also, the way your ass looks when you crouch down in the dust like that.
You grab one with a napkin, shutting the lid and standing back up to return to him.
“Here. Guess you’re special today. These are actually meant for the preschool.”
Tommy looks at you for a moment, and this time, his flirting is a little quieter. Muted. Softer. “Special? Not sure I’ve heard that one before.”
You roll your eyes, handing him the warm treat carefully before crossing your arms over your chest.
“Then nobody’s been looking close enough.” You snort, motioning for him to try the cookie. Your words shut him up for a second, eyes flicking up and down as if deciding something. Looking for the right kind of words.
But he ignores the feeling, taking a big bite of the cookie. You watch his lips as his teeth sink down into the dessert, the way his tongue darts out to clean the crumbs off his bottom lip while he chews.
And, as usual, his face displays his reaction to the taste shamelessly. He leans his head back, the cookie eliciting a small groan of pleasure from the back of his throat. His head bobs up and down with a nod of approval, of complete satisfaction at the taste of a single bite.
Upon swallowing, he looks down at the treat in his hand and grumbles in delight. “Mmhm. Sweetheart, that’s it. You’ve mastered it this time.”
His reaction is a little dramatic, but it makes you laugh. Makes you proud. Draws out that sweet giggle of yours that he loves so much, which makes him proud in return.
“It’s the same recipe as always. I did not master it, sweetheart.” You answer, playfully mocking the nickname he likes to use on you. Something about the way that Tommy is an expert flirt changes the way you flirt back. You don’t go easy on him, you’re a little ruder with it–sassy.
“Yeah, sweetheart. You did.” He rolls his eyes dramatically and mocks back, expression quickly changing back to an amused grin. He finishes the cookie in two short bites, stuffing his face and rubbing the crumbs off on his thighs.
You go back to the block of wood to pick up your cookies so you can carry on with your day, but Tommy follows. He steps right behind you, wrapping a warm and rough hand around your wrist before you can pick up the container.
“Hey–hey.” He stops you with a laugh, making your head turn to look up at him.
You try your best to seem annoyed, but it’s all performative. Really, you’d stay here as long as he wanted. Stay and watch him chop wood, feed him cookies to his heart’s desire.
“One more. C’mon.” Tommy grins, holding a hand out so you bless him with another.
“No, Tommy.” You groan, keeping your hands on the container to ensure it stays shut and he doesn’t cheat you for more treats. “They’re for the kids. I’m not gonna keep giving away my cookies to a grown ass man. You had one.”
He grumbles like a petulant child, pouting down at you. It’s annoying, but a little funny. Makes you want to give in and give him all the desserts in the world.
“It’s not for me,” he starts explaining, shaking his head in protest. “For Joel. He’s on patrol, I’m sure he’d appreciate a little snack when he returns.”
The fact that it’s for Joel makes you a little more receptive to the idea. You’re a sucker for that man, for whatever reason. And, unluckily for you, Tommy knows that. Joel Miller is your weakness.
You sigh, shaking your head and slowly opening the container back up. Tommy grins at the sight of the lid coming up and your hand reaching in for a second.
“Atta’girl.” His hand lands on the small of your back while you’re leaned over to get Joel’s treat, a warm presence that brings a flush up your neck and ears. Tommy’s always been a touchy one, especially in comparison to his brother. He loves to swing an arm around your shoulder and ruffle your hair whenever he can. Loves to say things like ‘atta’girl’ and ‘good job’ to watch how you get as red as a tomato.
Once the cookie is wrapped up in a napkin and kept safe in his pocket for Joel, he straightens his back and lets you stand back up, removing his hand from your spine. He rubs the back of his neck, something that would seem sheepish if it was anyone else. But on Tommy, it seems practiced. Like he knows just how to make you wanna lean in even more.
“Speaking of him,” he starts, pointedly. “There’s a bonfire tonight. Out past the paddock fence.”
You nod, knowing of it–you’re planning on going already, actually, but you listen anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Couple folks are bringin’ instruments. Drinks and whatnot. I might even get Joel to bring out his old guitar.”
You lift an eyebrow in intrigue, especially by the sound of Joel bringing out his guitar. You’d love to hear him play–love to see his big fingers work the chords and strings under the light of a fire.
“You’re working real hard to make it sound casual, Tommy.” You giggle and tilt your head, finally picking up the container of cookies once and for all.
He snorts and shakes his head, wiping the sweat dripping down the back of his neck again. It catches your attention, distracting you, drawing you to the sight of little beads against his hot, tanned skin.
He gives you a crooked, stupid grin. “Yeah, well. I ain’t askin’ the whole town if they’re going. Just you.”
Your heart does the little thing–not jumping, not exactly skipping. But warming up. By the idea of Tommy only asking you about the bonfire. Like he wants you there. It felt like settling into a chair that feels just right.
You let your gaze drift down to the sweat-streaked white shirt clinging to his shoulders and the way the sun is catching on his temples. The crumb of the cookie still left on the corner of his mouth. Hell, he could be selling sins door-to-door and you’d still buy it. Of course you wanna go.
“I was already planning on going. But since you’re asking so sweetly…” You start, drawing out the words teasingly.
“That a yes?” He perks up, the grin on his handsome face growing exponentially.
“I guess so. Depends. Will you save me a seat with you and your brother?” You grin and lean back, fingers drumming against the tupperware in your arms.
Tommy nods obediently, crossing his arms over his chest. They look big that way, especially when the sweat seeps through the white shirt he’s wearing and makes it a little see-through.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fuck, that always gets you weak. Being called ma’am–by none other than Tommy Miller, in particular, has you aching. The things you would do to hear that in a not-so-innocent context invade your mind.
“M’kay. As long as you two behave–and don’t talk through all the music–I’ll be there. See you tonight, Miller.”
You lift the tupperware in a little sort of a wave, sauntered off before he can even say anything else. Left with the little cookie in his pocket saved for Joel. Oh, it’s gonna be a long night. He’s in trouble.
Later that night, the sun starts to dip low and spill gold light into your kitchen window. That sweet, syrupy light that makes your skin glow. Makes you wanna dance in the kitchen and mess around.
You spent the day baking and then handing out cookies to the kids at Jackson’s preschool–it was adorable. But now, you’re getting ready for a night of drinking by a fire. A self-proclaimed “date” with both of the Miller brothers at once. With the town’s two hottest and beaten up men.
You’re standing barefoot in front of the mirror, one boot on while you weigh the options. Black, brown, or red? The outfit you settled for was a tiny old denim skirt held low on your hips and supported with the same belt as earlier. Paired with a little red gingham top you’d stitched yourself from scraps.
It was only the right option because it hugs your waist perfectly and clings to your chest, enough to surely make Tommy lose his train of thought mid conversation.
As hard as you tried to tell yourself this should just be another normal night, another bonfire, another excuse to laugh and drink with friends–it isn’t. You know why you’re going. You’re going to get drunk and mess with two brothers to the best of your ability. Fuck it.
Tugging a brush through your hair and letting it fall around your shoulder in lazy curls, not too fussy, you stared in the mirror. A dull red lipstick painted over your lips, highlighted by a smooth cherry-flavored gloss. Vanilla perfume on your wrists, lotioned legs–you smell as sweet as the cookies from earlier. Maybe Joel and Tommy would want a bite of you instead.
Sure, the world is over outside of Jackson. But tucked safely in the town, your biggest worry is how good you look tonight. And which brother you’d choose. Or if you’re even going to settle for one.
Your mind drifted as you put on all your jewelry.
Tommy. Sweet-talking and warmed from years in the sun. The biggest flirt you know. He makes you feel like the only woman in the room, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. There’s something so easy about him, which makes you feel comfortable.
He’s never boring, just familiar. Worn-in and all feel-good.
The only issue with Tommy is his flirtatious nature. Sure, it works on you, and makes you feel seen. But if he’s that good with his words, touch, and eyes, he must have too much experience. You’re sure he sweet talks every single woman in this town the same way he does with you, which makes you uneasy.
He flirts and doesn’t try to hide it. Makes it clear as day that he wants you. But might also want other women, so you’re not sure if he’s the perfect choice.
Then there's Joel.
Quieter, broader, and stiller. Doesn’t flirt or talk you up the way his brother does, but hovers. Makes you feel pretty with his eyes rather than his words.
He looks for too long, staring at you, whether you’re paying attention or not. His rougher voice settles low in your stomach when he speaks, smoke curling around your ribs and heating up your insides–all the way into your cervix, actually.
He’s much harder to pin down and slower to trust, but Lord, he’s worth the chase. You just know it.
Something about the fact that he makes it so much harder to tell if he wants you than Tommy arouses you. The slow burn of it all, confusion at each of his lingering glances. It gets you wondering, which eventually leaves you more hot and bothered than Tommy can get you. If Joel’d ever let himself get closer, he’d hold on tighter than his brother can.
Tommy is more a sunrise and Joel is a storm on the horizon. But they’re both fucking beautiful and dangerous, all at the same time.
You tap on your bottom lip in the mirror’s reflection, weighing the options. Most days, you don’t let the thought linger for two long. Jackson is small and gossip gets around quick, and you don’t want to ruin the existing flirtatious friendship with one brother and the stolen glances you exchange with the other.
Truth be told, most men wouldn’t be able to handle it very well if they were to find out that one woman was sharing attention with both him and his brother.
But, fuck, the idea of it?
Two men, both strong and stubborn and so big. So much bigger than you. Older, beaten by years of working. They’re burdened, and it makes them hotter to you in some sick way.
One with charm and one with intense heat, both circling you as if wanting to worship you and warn you off at the same time. What would it feel like to be in the middle of that want–to have Tommy’s hot breath and mouth on your neck and Joel’s big hands holding your hips down?
You exhale, slow and deliberate. Your thighs squeeze together and you allow yourself a single quiet smirk in the mirror.
No harm in thinking of it, right? After all, tonight’s just a bonfire. A little whiskey and music and possibly a seat between the Miller brothers on a bench. Not so bad.
So, you settle on the red boots. They match your belt and lipstick, after all. Lacing them up and giving yourself a last look, you head out.
The supposed ‘sweetheart’ of Jackson, ready to stir up trouble and, hopefully, have her way with at least one brother.
Later that night, you arrive just past nine. The bonfire is crackling tall and bright, its flames licking up at the starry sky. The scent of smoke curls through the air, sweetened by sap and pine of the surrounding forest. The low hum of voices–and a guitar being tuned–fills the space.
Tommy catches your eye first, sitting on a hay bale near the fire with one boot planted in the dirt and the other propped up on a small stump. He smiles, not flashy this time, but warm. Warmer than the fire, warmer than the heat beginning to return to your belly.
He knows exactly who you’re here to see.
Joel’s nearby, hiding more out in the corner, further from the fire. He’s tuning his guitar held across his lap, catching sight of you.
The signature look. He doesn’t smile or wave yet, just lips tightening in a greeting as he holds your gaze. Enough to make your breath catch in your chest. He looks back down like it’s nothing, deciding the strings of his old guitar need more attention than you do.
Fair enough, you’re already getting enough in that little outfit. From the men around the fire–Tommy, obviously.
You make your way over with a friendly smile, the firelight catching on your smooth bare legs. The glint of your lip gloss and shine of your hair not going unnoticed by the first brother.
“C’mere. Finally made it!” Tommy pats the spot next to him, thigh brushing yours while you sit. His gaze is quickly drawn to your lap, how short the skirt is–low on your waist but still only mere inches away from exposing your panties.
The warmth of the fire pressing on the two of you and making his skin glow more than it already does feels good, settling the moment into something comfortable. The familiar hum of the forest at night around you, all of your friends and neighbors gathered around the fire.
“I did make it. Can’t deny an invite from you.” You flash a smile back at Tommy, already entirely turned toward his body. With a little bit of whiskey on his breath and a more relaxed outfit now, he seems even more genial to see you tonight.
“Yeah? He chuckles, lifting the hand that isn’t occupied with a bottle to settle it on your thigh. Your smooth, shaven, and moisturized patch of skin that’s all free for him to touch. The bonfire is heating your skin up, and so is Tommy’s touch, making you feel like you’re truly on fire.
“You look good, though. I’m likin’ the gingham on you.” He nods casually, moving the hand up to toy with the bow on the straps of the top. “Lookin’ like a little cowgirl. Would never guess you’re not from the South.”
His voice is so sweet and lazy, more laid back than normally, most likely due to the bottle of whiskey in his other hand.
“Made this top myself,” you answer, stealing the bottle from his hand and taking a long swig. The feeling of it burns your throat, makes you almost sputter. You’re still so young compared to Tommy, and the intolerance to the strong alcohol reminds him of the fact.
He raises his eyebrows, shifting to face you more, forgetting entirely about the fire and his brother thirty feet away, tuning away at a guitar.
“Looks real good. I like it.” He takes the bottle back and drinks, slowly, before setting it down on the ground in front of the hay bale. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the apron and all the flour on your jeans.”
That makes you giggle. Of course you’re known to everyone in Jackson as the sweet girl who bakes, constantly lost in a cloud of flour and never seen without an apron. Valid comment.
“Is that a compliment or an insult, Miller?
“Both,” he chuckles and leans his head back to gaze down your body again, eyes narrowing down on your chest–the way the homemade shirt squeezes your breasts together perfectly. With the way you’re sitting, he’s got a great view down your chest. And you certainly notice–but, obviously, don’t mind. You’re not one to dislike attention.
The whiskey is rough but sweet, lighting your stomach up, and it slowly brings everything around you into a softer blur. The music presses pause on the rest of the world when Joel starts playing his guitar. Low and easy, something old and slow that sinks into your skin.
Everyone quiets down a tiny bit and limits their conversation as Joel gets up and moves closer. Inevitably, he comes right over, plopping down and sandwiching you between you and his brother.
The weight of the two men on your sides is two very different kinds of attention. Tommy’s is neverending, letting you know how he feels. His hand gravitated back to your thigh possessively when Joel sat down, silently pulling your leg against his.
And Joel’s was muted. Barely looking, focused on his guitar. But every chance he got to look away, it drifted toward your lap with his brother’s hand resting on it. If the guitar wasn’t strewn across his body and covering him, it’d be hard to miss the tent forming over his crotch.
The conversations around you died down to a low whisper, leaving you able to soak up Tommy’s touch and Joel’s music. His fingers stretched out on your thigh while he let out a satisfied sigh, lazy and confident and familiar on the skin.
He’d occasionally lean in, whispering all up close in your ear–on purpose, obviously. His breath is warm and smells of the whiskey and faintly of a cigarette he must’ve smoked before you showed up. His touch is unmoving, keeping you grounded by his side like you’re his.
His whispers are a random assortment, making you laugh and quiver all at once. He’d mention something stupid, like making fun of someone across the fire, or he’d lean in and remind you how good your tits look in that little top.
Joel’s playing slowed after a while, then stopped altogether. When he sets his guitar aside without ceremony the conversations pick up around you again.
You can finally take a breath as Tommy backs up and it isn’t as quiet anymore. But within seconds, it all gets more intense. Joel finally lets himself lean in and speak, smelling dangerously of cedar and something darker.
His thigh brushes yours, jaw clenching when he gives you a polite nod.
“Cookie was good earlier. Tommy gave it to me when I got back.”
You don’t even register what he’s talking about for a moment, awfully distracted by the feel of both their thighs pressing into the sides of yours, especially when accompanied by Tommy’s hand that seems to keep moving higher and higher.
“Oh, right. Thanks.” For a girl who’s normally confident, you choke up a little. Tommy laughs to himself, covering his mouth and letting his thumb rub the inside skin of your thigh.
Fuck, they’re actually getting you nervous. This isn’t what you planned for. You turn to look at Joel upon sensing he’s gonna speak again, the slow pull of attraction tightening in your belly.
But he whispers, glancing at Tommy leaning back with his hand splayed so intimately on your leg.
“You’re lettin’ my brother get real close tonight, huh?”
He questions, finally letting on a small smirk. He’s fucking into this. They planned this. And you’re only just now realizing.
It overwhelms you, but it makes the wetness build in your panties more than it may ever have before. The idea that the two brothers actually discussed this beforehand–sharing you–gets you weak.
“Pretty dangerous sittin’ between us like this.” Tommy interrupts before you can respond to Joel, making your head snap back around to him. You almost let out a nervous whimper, you can’t even register what’s happening. But somehow, you’re into it. You let it happen.
“Okay? I like it here.” You manage out with a gulp, eyes trained on Tommy before his brother’s hand lands on your other thigh. Still sassy. Both of them tighten their grips, squeezing at the supple flesh shamelessly as if you’re not all in public right now.
Too gone to care.
Joel snorts, shaking his head, and you look over at him now. He’s smiling, which isn’t too common of a sight. Must really be satisfied with their work right now.
“Careful what you ask for, baby.” He whispers and strokes your skin, hand moving up and down tantalizingly. You don’t know who to look at. Hell, you don’t actually know what you just asked for.
The moment goes entirely silent, the three of you exchanging glances. You–confused, but into it. The two men–seemingly have practiced this scenario millions of times before actually illustrating it.
Tommy’s watching you with a little half-smile, like he’s been waiting for this moment for longer than either of them would like to admit. His gaze zeroes in on your chest yet again, almost predatorily. Then, to Joel–his gaze is unreadable but filled with more desire than you’d like to imagine.
It hits you. Not fear or nerves, but want. This isn’t something to be scared of. Fuck, you were hoping for it in your bedroom while you were getting ready. You wore this outfit just for the hopes of this happening. Said ‘fuck it,’ so why would you be afraid?
In return, you let your hands rest on both of theirs, fingers trailing lightly over their knuckles. Your thumbs brush their skin, and nobody moves. The fire crackles and everyone nearby is laughing, drinking, and–most importantly–distracted.
As if reading your mind, Tommy leans in.
“We could get outta here,” he whispers, almost too casual. “Back to mine. Joel’s. Yours. Wherever you want.”
Your eyes flicker up to his, licking your lips and letting the overwhelming desire shine through once he essentially confirms what’s about to happen.
“Only if you want to.” Joel adds, ever the gentleman compared to his brother.
Their hands slide a little higher on your thigh, wanting and ready, and nothing else is exchanged but a quiet nod of approval from you.
Yet again, you’re the one left breathless.
The next thing you know, you’re at Joel’s, laid out on his bed like prey.
His place wasn’t far from the bonfire, a quiet little house on the edge of Jackson, tucked behind fencing and lots of trees. Quiet in the same way he is. You’ve been here before, dropping off food or supplies, but never like this. Never with your heart thumping this hard, two sets of heavy footsteps made by boots following behind you, two sets of warm hands ready to explore you and converge the different flavors of need in one space.
Joel opened the door without second-guessing anything, no more ‘are you sure?’ The two men gave you a look for confirmation when you reached the bedroom, and that’s all they needed. You, on the other hand, didn’t even have to answer.
Inside his house is warm, very lived-in. Very Joel. An old lamp in the corner and a woodworking table in the living room where he carves little animals and whatnot. He walks ahead, dropping his guitar in its case by the couch while Tommy peels off his jacket and throws it mindlessly on the floor.
You stood quietly for a second to process, and they both just looked at you. The air shifts, thick. So, so heated.
And this time, the older brother moves first–stepping close once you’re in his bedroom. You don’t stop him. His hand comes to your waist, rough and solid, checking one last time that you’re still good with a raise of his eyebrows.
You nod wordlessly, and Joel lifts you up by the waist.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear before tossing you gently onto the bed. Neither of them took the time to get their boots off–or yours. Nothing stopping the three of you.
He climbs over you while Tommy stands back for a bit to watch. In seconds, you feel the first pair of lips on yours–firm and grounding. One big hand on the back of your neck, the other slipping underneath you to the small of your back, pulling you up against him as if he needs it.
Joel tastes amazing. Darker than you imagine Tommy will. More tobacco, stronger liquor.
Tommy steps forward finally, climbing onto the bed next to the two of you and smoothing a hand over your hip. While his brother is on top of you, kissing you, he waits his turn and instead lets his lips brush your shoulder.
Their energy is different, obviously, but they move together in harmony. Joel is slower, more intense, seemingly controlling the moment. Tommy is more free and tactical, his touch lighter but never giving up.
And you let yourself be used.
Growing up as brothers, they had to learn to share. And, naturally, they carried that ability into adulthood. So Joel gets off, freeing your body to his brother.
Tommy laughs, diving right in and attaching his lips to yours. It’s softer but more playful, like you don’t have to take him seriously in the way you just had to with Joel. He encourages you with his hands on your waist, squeezing and tickling at your sides teasingly.
“Tommy,” you gasp and giggle, leaning your head back and breaking the kiss.
“What?” He chuckles in return, peppering the kisses down your chin and to your neck, focusing on the soft area just beneath your ear. That way, when he whispers, it feels even better.
You don’t respond, laughing and laying back while he works at your neck so perfectly. Everything is revolving around you right now. They just want to give you everything.
In minutes, you’re forgetting where you are, overwhelmed by the feeling of not one, but two sets of hands exploring you and worshipping you in every way possible.
“Pretty little thing,” Tommy would laugh, sitting up and tangling his hand in your hair to give it a tug.
Joel was more quiet, but still whispered little instructions. He was more of a guidance while his brother was the fun part: both necessary in the moment.
“C’mere,” Joel whispered, moving back on the bed after you all actually took the moment to remove your shoes. He sits back against the headboard and pillows, spreading his meaty thighs and patting the right one. He pulls you into his lap, wrapping a hand around your waist to get you nice and close.
You comply, climbing right up and settling yourself on his thigh–legs spread and straddling his denim-clad leg. You’re surely leaking and making a mess on it, your skirt pushed up to your waist.
Joel’s head dips down, nose brushing your jaw while he murmurs and begins to guide your hips.
“Good girl. C’mon, you can move, sweet girl.” He manages out, hoarsely, with a bite at your sensitive earlobe. It makes you shudder, following his orders and shifting your hips.
The feeling of his jeans pressed against your clothed pussy elicit quiet gasps from your lips, leaning in and resting your head on his shoulder. He keeps an arm wrapped around you, grounding you against him and ensuring you feel safe while getting off on his thigh like this.
By the foot of the bed, Tommy is forgotten now while Joel’s scent and touch invades your brain. He’s fine with waiting his turn, though. He undoes the buckle of his belt, the clank of metal not disturbing you and his brother.
Discarding his jeans, Tommy pulls himself out of his boxers shamelessly, unable to help himself. He’s been hard since you sat down with him at the bonfire in that pretty outfit. Hell, since he saw you earlier today and you gave him a cookie.
He begins to stroke himself–one hand moving up and down the shaft, stretching himself, while the other rests under his balls and gently tugs at them to heighten the pleasure. His eyes are trained on the way your hips move back and forth on Joel’s leg, the small wet patch he can see forming on the denim fabric, even through your panties.
“She looks so good on you like that, doesn’t she?” Tommy groans, thumb brushing over the tip of his own cock while his brother nods.
“Mm–real pretty.” Joel grumbles, leaning back and letting his head hit the wall when you let out a particularly pretty little moan. His big hands come back to your waist, squeezing it and holding you tight to guide you in a slower rhythm.
You whine, opening your eyes back up to look into his. Eyebrows furrowing, you pout and try to speed up again.
“Baby,” Joel chuckles, squeezing you harder to keep you in place, to keep you going the speed he wants you to. “Gotta slow down for me, yeah? Be good. Take it slow, relax.”
His words are meant to be soothing and encouraging, but the low tone of his voice that gets you so wet only makes it all worse.
“Want–wanna go faster. Please, Joel.” You whimper, trying to rut your hips and speed up the agonizingly slow pace he’s got you going at. “Feels good.”
“I know, I know it feels good.” He sighs, giving up for now and letting you do it how you want to. Tommy laughs from across the bed, amusement and arousal all wrapped into one while he jerks himself off to the sight of you and his brother.
Joel only lets you get off on his thigh for maybe a generous twenty seconds before lifting you up, patting your ass in the process. The pressure was building in your belly, tiring you out, making you feel so good. You were approaching an orgasm in a short time, motivated by the arousal the scene itself produced in your brain, but soon were stopped by his big hands.
“Joel.” You frown, writhing on the bed and reaching down to touch yourself instead when he sets you down.
Tommy sits up, abandoning his achingly hard cock, crawling up to you and grabbing at your wrist.
“Uh-uh. Don’t gotta do that, angel.” He laughs, collecting both of your wrists in one hand and pushing them back. You’re pinned down and whining under him, but eventually give up protesting when you remember it's you versus two–very, very large–men.
He passes your wrists to Joel, who holds them with even more ease due to the size of his hands.
“Let’s make sure Tommy gets some lovin’ too, sweet girl.” Joel kisses you once, a soft peck, holding you down for a moment to let his brother get settled. Both of you watch as Tommy fully discards his boxers, stripping off his shirt and socks in the process until he’s entirely bare.
The man is a work of art. Tanned skin, some sun damage from always working outside–little spots all over his body, and freckles. He’s covered in hair, which you’d always expected due to the thick head of it he carries.
His lower stomach, especially. It’s got the most gorgeous spread of tiny hairs leading to something even more beautiful–thick and wiry. Not graying just yet. His cock is long but thin, already red and twitching from jerking himself off to the sight of you just a couple minutes ago. The fat tip of it is leaking desperately, just begging to be treated.
Tommy lays back, seated against the headboard like Joel was, his legs spread out wide. His head tips back lazily, sinking into the bed and patting his thighs.
Joel lets your wrists go, and you’re lunging forward like an animal in seconds. His thick, hairy thighs open to accommodate you while you kneel between them on the bed.
“Nice n’ big.” You whisper and giggle, hands on his thighs while you sort of nestle your head down for now. Nuzzling into his crotch, you worship Tommy’s cock–nose exploring every crevice, tongue darting out under his heavy balls.
He moans out quietly, hand finding your hair before you even begin and wrapping it up into a tight makeshift ponytail.
“Look at you, baby.” Tommy praises, lifting his hips up to encourage you to take him. You were resting your head on his thigh and taking a moment, but the sight of him literally aching for you has you moving quickly.
You grab the base of his cock, giving it a slight squeeze to draw more noises out of the man. Satisfied by a little grunt, you snicker and open your mouth, taking his tip into it eagerly.
“Fuck.” He jolts, head tipping back and eyes shutting happily. You focus on only the tip for a moment, swirling your tongue around the head and collecting the embarrassing amount of precum before sinking your head down and taking as much of his length as you can.
You sputter for a moment, just as you did earlier on the whiskey, but regain your bearings and start to move. His tip is hitting the back of your throat as if urging you to take more, but you physically can’t. He’s so big,
Tommy’s hand tightens in your hair, a little rude with the way he’s tugging and forcing your head down.
“Jesus, Tommy.” Joel interrupts after watching carefully for a few moments. “Careful with ‘er. She’s gonna gag.”
The older brother’s hand comes to your back, gently stroking it to keep you grounded while his brother forces your head down on his cock. Tommy doesn’t mind too much, easing up on the pushing but not entirely stopping. He’s always been much less of a gentleman.
“You’re okay, angel. Go slow if you have to.” Joel whispers to you, patting your back before standing up and discarding his own clothes. You hear the sound of fabric and a belt hitting the floor, and want nothing more than to look.
But you can’t, because his brother is holding your head down on his dick. It’s not all bad, though. You’re still eagerly taking it, hollowing your cheeks and sucking him with near-perfect technique. He’s very vocal, noisily encouraging you to somehow work him even better.
The mattress sinks as Joel returns from undressing, and while you can’t see, you feel where he’s going. While your head is buried between Tommy’s thighs, Joel gently unfolds your body and pulls your skirt off for you, leaving you in pretty panties and that damn gingham top.
He smiles, stretching the elastic of your underwear and letting it snap back against your skin. You gasp.
“Tommy, look at this.” He rubs your ass, giving it a gentle smack, showing off the fabric. It’s little cherries over the same red gingham that your top is made of. Matching, making you look like the prettiest cowgirl they’ve ever seen.
Tommy snorts, opening his eyes and giving your head another push down on his lap at the sight.
“How cute. Bet you wore 'em just for us, ain’t that right?” He smiles and uses his free hand to cup the side of your face, stroking it with a thumb while you suck on him so perfectly. “Fuckin’ slut.”
Joel shoots him a glance to be nice, because he’s already pushing your head down. He shouldn’t be calling you a slut like that.
“Ignore him.” He advises you, rubbing the skin of your ass that’s now pink from the little slap. He pulls at the fabric, tugging it down gently and working it over your feet before throwing them on the floor. On his way back to your ass, he kisses the back of your feet, ankles, calves, and thighs, leaving a trail of fire all the way to where he really wants to be.
His fingers go straight to the source, not even bothering to spread your legs. He digs two digits into your folds, groaning lewdly at the filthy feeling of how wet you are. Soaking his fingers, soaking the bed underneath you. Genuinely dripping for the two brothers.
“If only you could feel how wet this girl is,” Joel huffs in amusement, slipping his fingers back out and gripping the supple flesh of your ass again. The loss of touch elicits a quiet whine from the lips you have wrapped around Tommy’s cock.
“I bet.” Tommy answers, groaning and leaning his head back yet again in pleasure when he hits particularly deep in that warm, wet mouth of yours.
Joel grabs at your body with a mix of gentleness and fervor, lifting your hips until your knees are able to support your weight. Your head is down between his brother’s legs, your back arched, and your ass in the air for him to do whatever he desires with.
He leans over you, pressing a trail of kisses down your back–the center of it. Between your shoulder blades and down your spine, while his fingers trail all over your soft skin. Exploring. Taking his time.
He ends the trail at your back dimples, the spot where your butt and the small of your back meet. One last little kiss before he sits back up, spreading your legs just a bit so he can fit.
Once Joel ensures you’re not overwhelmed with what you’re doing with Tommy, he grabs his own cock and strokes it before gently pressing it against your ass. You moan around the other man’s length, and Joel taps him to let you have a break.
Tommy releases his grip on your hair, gasping when your mouth comes off of him–a string of spit connects his crotch and your mouth due to the excessive slobbering you’d been doing. Dirty and beautiful.
“Fuck.” The two men say, almost in perfect unison.
You take a moment to catch your breath, glancing back at Joel behind you when you remember he’d gotten undressed.
And, lord, he’s somehow more perfect than Tommy.
He’s built. Broad, hairy chest and a little tummy coming over his hips. Looks like he works out but certainly doesn’t deny a beer when offered. He’s hairier, even, a thicker and grayer trail leading to his pubic bone that’s pressed against your ass currently.
Older. Seemingly more experienced. He’s scarred and hardened, and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. The mere sight of him makes you moan.
Both of them laugh at the little strained moan you let out, Joel’s hand rubbing your hip while Tommy’s strokes your hair.
“You like him that much?” Tommy chuckles, kissing your forehead.
You nod mindlessly, still searching for the air you’d lost when your head was getting pushed down.
“Mm–mmhm. Like Joel. A lot. Fuck.” You manage out, dropping your head back on Tommy’s thighs and resting it there.
Joel smirks and lets the hand on your hip travel back to your ass, rubbing it before gripping his cock and giving it a few small strokes. “Yeah, baby?”
You nod again and groan against the fatty flesh of the thigh under you, kissing his warm skin. Your hips naturally move backward when you feel movement behind you, subconsciously begging for Joel. Your back arches as well, giving him quite the sight.
“You want it? Gonna take me good with my brother’s cock in your mouth?”
He smiles, teasing your dripping hole with his own leaking tip. Of course you want it. You’ve been dreaming of this all day–maybe even weeks before. But back then, it was a fantasy. Never a possibility in your mind. Now, you’re bent over, face down and ass up between the two of them. You couldn’t want it more.
“Yes, please.” You gasp out, arching more and forcing your ass back against Joel’s cock. You feel him twitch.
He hums in approval, not saying anything else before lining himself up. At the feeling of him against you, you know what you’re supposed to do in return. Tommy is back in your mouth in mere seconds, and you’re sucking and slurping to the best of your ability in hopes that it’ll get you more. More of Joel. More praise. More cock.
Joel slides in once Tommy looks satisfied, slowly stretching your tight pussy out. The noises are filthy, squelching and wet.
“Fuck–” He groans, panting and bracing himself by gripping your lower back. He isn’t even fully in yet and he’s ready to come all over you. He’s dreamed of painting you in ropes of release, of fucking you senseless and filling you up with his seed. Now it’s happening, and, God, he doesn’t know if he can even handle a minute.
You whine around Tommy, but he doesn’t push your head down again. He knows it probably hurts a bit, given the Millers are genetically big men. They let you adjust to Joel before resuming, going nice and slow.
“Pretty. So fuckin’ pretty, taking me this good. Just like that.” Joel becomes more vocal as he moves inside you, picking up the pace slowly, ensuring you’ve adjusted enough to take his size before doing anything you can’t handle.
The praise makes your head spin. Apparently, Tommy’s is too. You feel him twitch more in your mouth, see the way his hips are stuttering with each little bob of your head.
So you pick up pace. And so does Joel. Everything gets more intense.
Sucking in your cheeks, you take Tommy’s cock so deep that it hits your uvula, resulting in a soft gag. His first instinct is to let you take a break, but you continue despite the tears spilling from your eyes and the urge to vomit increasing.
Your hands fiddle with his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze that draws out the loudest moan of the night from the man. Success.
If you could smile, you’d be doing it. But he’s so deep in your mouth that you can’t move a muscle–not until you feel hot strings of release fill your throat.
You didn’t realize Tommy was that close, but he fills your mouth up more than it’s ever been stuffed. You’ve never felt a man come so hard. So much. He’s shaking as he finishes, piping it into your mouth and seeing it dribble down your chin as he pulls out.
“Ah-” he whimpers, actually whimpers, when your lips reattach to his tip to give it a final kiss.
Joel sees his brother’s orgasm, getting a little jealous. He would give anything to be filling your pretty mouth with his come right now, cleaning it off your lips where it spills out. But he remembers he’s the one inside you, and he has a better dumpster than Tommy does right now.
Once Tommy’s cock is removed from your mouth, he knows he can go a little harder. He wants to go a little harder. He can actually hear your pretty little moans and whimpers now that you’re not occupied.
When Joel starts hitting your cervix, the lewd noises slipping from your throat are unstoppable. You still haven’t swallowed the come, gurgling while moaning and trying to keep it in your mouth–almost to savor it.
His hand comes forward to grip your hair, remaking that damn makeshift ponytail his brother was just using. He tugs, forcing your back to arch as your head flies back with a whimper. He’s fucking you harder now, one hand gripping your hair and the other on your hip to press your cunt as close to him as he can possibly get it, pounding into you at a near-painful speed.
“Joel,” you cry out, more tears slipping from your pretty eyes that are quickly cleaned off by Tommy. You gasp and finally swallow his come, groaning in satisfaction and letting your head fall forward until it’s rudely tugged back by the other brother.
“You got it, darlin.’ You can take it. C’mon now, don’t go dumb on me.”
He groans, the hand on your hip giving your ass a solid smack. You cry out again, squealing with the mix of pain and pleasure. Pain, mostly now, as he’s fucking you deep and painfully harsh.
“Hold her still. She’s shakin,’ Tommy.” Joel leans forward with a growl, draping his body over yours and letting his head fall to your shoulder while he fucks you from behind. His teeth bare, nibbling on any exposed skin he can get, licking and sucking and kissing like an animal.
Tommy’s hands come to your shoulders, holding you still and shushing you while you cry under Joel’s hard body. “Almost there, angel. We’ve got you.”
And within the next minute, you and Joel’s orgasms approach at once. You can tell with him because his pace gets sloppy, hips slamming into your ass uncontrollably and inconsistently. He can tell with you because you’re impossibly more vocal, whimpering out and trembling.
When your thighs start to shake, he snakes a hand down your body and attaches his index and middle finger to your clit. That’s your weakness.
It’s not even eight seconds after he touches your clit that you’re coming, gasping and writhing and falling forward against Tommy. Joel follows suit, finishing deep inside you and smacking your ass as he comes.
The next thirty seconds go silent. You fell forward against Tommy, he pulled you into his arms. Joel’s now-soft cock slipped out, leaving you pumped full of his seed.
Tommy strokes your hair, kissing your forehead in an attempt to get your shaking body down from the intense high his brother had just given you. The other man lays next to the two of you, senseless now and in his own little world. His eyes are pressed shut, sexy pants coming from his mouth and into his pillow.
The room is quiet and hazy, heavy with sweat and the familiar scent of sex. It’s absolutely filthy. Wrecked.
Your limbs are all tangled up, breath catching. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s earned.
The sheets are tangled and damp, clinging to your thighs when Joel manages to sit up. He grumbles, moving closer and cuddling into your side that isn’t occupied by his brother.
On the floor are your clothes, laying scattered and forgotten. Tommy is on your other side, hand curled over your hip and quiet breath in your neck where his head is buried. Joel is curling onto your left, kissing your sweaty shoulder and arm, anywhere he can get.
And you–God. You’re spent, utterly and completely fucked-out. Used. Wrecked.
You’re past satisfied, actually sure that your bones probably aren’t solid anymore. Your limbs are too heavy to move, cheek pressed to Tommy’s chest and an arm slung over his brother’s body. They hold you like they’re afraid you’ll float off somewhere.
“Nothin’ left in me now.” Joel mumbles, lips brushing your skin. His voice is hoarse and dried out, more of an exhale than actual speech. “Not movin’ at all.”
The only part of him that can move is his fingers, trailing so slowly up and down your spine.
Tommy nods and huffs in agreement, kissing your cheek and pulling you closer. You just smile–lazy and slow and perfectly wrecked. Everything aches in the best kind of way. You feel as if you’ve been pulled apart and put back together with hands that know exactly what they’re doing.
Your throat is burning, hips stinging from Joel’s grip, your pussy leaking out his seed. And no one said much. They didn’t have to.
The air is thick and sticky, but also soft. Comfortable. Hearts beating in sync and bodies pressed so closely that you can’t tell where one ended and the next began.
Tommy is the last to speak–“Might have to stay here ‘til winter. Jus’hibernating.”—and you laugh. Blissed out and tangled between the men. Just laughed, warm and slow, like the fire hadn’t gone out yet.
WOO that was a journey to write. I’m going to hell. Love yall though 💋💋
TUMBLR ONLY LETS ME TAG 50 👎👎 I’m so sorry to everyone else ik i got like over 100 asking to be tagged so i tried my best
No lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backward, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in the rain, in a train, on a plane, in a car, on a motorcycle, the back of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth d—
can't wait for the lenore dove x haymitch edits to drop next year with "fourth of july" playing, specifically with the line that says, "did you get enough love, my little dove." and i kms
The night is wearing him down. In the quiet of the Avengers compound, Bucky seeks the one person who can make everything better. With a smile, a sideways glance, a half-hearted scolding interjected with eye rolls. Those fucking eye rolls, usually meant to strip people down of their egos, but not when directed at him.
He loves when you do that. Loves when they'd be followed by that sure quirk of your lips. You don't mean it. Your "Seriously, Buck?" would make him draw nearer. Hands on your waist. Lips finding the crown of your head, then the crease between your brows. The tip of your nose, then your lips.
You stand in the kitchen, helping yourself to your usual cup of midnight tea. It used to be coffee, until Tony decided you were drinking too much.
"Four cups a day isn't too much, Stark," you had protested. Bucky knew it was actually six cups. Sometimes eight. For once, he agreed with Tony.
Bucky runs a hand through his freshly trimmed hair. Kept neat and coiffed ever since you let slip that you preferred it that way. He finds himself smiling at the tune you are humming under your breath. The way your hips sway slightly, as you stir honey in your tea.
His hands find purchase in the dip of your hips, applying pressure, just about.
"Hey, doll," he sighs. "Missed you today."
He hears the smile in your voice. "You were the one that was out all day, Buck. How'd the mission go?"
You turn to face him, and all else dissipates.
The mission went awry. Bleak, loud, unnecessary. Bucky hated it. He is exhausted to the bone in a way only a super soldier can be.
"It was... fine. You know, the usual."
But the mission doesn't matter anymore.
Bucky tilts your head up, presses his forehead to yours, and his lips find home.
Your hand curls at the hem of his shirt out of habit. The worried crease between your brows materialises. He knows you're concerned for him. He knows you love him.
Thinking about how the lord didn’t give Bucky enough time with his sisters, the he didn’t get to watch them grown and spend the time he wished with them. So he sent Bucky daughters. four rowdy girls who reminded him deeply what it was like to live with girls. To have a household dominated by them. And he did not mind one bit, he couldn’t help but thank god for his home really felt like a home as each one of his daughters were born.
Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.
Word Count: 7.2k
Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried
Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡
Masterlist
You love sparring with Bucky.
Maybe because you love the man.
But there is so much more to that, honestly.
You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.
Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.
Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.
Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.
Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.
Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.
But Bucky.
Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.
He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.
And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.
You live for that laugh.
Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.
And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.
So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.
Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.
You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.
Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.
But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.
He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.
But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.
And then, about five months ago, something clicked.
Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.
A glaring one, in fact.
One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.
It’s you.
You are his weakness.
Bucky is a creature of routines.
The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.
You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.
You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.
Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.
He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.
Except when it comes to you.
You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.
And then there are the small things.
The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.
Little things. Automatic things.
And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.
Bucky is strategic on missions.
He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.
Until you are in danger.
Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.
Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.
Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.
You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.
And he does. Every time.
Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.
Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.
Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.
After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.
You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.
But you can’t fool Bucky.
He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.
And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.
And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.
It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.
Bucky does not share.
He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.
But he does with you.
When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.
He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.
Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.
Not to anyone.
But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.
You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.
With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.
He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.
He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.
It happened again. And then again.
After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.
Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.
One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.
He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.
You took him in your arms and then you took him in.
First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.
Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.
He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.
You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.
And you know what this might mean.
You certainly know what it means to you.
The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.
But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.
But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.
So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.
Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.
But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.
Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.
But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.
And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.
Because for him, you would wait forever.
****
“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.
And you know why it is there.
Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.
You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.
He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.
You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.
Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.
Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.
You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.
Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.
“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.
He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.
You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.
“That all you got?”
“Come find out.”
He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.
It’s definitely not all you got.
He is not expecting you to cheat.
Not that you call it cheating anyway.
You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.
After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.
Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.
Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.
His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.
“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.
He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.
“Lemme see-”
He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.
You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.
Silence.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.
You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”
Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.
The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.
The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.
Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.
You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”
Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.
He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”
“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”
He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.
“Can’t believe I was worried.”
“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.
Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
****
You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.
Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.
The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.
It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.
You feel terrible.
And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.
Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.
So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.
Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.
You ignore his gaze.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.
He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”
You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”
He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”
He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.
“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”
You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.
You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.
He sidesteps, but you strike again.
And immediately regret it.
Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.
It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.
It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.
But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.
“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.
His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.
You grit your teeth, saying nothing.
He thinks you’re faking.
Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.
Because it’s getting harder to hide.
It’s getting harder to see.
Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.
And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.
“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.
It doesn’t seem like it.
Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.
And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.
White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.
But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.
You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.
The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.
His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.
“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.
“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.
“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.
But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.
You whimper, flinching.
And Bucky freezes.
“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.
He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.
The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.
You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.
He curses under his breath.
“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.
“I didn’t think it was that bad.”
He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”
He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.
“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”
You open your mouth, then close it.
He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.
You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”
His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.
“How did that happen? Who did this?”
You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.
His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.
He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”
“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”
“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”
There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.
Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.
****
It took weeks for you to properly heal.
But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.
There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.
But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.
And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.
He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.
Then his eyes find yours.
“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.
You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.
Bucky’s jaw ticks.
There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.
You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.
He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.
Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.
He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.
You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”
His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.
He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.
You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.
His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.
Studying.
Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.
You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.
Bucky tests you, pushes you.
And you give as good as you get.
Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.
And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.
It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.
You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.
Shit.
You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?
But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.
Not hesitating. Not wary.
Rushing. Fast and frantic.
He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.
And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.
You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.
But there is none of that.
Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.
“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”
His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.
You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.
“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”
That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.
But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.
“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.
“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.
“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.
You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.
“I’m fine, Buck.”
His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.
“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”
Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.
“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”
That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.
“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.
“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.
“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.
His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.
“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”
“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”
You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.
Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.
“Alright, come on.”
You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.
“Bucky-”
“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.
You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Don’t care.”
****
A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.
But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.
The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?
The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.
By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.
Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.
But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.
And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.
Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.
“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”
His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.
“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes.
“Bite me, Barnes.”
The moment you move, he matches it.
His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.
The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.
You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.
His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.
And you do.
Blow for blow, counter for counter.
You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.
The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.
Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.
“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.
“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.
You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.
Fuck, you missed this.
But then, he shifts.
And something changes.
It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.
Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.
You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?
His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.
It’s not soft.
Not hesitant.
Not careful.
It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.
It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.
You didn’t see it coming.
By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.
His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.
Smirking. So damn smug.
Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.
Because what else could it be than him?
“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?
“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.
And then he ducks down again.
He kisses you once more.
Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.
And you don’t fight it.
Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.
“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”
