mid-30s. she/her. not actually a beagle. ♎️ sun, ♍️ rising, ♌️ moon. Joel Miller has never done anything wrong in his whole life. Din Djarin is babygirl. Reed Richards; my beloved. i am down bad for Pedro characters if you know me, no you don’t. [insert standard notice that content here is 18+]
pairing: husband!Joel Miller × f!reader
summary: The worst part about injuring his hand isn’t the pain. It’s having to take off his wedding ring—and being unable to jerk off properly. Luckily, Joel has a wife who’s more than happy to lend him a hand.
a/n: I’ve had a really rough few weeks, so this is pretty much unedited! A little Joel never hurts when you’re trying to pull yourself out of a slump, I guess ❤️🩹
warnings: smut, established relationship, implied age-gap, husband!joel, male masturbation, shower handjob, praise kink, “good boy” used two times, dirty talk, teasing (kinda), male orgasm, mild injury and pain, mentions of urgent care and painkillers, caretaking, aftercare and a lot of love!
wc: 5634 k
I’d love to know what you thought, so please don’t be shy and leave me a little comment. Hearing from you truly means so much to me .⋆❀°
The shower had been running long enough for you to read the same paragraph three times.
Joel had claimed the heat might help his hand, although the doctor had prescribed ice, elevation and several days without gripping anything. The X-ray had shown no fracture. Joel had treated that information like permission to ignore the rest, trying to open the truck door with his injured hand before you had even left urgent care. By dinner, the bruising had spread in deep violet shadows across his knuckles, and you had needed soap to ease his wedding band over the swelling.
That had bothered him more than the pain.
He had watched you work the ring slowly over his knuckle, his mouth set in a hard line, and when it finally slipped free into your palm, his thumb had rubbed once over the pale indentation it left behind.
“Only for a few days, honey,” you had told him.
“I know, I know.”
But he continued staring at his empty finger until you placed the band on the bedside table beside your own things, safely within view.
You opened his painkillers, replaced his bandage and left him to shower while you climbed into bed with your book. But the water continued to run and you had retained nothing from the page before you.
You closed the book.
“Joel?”
No answer.
You glanced at the clock, set the book aside and crossed the bedroom.
Steam rolled through the bathroom when you opened the door. His discarded bandage lay damp beside the sink, his clothes gathered in a careless heap near the hamper. The mirror had fogged completely, but through the glass of the shower you could make out the broad, blurred shape of him standing beneath the water.
“Joel?” you called again.
No answer came, though beneath the steady rush you heard the faint scrape of skin against tile, followed by a low curse that was unmistakably his.
You undressed and stepped inside quietly, drawing a breath when the hot water struck your shoulder.
Joel stood with his back to you.
He had his head bowed and his right arm braced against the wall from elbow to wrist, protecting the swollen hand from bearing his weight. Even in the softened light, you could see the mottled bruising across his knuckles, his fingers held stiff and slightly apart. His left palm rested lower on the tile. His broad shoulders were drawn tight, every muscle along his back rigid beneath the water as it streamed through the silver beginning to thread the dark curls at the nape of his neck. It followed the shallow groove of his spine, split around the soft fullness above his hips and disappeared between his legs.
For several seconds, you simply watched him.
His left arm moved, but the motion lacked the steady, practiced rhythm you knew, his fist travelling over his cock with an awkwardness that seemed to frustrate him more each time. He adjusted his grip, tried again and shifted his hips forward, chasing a sensation his other hand could not quite give him. His shoulders tightened. A harsher curse slipped from him when his injured fingers flexed instinctively against the tile.
The sight sent heat through you with such sudden force that your breath caught.
Joel touching himself would always affect you—the thick length of him flushed dark in his fist, water shining over the soft curve of his stomach and the wet hair beneath his navel—but it was the vulnerability of the moment that drew you closer. This was the man who noticed when your shoulders hurt before you complained, who left water on your bedside table every night because you always woke thirsty, who could read the smallest change in your breathing beneath his hands and know whether you needed more, less, faster, slower. He had spent years learning every language your body spoke.
Yet he stood alone beneath the water, unable to give himself what he needed, too proud to call for you and too stubborn to stop trying.
You stepped closer without speaking.
He was so absorbed in the effort that he did not hear the shower door close behind you. He did not notice the water shift when your body interrupted its path or the quiet whisper of your bare feet against the tile. It was only when you placed your mouth between his shoulder blades, lips pressing softly to the center of his wet back, that his entire body jolted.
“Jesus!”
His head turned sharply. Pain flashed across his face when his injured fingers contracted against the wall, and he forced them open again with a hiss.
“Didn’t hear you, darlin’.”
“I noticed, baby.”
Your lips moved over his back once more, slower this time. Water ran between your mouth and his skin, tasting faintly of soap. Up close, the heat of him felt different from the heat surrounding you, deeper and alive, held taut beneath skin that shivered when you kissed the raised ridge of an old scar near his shoulder.
“What’re you doin’ in here?” he asked.
“Checking on my handsome husband.”
You rested your chin against him and looked down the length of his body. His left hand had gone still, the grip around himself loosening now that he knew you were watching. Embarrassment was not something Joel wore easily; on him, it appeared as a stubborn tilt of his chin and a refusal to look directly at you.
“Looks like I was right to worry.”
“Ain’t anythin’ to worry about.”
“You’ve been in here twenty minutes.”
“Lost track.”
“That so?”
Your palms settled at his waist and moved around him, spreading over the curve of his belly. He had grown softer through the middle over the years, his body shaped by long workdays, evening beers and all the second helpings he accepted after insisting he was full. You loved the weight of him, the solid breadth of his chest, the coarse hair flattened beneath your fingers. You loved the familiar scars and the places age had begun touching him. You loved that you could stand behind him with your eyes closed and know precisely where your hands rested.
“Seems like you’re hurting yourself because you’d rather wrestle with the wrong hand than call your wife,” you murmured.
“Wasn’t hurtin’ myself, sweetheart.”
“No?”
Your nails travelled upward through the hair on his stomach before descending again, leaving pale trails across his flushed skin. Joel’s breath changed when your fingertips passed beneath his navel.
“That hand doesn’t seem to be accomplishing much either.”
His jaw tightened, but his hips shifted subtly into his fist.
You closed the remaining distance between you and pressed your naked body to his back. The instant your breasts touched him, his breath caught. Your mouth found the side of his neck while one hand remained spread over his stomach and the other followed the dark line beneath his navel.
“Couldn’t get it right?” you asked softly.
“Left hand don’t feel like mine.”
There was so much quiet frustration in the admission that your teasing softened.
“You could’ve called me.”
“Didn’t wanna bother you, baby.”
You lifted your head. “Joel Miller, I don’t care if I’m reading, sleeping or halfway through the best dream of my life. Asking me to touch you is never going to bother me.”
“Ain’t exactly somethin’ you should have to—”
“No.” You kissed the back of his shoulder as your hand slipped lower, fingertips barely grazing the coarse hair at the base of his cock. “You take care of me so often that half the time I don’t notice you’re doing it until it’s already done. So let me have my turn.”
The rigid set of his shoulders loosened by a fraction.
His left hand opened around himself, although surrendering even that unsatisfying contact made his hips follow your hovering fingers.
“Need a hand, don’t you, cowboy?” you teased, catching the edge of his ear gently between your teeth.
A strained breath left him, somewhere between a groan and a protest.
“You gonna help or keep makin’ fun of me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” You clicked your tongue. “You do look awfully pretty struggling, baby.”
“Christ, woman.”
“Although…” Your hand settled over his left wrist and guided it away from his cock. He allowed you to place his palm on the tile, but his body remained tense, caught somewhere between wanting what you offered and resisting the act of receiving it. “I suppose I could lend my favorite cowboy a hand. If he asks nicely.”
Joel lowered his forehead to the wall.
Water slipped through the grey in his beard and fell from his jaw. Pride held him silent for another moment. You could almost feel the struggle taking place inside him—the same man who would carry too many grocery bags rather than make a second trip, who would work through a fever and insist he was only tired, who treated being needed as though it were the simplest form of love but had never learned how to need someone without apology.
You spread your palm over his bare ring finger.
The touch made him look down.
His gaze rested on your hand covering his, your wedding band shining through the water while his finger remained pale and empty beneath it. His thumb moved once against the tile, reaching for yours before remembering the awkward angle.
Then his weight shifted back into you.
“Need you,” he admitted quietly.
You waited with your lips resting against his shoulder, though the answer had already travelled through you. Joel asked for so little that sometimes you resented him for it. He would mention that his boots needed replacing only after the soles had begun admitting water, would say he was hungry once you had already placed a plate before him, would carry an ache for days until you noticed the careful way he avoided turning his neck. Even now, naked and hard between your arms, he had tried to make the request smaller than it was. Need you. Two words offered in place of everything his body had already confessed, as though wanting something from you was still harder than enduring without it.
His breath left him slowly. His empty ring finger shifted beneath your palm. When you still did not move, his hips pressed back against you before rolling forward, his cock brushing heavily against the hand you kept just beyond his reach.
“Please,” he said, whatever remained of his pride finally yielding to the need roughening his voice. “Put your hand on my cock. Stroke me. Been tryin’ to come for so goddamn long, and I can’t—I need you to do it for me.”
Joel had trusted you with his home, his daughter, the parts of his past he still struggled to name. He had stood before everyone you loved and placed a ring on your finger with hands that had trembled more than his voice. Yet this small surrender seemed to cost him something too.
You kissed the pale place where his wedding band belonged.
“Good boy.”
Joel went utterly still.
His breathing stopped for one suspended second, his stomach turning rigid beneath your forearm and his left palm pressing flat against the tile. His cock pulsed before you had even closed your fingers around him.
Slowly, he looked back at you.
Steam had gathered in his lashes. His dark eyes found yours over his shoulder, surprise exposed there before he could conceal it, followed by a heat so immediate that your thighs drew together behind him. A flush travelled higher along his throat. He appeared almost offended by the force of his own reaction, as though his body had answered you before his pride could intervene.
“What’d you call me?”
“You heard me, baby.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Say it again.”
A smile touched your lips, but you did not laugh at him. There was something too open in his expression, too uncertain beneath the want.
“Later,” you promised. “Face the wall and lean back against me. Let your wife take care of you, big boy.”
Joel held your gaze for another moment before looking forward again. His forehead settled against the tile as his shoulders gradually loosened beneath your arms. He moved back until the curve of his ass pressed firmly against your lower stomach, giving you more of his weight than before.
You kissed the center of his back and slid your right hand down.
This time, you did not stop.
Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, and Joel’s entire body answered.
His abdomen contracted beneath your forearm. His left palm slipped before flattening against the wall again. A sound left him—low, involuntary, pulled from somewhere beneath the frustration he had carried into the shower—and the thick length of him hardened further in your grip.
You held him without moving at first, letting him feel the fit of your hand around him although your fingers could not quite meet. Heat pulsed beneath the slick skin, his heartbeat fast and heavy against your palm. You adjusted the showerhead until the strongest part of the spray struck his back rather than your joined hands, then tightened your grip. Another broken breath warmed your cheek.
“There,” you murmured. “Better?”
“Fuck, yes—”
“I thought so.” You stroked him slowly from base to tip, watching his stomach pull tight beneath your arm. “Next time you need my hand around your cock, come put it there.”
Joel’s hips followed your fist as it descended. “Knew you’d enjoy this.”
“You knew correctly.”
Your thumb swept over the broad head before your fist travelled down again. At the base, you loosened your grip and slipped your free hand beneath him. Joel groaned when your palm cupped his balls, the swollen, heavy weight of them filling your hand while the other continued moving slowly along his cock.
“Oh, baby...” You rolled them gently beneath your fingers, and his hips pressed forward as though even that small touch had reached somewhere deeper than he expected. “No wonder you were getting so frustrated. These are awfully full.”
“Don’t start.”
The words lacked any real warning. They came roughened by the careful twist of your wrist, Joel’s breath catching when you tightened your fist beneath the head. You smiled against his shoulder and gave him another long stroke, refusing the faster pace his body was beginning to seek.
“I’ve already started.” Your lips followed a rivulet of water toward the sensitive place behind his ear. “You should’ve seen yourself, hiding in here with all of this aching for relief.”
“Enjoyin’ yourself?”
“Very much.” You squeezed the weight in your palm once more, tender enough to make his thighs tense. “I’ve got my handsome husband naked in my arms, getting harder every time I tease him. I can feel how badly he needs to come, and he’s making the prettiest noises while I take my time giving him exactly what he asked for.” Your thumb gathered the slickness from the tip and spread it beneath the head. “What’s not to enjoy?”
“Mean woman.”
The complaint dissolved into a groan when your fingers tightened around him. His hips followed your hand instinctively, cock sliding through your wet fist while you maintained the slow rhythm already wearing away his restraint.
“Mm. And you love me.”
“Yeah.” His answer came without hesitation, broken slightly by the next stroke. “More than anythin’.”
The words entered you with the familiar weight of truth. Joel could spend ten uninterrupted minutes complaining about traffic, Tommy or the price of lumber, but anything that mattered was pared down until only its simplest form remained. More than anythin’ was extravagance from a man like him, offered with his forehead resting against the shower wall, his injured hand held carefully before him and his body surrounded by yours.
You kissed him behind the ear and released the heavy weight beneath his cock, bringing your free arm around his middle. Your palm spread over his stomach as you drew him more securely against you.
“Good,” you murmured. “Then be sweet and let me take my time with you.”
You kept the first strokes long and measured, your fist gliding over every thick inch before closing more firmly on the descent. Joel attempted to follow you, but impatience made his hips arrive too early. You adjusted without comment, refusing to hurry; the next time he thrust forward, you slowed near the head and held him snugly in your palm until a strained breath escaped through his teeth.
Water ran over his shoulders and divided around your arms, gathering briefly in the dark hair beneath his navel before disappearing between your joined bodies. The shower could not conceal the low sounds he made whenever your grip changed or the unconscious contraction of his stomach beneath your palm. You understood what he wanted—the shallow movement of his hips asking for more speed, his left hand spreading against the tile to brace for the pressure he preferred—but kept him at that patient rhythm a little longer. By the time you tightened your fist, frustration no longer held his shoulders rigid. He was waiting for you, and his cock pulsed heavily against your palm.
“That’s it,” you whispered, your mouth close to his ear. “You can move with me now.”
Joel released a deep, uneven breath and rolled his hips forward. You met him, your fist descending as he pushed into it and closing more firmly when he reached the base. On his retreat, you stroked upward, letting the swollen head drag through the circle of your fingers before guiding him into the next movement. He followed more carefully this time, the rhythm hesitant only for the first few strokes before pleasure taught him what you wanted.
“There you go, baby.”
“God—feels so damn good.”
You held him close and let the rhythm develop between you. Each thrust grew deeper, Joel’s ass pressing into your lower stomach when he drew back before he drove forward again. Your fist worked over him in time with the motion, no longer making him wait, though you retained enough control to keep his impatience from carrying him too quickly toward the edge.
The change reached his breathing first. Those deep, measured pulls of air began catching halfway into his lungs, his mouth opening against the tile to release the low sounds he had tried to suppress when you entered. Soon he no longer seemed aware of them. His attention had narrowed to your fingers around his cock, your palm against his stomach and the body supporting him from behind.
You kissed the wet slope of his shoulder.
Joel had touched you in darkness and sunlight, slowly and with desperate hunger, had learned your body so thoroughly that sometimes a single adjustment of his hand could make you fall apart. Yet this felt different from simply returning the pleasure he had given you over the years. Tonight, he could not reach back and distract you with your own need. He could not turn, gather you against him and assume the responsibility of taking care of both of you. All he could do was remain inside your embrace and trust that being wanted did not depend upon what he could offer in return.
Your grip tightened. Joel groaned and drove forward with enough force to push the air from your lungs. You widened your stance and continued meeting him as the movement grew rougher, each thrust dragging his cock rapidly through your closed fingers before your hand followed him back to the base. Wet skin moved against wet skin beneath the shower, punctuated by his heavier breathing and a broken curse whenever you changed the angle of your wrist.
You pressed your mouth beneath his ear.
“Take it, baby,” you murmured. “Use my hand exactly how you need.”
Joel stopped trying to follow each movement you gave him and began taking the friction for himself, thrusting through your fist with all the force he had been restraining. You let him, your hand closed and steady around him while your other arm held him against you—until his injured fingers curled instinctively against the tile. The hiss that left him cut through the pleasure. You caught his wrist at once and drew his arm away from the wall without slowing the motion between his legs.
“Give me this one.”
Joel allowed you to fold his arm across his chest. You tucked the bruised hand against his opposite shoulder and covered it with your own, your forearm securing it safely in place.
“Ain’t bad,” he managed.
“Shh.”
You kissed the uninjured edge of his wrist. Your fist continued working steadily over his cock as though caring for one hurting part of him required no sacrifice from the rest.
Joel’s chest rose beneath your arm. His bruised fingers gradually relaxed against his shoulder, and his left hand left the tile to cover yours where it held him. His thumb searched through the water until it found the smooth band around your finger and rested there.
You turned your face and kissed his cheek.
Joel leaned into it for a fleeting second before the next stroke pulled a groan from him. His thumb remained pressed over your wedding band as he settled farther back, giving you more of his weight without looking to see whether you could hold it. You planted your feet, tightened your arm around his chest and did.
He was letting you have all of his need now: his injured hand held safely beneath yours, his balance entrusted to your body, his pleasure naked in every sound he could no longer contain. When your fist moved faster, his hips answered immediately. The rhythm that had belonged to both of you began to unravel as he pushed forward too soon and retreated only far enough to thrust again, each movement shorter and rougher than the last.
You adapted without breaking pace, concentrating the friction where his body responded most strongly. A rough curse left him when you repeated it, his cock almost painfully rigid within your fist, the pulse against your palm heavier and more insistent. His thighs began to tremble as the measured roll of his hips disappeared altogether. He was no longer fucking your hand with any discernible rhythm; he was chasing it, moving on instinct whenever your grip reached the sensitive head.
Your own breathing quickened against his back. Heat gathered low in your stomach as you watched the man who could reduce you to pleading with the smallest movement lose himself in your arms. You pressed your thighs together, but every sound he made travelled directly through you, every desperate thrust sending another pulse of want between your legs. None of it made you want to turn his attention toward you. Tonight, his pleasure was enough.
Your mouth found the place beneath his ear that always made his shoulders rise.
“Look at you,” you whispered, affection wrapped around the teasing words. “You were so determined to handle this yourself, and now you can barely keep those legs steady.”
Joel tried to answer, but your fist tightened and the words collapsed into a hoarse moan. You smiled against his skin.
“No clever answer for me?”
“Hard to—” He broke off, thrusting roughly into your grip. “Hard to fuckin’ think.”
“That’s all right, baby. You don’t need to.”
You increased the pace until the movement became relentless, your slick fist closing around him as quickly as his hips could push forward. Joel’s forehead pressed against the tile, shoulders drawing tight as pleasure gathered beyond his control. His breathing fractured into rough, shallow pulls, each ending in a sound he no longer attempted to swallow.
His left hand abandoned yours and flattened against the wall, fingers splayed wide for purchase. Your wedding ring remained warm beneath the place his thumb had pressed it. He drove into your fist once, twice, then faltered, the next thrust arriving shorter as his cock throbbed heavily in your palm. You felt the approaching release before he spoke—in the sudden rigidity of his stomach, the way his thighs locked as if bracing might delay what your hand was already pulling from him, the helpless twitch that travelled through his cock whenever your grip reached the head.
“Baby—” His voice cracked around the word.
You kissed his jaw. “I know.”
“Close—”
The admission came through clenched teeth, barely louder than the water. You kept your fist moving at the same firm pace, refusing to startle his body with any sudden change.
“How close?”
“Real fuckin’—close.”
Joel attempted another thrust, but the rhythm had abandoned him entirely. His hips jerked into your hand and stopped, leaving you to carry the movement while he trembled within your arms. His weight tipped backward. You accepted all of it, your forearm held securely across his chest and his injured hand protected beneath yours.
“Please,” he rasped. “Don’t slow down—”
“I won’t, baby.”
Your fist travelled over him in fast, complete strokes, drawing the tension tighter with each pass. His cock pulsed violently against your palm, so close now that every movement seemed to pull a broken sound from the deepest part of his chest.
You caught his earlobe gently between your teeth.
“Every drop for me?”
“All yours.” The answer came instantly, stripped of breath and pride. His head dropped as his hips gave one final, desperate drive through your fist. “Every fuckin’ drop.”
A tender satisfaction spread beneath the heat in your chest. You tightened your embrace, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your hand gave him the exact rhythm his body had been seeking from the moment you entered the shower.
“That’s my good boy,” you whispered. “Give it to me.”
The praise undid him.
Joel came with a sound so raw it seemed torn from the center of him.
His entire body locked in your arms. His cock jerked hard in your fist, the first hot pulse spilling over your fingers before the shower could carry it away. His hips punched forward with the next one, wrenching a broken groan from his throat as another thick streak struck the tile beneath him.
You kept your hand moving, drawing every stroke from base to tip while release continued to pulse from him. Each one seized a different part of his body—his stomach clenching beneath your arm, his thighs jumping, his shoulders drawing taut beneath your mouth. You felt the force of it pass through him until there was nothing left with which he could hold himself upright.
His knees buckled.
You caught his full weight before either of you could fall.
Your chest pressed tightly to his back, your arm banded across his ribs and your palm protecting the swollen knuckles tucked against his shoulder. Joel trembled through every aftershock, forehead resting heavily against the wall. His cock gave one final, helpless pulse into your slowing hand.
“Fuck,” he choked. “Baby—”
“Easy. I’ve got you.”
You continued moving until the last throb softened beneath your palm. Only then did you loosen your fingers, careful of the sensitivity that made his hips flinch when your thumb grazed the head. The water washed your hand clean, carrying the evidence of his release toward the drain.
Joel remained folded against the wall, his breathing coming in ragged pulls. You kept him gathered within your arms, lips moving over his shoulder and along the nape of his neck while the final tremors passed through him.
“Take your time, baby,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His left hand covered your forearm where it crossed his chest. His thumb rubbed slowly over your skin, Joel still searching for some way to touch you even while you bore most of his weight.
Eventually, he lifted his head.
“Need to turn around.”
“You steady?”
“With you holdin’ me? Yeah.”
You helped him move carefully, keeping his injured hand against his chest until his back met the wall. The moment he faced you, his left arm came around your waist and pulled you against him.
Joel kissed you before you could speak.
The kiss held none of the frantic hunger that had taken him apart moments earlier. It was slow and open, his lips moving over yours with an exhausted tenderness that left you more exposed than anything he had said. His damp beard scraped gently across your chin as he kissed you again, lingering this time, breathing you in as though the release had stripped him down to the simplest things he knew.
Your hands settled against his chest.
He rested his forehead against yours.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“You never have to thank me for touching you. Your needs are my needs too.”
“Ain’t only that.”
His hand moved slowly up your back, keeping you close.
“Been meanin’ everything else.”
You traced the wet line of his jaw with your thumb. “Joel…”
He watched you, something tired and unguarded in his eyes.
“You’d do the same for me,” you said.
“In a heartbeat.”
“Then quit acting like it only works one way, my love.”
The corner of his mouth lifted before he kissed you again. His hand travelled down your arm until his fingers found yours, and he raised your left hand between you. His thumb passed over your wedding band with quiet concentration.
“Feels strange not havin’ mine on.”
“I know.”
“Kept reachin’ for it all night.”
“I noticed that too.”
You guided his injured hand closer and pressed your lips to the bare place where his ring belonged.
“Still all mine without it.”
His eyes softened. “Always.”
You stayed beneath the water until his breathing settled, holding each other in the humid quiet. When you finally turned off the shower, Joel allowed you to dry him, although he complained when you knelt to run the towel down his legs.
“Can dry my own damn feet, darlin’.”
“With which hand?”
His mouth closed.
“That’s what I thought.”
You wrapped the towel around his waist and guided him into the bedroom with your palm resting at the base of his spine.
The wedding band remained exactly where you had left it.
Joel looked at it while you sat him on the edge of the mattress and knelt between his knees with fresh gauze. You worked carefully around each bruised knuckle, smoothing the bandage without pulling it too tightly. He watched your hands throughout, quiet and heavy-limbed, his left palm resting warmly against the back of your neck.
When you finished, you raised his injured hand and kissed the pale indentation once more.
His gaze moved from his bare finger to the ring on the table.
Then he reached for it with his left hand.
“Joel, you can’t put it back on yet.”
“I know, baby, but I was thinkin’…” He picked up the band and held it toward you. “You still got that chain in your jewelry box? The one you don’t wear?”
Your heart gave a small, painful pull.
“I do.”
You retrieved the thin chain and sat beside him. Joel placed the ring in your palm, trusting you with it as he had trusted you with everything else that night. You threaded the chain through the band before fastening it carefully around his neck.
The ring settled against the damp hair on his chest.
Joel looked down and touched it with two fingers. His thumb passed slowly over the familiar curve before he closed his hand around it, holding it against his sternum. The tension that had lingered in his face since you removed it finally eased; his shoulders dropped, and the breath he released sounded deeper than any he had taken since leaving urgent care.
“Better?” you asked.
“Yeah.” His eyes lifted to yours, tired and unmistakably relieved. He gave the ring another small squeeze but did not release it. “Much better.”
You covered his closed hand with yours. “You really hated having it off.”
Joel glanced down at the pale indentation around his finger. “Kept feelin’ for it.” His thumb rubbed over the empty place as though demonstrating a habit his body had not yet learned to abandon. “Every time I looked at my hand, somethin’ felt wrong. Like I’d left part of myself sittin’ on that table.”
The quiet confession tightened your throat. It was only a circle of gold, small enough to disappear inside his broad palm, but Joel had worn it through years of work, sleep, arguments, dinners and mornings when neither of you had anything more important to say than asking who had finished the coffee. He had grown so accustomed to carrying the visible proof of your life together that its absence had left his hand feeling unfamiliar to him.
You curled your fingers around his, pressing the ring gently against his chest. “It was never going anywhere.”
“Know that.” His gaze returned to yours. “Still didn’t like bein’ without it.”
You leaned forward and kissed the crease between his brows, lingering until it softened beneath your mouth.
“Come here,” you murmured, drawing back the covers. “Let me hold you, my love.”
He lay down without argument, his injured hand elevated safely on the pillow. When you settled beside him, Joel rested his head against your chest and curved his left arm around your waist. The ring lay cool between his skin and yours, warming slowly where your bodies met.
His thumb found your wedding band once more.
“Mine safe, sweetheart?” he asked, already half asleep.
You covered the ring resting over his heart.
“Right here, baby.”
Joel released one final, tired breath against your skin. His entire body softened into the mattress, giving you its full and familiar weight.
This time, when you held him, he did not try to hold you up in return.
Writing tips for long fics that helped me that no one asked for.
1.) Don't actually delete content from your WIP unless it is minor editing - instead cut it and put it in a secondary document. If you're omitting paragraphs of content, dialog, a whole scene you might find a better place for it later and having it readily available can really save time. Sometimes your idea was fantastic, but it just wasn't in the right spot.
2.) Stuck with wording the action? Just write the dialog then revisit it later.
3.) Stuck on the whole scene? Skip it and write the next one.
4.) Write on literally any other color than a white background. It just works. (I use black)
5.) If you have a beta, while they are beta-ing have them read your fic out loud. Yes, I know a lot of betas/writers do not have the luxury of face-timing or have the opportunity to do this due to time constraints etc but reading your fic out loud can catch some very awkward phrasing that otherwise might be missed. If you don't have a beta, you read it out loud to yourself. Throw some passion into your dialog, you might find a better way to word it if it sounds stuffy or weird.
6.) The moment you have an idea, write it down. If you don't have paper or a pen, EMAIL it to yourself or put it in a draft etc etc. I have sent myself dozens of ideas while laying down before sleep that I 10/10 forgot the next morning but had emailed them to myself and got to implement them.
7.) Remember - hits/likes/kudos/comments are not reflective of the quality of your fic or your ability to write. Most people just don't comment - even if they say they do, they don't, even if they preach all day about commenting, they don't, even if they are a very popular blog that passionately reminds people to comment - they don't comment (I know this personally). Even if your fic brought tears to their eyes and it haunted them for weeks and they printed it out and sent it to their friends they just don't comment. You just have to accept it. That being said - comment on the fic you're reading now, just do it, if you're 'shy' and that's why you don't comment the more you comment the better you'll get at it. Just do it.
8.) Remove unrealistic daily word count goals from your routine. I've seen people stress 1500 - 2000 words a day and if they don't reach that they feel like a failure and they get discouraged. This is ridiculous. Write when you can, but remove absurd goals. My average is 500 words a day in combination with a 40 hour a week job and I have written over 200k words from 2022-2023.
9.) There are dozens of ways to do an outline from precise analytical deconstruction that goes scene by scene to the minimalist bullet point list - it doesn't matter which one you use just have some sort of direction. A partial outline is better than no outline.
10.) Write for yourself, not for others. Write the fic you know no one is going to read. Write the fic that sounds ridiculous. You will be so happy you put it out in the world and there will be people who will be glad it exists.
series summary: after leaving the DEA, javier returns home and tries to live a normal life, but soon realizes, he can't escape his demons or his failures. that is, until he finds his second chance in you.
pairing: javier peña x fem!reader (POC/AAPI)
series content warning(s): strangers to friends to lovers, eventual EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), javier has PTSD / insomnia, reader owns a local coffee shop, slow burn, eventual romance/relationship, eventual smut, themes of violence (javier saw a lot of shit back in colombia), angst with a happy ending (don't worry), lots of smoking, use of alcohol, reader is POC/AAPI 🇵🇭, some tagalog, no use of y/n. each chapter will have its own separate warnings!
a/n: this year, i wanted to step out of my comfort zone and write for javier. i don't normally write for him and the few stories that i have written have been too far back. i wanted to give this man a happy ending after all the shit he endured in narcos s1-s3. and i know this character is technically a real person, but i'm rewriting (or rather finishing) the ending that we saw at the end of s3 - as a warning, this won’t be a story filled with a lot of smut (though there will be a small portion of them going at it), I just wanted to write a story about Javier - a man who’s too afraid to let anyone in after his time in the DEA and what happens when someone just naturally makes a home in his heart. hope y'all enjoy! this is gonna be a fun one <33
Summary: You are an elementary school teacher who just moved to Texas for a fresh start when you meet a very handsome man from the Laredo Sheriff's Department coming to give your class a presentation.
After your co-workers pull some strings for you to meet again, you and Javier Peña find yourselves falling head over heels for each other.
Story takes place post Narcos Season 3 in Laredo, Texas, starting May 1997.
Paring: Javier Peña x OFC (Reader is an elementary school teacher whose nickname is Osita, no use of y/n)
Warnings: SMUT (18+ chapters containing marked with * and each chapter will also have its own warnings), language, fluff, romantic comedy, reader has physical descriptions, Javi being so soft and getting all the love and affection he deserves, you two being the biggest weirdos so in love
Status: Ongoing
Let me know if you want to be added to a tag list for new chapters as they come out! :)
Main Story:
Chapter 1: I D.A.R.E. You
Chapter 2: What's Cookin', Good Lookin'?
Chapter 3: I Wanna Be With You Everywhere*
Chapter 4: Add You To My List*
Chapter 5: You're The One That I Want*
Chapter 6: Dinosaurs, Dates and Diners, Oh My!*
Chapter 7: School's Out for Summer*
Chapter 8: My Favorite Cowboy*
Chapter 8.5: 007- Peña, Agent Peña*
Chapter 9: I Promise*
Chapter 10: Happy Birthday, Javi*
Pt. 1*
Pt. 2*
Chapter 11: Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago *
Chapter 12: I Love You. I Know. *
Chapter 13: There's No Place Like Home*
Chapter 14: Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas*
Chapter 15: She Shoots, She Scores*
Chapter 16: The Lone Star State*
Chapter 17: No Ifs, Ands, Or Butts*
Chapter 18: Hole in None*
Chapter 19: Good Luck, and Goodnight*
Chapter 20: I Do
Pt. 1*
Pt. 2*
Chapter 21: Paradise*
Chapter 22: Plus One (New!)
Pt. 1*
Spin-Off Series:
Forever and Always*: Slices of life following the Peña family after their first child
One Shots (In chronological order of the main storyline):
Content: small age gap (reader is a few years older); mention of "accident" in which the reader's husband dies (no gore/details); breastfeeding; sexual content including a lactation kink; aspects of grief; kinda friends to lovers
18+ Minors DNI
Synopsis: After a tragic accident, you are left widowed with a newborn son. Your late husband's brother and your childhood friend, Bucky, is there to help you pick up the pieces and lend a hand around the family ranch. Old flames reignite.
A/N: not proofread, just felt like writing today for some self-care!!
You aren't looking. Well, you are, but not looking looking. Not ogling - definitely not staring at the small hole where his pocket is coming loose from the rest of his Wranglers. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your fingers itch to stitch up the denim. To mend the pocket. To fix something. Anything.
"Sis?" He asks again, clearing his throat.
Your eyes snap to his as your teeth release the plump flesh of your lip. "Sorry, what?"
"Where did my brother keep the new shoes?"
"Oh," you utter, walking across the south side of the barn. Your brother-in-law follows you, boot heels clunking softly on the hay-laden ground. "He kept everything organized," you say, swallowing down a lump in your throat. "But I'm not sure where…" you trail off, remembering that you didn't help him reshoe the horses the last few times because you were pregnant and he didn't want you to chance anything.
Bucky rifles through some milk crates and a few drawers of the repurposed desk your late husband kept in the horse barn for odds and ends. You hear the steel shoes clank against each other as he lifts them from a full drawer. The baby monitor you clipped to your back pocket starts to hiss with static before a soft cry fills the otherwise quiet of the barn.
"Go," Bucky says, nodding his head toward the house. "I'm no farrier, but I can handle this."
You jog across the yard and up the front porch steps. The screen door slams shut behind you, making you jump. You need to fix that damned hinge. Your son's cries intensify at the disturbance, and your chest aches at the sound.
"Hey, hey…" you whisper in soothing tones as you open the door to the nursery. "Mama's here, little guy." You scoop him into your arms, wiping his tears with the back of your hand as you settle into the rocker his dad built for you. "Are you hungry?"
Your son answers by grabbing at your shirt. Once he's latched and calmed down, you lean your head back on the chair and sigh. The nursery window is cracked to let in a breeze, and all you can hear are your son's soft sounds as he feeds and the steady clank of a horse being shoed. It's oddly peaceful, and your shoulders release some tension you didn't realize you've been holding. Your throat immediately gets tight at the realization that you just felt peace when your life these past several months has been anything but. Guilt breeds in your gut, and you replay the accident over again in your mind, closing your eyes.
You startle as Bucky walks into the nursery, rag over one shoulder, hoof nipper in hand. His gaze bounces from you to your breast and then back again. "Sorry," he mutters, swallowing. "Didn't mean to interrupt ya."
You pull down your shirt with a shrug. "It's okay. He's done anyway," you say, rocking the little babe in your arms.
"I was just letting ya know I'm done," he says, eyes shifting to the wood slats of the floor.
You examine the face of the man that looks so much like your husband - the same piercing blue eyes, dark hair, and cleft in his chin. But where your husband was more polished and soft and always talking, Bucky is all unkempt and broad and doesn't say more than is necessary - a man of few, yet impactful words.
"Thanks Buck," you say, offering him a soft smile. "I appreciate all your help since… everything, especially lately now that this one is crawling."
"Anytime, Junebug," he says with a nod.
Your chest clenches at the nickname you haven't heard in decades. It was actually mean, the way the moniker fell into your lap. Bucky was a few years younger than you and his brother, but you guys always spent the summers together running wild around the ranch anyway. One night the boys collected junebugs in a mason jar when you were "camping" in the backyard and opened the jar in the tent, zipping you inside. You still shiver when you think about all those little guys flying around the tent and landing on your suntanned skin. It was Bucky that eventually unzipped you and helped you shake off the creepy crawlies. You thanked him by the creek later that night with your first kiss. It was mostly teeth and a couple of matching blushes, just something kids do when they're bored. You'd sworn him to secrecy, and you never did tell another soul, even when his big brother asked you to junior Prom. And then senior Prom. And then gave you a promise ring a few years before getting down on one knee. You were married to his brother the summer after Bucky graduated high school, and Bucky smiled through a lump in his throat as he watched the two of you kiss at the altar. Maybe if he'd been born first…
"Buck?" You say, trying to get his attention. His eyes had glazed over as he stared at the floor again.
"Sorry," he says, looking back to you. "I'll get outta your hair."
You stand up with your son in your arms. His fingers grip a strand of your hair and pull. You wince. "Why don't you stay? I'll make supper. I was going to bake a peach pie."
His stomach growls as if on command, betraying him, and you sigh out a laugh. "Okay, sure," he agrees with a soft grin. "Let me clean myself up a bit. I can take him while you cook. I'll show him how to fix the broken hinge on the front door. He's old enough to start pulling his weight around here," he jokes.
You smile and look down at your son. "You hear that, Henry? Your Uncle Buck is going to teach you how to be a man. You're nine months old now, big guy."
You listen to Bucky talking to Henry from the kitchen as you put the pie in the oven. It's nice to hear someone's voice other than your own, especially one so warm and familiar. After you set the table for two - another thing you haven't down in months - you lean in the doorway and watch the two of them together. Bucky makes a funny face at Henry, and the baby belly laughs, causing you to laugh in response. Bucky turns to you and smiles.
"It's nice to hear you laugh, Bug," he says before turning to his nephew. "Doesn't your mama have the best laugh?"
The baby beams up at his uncle, and Bucky picks him up and walks to you. The sight of him holding your son sends an unfamiliar jolt to your stomach. As he gets closer, Henry starts to grab at the neckline of your shirt, and Bucky takes the hint, handing him to you. Your hands brush and the jolt turns into a shimmery kind of feeling - like butterflies. Or junebugs.
After dinner, Bucky does the dishes while you give Henry a bath and rock him for bed. He falls asleep quickly, and you're relieved. As every mother knows, you'd do anything for your children and you love them more than you ever knew possible, but damn does it feel good when they finally fall asleep. You close the nursery door and pad into the living room, surprised to see Bucky sprawled across the couch with a baseball game on low volume. His faded t-shirt has ridden up, leaving a strip of skin bare above his belt. Your cheeks heat as he looks up at you, and you meet his gaze.
"Just wanted to make sure you guys were good. I'll get goi-"
"You could stay," you say quickly, cutting him off.
Bucky sits up and runs a hand through his hair. "I could."
"You should stay."
"I should?"
You nod, swallowing down your fear.
"Come here, Junebug," he says, waving you over. Your feet carry you to him before your brain can stop you. His hand traces up your arm slowly before pulling you down onto his lap. "He told me to take care of you if anything ever happened."
"I don't want you to feel obligated-"
"Honey, you've never made me feel obligated to do anything a day in my life. Besides…" he trails off.
"Besides what?" You ask, leaning into him.
"You were mine first," he says definitively, looking into your eyes.
"I feel awful for the way I feel right now," you whisper. "I miss him, Bucky. I loved him."
"No one would ever doubt that," he says, smoothing a hand over your hair. "He was my big brother. I miss him too. It was a freak accident. I think he'd forgive you for your feelings right now."
"You don't even know what what my feelings are right now," you say, laying your head on his shoulder.
"I'm not an idiot, Junebug."
Your eyes flash to his, and he looks from yours to your lips and back again.
"I'm not an idiot," he repeats in a whisper, leaning into you. "Say the word, and I'll stop."
"Don't stop," you whisper back, nose brushing against his, sending another parade of junebugs fluttering in your tummy.
His facial hair brushes against your upper lip, and your eyes flutter closed at the feeling. It's been too long since you've been kissed… held… touched. And before you can recover, his lips are on yours and you feel guilt creeping back in at how good it feels to kiss him. The windowpane behind his head makes a soft sound, and you open your eyes to see that a junebug has landed on the glass. It crawls up the pane for a second before flying away.
"I loved him, too," Bucky says as he pulls away, running his knuckles across your cheek. "But I also love you. I've loved you since we were kids. Let me take care of you. Both of you."
You don't reply with words, but by letting him maneuver your body so that you're straddling his lap. Your arms come up around his neck, and you tug on the hair at the nape of his neck where he could use a trim. His hands run down your back and rest on your hips. Your entire body aches with want, the skin hot under your shirt where his hands are touching you. You put your hands over his and move them under the fabric so his calloused fingers are trailing up your stomach to your chest. His lips find the hollow of your throat, and he kisses you delicately. A moan escapes your lips, and your nipples harden in response. Your entire body is alight, not just because you haven't been touched like this in months, but because it's Bucky. Your Bucky. If anyone can take care of you, it's him.
"Touch me," you beg, moving his hands under your bra.
He groans as his hands find the soft, full, tight flesh of your breasts. Each hand encompasses one, but he doesn't squeeze, like he knows they are sensitive. "Can I?" He asks, starting to move your shirt to take it off completely. You nod, and unhook your bra, wanting to be bare before him. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he takes in the sight of you.
"You're perfect," he mutters before kissing your neck again. "Absolutely perfect."
He trails his mouth down your neck as his own arousal grows more prominent in his jeans. You can't help but grind your hips into the stiff denim as you run your fingers through his hair. His tongue and teeth and the glorious heat of his delicious mouth find a nipple and he bites it gently before sucking. You hiss at the feeling - familiar, yet foreign all at once. He massages the other between a thumb and pointer finger, and you feel the air grow colder around your bare breasts where it's now wet. You pull back, embarrassed.
"I'm sorry, I-"
He shakes his head and pulls you into him. "Don't be."
He pushes your breasts together and bends down slightly to press his face into your chest.
"Oh," you sigh as he takes the other nipple into his mouth and sucks before pulling away and licking at his lower lip.
"It's so sweet," he murmurs before kissing your lips. "But I bet I know what's sweeter."
"Ohhh," you say, biting your lip.
Bucky moves you so you're lying down on the couch and starts kissing down your body, but as he settles back on his haunches, he knocks a book from the coffee table with a loud thump. You wince and hold up a finger, waiting for the cry. It comes a few seconds later, and you sigh, defeated.
"It's okay, honey. I got him," Bucky says, smoothing down your hair. "Why don't you go get ready for bed?"
"I'm so sorry," you respond, looking up at him as he stands up and straightens his shirt.
"I'm not," he replies. "I'm not going anywhere, Junebug. I'll be your first and your last."
Check out the final part/follow-up here!
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summary: it was unrequited love at first sight when you met bucky barnes. having a crush on him—your roommate—is hard enough, but hearing him fuck through your shared wall? that almost kills you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, modern au, lots of plot, fluff, angst, sloooow burn, anxious!reader, kinda insecure!reader, reader works at a bar, cap’s quartet roommates (romanogers !!), swearing, drinking, weed mentions, idiots in love they just don't know it, oblivious!reader (i love her your honour), yearningggg, jealousy, reader crashes tf outttt, miscommunication, one (1) argument, love confessions, pet names (sweetheart, angel, doll, pretty girl), detailed explicit smut, slight dom!bucky, dirty talk, teasingggg, grinding, munch!bucky, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dacryphilia, pussy pronouns, small inspection kink, praise kink, unprotected pnv (don’t do this, friends), missionary, mating press, multiple orgasms, brief sub space, mention of f & m masturbation, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, no physical descriptions of reader, reader's pov, kinda dramatic, briefly proofread, this is not your typical roommate!bucky fic !!
word count: 20.6k (apparently i have this condition where i can't write a short fic)
authors note: i am actually the leader of the 'having debilitating crushes on your roommate' club so... shout out to my girls who have been hearing me yap about this fic for months 😭 thank you to my gorgeous, stunning, one of a kind beta reader @phoenix-in-writing 🫶 yes, i did use some off campus characters as reader's coworkers - there's no subplot with them, they just suited the vibe 😎 likes, reblogs, and comments are very much appreciated (and feed my validation kink)
song inspo: crushcrushcrush - paramore & boyfriend - best coast
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, heart divider by @/strangergraphics
masterlist
Nothing compares to a quiet evening alone
Just the one, two, I was just counting on
That never happens, I guess I'm dreaming again
Let's be more than, more than this
You knew from the moment you stepped into the Brooklyn brownstone that you were royally fucked.
Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.
And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.
The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.
Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.
He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.
He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.
You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.
The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.
His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.
When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.
While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.
You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.
Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.
Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.
Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.
And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.
Uncomfortably so.
He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.
Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.
He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.
Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.
And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.
The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.
Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.
"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."
Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.
He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.
Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.
The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.
Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.
The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.
"You got this, sweetheart."
Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
"Better luck next time, angel."
What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?
Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.
God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.
The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.
Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.
"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.
You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."
"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."
The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.
His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."
You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.
Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."
"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"
"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.
Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."
Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.
You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."
He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"
You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.
"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."
He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.
"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."
"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."
The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.
The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.
You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.
You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.
"What do you want now?"
"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.
"No."
The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."
You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."
"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.
Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."
You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."
Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"
You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."
Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.
"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."
He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."
Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.
Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.
Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.
"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.
Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"
"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.
"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.
"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."
"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.
"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.
He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.
"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."
Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.
Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.
"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.
Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."
Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.
You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.
"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."
You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."
Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."
You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.
"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."
You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.
She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."
Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.
"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.
She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.
"Is it…am I really that obvious?"
She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."
She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.
You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.
Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.
Don't screw the crew.
The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.
"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.
Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."
You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."
Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"
Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.
You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"
"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."
You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.
"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."
Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"
Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."
You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.
You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.
Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.
Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."
"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."
He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"
A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.
Your girl.
Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.
Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.
Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"
"…Shrek 2."
Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.
"It's the soundtrack, right?"
You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."
You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.
Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.
"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."
The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.
"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.
"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.
"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.
Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."
You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."
The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.
Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"
You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"
"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."
You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."
Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.
You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.
Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.
She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."
"What?"
She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.
Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."
Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."
Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.
"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."
Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."
"We don't even know if it's about me!"
"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."
"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.
"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.
You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.
The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.
James B.
★★★★★ a month ago
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
Oh.
That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.
You don't know if it's about you.
You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."
Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.
"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.
"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."
"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."
Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.
It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.
"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"
"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"
"Or we could just ask who he is."
Something about that made you uneasy.
After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.
Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.
It was beautiful and terrifying.
And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.
"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."
Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.
Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.
You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.
A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.
Bucky had company.
Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.
Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.
The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.
You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.
You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.
You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.
Inhale. One, two, three, four.
Hold. One, two—
It didn't sound like she was faking it.
The breath rushed out of you quickly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.
Inhale. One, two, three—
Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.
You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.
Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?
The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.
Did he call her sweetheart, too?
You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.
Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.
The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.
A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.
Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.
You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.
Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.
You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.
Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.
"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Yes—god, so much!"
"You feel so good, baby."
Thump, thump, thump.
You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.
It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.
You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.
You fucking hated giggles.
By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.
No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.
The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.
The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.
When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.
What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.
"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.
"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"
Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.
She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.
The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.
It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.
You're a fucking fool.
She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.
Big mistake.
Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.
"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.
"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.
Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.
You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.
You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.
Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"
You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.
A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.
You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.
At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.
You walked into your shift the next day with another request.
You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.
You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.
Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.
And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.
You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.
The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.
She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.
You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.
"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.
She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."
Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."
Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."
He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.
Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.
Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"
You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."
"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.
You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"
She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."
Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.
Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.
"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"
Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.
"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."
The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.
"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"
You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.
"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.
That broke you.
Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.
You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.
You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.
"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.
You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.
"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.
Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.
She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."
Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.
Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."
"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.
Thursday 6:18pm
Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…
You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)
Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x
You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!
Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(
You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx
"I'm moving out."
It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.
Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.
"What?" She asked softly.
You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"
You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.
"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"
"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.
You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"
That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"
He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.
Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.
Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."
Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.
"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."
Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."
"Great idea," Sam mumbled.
"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."
Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."
"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."
That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."
You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"
"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.
"Bucky," Nat warned.
"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.
"Buck—"
"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.
"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.
The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.
"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.
Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."
You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.
Bucky was radio silent.
Tuesday 5:36pm
Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?
You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)
Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx
You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol
Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(
A month passed before you saw Bucky again.
You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.
Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.
Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.
But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.
It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.
You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.
Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.
You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.
"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.
A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.
Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.
"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.
He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."
You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I—uh—how, how have you been?"
You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."
"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."
You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.
You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"
Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."
What the fuck did that mean?
"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"
"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."
It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.
Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."
Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."
Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."
If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.
And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."
You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.
"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.
You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.
You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.
You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.
"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."
"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."
A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."
You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"
A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"
Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"
You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"
He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.
James B.
★★★★★ 13 hours ago
Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.
Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.
What the fuck?
"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.
"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."
"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.
"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.
Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."
"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.
Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.
Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."
You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."
You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.
"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."
"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.
The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.
"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."
An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.
"Honey, there is no new roommate."
You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."
"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."
"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.
"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."
"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.
"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."
Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.
Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.
You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."
You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.
"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."
It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.
Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.
His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.
He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"
"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.
You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.
"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.
He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.
"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"
"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.
Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"
He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.
Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."
His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"
A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.
"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."
You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.
"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.
"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."
"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"
You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.
"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."
"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.
He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.
"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."
His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."
The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.
"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."
You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"
"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"
"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.
"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.
"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."
He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."
"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."
He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.
He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"
You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.
The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.
The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.
His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.
"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.
"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."
A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.
"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."
Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.
"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"
The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.
"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.
"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."
Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."
Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."
"Why didn't you reach out, then?"
He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."
You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.
You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."
"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.
The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.
He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.
"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.
He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.
He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.
You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.
He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."
"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.
His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."
He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.
You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.
"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.
He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."
You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.
He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.
"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.
"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"
You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"
You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.
"What was that?" He asked smugly.
Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.
"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.
He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."
His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.
He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."
You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.
"Bucky, please."
He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.
He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.
"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."
He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.
"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.
He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.
He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.
Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.
"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.
The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.
Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.
You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."
He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.
"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."
You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.
His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."
He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.
You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.
He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.
Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.
"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.
"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.
He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.
Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.
He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.
Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.
"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"
"Yes, Buck. Only yours."
He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."
He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.
"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."
A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.
He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.
Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.
The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.
"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"
You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.
A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.
"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."
With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.
Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.
"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.
"Need'a minute," you slurred out.
His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.
"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Hi. How you feeling?"
You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.
One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.
You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.
"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.
"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.
"Are you clean?"
His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.
"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."
His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.
"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"
That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."
He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.
He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.
He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.
"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.
He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.
"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.
"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.
He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.
He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.
"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.
"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.
He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.
His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.
You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.
"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.
Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.
The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.
You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.
"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.
"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.
"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"
You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.
He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.
The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.
Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.
He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."
His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.
Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.
Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.
"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.
His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.
He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."
You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.
"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.
Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.
"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.
"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.
Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.
He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.
You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.
"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.
He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.
"I love you too."
"When can we move your stuff back in?"
Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.
You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."
His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"
"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."
"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."
You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"
He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.
Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.
The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.
"So, you're James B? This whole time?"
His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"
"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"
He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"
You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"
"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."
Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."
Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.
"…Are you jealous?"
The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."
Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?
"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."
Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.
You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."
The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.
"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"
a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔) yes, team, reader should’ve made bucky grovel HOWEVER high emotion tension filled make up sex is hot 🫦 bro is buying her flowers and taking her on dates every day for the rest of their lives 😌
Pairing: Janitor!Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Female Reader
Summary: The school janitor stops by your classroom after the final bell of the day and you are smitten.
Word Count: Over 3.7k
Warnings: Light flirting, fluff, sweetness, longing, attraction, service dog, term of endearment (sweetheart), cold weather, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
Next Part of Beneath the Surface: In the Quiet
A/N: In contrast to our Diamond in the Rough trailer park neighbor, let me introduce you to our Beneath the Surface soft-spoken janitor! ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The final bell of the day rang, gently echoing in your classroom and the hallway. Your students jumped up with the kind of energy that only children seemed to possess. Chairs scraped the floor, kids scrambled for their backpacks, and their cheerful voices overlapped as they made their way to the door. It was a wonderful kind of chaos.
And you?
You just smiled.
Being new to the area and school, you worried about how the kids would take to you, but they were great and most of the parents were patient and understanding. You were lucky, as it made the transition much smoother than you anticipated.
You moved through the room like a calm center of gravity, making sure everyone had what they needed before they left for the day. “Have a good evening. And don’t forget your projects for tomorrow!”
Moving to the doorway, you stood and watched as they filed out into the hall. It was your little ritual of care, making sure to give them smiles and little waves before they disappeared around the corner. You exhaled a warm, soft sigh once the last child was out of sight and leaned against the doorway. It wasn’t out of annoyance or feeling overwhelmed, but a happy kind of tiredness that came from doing something you loved.
You walked back to your desk and settled into your chair, another sigh escaping. The room was peaceful and quiet now, the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the blinds. You pulled the small stack of papers toward you, hoping to get some grading done before you went home. But just as you grabbed your pen, there was a gentle knock on the doorframe.
And you lost your breath when you saw who was standing there.
“Everything good in here?” Bucky asked, his voice warm and low.
Bucky Barnes, the quiet janitor with the intense steel eyes that seemed to see everything. He stood there in his usual work shirt and pants that always stretched across his broad chest, shoulders, and thighs. His size and stare should’ve intimidated you, but it didn’t since he was polite to you from the start.
“You ever need anything, just let me know.”
You smiled softly. You made it a point to always say hi when you passed by or saw him. He looked blindsided the first time you acknowledged him, like he was used to people ignoring him. But you noticed him. You heard him hum old tunes to himself when he mopped the floors at night and took note of how he fixed things, like light fixtures, before anyone needed to ask. And you had a feeling it was him that left a pack of your favorite pens on your desk after you lost one.
And while he didn’t say much to you in the hallways outside of the polite “hello” in return or offering a soft smile, he always stopped by your classroom to check in. You appreciated that. He was a good man.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” you replied.
He leaned slightly against the frame, his toolbelt and key ring hung low on his hips, and tucked his hair behind his ear in an unhurried motion. His gaze drifted over the classroom, the warm colors and decorations, and then back to you, softer than before. You stared back because you couldn’t help yourself. The beefy man with the soft smile made your heart skip a beat.
“Long day?” he asked, tilting his head and studying you like he already knew the answer.
“A good day,” you answered with a small smile. “A little tiring, but still good.”
You weren’t used to people noticing when you were tired.
He smiled faintly in return, like he understood days like that. “Saw your class rush down the hall like a mini stampede,” he said, nodding to the stack of papers. “They giving you a run for your money?” he asked gently.
Your eyebrows shot up, the small talk surprising you. What was nice was the genuine tone and the look in his eyes. He wasn’t just asking for the sake of asking. “They are chaos and balls of energy in tiny shoes, but they’re great.”
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
He huffed a small laugh. “That they are,” he agreed, shifting his weight. “They adore you, you know.”
Warmth spread across your cheeks. “I don’t know about that, but thanks.”
It meant a lot to hear that.
“It’s the truth,” he said, scratching the light stubble on his chin when a comfortable silence stretched. “You sure you don’t need anything? I could… help carry stuff to your car.”
Your gaze flickered to your bag. It wasn’t heavy in the slightest. “I think I can manage,” you said out of habit, used to doing things on your own.
Bucky’s eyes flickered with disappointment, but he masked it quickly. It lasted only for a second, but your heart broke anyway because you caught it. You weren’t trying to brush him off when he was only looking for a reason to linger. It was sweet. Flattering.
“But,” you continued, his head lifting in what you guessed was anticipation. “If you wouldn’t mind walking me to my car when I’m finished grading these papers, I’d really appreciate it.” You gestured to the clock. “Unless you’re busy or have to go. I understand.”
You didn’t want to intrude on his time.
He locked eyes with you and you caught his shock before his gaze softened. The faint tension in his jaw eased and he stood taller. It was the slow, warm smile that had your heart skipping a beat because you hadn’t once seen him smile at anyone else in the building like that. It was a small gift with no wrapping or bow.
“Yeah,” he said barely above a whisper. “I can do that.”
He stepped a little further into the room slow enough, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed and to give you the chance to tell him to go. His worn boots quietly padded across the floor when you didn’t ask him to leave. He didn’t crowd you, but he was close enough that you felt his steady presence and could smell the subtle clean aroma. It was nice.
The keys clinked when he hooked a thumb into one of the belt loops and you forced your eyes up. You refused to look at his thighs or hands, and you definitely didn’t pay attention to the way the belt tugged at his hips. You were a teacher. You needed to maintain some professionalism.
But you were also a woman attracted to a very handsome man.
“You sure you don’t mind me being here?” he asked.
“I don’t mind at all,” you promised, nodding to one of the bigger chairs. “And you can sit if you want. You don’t have to stand guard.”
He quietly took a seat near your desk, still close without hovering, and you felt his eyes on you as you graded. You snuck a couple of glances at him, your cheeks hot when you noticed he hadn’t looked away. Your grip tightened on your pen, but his observant stare didn’t make you feel uneasy. His attention had butterflies fluttering in your stomach.
“You, uh…” He trailed off when you lifted your head, but his gaze wasn’t on you anymore. It was on the corner of your desk instead where a few snow globes sat. “You collect those?” he asked eventually, his voice soft like he was afraid the question might be invasive. Too personal.
“I have a few.” You picked one up with a smile and showed him. “One of my best friends got me this one before I moved here.”
You gently shook it, the glitter inside swirling around the iridescent snowflake. Snow globes were always beautiful to you. They were mini worlds filled with magical stories, sometimes nostalgic, and always full of wonder.
His expression gentled more. “Beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes on you again.
You set it down carefully, your face warm. He said it so quietly you wondered if he meant the snow globe or you. “Do you like snow globes?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light and not give away how fast your heart raced.
You wondered who Bucky was outside of his job. Did he have hobbies or collect anything? Did he listen to music in his home or did he prefer the quiet?
The very curious part of you wondered what his love life was like. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone special in his life. Your heart sank at the thought. If he did have someone special though, would he look at you the way he did? Or were you building something up in your mind for no reason at all?
He shrugged a shoulder and leaned back in the chair that still looked a bit too small for him. “Never had one, but I like them. They’re peaceful.”
“Peaceful. That’s a good way to put it,” you echoed gently, running a finger along the base of another snow globe. “They make me happy, too.”
He hummed low. “It’s nice that you have things that make you happy,” he said, his tenderness almost disarming you. “You deserve that.”
Your breath caught, the stack of unfinished papers forgotten. His sincerity framed itself in a way that felt intimate. “Thank you,” you whispered, your stomach flipping.
His lips curled in a small smile before his brows pinched. “Can I…” He absentmindedly ran a thumb along his belt. “I mean, if I ever saw a snow globe that reminded me of you…” He rubbed the back of his neck next. “Would it be okay if I got it for you?”
Your heart stuttered. “You… You’d do that?”
The soft-spoken man who cleaned up and fixed things without making a show of it wanted to get you something?
He nodded after a moment and shifted again. “Yeah. If you’d want that,” he answered, his tone casual while his body language said otherwise. It was endearing.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’ll keep an eye out then.”
You made sure he was looking in your eyes when you said, “I’d love that.”
The room seemed brighter, warmer, and he slowly exhaled as he relaxed in his seat. Seeing the relief in his frame tugged at something deep in your chest. You wondered if he realized he had just given you a small piece of his heart.
You smiled and picked your pen up again. Neither of you said anything for a few minutes, the only sound being the quiet hum of the classroom lights and your pen moving across the papers. It was a comfortable kind of stillness.
“You really don’t… mind me being here?” he asked quietly when you got to the last sheet. It felt like he was asking about being in your presence versus your classroom.
“I really don’t mind,” you promised, tucking the stack into your folder. “Do you think I would?”
You hoped you didn’t give that sort of impression.
He shook his head quickly before he lowered it. “No, it’s just…” His fingers curled on his thigh. “I’m just a janitor.”
If your heart could’ve physically broken, it would’ve then and there. “You’re not just anything,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped up, his eyes wide. “But-”
You held up a hand to stop him and leaned forward on your desk. “Bucky, I know we haven’t known each other for too long, but you help everyone around here. You fix things before they break. You check on people even when no one notices. You’re kind. You pay attention.” Your voice dropped to almost a whisper. “And you treat me with more gentleness than most people I’ve known.”
Color rose to his cheeks. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I don’t… I don’t want you to feel like you have to be nice to me.”
Whatever was left of your heart shattered into tiny pieces. “I’m not nice out of pity,” you said, shaking your head. “I like when you stop by. I look forward to it.”
He went still. “You do?” he asked, his voice rough.
You gave him a small smile. “I do.”
His breath hitched a fraction, and it was enough for you to notice. When he looked at you again, it wasn’t guarded or unsure. The softness was still visible, of course, but it was more open and a little overwhelmed. It was the kind of look that made your heart skip a beat.
“Thank you,” he whispered, clearing his throat. “Means more than you know.”
“And I know it was you who left me that pack of pens, so thank you.”
He chuckled, his cheeks deepening in color. “I, uh… Yeah, I did.”
You giggled, standing up to grab your coat and bag. “It’s my favorite brand. It was a nice surprise seeing them there.”
He got to his feet and carefully put the chair back where it was. “Yeah, I…” He looked anywhere but at you. “I may have heard you muttering under your breath that you couldn’t believe you lost it. Figured a new pack might help.”
You bit your lip. He really did pay attention. “It really did help,” you promised.
It made you whole day.
“It was nothing.” He watched attentively as you slipped your coat on. “Still want me to walk you to your car?”
“If you’re still willing.”
His lips twitched before a lopsided grin appeared on his face. “I am. Just need to grab my coat.” He hesitated in the doorway when he got there. “Would you mind if I brought Bear? I don’t like leaving him in the building when I'm not inside.”
You nodded. “Of course, you can.”
You had seen the gentle giant of a service dog from time-to-time. The kids loved him. You weren’t sure of the exact reasons Bucky had him, but it wasn’t your business.
Bear’s tail thumped once when he looked at you, a wag that felt like a welcome. You carefully crouched down to greet him. “Am I allowed to pet him?” you asked, knowing better than to assume.
He nodded back in thanks and left while you locked up. You weren’t even halfway down the hall when he came back in a worn coat with Bear beside him, and a giddy feeling filled you at the thought of him rushing back to see you. He scratched behind the dog's ear and your heart melted.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, softer than he spoke even with you. “We’re gonna walk her out, okay?”
“Sure.”
You held your hand out so Bear could sniff it, letting him decide if he wanted you to pet him or not. He nudged it, allowing you to touch his thick fur. “Hey. You’re a good boy,” you whispered. He gave off calm energy. No wonder Bucky trusted him.
He glanced between you two, a mix of tenderness and shock. “He likes you,” he said. “He’s really gentle with kids, but he doesn’t always warm up to adults right away.”
You smiled up at him. “Well, I consider it an honor then. He’s very sweet.”
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes lingering on you.
Bear nudged his hand, a subtle check-in. His fingers slid through his fur like second nature, and you saw the tiniest bit of tension leave his shoulders. “Ready?” he asked when you stood up. He held his hand out and it took you a moment to realize he was wordlessly asking to carry your bag.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Your fingers touched when you handed it over and you inhaled, wondering if he felt the jolt, too.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice as comforting as the coat surrounding you.
You fell in step beside Bucky with Bear on his other side, your footsteps echoing gently on the polished floor. Bucky’s keys jingled every few steps, a small sound you’d come to associate with him. He walked with you instead of in front of or behind you, his pace matching you. He was close enough that you could hear the shift in his coat when he adjusted your bag on your shoulder.
“You know, most people can’t wait to get out of here at the end of the day, but you don’t seem to mind staying a bit later,” he commented, sneaking a glance at you.
“The quiet gives me a chance to decompress just a little before I head home,” you said, where there was more quiet since you lived alone. “You don’t seem to mind either.”
“Kinda like you, I guess. Building’s quieter and it makes it easier to process my thoughts.” He pet Bear again and added after a beat, “I like the quiet.”
“I do, too,” you said, smiling. “It balances out the wonderful chaos of the day.”
Before you could reach for the side door, Bucky stepped in front of you to open it. You smiled to yourself at the gesture. The crisp, cold air hit you immediately once you stepped outside and you took a moment to admire the soft blue sky. You shivered and felt guilty that he offered to walk you out in the cold, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
“I’m right over here.” You pointed to a small car, one of the only ones left in the parking lot.
His boots crunched on some of the leftover salt and he put an arm at your lower back. “Just making sure you don’t fall,” he said almost to himself instead of you.
“I appreciate that.”
He cleared his throat and gently pulled Bear along when he sniffed the ground. “I meant to ask before, but what made you want to be a teacher?”
“Oh.” He sounded genuinely curious. “My answer might be cliche.”
“Try me,” he teased.
You got quiet, thinking back to your childhood. “I’ve always loved learning growing up. I constantly had a book in my hand and I always asked questions about subjects that excited me.”
“And your teachers encouraged you, didn’t they?” he guessed.
“They did. They helped keep that passion of learning alive.” It meant a lot to you when you were a kid. “And I realized I wanted to do the same thing. I want kids to grow, learn, and thrive, even when my parents said there was no ‘real money’ in teaching.”
He gazed at you in awe. “That’s really admirable,” he whispered.
“Thanks,” you whispered back, tilting your head. “How did you become a janitor?”
He smiled wistfully. “I’ll tell you when you aren’t shivering,” he promised, lowering his arm once you got to your car and Bear taking a seat beside him. “I’ll tell you about how I got him, too.”
You nodded and took your bag back, wishing you had an excuse to stick around. You wanted to hear his story if he was really willing to tell you. “Thanks for walking with me,” you said, giving his dog a smile. “Both of you.”
His nose nudged your hand again and Bucky smiled. “I’m glad you let us,” he said, shifting a bit on his feet like he didn’t want you to go just yet either.
You fiddled with your keys to steel your nerves. “Bucky?”
He looked at you expectantly. “Yeah?”
You swallowed, feeling much warmer despite the chill in the air. “I’m really glad you stopped by my classroom tonight.”
“I’m glad I did, too,” he murmured.
You bit your lip and dug into your bag until you found a pen and a post-it note, using your car as a flat surface to quickly jot down your number. “Here. Just in case you ever want to chat or anything outside of school hours.”
You blamed the cold for your shaky hand when you handed it over. There was nothing in the rules that staff couldn’t date, but you didn’t want to put any pressure on him or make him uncomfortable. You already felt like you were prying by asking about his profession.
His mouth fell open when he read it, staring at it like it wasn’t real. Did you make a mistake? Should you take it back?
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately. “You don’t have to call or anything. You could be seeing someone and I-”
“No, I’m not seeing anyone,” he cleared up right away. You sighed in relief, thankful that you didn’t shoot your shot at a taken man. “I’m just… Shit, I’m surprised you want me to have your number.”
“Well, I do.” Just like you wouldn’t be nice to him just because, you wouldn’t hand your number out either. “And I’m not seeing anyone either,” you added, answering before he could ask.
He swallowed hard and carefully tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll call you.”
“Great.” Your smile lit up your face, and Bear looked between you two like a happy guardian. You were looking forward to it. “And if you stopped by again tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind.”
He nodded, tucking his hair back with a smile of his own. “I will.”
Bear whined quietly. “You’re allowed to stop by, too, Bear,” you assured him, giggling when his tail wagged.
“He really does like you,” Bucky whispered. It seemed to mean a lot to him, and it meant a lot to you, too.
Your heart fluttered when he stepped back enough to let you open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Bucky.”
“Good night, sweetheart,” he whispered, the endearment surprising you both. It sounded so natural coming from him. “Sorry. That…”
“No, I… I like it,” you promised, putting your hand on his arm. You felt that jolt again and the hitch in his breath told you he felt it, too. “Good night, Bucky.”
He didn’t walk away when you started the car, staying rooted to the spot with Bear faithfully beside him as you pulled away. He lifted a hand to wave, and you waved back, giggling softly to yourself. It was an unexpected turn of events, which thrilled you.
Because Bucky Barnes was going to change your life for the better.
I know, I know. Another Bucky. But isn't he the sweetest? How long before he calls? What's his story?
*SEASON OF THE WOLF: a joel miller x reader story. (part five)
The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.
join the TAGLIST. / SERIES masterlist. / PREVIOUS chapter.
It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention.
warnings: the basics (werewolf!joel, age gap, no outbreak), law enforcement, abuse of power (acab!!!!!!!!), hunter/prey vibes, getting hunted through the woods by your hot werewolf boyfriend, they're super domestic though, characters resolving their issues like mature adults, smut (monsterfucking, oral f receiving, unprotected piv, biting, pulling out, werewolf-induced hyperspermia, size kink, creampie, we go full beast mode on this one, there's some gross stuff in the aftercare but yall wanted to fuck the wolf so now yall gotta deal with the gross goopy bloodied part of it too), body horror/gore, technically cannibal joel, murder/death of minor characters, everybody gets a happy ending.
word count: 12.4k (oops)
fox says: hello friends! oh my god guys, this is it. the final chapter! i'm so sorry for the delay, between my break and the stage fright that i always get when writing a finale, i chose to take my time and write something i'm proud of rather than rushing through it. i had so much fun writing this series, and i hope you guys have enjoyed it as well. (spoiler) it was super important for me to make sure everyone knows that reader's mental health doesn't improve because she finally got some monster cock but rather that she took the time to care for herself and how her environment was poisenous and making everything worse and i really really hope i managed to get that across. as always, please let me know how we feel about it!
also available on archiveofourown.
It seems like Joel is incapable of stepping away, constantly hovering for the hours to come— Never interacting with you directly, but always paying you undivided attention. You spend the afternoon and early evening on the couch with Sarah, watching cartoons and then watching as she played with her dolls, colored her little books and ran around the couch pretending to be a shark when she got hit with a particularly strong case of the zoomies. He sits down eventually, close enough that you can feel his body heat but not close enough to touch— Sarah is passed out on the rug in front of you, surrounded by pillows and blankets in something that is a mix between a pillow fort and a nest.
“I’m sorry.” Joel says, his voice gravel-like. He doesn’t look at you, stares instead at his hands fisted over his thighs. “For everything.”
You think he’s not talking just about what has happened to you. There’s a weight to the world ‘everything’ that makes you think back to his wife, to the scar on his temple and how he tried to kill himself over it.
“I know. I’m sorry too.” You open your hand, palm up. Joel takes it almost immediately, fingers interlacing with yours. “I was scared.”
“I was too. Had no idea where you were, what happened—” He swallows quickly, the raspiness of his voice thickening with emotion. “I shouldn’t have sprung none’a that on you. And I’m sorry about— I didn’t mean to call you—”
“It’s fine.” You shake your head. The hurt is still there but dulled, muffled by everything else: In the grand scheme of things, getting your feelings hurt by being called a dead woman’s name seems like the least of your worries. “Thank you for saving me.”
You don’t realize how much you mean it until you say it. You had wanted to die. You thought it’d feel like relief, finally letting go of all the hurt and pain and hopelessness but those few seconds of the car swerving off the road— The panic and the desperate desire to survive makes you realize that, deep down, it’s not death that you seek.
It’s comfort.
Joel brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. He looks you dead in the eyes, his often sorrowful eyes now clouded with a different emotion. Devotion. Love. Kindness and pain and everything in between.
“I’ll always save you.”
You kiss him. His lips are dry and chapped but his hands are warm when they cradle your face, a brief hesitation on his part before Joel kisses you back. One of his hands moves to the back of your neck, tangling with the hairs at the base of your skull; you crawl through the distance between the two of you, climbing on his lap without breaking the kiss. It’s nothing like any other kiss you’ve ever had— Your body molds against his with perfection, his hands gripping your body and pulling you close, his tongue pushing into your mouth.
You’ve never been much of a kisser— It always felt like a means to an end, something to signal that you want more and you actually often find your mind wandering off, your thoughts running away from the situation but this time all you can think and feel is Joel. He kisses you slowly but unhurried, exploring your mouth and whatever he can reach of your body, trying to figure out what makes you tick. It is too much and not enough all at once, and Joel shushes the desperate little noise you make with a concerned look towards the toddler sleeping a couple of feet away.
“Bedroom.” You beg against his lips, drinking down when his breathing falters in your mouth. “Please.”
Joel’s hands grab both of your asscheeks, raising the two of you from the couch as if you weighed nothing— You bite down on your lip to hold back the squeal, not wanting to wake Sarah up as he quietly pads down into his bedroom. He lays you gently on the bed before coming back to lock the door; the tent on his sweatpants is impressive when he turns back to you: You’ve seen Joel naked a couple of times now and you know he’s big but you hadn’t seen him hard before and, even with his clothes on, you’re intimidated. He stands by the edge of the bed, fingertips running slowly up your calves, drinking you down just as you do him.
The wolf never made you afraid before. Even with blood on his snout, even as you watched him tear a grown man apart, you were never scared— You were never afraid of Joel either, not in the true, primal sense of the word. But now, laying back on his bed as he watches you, you finally see the danger that ripples beneath his skin. His brown eyes are nothing short of predatory when he kneels on the mattress, aquiline nose running up the inside of your calf, his breath ghosting over your skin light enough to leave goosebumps in their wake.
“Been dreamin’ of this.” He tells you, big hands locking around your ankles. You’re putty in his hands, giggling when he pulls on your legs, tugging your ass further down the bed. “Havin’ you on my bed. My mate. My girl.”
You open your mouth but whatever witty response dies before you can conjure it, Joel’s mouth latching into the inside of your thigh— He bites down hard and your hands fly to his hair, though you’re unsure whether to pull him away or pull him closer. Joel soothes the bite with his tongue, lapping at the indent of his own teeth before he crawls higher, pushing the soft material of the boxer shorts out of the way so he can bite again, closer to the junction of your thigh.
You’re about to pull the shorts down yourself when Joel moves just a little higher, the bristles of his mustache tickling the softness of your stomach as he pushes your shirt up, kissing the skin as it is exposed. It’s involuntary, your body curling in and pulling away from him as you laugh, the noise pure instinct to soothe the bluntness of your movements as you shove your shirt back down.
“Ticklish?”
“Yup.” It’s true but not at the same time. Sure, you’re a little ticklish, but not like that— It’s a gut reaction, instinct telling you to hide and pull away as if he isn’t already aware of your size. Joel’s head cocks to the side and he leans back a little, searching your face.
“Okay. I won’t touch you there.” He breathes out, and you can tell Joel doesn’t believe you entirely. He doesn’t push it, however, choosing instead to bring his mouth back to yours, thick fingers playing with the elastic band of your shorts. “Can I take these off?”
You wonder if you should be offended that he’s all of a sudden walking on eggshells but you don’t; if anything it makes you a little giddy when you nod and Joel smiles against your lips as if you’ve just given him a gift. He tugs your shorts and underwear in one go, discarding them to the ground without taking his eyes off of you. Joel sits back on his knees, his hands running up and down your calves.
“You’re beautiful.” He whispers, voice reverent as he drinks you in. “Spread your legs f’me.”
In any other instance, you might’ve felt self-conscious about letting someone look at you so intimately but Joel stares at you like you’re the single most divine thing he’s ever seen. It fills you with enough courage to do as he tells you, your bent legs falling apart.
“I need to taste you.” Joel says, leaning forward to press a kiss on the inner side of your knee. His eyes find yours, darkened with desire. “Will you let me?”
“Please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He makes a V with his fingers, spreading your pussy open before latching his mouth to your clit. Joel makes out with your cunt, slow and messy, the pressure of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth enough to have you squirming but not enough to properly get you off; you tug at his hair, fingers tangling with his curls, whining.
“I want you inside me.” You breathe out, eyes rolling to the back of your head when Joel suckles against your clit. “Please, Joel, I need your fingers.”
He hums against you, a single digit twirling your entrance until you’re pushing your hips against him, bucking on the bed. Joel chuckles as he finally relents and pushes a single finger inside; even a single digit is a stretch, both from the thickness of his fingers from the amount of time you’ve gone without, desire curling low on your stomach.
“Joel—”
He shushes you, then, and the sound brings a new wave of wetness between your legs. “Calm down, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.”
You try to do as he says, letting your body melt against the mattress; Joel looks entirely pleased as he dives back into your pussy, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he flicks his tongue this and that way— You can tell that he is exploring you, trying to figure out the best rhythm and pressure to have you shaking and that’s not really something you’ve ever experienced with a man before: Most of them simply assume that their moves are a universal like, always too pleased with themselves even if most of the sounds you make are fake.
Joel is a quick, eager learner. He suckles on your clit when he sees the way your chest heaves at that, crooking two fingers inside of you and slowing down their thrusting when you bring both of your hands to your face, trying to stifle your moans. Your thighs clamp down the sides of his head when he pushes a third finger in, rubbing them slow and steady against that single spot inside of you that has you seeing stars; you choke down the noises threatening to escape from your mouth, one hand on his hair and the other trapped between your teeth, not wanting to wake up the other residents of the cabin.
His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you down on the mattress as his fingers push in and out of you, his tongue running circles on your clit; the ball of your feet knock into his ribs as you come, body shaking underneath him— Your jaw goes slack as pleasure shoots down your spine, going fully silent as you get lost in it. Joel slows down but doesn’t stop, licking you through your orgasm before he finally pulls away.
You tug on his hair before Joel can pull away entirely, yanking on his curls as you breathe his name.
“Joel—” You say, and his nose crinkles a little with the harshness of your tug but he still smiles, the lower half of his face glimmering in the pale bedroom light. “C’mere. I need you.”
Joel kisses your arm, the only part of your skin that he can reach, before gripping your hips and flipping you over; it makes you bounce on the mattress and you cackle, half from glee and half from surprise— You’ve never been with a man strong enough to manhandle you like that, and you bite down on your bottom lip, arching spine, ass in the air.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart.” Joel mumbles behind you, the tone of his voice sending a shiver down your back. “Look at ya. Drippin’.”
The tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, catching for a second before Joel slides his cock down your slit and it has you whining, pushing your hips against him. You call out his name a little louder and Joel shushes you again, pushing just the tip inside before pulling back out; the sensation is enough to drive you crazy, biting down on your thumb to keep you from complaining again.
When Joel finally plunges inside of you, it’s blissful. He makes a choked sound between a moan and a groan, holding himself very still. The stretch hurts at first but you wiggle against him, trying to signal for him to move— His fingers dig into the fat of your hip, his other hand coming to steady you on the small of your back.
“Fuck— Just— Gimme a sec, darlin’.” Joel says, his voice strained. “ ‘S been a while.”
He starts slow, his thrusting as exploratory as his mouth had been, pulling out halfway before sliding back in with enough force to punch the air out of your lungs. You arch your spine a little further, nose buried in the pillow that smells so much like Joel you feel entirely encompassed by him. All you can hear, feel, smell— It’s him, the little grunts he’s trying to stifle, the calloused hands on your skin, his scent on the pillow and in the air. You reach back without thinking, grabbing Joel’s wrist and pulling him towards you.
Joel topples on top of you, breathy laugh against your ear before he rearranges himself, one arm next to your head, the other sliding between you and the mattress, wrapping around your hips and pulling you backwards just enough— The new angle hits different, deeper somehow, his entire weight settling on your back.
“Fuck,” he pants near your ear, chest hair brushing against your back. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. So sweet. Made f’me.”
His thrusts have you wailing, Joel’s teeth scraping the side of your neck whenever he’s close enough— Never biting down, but teasing is enough to drive you crazy, one hand reaching back to grab at his hair, fists of curly grey and brown locks between your fingers. The arm by your face comes forward, Joel’s thick fingers closing your mouth shut: His hand is big enough to cover the lower half of your face entirely, your breathing erratic behind his glammy fingers.
“Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.” Joel whispers, knees digging into your thighs, spreading you even further. He stops moving, buried to the hilt inside of you. “But I’m gon’ need you to be a good girl and keep quiet, ‘kay? Don’t go wakin’ up the whole house.”
You nod and, even though Joel starts moving again, he doesn’t pull his hand away from your lips; he uses the leverage of holding your face hostage to pull your head backwards, bending your spine in a way that makes him feel even bigger inside of you. Joel whispers a string of dirty praises in your ear as his cock pistons in and out of you, telling you how much of a good girl you’re being, how much he loves your sweet pussy and all of the nasty little things he has planned for the two of you.
You feel the change in the air before you can properly recognize what it is. Joel feels heavier against your back, his chest pressing down on your back to the point of becoming just shy of suffocating, the hair on his chest coarser, rubbing against your shoulder blades with such friction you think you might get beard burn, his thrusts sharper and not as rhythmically.
But, above all, Joel goes silent. His breathing is still heavy, still stuttering after a particularly hard thrust, but he’s not moaning anymore, isn’t saying your say or the dirty, sweet nothings he’s been whispering in your ear all night.
You turn your head, trying to catch a glimpse of him so you can check in and make sure everything is okay but the image reflected in the window makes you stop— Joel looks like himself and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t. His face is buried on the back of your neck, hidden away from view, but his shoulders seem broader, his hips and thighs thicker, his biceps even more defined than they already are. His hair, the soft curls still trapped between your fingers, seem thicker like this, fuller and longer.
You tell yourself that you’re seeing things. It’s the warping of the window pane, it’s the soft lighting, it’s your brain turning into mush because Joel’s cock keeps hitting repeatedly into the deepest parts of you. And then Joel’s teeth scrape against the back of your neck and he growls— A noise that doesn’t sound human at all, deep and rolling and menacing, the sort of rumbling sound human anatomy shouldn’t be able to produce.
Your cunt spasms around his cock and you shake, the orgasm hitting you like a freightrain. It’s too much and not enough all at once, your entire body set ablaze; you push back against him, head thrown back, yanking at Joel’s hair with far more force than you ought to be using.
Your body is soft and pliant when he shifts positions, pushing one of your knees higher up on the mattress, leaving you even more open and exposed; Joel’s cock punches in and out of you with rapid precision, now chasing his pleasure more than yours in deep, long thrusts that have you drooling on the pillowcase, unable to catch your breath.
Joel pulls out with a pained whine and you’re too tired to turn around, fighting to keep your eyes open as you listen to the slick sounds of him fisting his own cock, followed by the sticky warmth of his spend as it covers the roundness of your ass. He presses a kiss on the space between your shoulderblades just as you start to recover your breathing.
“I’ll be right back.” He says, his voice soft like you’ve never heard before; you just give him a thumbs up, smiling when you hear him laugh.
Joel cleans you with a warm towel and so much care it makes you almost embarrassed, peppering kisses to your clammy skin and saying how well you’ve done for him. He helps you redress, fixes the place where the fitted sheets came loose, and then pulls you to his chest. You slide a hand underneath his shirt, fingertips playing with the wispy hair on his chest.
“Joel?” You call out, wanting to ask him about what had happened before — how you’re fairly certain you’d seen him half-way into shifting before he somehow got it under control — but you’re unable to, because the only response you get is a loud, reverberating snore.
Tommy brings a bag with your belongings two days later. He doesn’t say anything, just drops it by the bed, pats you on the shoulder, and says ‘the old bastard reckons it’s time ya start wearin’ yer own shit again’ before he steps out of the room; you haven’t seen either Miller men all day, with Tommy busy trying — and failing, because it seems like the damage you've done is mighty permanent — to fix up the truck and Joel at work. You go through the bag carefully, pulling out your clothes — the clothes that Joel chose from your closet — and finding them a home next to Joel’s flannels.
You wonder if you should feel like it’s some sort of violation, that Joel had gone to your house while you took care of his kid and picked out your underwear, but you don’t.
If anything, it makes you feel seen.
It’s the pounding on the door that wakes you up. Your mouth is parched, muscles pleasantly sore, too warm from Joel’s steady presence behind your back; Joel grumbles, not fully awake, but Tommy’s insistent knocking drags the both of you up.
“Joel— For fuck’s sake, Joel. The cops are here.” He says through the door, his voice so panicked he can barely hide it. “They wanna talk to both of ya.”
It’s ludicrous, but the first thing you think about is the pens you stole from the pharmacy— The used, old pens that you stole out of pettiness and you think the police are here to arrest you for it. But then, as you hastily get dressed, you think of the car accident you were in and panic sets even deeper; you’d been driving while drunk, and you fled the scene— You don’t remember any of it, maybe you injured or killed someone. Maybe you drove into some ancient protected tree. Maybe they’re here to charge you for the damage you did to the cement safeguard next to the road.
The truth is, somehow, a lot worse. The cops — Josh McKenley and Chad Hobbs, one of them who you went to school with, the other who is a year older than you at most — kindly ask you to step outside while one of them stays inside with the men; Tommy has Sarah perched on his hip, distracting her with breakfast but you can see just how worried he is.
McKenley steps out with you, Hobbs stays inside, arms crossed over his chest while he stares at Joel as if he is some sort of deviant criminal.
“Josh, what the fuck is going on?” You ask, hugging yourself. You almost want to ask if this is about the car but you don’t, biting your tongue at the very last minute; the last thing you need is to incriminate yourself.
Josh, on his part, shifts from one foot to the other, his bovine eyes scanning every inch of your body.
“Céline called.”
You lean back against the cruiser when your knees threaten to give out. “What do you mean?”
“She’s worried about you. Been trying to call you—”
“I lost my phone.” You bring a hand to your forehead, hating the way your fingers shake. “This is a wellness check? How did you even find me?”
“We didn’t know we’d find you here, but we figured we should look ‘round after we realized you hadn’t gone home in days. Honestly, after what Céline said, I thought we’d be searching for a body.”
Your stomach churns unpleasantly. You can barely remember what you said to her, far too drunk to make any sense of it but you know, you know it had been bad. Josh looks at you more carefully, and you know what he sees: The scrapes and bruises that remain from your accident, fading but still there, and the way you tremble like a leaf in front of him.
“I’m alright.” You say and, even though it’s true, it sounds like a lie. Josh cocks his head to the side.
“We can help you. We’re going to help you. Céline told us that the guy is dangerous, that you were scared, but we’re here now.”
“Josh—” You shake your head, but he keeps talking over you.
“We’ll pretend that we’re bringing you in for something else, and then we go down to the station, you report him and he won’t be able to keep you here anymore.”
“He’s not holding me hostage. I’m here because I want to.” You push the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, I really do, but Céline doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I lost my phone and I lost my job, and Joel’s letting me stay here with him while I figure something out, that’s all.”
“You’re hurt. Are you going to tell me you just… What? Fell down the stairs?”
“Car crash, actually.” You huff. “I was driving from Céline’s place and lost control of the car. It’s fine now, nobody else got hurt and Joel and Tommy already brought the car back.”
Josh’s eyes turn into narrow slits and you can’t tell he doesn’t believe you, but you’re sure there’s not much else he can do. There’s a heavy moment of silence while he stares you down, maybe waiting for you to crack, before he eventually nods.
“Okay.” He says in a tone that doesn’t make anything seem okay— It’s half a challenge, half a threat. “Do you want to explain why you told Céline that he’s the one killing people ‘round town, then?”
“I never said that.”
He hums, shifting from one foot to the other, effectively blocking your view of the house.
“That ain’t what Céline said. She said—”
“I don’t care what she said. Do you even hear yourself? You think, what— That Joel faked the animal attacks? Josh, that’s crazy talk.”
“What I think it’s that it’s mighty interesting that folk only started dying after he came into town. And I think it’s mighty interesting that you are the only person that’s seen the animal and got out alive. If you’re not being held against your will, and if you know what happened— That’s accessory to murder.”
You laugh, then, because you can barely believe what you’re hearing; it’s not a funny, happy laugh but rather the noise of pure despair.
“Holy shit, you’re so fired.”
“Is that a threat?” He asks, eyebrows raising high.
“Are you seriously thinking about charging Joel for murder because Céline said so? You can’t just— Humans don’t do that. They don’t eat and tear each other apart like that. If there was a single chance that it was a person faking an animal attack, don’t you think the coroners would’ve caught it?”
There’s just a hint of uncertainty on his chubby cheeks before Josh puffs his chest again, clearly trying to seem taller and more in control than he has ever been.
“I think it’s part of my job to do my due diligence when an accusation is made. And if you and Mr. Miller don’t have anything to hide, then you shouldn’t be so upset about me asking a couple of questions.”
“Does your dad know about this? That you’re here harassing me and my boyfriend over gossip?”
“The Deputy will be informed of our official investigation as soon as—”
“That’s fucking fantastic. Alright, go in there and ask Joel if he’s the big bad wolf that has been eating people.” You wave at the front of the house, and then promptly shove your hands into your pockets once you notice just how badly you’re shaking. “Please do. And then go home and tell your daddy what you did. You’ll be the joke of the entire fucking town, Officer McKenley.”
You sidestep him and it’s only then that you realize just how loud you’ve been, with Officer Hobbs and Joel both standing by the front door; the police officer seems uncertain, torn between coming closer and staying with the suspect, and Joel looks like he’s a split second away from rushing down the stairs.
“Hey, Hobbs!” You yell, giving what you can only hope is a smile that is more acidic than you truly feel. “Did you know your partner here thinks Joel Miller is a werewolf?! Is that what you idiots are up to nowadays? Monster hunting?”
By the look on Officer Hobbs’s face you can see that he, indeed, was not aware of the murder accusation Josh decided to throw. The man’s eyes fly from Josh’s face to yours and then to Joel, who simply raises both of his eyebrows. Josh is already speaking a thousand words per minute trying to explain to his senior the conversation he had with Céline but you don’t pay any attention to it; all you can do is focus on the officer’s face, the way he burns red and how you can tell he’s trying to show an united front even though he clearly feels like an idiot.
“This is just a wellness check.” Hobbs says to you eventually, having all but dragged Josh back into the cruiser. “A friend of yours was concerned.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. But going from that to saying that my boyfriend is killing people? I mean…”
Hobbs nods, once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He looks like he’s agreeing with you, but his eyes linger on Joel’s figure behind you for a beat too long before he finally drives away.
You, Joel and Tommy reunite after you help Sarah brush her teeth and then Joel pulls out a fairly large collection of crayons and papers, enough to keep the little girl occupied while the three of you talk things through by the kitchen table.
“They can’t… They can’t do anything, right?” You ask, watching as Tommy paces back and forth— Joel is leaning against the table, his body entirely still even though you can feel the nervous energy radiating from him. “I mean, even if they try to say you faked the animal attacks, that’s easily disproven.”
The silence that settles is full of answers you don’t like. Your head snaps towards Joel, who is looking intently at the wall.
“The DNA could match.” He says, at last, just as you open your mouth to beg for the reassurance that isn’t coming. “If there’s any saliva left, or— Maybe the fur, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” You don’t mean to sound as judgemental as you do, but— Considering he’s the one that has been murdering people for almost three decades, you figured he should know at least how much risk he’s been putting himself in.
“No, I don’t. This shit didn’t come with a manual.” Joel snaps. He doesn’t yell, and he’s not aggressive, but the words are still much sharper than he’s ever spoken to you. Tommy’s pacing falters for a moment as his eyes bounce between the two of you. You preen, ready to snap back at him, but—
It’s your fault, really.
You close your mouth shut with so much force your teeth clack. If you hadn’t said anything to Céline, if you hadn’t sent the e-mail and if you hadn’t had your little outburst at the bar, none of this would be happening. Joel and Sarah and Tommy would be safe, their lives completely undisturbed; and now here you are, all but squatting in their house, bringing the cops to their front door.
Your head falls forward, burying it in your hands.
“We’re panicking over nothing.” Joel says. “The Deputy is never going to open an investigation on you ‘cause of what some lil’ girl had to say.”
“Officer McKenley is his son.” You say, your voice laced with defeat; the heels of your palms dig into your eyesockets, little flashes of brightness popping behind the darkness of your closed eyelids.
“Even better for us. He ain’t gon’ let his kid embarrass himself like that.”
“We should just pack up and leave.” You raise your head at Tommy’s voice, the first time he spoke since the conversation started. His arms are crossed over his chest, mustache twitching. “The truck won’t take us long before it shits itself out again, but I can get us a new car today, we pack our shit and get out of town in the middle of the night. If we leave before they can properly open an investigation we’ll be down in Mexico by the time a judge allows them to exhume one of the bodies.”
“Runnin’ is only going to make us look more suspicious.” Joel shakes his head. “They ain’t got anythin’ on me. We stay put, keep workin’ and goin’ about our business. And you—” Joel pulls his cellphone from his pocket, the black glass square tumbling on the table when he throws it at you. “Call your friend and tell her you’re fine. We need her to think she overstepped and overreacted.”
You don’t want to call her. You don’t want to talk to Céline at all, even though you understand why she did what she did— You would’ve done the same in her shoes. Hell, you probably would’ve driven yourself back home to check in on her. So, while your brain understands the logic, understands she was just looking out for you, your heart doesn’t seem to agree.
You pick up the phone anyway, though, because you’re the one that fucked everything up in the first place.
“I don’t know her phone number.” You say, swiping left and right trying to find the Instagram app. Joel doesn’t have much other than the pre-downloaded apps, a guitar tuning app and some games that are clearly meant for Sarah. “Where’s your Insta? I need to message her there and ask her to FaceTime me.”
There’s a beat of silence where Joel blinks at you, his face entirely blank. Tommy snorts, which turns into a full blown cackle when Joel turns to stare at him.
“You might as well be speakin’ Greek to him, kid.” Tommy shakes his head, checking his watch before he looks back at Joel. “You sure you want to play this by ear? If we’re goin’ to keep on movin’, we gotta be at the Arlington’s by ten to get started on their bathroom.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Joel gives a final nod, tension radiating off of him. He turns back to you then, the tip of his tongue pressing against his upper teeth as he hesitates.
“I got it.” You tell him, waving a hand. “Go play in someone else’s bathroom, I’ll find a way of contacting Céline, and then I’ll take Sarah for a walk.”
Joel kisses both of Sarah’s cheeks before he leaves, promising that he’ll be home by dinner with a treat if she behaves. You don’t think Sarah is capable of misbehaving, really, but she gives him a toothy grin and requests Reese’s as her bribery of choice. He kisses you too before he leaves, a long kiss on the lips, his big hands cradling your hips like the last thing he wants to do is let you go.
“Do I also get a good girl treat?” You ask, voice low and teasing. Joel’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, fingers squeezing your hips.
“I left my card and cell on the counter.” Even though Joel doesn’t answer your provocation with words, the fire that burns in his eyes is more than enough. “Call Tommy’s phone if you need anything, okay?”
“Can you—” You hesitate, fixing his flannel even though it’s not out of place at all, unsure if you even should voice your request. Joel squeezes your side again, head cocking to the side.
“Anything.”
“Can you check in throughout the day? Whenever you’re free.”
You burn hot with shyness by the way his eyes soften at that, and Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head before stepping away. “Yeah, of course, darlin’. I’ll call on my lunch break.”
Céline answers your Instagram message in less than ten minutes, and the two of you settle on a FaceTime call just as Sarah goes down for her afternoon nap. You’ve cleaned up a little, wearing a shirt that you don’t think she’ll be able to tell is Joel’s, and you’ve even added just a little bit of make up to the still fading bruises on your face; it’s not the make up or your hair being done that strike you as the most odd when you look in the mirror, though— It’s the fact that you look healthy, no bags under your eyes or ashiness to your skin, your cheeks rounder and even your eyes seem lighter, not in color but in brightness.
You don’t remember ever looking this good before, and it makes your smile a little wider when Céline finally answers the call.
It’s every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be: Céline is surprised and suspicious, and you can see her craning her neck to look over your shoulder as if she’d be able to tell if you were being held at gunpoint. You tell her about the car crash, about losing your job and your phone and about staying at Joel and Tommy’s place because you didn’t feel well enough to be by yourself. You walk around the house as you speak, trying to make it seem casual as you grab a pre-made iced coffee from the fridge — the expensive brand, the one you never would’ve gotten on your own money —, but it’s mostly just so she can see you’re truly by yourself, minus the toddler that sleeps in the little tent in the corner of her bedroom.
“You… Look good.” Céline says at last, after the both of you have apologized for everything that went down in Jackson— You know it takes a lot for a woman like Céline to admit defeat, always so used to people bending at her every whim, always ignoring and overlooking any of her flaws. “Happy.”
“I am.” You bite down on your lip, giving the camera a small smile. There’s a lull in the conversation, the first one since she picked up the phone, and you take the opportunity to bring up the real reason for the call. “Josh came around. Though he’s going by Officer McKenley now.”
Céline’s face goes from its normal color to incredibly pale before burning bright red.
“I was worried about you.”
“I know.”
The two of you fall silent again, though it’s heavier this time, pregnant with all the things you want her to say.
“I’m not going to apologize for caring about you. You left drunk and crying, wouldn’t pick up your phone. And then there was the whole thing about him killing people. And the stalking.”
“Like you said, I was drunk and stoned. I was just saying bullshit for the sake of it.” You shake your head, trying to steer the conversation where you need it to go. “Did you send him my e-mails?”
“The e-mails where you describe the terrifying, weird old man that has been breaking into your house? Of course I did. I don’t care if the two of you kissed and made up, I thought you were in danger. Thought they were going to find you raped and killed somewhere.”
“Did you— Was it, like, an official report or something? Because if it’s official then— Shit, I don’t know, they’ll probably have to look into it even if I said I’m fine.”
“I called Josh’s personal phone. I don’t know if he ever filed a report on it.” Céline shrugged. “Just tell them you lied to me. If he didn’t kill anyone, then they’ll investigate a bit and drop it when there’s no evidence of anything.”
Céline’s face remains impossibly blank, her tone entirely diplomatic, but you can see the way her eyes scan your face and you know she’s trying to catch you in a lie. She still thinks Joel is the killer, you realize, and you’re not certain there’s much you can do now to change her mind.
“You know how people gossip in this fucking town.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, mostly to hide your face from her scrutiny than anything else. “People are going to show up to our house with pitchforks and silver bullets the second they hear he’s a person of interest.”
“I’m not going to apologize—”
“Yeah, you said that already.” You cut her off, your tone clipped and sharp.
Céline offers you a small smile. “Just handcuff him to a radiator during the full moons and you’ll both be fine.”
Her words, although they’re not really funny, pull a snort out of you. “He would look good in handcuffs.”
Céline’s face twists, but she still laughs.
“Is he good to you? Treating you right?”
“Better than anyone.” You say, having to bite down on your tongue to hold back a bitter remark about how she’d basically called you an attention seeking whore the last time the two of you were together. “He’s good with his daughter, and his brother. Takes care of everyone. Hard worker, too.”
“Yeah, okay, well— My door is always open if things go south, alright?”
You think back to how horribly it ended the last time you saw each other but you still smile and nod.
You don’t know what the future really holds, your relationship still so new and fragile, but you don’t think you’ll need her charity ever again.
For the next few weeks, you watch as Joel grows antsier and antsier. He agrees to lay low, to not hunt while there’s still a chance the police are looking for a reason to pin the killings on him, but you can see just how much it affects him. Joel gets snappy, his words clipped and short, fucking you rougher and rougher every time— Never staying still for too long, fingers tapping on his thighs or feet tapping on the floor whenever he’s sitting down, always finding something to fix around the house when he’s not working.
He’s hungry, you can see it in the burning of his eyes and the tension of his muscles.
“Can’t you just have a raw steak or something?” You ask him during one of the few afternoons in which he’s home, the house finally falling silent after you spent forty minutes trying to get Sarah to go down for her nap. “I’m sure it’s not the same as a person, but it might help you hold on for a couple more days, right?”
“It’s not the meat that the wolf is cravin’.” Joel shakes his head, his fingers tapping on the back of the couch as if he’s playing the piano. “It’s the hunt. The chase.”
An image comes to the forefront of your mind, the wolf with his teeth bared and nostrils blown wide, and it makes desire churn in your stomach. For the first time in weeks, Joel’s body goes entirely still, his sharp inhale reverberating through the two of you.
“You’re not thinkin’ —”
“He wouldn’t kill me, right?” You ask, thighs squeezing together, cutting him off because you don’t think you can handle it if he says it out loud.
“I don’t think so.”
His words aren’t all that reassuring, but they only make you wetter.
“Are you— Sweetheart, are you sure?”
You finally look back at him, holding his gaze.
“You’re the one that told me he could come out to play sometime.”
Joel growls. He’s sitting there, fully human, but the sound that leaves him is one that you don’t think human vocal chords would ever be able to produce— Similar, but not the same, as the one he’d done the first time the two of you had sex, when he was starting to lose control over himself.
“Go put on your shoes.” He tells you, voice low and full of gravel. “I’m givin’ you a forty second head start. Make ‘em count.”
Your underwear is fully damp by the time you finish putting on your boots, Joel standing in the kitchen with his back turned to you. You can feel the heat radiating off of him even from afar, his back muscles rippling underneath his cotton shirt as he sips from a water glass; you only hesitate for a moment before reaching underneath your dress, pulling out the pair of black cotton panties you’re wearing and letting it fall on the ground. You think of those cadaver dogs, the ones who can find a person just by the smell of their clothing alone, and goosebumps erupt all over your body as you turn on your heels and run out through the backdoors into the darkening woods.
In hindsight, you probably should’ve prepared better. You don’t have your phone, and you don’t have a flashlight, or a coat— It gets dark incredibly fast as soon as you’re past the treeline, the old trees tall and imposing, blocking the fading sunlight just the same as it blocks the house. You’re not planning on making it too difficult for Joel to catch you, maybe a little dodging him before the wolf finally catches up to you but, the further you go into the darkness, the more it becomes real.
The forest falls silent all of a sudden, the birds and the toads and the crickets silencing so fast you hold your breath; it’s almost as if the animals can sense something you can’t, as if they’ve all been warned of the predator that has entered the territory, every living thing going into hiding as Joel takes the reigns of nature.
You hesitate for a moment, eyes darting around before you find a small pathway between the trees. The man-made kind, the grass stomped over, tree branches carefully removed out of the way; it’s narrow, not visible unless you’re really looking for it, but you rush forward just as you hear the first branch creaking and snapping behind you— Too close.
Your legs push you forward, instinct taking over as you run through the small pathway before taking a sharp turn to the left, mingling with the trees; the space is so small that branches scratch against your face and you think momentarily that you’re safe, that the path you’re on is too closed off for the wolf to follow.
Above your labored breathing you hear the heavy and fast sound of his footsteps— You wonder if it’s on purpose, if he’s being loud to scare you, and it surely works. It makes you panic, in fact, heart hammering inside your chest. You think the sound is coming from your left so you run to your right, jumping over rocks and almost falling over when you step on a moss-covered root; it leads you to an area where the trees aren’t as clumped together, more space for you to see and less claustrophobic. The moonlight shines above, peaking through the top of the trees, and you narrowly miss a depression on the ground that would’ve absolutely sprained your ankle. Air becomes harder, your lungs and thighs burning as you duck underneath a thick branch, skidding to a halt as you hide behind a giant, imposing willow tree.
You drop down, knees to your chest as you try to take a proper breath. You can hear the rustling of the trees, the barely audible creaking of twigs and loose leaves under Joel’s paws as he stalks closer to you; your throat tightens, trapping the air inside your lungs. You can tell that he is right there, just on the other side of the tree, his breathing loud and controlled.
One, two, three— You count his steps, measured and certain, approaching you from the left. You fix your stance, hands on a thick tree root as you prepare to run.
It all happens so fast you barely have time to understand what is going on. You launch yourself to the right just as you hear another creaking from the left and you make it exactly four steps before you’re lunged forward and down; You spin, trying to escape the animal’s grasp but all you manage to do is land on your back, Joel’s heavy weight settling on your chest. His body covers yours like a weighted blanket, wet nostril bumping against the sensitive patch of skin just behind your ear. You push his head away like Tommy had done the night of the accident, trying to wiggle yourself from underneath him but, unlike last time, the wolf doesn’t pull away kindly. Instead he growls, low and long, his chest rattling against yours.
Your muscles freeze, much like they’d done that first time Joel hijacked your body— There are no words this time, no audible command other than the growl but your body responds as if it understands the wolf’s orders, laying pliantly underneath the stars.
“Joel—” You start, trying to call his attention, but the wolf doesn’t seem to mind; it nuzzles the side of your neck and then your collarbone, wet nose tickling against your sternum as it travels lower and lower. You open your mouth, ready to try again, but the words are cut off by the sound of the wolf’s teeth tearing through your dress. The cold air hits your chest for barely a second before his warm breath takes over, tongue impossibly large and unbelievably soft as it laps at your nipples. You shift again but, this time, it’s to accommodate him better between your legs; his belly is warm and soft against you, soft fur that you know you’re soaking with your wetness as you grind up into him. His tongue travels lower, teeth scraping against your stomach as he tugs at the scraps of your dress until you’re fully nude.
You look down, the wolf’s giant head between your legs, but all you can focus on are his eyes.
Joel’s eyes. Warm and kind and human, staring up at you in a way that is uncannily similar to his human form when he checks in on you— You nod, unsure if you even have it in you to give him any sort of verbal consent, but the small movement is more than enough; his tongue is so large that it encompasses your entire cunt in a single swipe. It’s so different from anything you’ve ever experienced but, at the same time, you can still recognize Joel’s movements in the way he laps at your clit, the tip of his tongue toying against your entrance in sharp, certain circles. It’s just a little clumsy, his teeth and snout getting in the way but it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, hands gripping the grass until chunks fall out as you try to ground yourself. You bite down on your bottom lip, awfully aware you’re in a public setting even though there’s no one around, but you think back to Joel’s words that first time you had sex. Can’t wait to have you screamin’ f’me, pretty girl.
You come with a scream of his name on your lips, tufts of grass and dirt underneath your fingernails, hips pushing up into his mouth.
You’re still trying to regain your breath when Joel crawls back over you, whining softly as his snout bumps into your cheek. The fur sticks everywhere, glistening with your slick the way it had done with your blood so many moons ago, and you giggle, scratching the space between his eyes.
“I’m okay. That was—” You giggle again when he starts to purr, chest vibrating where it presses against yours. You feel the head of his cock bump against your thigh, scorchingly hot and leaking, and a fresh new wave of wetness dribbles down your thighs. “Do you want me to turn around?” You ask, still petting his head. “On all fours?”
Joel whines again, and the way he presses his body even more against yours seems like enough of an answer. You press a kiss to his snout, legs spreading even further when you feel his cock pressing against your entrance.
He’s even bigger like this. Joel in his human form had already been a task to take in, but this is something else— You take a deep breath, your fingers digging into the soft fur of his pectoral, your body screaming to push him away but you remain still. He pushes himself inside in two strokes, and the second one has you wailing; for a horrifying moment, you think you won’t be able to handle him, the burn of the stretch and just how full you feel not subduing as quickly as you expect it to.
“Gimme a second.” You say when he starts grinding, legs clamping around him. “Just— please, just a second.”
You bring a hand down to your clit, forcing your tense muscles to relax, rubbing soothing circles until the pain melts away, his thick cock pressing against that perfect little spot inside of you even when he’s not moving making you hungrier. Joel runs his nose down your cheek to your collarbone, sharp teeth scraping against the soft skin of your shoulder. You clench around him, his cock feeling impossibly warm inside of you— He growls, the noise reverberating between the two of you before his hips pull back ever-so-slightly, snapping harshly against yours. It makes you wail, the tip of his cock hitting against your cervix with every fast, jerky thrusts that he gives you; You’re babbling, begging for more and crying that it’s too much, your hand falling away from between your legs. You hold onto him, clutching the fur as Joel ruts into you, his thrusts so harsh they push you upwards on the grass. It doesn’t take you more than a couple of minutes to come, head tilted to the side, drool pooling on the side of your mouth and down your cheek as your body convulses underneath him, clamping down on him so tight that he might’ve slipped out if he wasn’t buried so deep inside of you.
Joel comes with a growl on his throat and his teeth sinking into your shoulder painfully enough that you think he might snap a bone— You scream, both from pain and from pleasure, his cock swelling and throbbing inside of you. He grinds against you as he comes and comes and comes, his pelvic bone pushing against your clit and hurtling you into a third orgasm, the sort of wave of pleasure that has your throat constricting and your eyes rolling back, pebbled nipples rubbing against his chest as your spine twists up. Joel remains locked into you even as you tremble from the overstimulation; he feels even bigger, swelling inside of you and stretching you even further, a mixture of growling and whining rumbling in his throat. And when the aftershocks of your orgasm start to subdue, you realize he’s still coming, still filling you up, teeth clamped down on your shoulder as your lower stomach swells. It’s an odd sensation, feeling his come leak from where he’s still buried inside of you, feeling it push against your bladder in a way that makes you feel him all the way up to your stomach; you think he’ll be leaking out of you for days, thick and warm where he fills you up.
He doesn’t move, caging you protectively when he finally calms down, his head tucking above yours. His neck is soft where you nuzzle into it, so satiated and exhausted you can barely keep your eyes open.
You wake up to Joel’s face — his human face — hovering above yours. His hand is cradling your jawline, and he’s covered in his own blood, curls darkened and sticking to his forehead; a thick glob of congealing blood slides down the beautiful curve of his nose and plops on your cheek.
“Honey, I’m so sorry.” He says, wiping something from your cheek— It leaves behind a wet trail that you can’t recognize whether it is blood or sweat. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I should’a shifted back earlier— How bad does it hurt? ‘M gon’ get you home, or— Or a hospital if you need, alright?”
You frown, pushing yourself up on your elbows. Your body is sore, maybe a little more than it should be, but it doesn’t feel hospital worthy. The worst pain is from your shoulder, in fact, the bite mark throbbing and irritated.
Above all, though, it’s hard to miss how you’re covered in blood. It’s like a scene from Carrie, thick deep red blood dripping down your body, lathering you in it— It’s too much to be yours, and it’s everywhere, from your neck all the way down to your shins. There is a gunk of fur stuck to your left thigh, which Joel pulls away hastily when he notices you staring down at it.
“I had to—” He stalls and, although you can’t see the color of his cheeks underneath the blood, you’re willing to bet he’s blushing. “I had to shift still inside— Would’a hurt you even more if I didn’t.”
“Thank God I wasn’t here for it.” You snort, wiping a hand over your eye— Between the remnants of blood and grass on your fingers, you don’t realize you’re making it worse until after you’ve done it. “You didn’t hurt me, Joel. I’m okay. More than, really.”
He leans forward, bumping his forehead against yours, shoulders sagging with relief.
“Thought you were gonna hate me.”
“Joel,” You shake your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. “You eat people and I don’t hate you for it. This is nothing.”
Joel’s head snaps to the right just a second before you hear the snap of a branch.
There, between the trees, is a man. Officer Josh McKenley, at the two of you with wide eyes and a raised rifle. You can only imagine what it looks like, two people naked and bloodied in the middle of the woods, embracing in a pile of torn clothes and gore.
“Step away from her.” He demands, the gun pointed at Joel. “You okay, miss?”
Even though it would seem that he’s trying to protect you from Joel, you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your body— Slower than they need to, taking in details more than searching for injuries. You curl in on yourself, trying to hide your body from view. Joel growls, and McKenley’s attention snaps back at him.
Despite being fully naked with a gun pointed at him, Joel doesn’t seem worried; he has two hands stretched out in front of him, legs slightly bent, ready to pounce. He waits, though, stepping away from you as instructed.
“I’m going to call for back up.” The man warns, fumbling with the gun as he reaches for his left pocket. “If you move, I’ll shoot you.”
Joel moves. He jumps on the man so fast it makes you shriek, the loud noise of the rifle going off ringing in your ears and drowning out the way McKenley screams, both from surprise and pain as the two of them topple to the ground.
You expect Joel’s shifting from human to wolf to be as slow and gruesome as the deshifting, perhaps the bone-breaking and agonizing process like a scene from An American Werewolf in London but it’s not: It happens in the blink of an eye, the hair on his head growing thicker and spreading, the muscles on his black rippling as his skin stretches and his bones shift into something else. And then you blink, and McKenley is crawling backwards, mouth open in terror, the wolf’s head down to his shoulders as he stalks his prey.
It’s only then that you finally feel the pain. It tears through your bitten shoulder, burning, a small round hole that pierces through one of the teeth marks that gurgles fresh blood.
“Joel?” You call out, hand shaking as you bring it to press down on the bullet wound. It hurts too much, pain searing and blinding, making you pull your hand away instantly. “Holy fuck.”
The wolf’s head turns, staring at you— It’s the split second that McKenley uses to run away, his rifle forgotten in the overgrowth as he flees through the path he came from. Your vision swims, the wolf coming in and out of focus as you lean back, scraping your arm against a tree before you manage to put yourself in a mostly upright sitting position. Joel howls, that same deep and loud noise he’d made to call out for Tommy after the car accident, before coming to your side. He gives the wound a single lick before you manage to push him away; he whines, trying to get you to move your hand out of his snout.
“Unless that tongue can pull out the bullet, I don’t think you should be doing that, buddy.” You say, your voice sounding slurred and foreign in your ears. “Just— Fuck, Joel, it hurts. Just shift back and get me home, please.”
Tommy is in charge of packing while Joel patches up your arm in the bathroom. You’re not proud to admit that you almost pass out as he digs through your shoulder for the bullet, barely hearing the string of apologies that leave his mouth as he works as fast as he can. It’s clear that he’s done this before, a well-stocked first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet and precise movements from his hand.
You keep your eyes averted from the wound, trying to stay as still as you possibly can.
“Do you think it’ll stick?”
Joel hums, distracted. “What, honey?”
“The bite. Am I— Am I gon’ turn into a wolf too, now? You said it spreads through biting and genetics, right?”
“No, ‘s not a full moon tonight.” He runs a finger close to the bite mark, stopping his stitching for a moment. “I’ll fix it as soon as I can shift again, okay? Reckon I can make sure it won’t scar.”
You don’t want it fixed— You don’t want to be a werewolf either, but you like the idea of Joel’s teeth-shaped scar a little too much. But you simply hum, ending the conversation, too tired to voice any of those feelings. He kisses the stitches once he’s done with them, and then helps you into the shower— It’s the first time you’re in the shower with him and it’s certainly not what you pictured, both of you rushing through wiping each other clean while Tommy rushes from room to room, trying to gather as many essentials as he can without waking Sarah up.
You’re not sure at which point they’ve decided to flee. You’ve run into Tommy on your way back to the house, Joel carrying you in his arms. ‘Cop caught me mid shift.’ is the only explanation he gives but that seems to be enough to enable some sort of crisis protocol.
There’s a single, curt knock on the bathroom door just as Joel helps you into your sweatpants.
“Can you wake Sarah up f’me?” He asks you, knuckles brushing softly over the bandage on your shoulder. “Don’t pick her up, can’t have you strainin’ yourself. Just tell her to pick out her favorite toys, that we gotta go on a trip.”
You do as you’re told, arm placed in a sling that Joel pulled together out of gauze and sheer willpower, hair still dripping wet down your back. Sarah is curled up on her toddler bed, a protective wall of stuffed animals between her and the safety guard, her little thumb stuck inside her mouth.
“Sarah?” You call out, softly, trying not to spook the little girl as you push the curls away from her face; her hair is wild and frizzy and you make a mental note of telling Joel to buy her one of those toddler bonnets. “Wake up, puppy. We gotta go.”
“Mama?”
It breaks your heart, watching her little doe eyes blink without recognition— It almost hurts more than Joel calling you by her mother’s name, the cold proof of a little girl that still yearns for someone you could never be.
“Hi, sweetie.” You coo, pushing down the safety rail. “Y’wanna go on an adventure? Your daddy planned a trip for us.”
You sit by her bed as you watch Sarah toddle around the room, collecting her toys and shoving them inside a purple backpack covered in sequins, her little brow furrowed in concentration. She doesn’t ask the million questions you expect from a child so young, she just accepts what you tell her and then gets to business.
It takes Tommy exactly fifty-five minutes to leave the cabin with the half-functioning truck and come back with a fully-functioning car. You’d be impressed if you didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that he prepared for it even though Joel told him not to.
Joel doesn’t let you help with anything other than carrying one of Sarah’s stuffed toys that didn’t fit her backpack and, if you’re being honest, you don’t try too hard to help— Your shoulder throbs even after you’ve taken a couple of painkillers, your muscles sore from… Well, everything. Instead, you sit inside the champagne-colored sedan with Sarah, trying to distract her from what is happening; there is a nervous energy in the air, both Tommy and Joel wound up tight, and you can see the moment she picks up on it, fussing when Joel buckles her into the car seat.
“Where are we going?” You ask, pushing your head between the two front seats. Tommy is driving, and Joel holds a map that looks so old you think it might be close to you in age.
“North.” Joel responds at the same time that Tommy says: “South.”
They both look at each other for a split second before Tommy continues.
“Mexico. I have to, Joel.” His voice is tight and urgent, hands flexing against the steering wheel. “Been feelin’ it for weeks now.”
“Mexico it is.” Joel nods before he turns to you; his face is now so close you can see the different shades of hair on his mustache, his bottom lip marred with teeth marks. “Tommy’s feelin’ the pull.”
“Pull?”
“That’s where my mate is. Somewhere in Mexico.” Tommy is the one that answers. “‘S why we came here of all places. Joel felt you callin’ out to him.”
Despite everything, your lips pull into a small smile.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.”
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER.
Rainy season means stuffy, warm days and unpredictable downpour of rain showers in the middle of the afternoon just when you think the heat is finally going to get you. You’re slowly learning how to adapt, your body craving the rain just as much as it craves the sun. The rainy days are usually easier to handle during the week, while Sarah is in pre-k and you’re at work all afternoon— During the weekends it means Joel has to stay at a job site for longer, and that you’re trapped inside the house with a tiny, bored little girl.
“That boyfriend of yours is coming to pick you up?” Joel asks, leaning against the kitchen sink. Disdain drips off of the word ‘boyfriend’ but, at this point, you think he does it mostly to annoy you and not really because there is any jealousy.
Your ‘boyfriend’ is Raúl, a single father to a little girl around Sarah’s age. The girls met on Sarah’s first day of kindergarten and even though Ellie doesn’t speak English and Sarah doesn’t speak Spanish, the two girls attached to each other’s hips— They share toys and food and are even starting to trade words in their languages; Sarah has taken the habit of pointing out every perro she sees on the street (her uncle Tommy included, once) and you know that didn’t come from her.
“Yup.” You say, pulling the glass of mango juice from between Joel’s fingers just as Tommy bursts into your home— He’s been living on the floor above yours, but it seems like your kitchen is the Central Station. “He’ll pick me and Sarah up in, like, fifteen minutes. G’mornin’, Tommy.”
“Morning.” He says, stealing a slice of bacon from Sarah’s plate. “Who’s coming to pick you up?”
“Mommy’s boyfriend.” Sarah pipes up, licking honey from her fingertips.
“Raúl.” You correct her, elbowing Joel when he cackles at the look on Tommy’s face. “Who is a friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. His daughter has a playdate with Sarah.”
“Don’t forget it.” Joel taps the little pill container on the counter before he moves back to the living room. The kitchen is small and, although the brightly lit windows make it seem bigger than it really is, the place gets just a little crowded as Tommy shoves his head inside the fridge.
You roll your eyes, but you pick out the antidepressants and swallow them with the mango juice anyway; truth is, even though you keep complaining about the pills, the wonders that they’ve done to your life are something you don’t think you’ll ever take for granted— The pills and Dr. Canul, the therapist that has been seeing you ever since settled down in Puerto Morelos.
It had taken your little family — your pack — about eight months to figure out a town to finally settle roots, living in cars and cheap motels for so long you thought it might affect Sarah’s development; Tommy was the one guiding the four of you, never settling anywhere for longer than a month before his mate started to pull him somewhere else. It got to a point where you were certain he was making it up, or perhaps confused by his feelings, but Joel had blind faith in his brother so every other month you packed up your car and left for a new place.
Puerto Morelos had been your home for almost ten months now, and it was such a dream you feared the day Tommy decided his mate wasn’t there anymore— Sarah is thriving in kindergarten, Dr. Canul is the nicest doctor you’ve ever met, and your little house near the beach is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Your job, too, at a local artisan shop where you get to sell your paintings while manning the register; the owner is an old woman that had been kind and patient, teaching you how to weave baskets and huipiles, never faulting you or making fun of the way you still tripped over your ever-growing Spanish vocabulary. She simply corrects you with a soft ‘no, mija’ and, during one particularly exciting afternoon, threatened to beat a teenager with the bat she keeps in the back of her shop after he made fun of you.
Life is good, more than— Life is everything you’ve ever dreamed of, in the community that embraced you and your family, with the ocean breeze and the hot sun and the sense of belonging that you’ve never found anywhere else.
The thought that Tommy might take that away at any moment keeps you awake at night. You understand his connection to Joel, understand that their need for each other goes much further than simply a sibling bond: They’re a pack, and their wolves are social creatures that need each other to be fully at peace. Still, you fear the day you’ll have to mourn your home.
Raúl knocks on the door just as Tommy shoves the last piece of bread in his mouth, his tanned cheeks full like a chipmunk as Sarah runs to yank the door open.
“Hola, cielito.” Raúl says but she’s barely listening, already grabbing Ellie and yanking her inside. They squeal together and run to the back of the house. “Hey. Front gate was open, I figured I could—”
You don’t really understand what happens at the moment but, in hindsight, it’s pretty obvious. Raúl freezes halfway through his sentence, his eyes glued to the looming presence over your back; he stares at Tommy for a second too long before plastering a smile that is visibly fake.
“Joel, right?” He asks, offering a hand. Tommy doesn’t answer, mouth still full, not really chewing anymore. You resist the urge to elbow him, choosing instead to answer.
“Tommy, actually. Joel’s brother. Say hi, Tommy.” You finally give in and elbow him in the ribs when Raúl’s fake smile falters, his hand already halfway down before Tommy spurs into action, grabbing it between both of his.
It only dawns on you what is actually happening when Tommy brings Raúl’s hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it before dropping entirely. Raúl’s eyes dart to you, shoulders visibly relaxing when he sees the way you’re tying — and failing — to hide your smile.
“We kinda had a change of plans.” You tell him, neck craning as you try to catch Joel’s attention— He has his back to you, lacing his boots and mumbling something on the phone. “I have some errands to run, my prescription expires today so I really need to go get it and I forgot to defrost the chicken so I can’t make lunch and, uh, Joel needs my help with some stuff. Tommy’s chaperoning the girls with you today, if that’s alright?”
Tommy frowns at you, his eyes fleeting to your face before rushing back to the man still in front of him. “Joel said we—”
“Like I said, change of plans.” You cut him off. “Can’t go into work with all this rain, so you both get the day off. Well, he gets the day off. You get to babysit your niece.” You smile at Raúl, who is biting down on his bottom lip and you can tell you haven’t been able to fool him. “Tommy’s great with kids. Loves them to death. Always wanted one of his own, right?”
“Uh—”
“And Sarah loves him.” You go on, not letting Tommy get a word in. “Ellie will love him too, you’ll see. He’s kind of a dumbass sometimes and he charms all of the old ladies wherever he goes, but he’s a sweetheart. And— Uh— A great chaperoning partner. You guys should go grab some ice cream later.”
“Ice cream sounds nice.” Raúl agrees, eyes shining with mirth.
Tommy nods a second later. “Yeh— Yeah, it does.”
“Great!” You say, clapping your hands. Joel is finally looking at you, both of his eyebrows raised. “Now off you go. I want a day off with my boyfriend.”
The house is all but empty before Joel can finish lacing up his boots. From the kitchen window you watch as Tommy opens the car door for Raúl, giving him a thumbs up when he looks back at you for a second; Tommy offers you his middle finger, but he’s smiling from ear to ear.
“Is there a particular reason why you just gave my brother a day off without tellin’ me first?”
“That’s his mate.” You say, surprised Joel didn’t pick up on it. “I’ll handcuff them together if I have to before I move out of Puerto Morelos.”
He laughs, his hands coming up to wrap around you.
“And here I was thinkin’ it was because you wanted the house all to ourselves.”
Your arms settle on his shoulders on their own, leaning back so you can look him in the eyes. Joel seems happier too, more at ease than he did when the two of you met— His eyes shine more, his smile brightening more often. That sadness you’d noticed when you first saw him is completely gone, his face constantly sunburnt and his hair frizzy from the salt air.
As today is the 50th anniversary of the moon landing, it’s a great time to revisit Dinah from Devon’s memory of this historic event. And yes, still makes me laugh.
Summary: Joel sits downstairs, reading by the stove, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the footsteps of his son’s girlfriend. Trying to pretend he doesn’t remember what the two of you have done and feel. But when you appear in the dark—barefoot, wide-eyed, floaty-headed and call him Daddy like you still mean something by it, he knows you’re about to break the rules again.
Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, slight angst, age gap! (60s and 20s), fingering, praise kink, slight mean!joel, daddy kink, ddlg undertones, subspace, infidelity, power imbalance, taboo relationship dynamics, needy!reader, no outbreak,
A/N: i’m not feeling very well lately. this is just an unfinished draft that I never finished, but I wrapped it up now to kinda ease myself back into writing. I also want to finally get to some requests that have been sitting in my inbox. Things might move a little slower for now, I’m sorry about that! But i hope yall enjoy this one in the meantime: filthy, taboo nonsense that just hits right when you’re horny hehe😋
The fire crackled low in the stove, its orange glow flickering across the old wooden floorboards. The room was dim, lit only by the firelight that danced around Joel’s chair. He sat still, legs stretched out, reading glasses perched low on his nose, the spine of a thick book resting in one hand.
Outside, the wind knocked against the windows, but inside it was warm and real quiet. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and makes you forget the day.
Joel turns a page slowly, his eyes moving steady across the lines, but he wasn’t really reading anymore. Not with the fire murmuring besides him. Not with the weight of the day finally easing off his shoulders.
And then—
a sound.
Soft and unmistakable. Footsteps.
He stilled.
The book lowered an inch. His jaw tightens just slightly. He didn’t look up, not yet. Just listened. One step. Then another. A pause. Then the creak of the top stair.
Joel closed the book gently, thumb marking the page.
He didn’t need to look to know it was you.
His eyes flicked towards your figure in the hallway, dressed in white like a ghost. The room was dark, but Joel could still make out the tremble of your lips, the flush blooming across your cheeks.
He doesn’t want to know what you did upstairs with his son, he didn’t even want to think of it.
And more than anything, he didn’t want you coming to him—disturbing the only ounce of peace he ever feels, that quiet hour when the house is asleep, and it’s just him, a book, and the soft crackle of the fire.
You slip into the room without a word, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs as you move gently to the couch besides him. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Swallows. His jaw tightens. And you can already see his knuckles going white from gripping the book too hard.
With a quiet sigh, legs are drawn up as you settle besides him, eyes fixed on the way he turns the page—his hands broad and steady, the book looking small in his palm.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, thoughts wrapped in cotton. Everything feels soft, distant—like the only thing keeping you tethered to the moment is Joel.
He clears his throat, making you look up to him.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and hoarse, the sound of it rumbling deep in your chest.
You shake your head. “No, it’s too quiet up there.”
“You’re not used to country,” he answers with a hum.
He was right. Staying at Joel’s farmhouse—just because your boyfriend insisted that spending the holidays at his dad’s place would help you relax—was a mistake. Instead of peace, you were face to face with the very thing you’d been trying to avoid for years.
And now you can’t keep it together anymore. Joel knows it.
He saw it already on your glassy eyes on the breakfast table. Or on the way you gently touched him when you tried to slip past him.
“Do you always read in the dark?” You ask.
“Sometimes. When my eyes get used to it. Helps me wind down, you know?”
You nod, and you feel it in your chest—knowing that once, you knew everything about him. That he once told you everything. Every little quirk he had and has.
Silence stretches between you. Joel’s head dips, trying to make something of the words he is reading, but the only thing his mind allows is to hear your little breaths and your voice looping inside his mind.
He can feel you staring.
“You should go back to bed.” He says, finally.
Your heart thuds in your chest. You tilt your head, eyes glassy looking at him.
“Doesn’t feel right,” you murmur. “Up there. Without you.”
He shakes his head, jaw clenching, hands closing the book.
“We’ve talked about this.”
You nod.
“Remember?”
“I remember.” Your voice is just above a whisper.
“And?” His eyebrows go up, reading glasses moving with them. His voice makes your skin crawl; it makes you want to curl yourself further into the couch and disappear. You just needed him.
“I-i’m not trying to start anything.” A lie.
“Bullshit.” His voice cuts through the warm atmosphere of the room—sharp, hitting right into your heart. Your bottom lip wobbles as you look at him, breath picking up.
“Look at you.” His hand sways in your direction, eyes scanning you up and down. “You look like a mess.”
“I—I don’t mean to be.” Your voice is breathy, almost like a whimper. “I just…I don’t feel right.”
Joel scoffs, his heart breaking a little too—from being so mean. He doesn’t want to be. But you two were never meant to be. What happened between you has to stay in the past, forgotten. That was the deal: to never talk about it again. To never seek each other out. To never ask for more.
“You should go,” Joel says again, quieter this time. “Ain’t right, you sittin’ here like this.”
You don’t move. Just look at him, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t wanna be alone.”
“That ain’t my problem.” You flinch. “You have your boyfriend right upstairs, you don’t need me.”
Silence falls again.
Neither of you move or say anything. Joel doesn’t look at you—his eyes are focused on the way the fire plays shadows on the walls and the way it lights up the place.
You, on the other hand…are almost on the verge of crying. Not because of sadness, but because you’re locked in a headspace that won’t let you think straight. One that just wants to be cradled, to be held, and to be told that everything is going to be okay.
And that should be from Joel.
Because your boyfriend doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand your headspace, your needs. He doesn’t listen, and when he does he misinterprets what you say.
Joel doesn’t. He never did.
After a while Joel releases a big breath, and rubs his forehead.
And then he hears it:
“daddy, i’m sorry.”
It lands like match on dry grass.
Joel freezes. That word hangs in the air—thick, trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mind already drifting to the past, to when you laid underneath him and called him that word like he was your anchor.
When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. But they’re not angry. Not anymore. They’re wrecked. He knows he has been fighting this way too long, and he knows that a single word can break him. And that happened now.
“Jesus,” he mutters, just under his breath.
Your cheeks flush, embarrassment runs through your body.
He drags a hand down his face, then looks at you—really looks. At the way you’re still curled in on yourself, flushed and trembling, eyes wide, lips swollen, wet and waiting for something.
“You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me,” breathes out.
But he’s already moving. The book slides from his lap to the floor with a soft thud. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and opens his arms.
“C’mere,” he says, voice gentler now. “Come here.”
You move fast. You climb into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times before—knees on either side of his thighs, arms already reaching to curl around his neck, face nuzzling toward the warm space beneath his jaw.
But his hand comes up, firm against your shoulder.
“Hey.”
You pause, blinking up at him, dazed and soft. Sou try again, leaning in, seeking the comfort of his chest, but his voice sharpens.
“Hey…hey. Hey.” He catches your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to his. His eyes focused on your lips.
“You know we can’t keep doin’ this,” he starts, voice low. “We said last time was the last time.”
You whimper, barely a sound, but it’s enough to make his grip falter for a second. His thumb brushes your cheek, gentler now.
“Last time,” he says again, quieter. “You hear me?”
You nod, slow.
“Promise?” he asks.
You nod again, eager. But he doesn’t let go.
“No,” he says, firmer. “Words.”
“Promise.”
He watches you for a beat longer, then exhales through his nose. His hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you in.
“Good girl.”
And just like that, you curl into him, breath soft against his neck, while he can feel how far you’ve gone—how quiet, how warm, how gone. Your body’s heavy in his lap, boneless, like you’re melting into him inch by inch. And Joel knows what that means.
His hand moves slowly over your back, steady and grounding, trying to soothe you.
“You’re real quiet now,” he murmurs. “That little motor of yours finally ran outta steam, huh?”
You don’t answer. Just nuzzle closer, your lips brushing the side of his neck, barely there.
“You’re deep in it, ain’t you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even see it happen.”
He shifts slightly, adjusting you in his lap, cradling you closer. His voice drops to a whisper.
“You always do this to me,” he says. “Come in here all soft, all sweet…and I try so damn hard to be good.”
You let out a tiny sound—half sigh, half whimper—and it breaks something in him.
“Shh,” he soothes, pressing his lips to your temple. “I know, baby. I know.”
His hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“You’re safe,” he whispers. “Daddy’s got you.”
You feel soft in his lap, breath already hitching, hips starting to shift just enough to make him feel it. You need him.
Joel’s hand tightens on your hip, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to hold something back.
You nod, whimpering softly, and he exhales like it hurts.
“Can you tell me what you need?” he asks, brushing your hair back. “Just wanna make sure you’re still with me.”
“Want you,” you whisper. “Please, Daddy.”
He closes his eyes for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. You want Daddy to help you come back down.”
His hand slides lower, slow and steady.
“S’okay,” he murmurs. “I got you.”
And just as he shifts you in his lap, his mouth close to your ear, you hear it—barely a breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud: “This the last time.”
But his hands don’t stop.
“Y’stay real quiet, yeah? Don’t want him hearin’ that his dad’s takin’ care of his girlfriend better.”
It’s not a threat. It never is. It’s resentment, but not at you—god, never at you. It’s at the boy, his own son, who gets to have you in the daylight, while Joel only gets the dark.
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard while looking into your hazy eyes. You whine again, signalling that you’re ready. Ready for him to take you. He chuckles under his breath in response.
So, Joels hand slides down, slow and warm, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, then lower. He cups you over your panties, real gentle, but firm—and lets out a quiet breath when he feels the dampness.
“Messy girl.” he coos.
You whimper, hips pressing desperately into his palm.
“Shh,” he soothes, lips brushing your temple. “I know. Daddy’s here.”
He quickly hooks a finger around the edge of your panties, tugging them aside with care, while your head rests on his chest—breathing in his wooden scent. His fingers find you, slick, soft, sticky and he strokes through the wetness, slow and teasing. His fingertip brushes over your clit gently, and you gasp.
“Just like that,” he whispers. “Let me feel you.”
After letting you settle, he eases one finger inside—only one, because he knows you need time to adjust in this headspace. His finger settles into your cunt, and you breathe out, clinging to him, as he holds you tighter.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy.”
He waits for yuou, lets you adjust, then begins to move—gentle, curling thrusts, deep and slow, while his other hand cradles your back.
You were already feeling sensitive—like your body knew Joel was near, like your cunt could sense the weight of his big, steady hands cradling you. And you were always extra needy when you started to float.
He shifts just enough to see your face, brushing your hair back with the hand not inside you. Your eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed. You look dazed, dreamy, like you’re floating somewhere only he can reach.
Joel swears under his breath. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “All gone, huh?”
You hum, barely even able to nod, and he smiles: absolutely wrecked by how beautiful you are like this.
His fingers keep moving, slow and sure, coaxing you through it, fingertip curling into that one spot that only Joel can reach. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.
“You stay with me, babygirl. Don’t drift too far.”
You move softly in his lap, breath hitching, but hips shifting just a little more desperately—like you’re chasing something just out of reach.
Joel notices. Of course he does.
“Still restless, huh?” he murmurs, voice still against your ear. “One ain’t enough for you, baby?”
You shake your head, your body answering before your mouth can.
He smiles knowing. “S’okay,” he whispers. “I got you.”
He eases his hand back, just enough to press a second finger to your entrance. He waits—feels the way your body flutters, how you cling to him tighter.
“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Let me in.”
And when you do—when he slides that second finger in, slow and careful—you sigh, your cunt fluttering around him. The stretch is deeper, fuller, and your whole body melts around him.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s what you needed, huh?”
Joel starts with his thrusts again. Slow, deep and grinding. Every thrust now pressing into you more fully, brushing against that sweet, aching spot inside you. You can already feel the stickiness between your thighs, the way your slick clings to him, to you, to everything. It’s warm, messy, perfect.
“Daddy…” you sigh, burying your face into his chest.
“Yea? Like that?” He asks, placing a kiss on your temple. “Daddy’s filling you up nice and slow?”
You nod your head softly, coming closer to his chin, pressing a peck on his lips and then a faint one on his stubbles.
The chair under you two groans as your hips shift, chasing the rhythm of his hand. You’re trying to stay quiet, but every slow thrust makes you tremble, makes you cling to him tighter.
His fingers continue to move slow and deep inside you, while the room is quiet, so quiet that you can hear it. That soft, wet sound each time he thrusts in. It’s intimate.
A slick little whisper between your thighs, hidden in the space where your bodies meet.
He presses in deeper, and the squelch is louder now—squelching, needy. You feel it in your belly, on your skin.
The slick sounds between you grow wetter, messier, and your breath comes in soft, broken gasps. Joel feels it—the way you’re clenching tighter, the way your body’s starting to shake.
“You’re close, yea?” he murmurs, voice thick with warmth. “I can feel it, baby.”
You can’t answer. You just whimper, pressing your face into his neck, trying to hold on.
And then you feel it—his thumb, warm and steady, sliding down to circle your clit. Gentle at first, just enough to make you gasp.
“There we go. So puffy for daddy, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Let Daddy help you.”
His fingers keep moving inside you, while his thumb works soft, perfect circles over that aching spot. The rhythm is steady and grounding.
“That’s it, babygirl. Just come for me. I’ve got you.”
His fingers find that tender spot inside you again—just as his thumb circles your clit just right, and his voice drops low in your ear. “Yes, that’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”
And then you do.
Your whole body tenses, then breaks. You cry out, soft and wrecked and he holds you tighter as your release rushes through you. He feels it immediately—the way your walls flutter around his fingers, the way your slick gushes over his hand, warm, wet and so desperate.
It runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, dripping onto his wrist and soaking into the fabric of his jeans. But he doesn’t care. He loves it.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “Let it all out. I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t pull away. He keeps his fingers inside you, gentle now, nestled deep, cradling the soft, fluttering squeeze of your walls as you come down. The chair creaks beneath you, the room still thick with heat and breath and the soft, wet sounds of your release.
“You’re making such a big mess, baby girl…” he murmurs. “Daddy has to clean ya up, hm?”
His other hand strokes your back, grounding you, while his lips press soft kisses to your temple.
“Still flutterin’,” he whispers, almost in awe. “So sweet. So soft.”
You whine, your body coming down from your release—still overwhelmed, and he hushes you gently.
“I know, baby. I know. You gave me everything, didn’t you?”
He stays there with you, fingers still inside, until your breathing evens out and your body stops trembling. Even then, he doesn’t pull away. He just holds you, full and warm and safe in his arms.
“You’re okay,” he says softly.
You hum, content. His scent is everywhere—smoke, leather, wood. You feel like you could stay here forever.
“You feel better, babygirl?” he asks sweetly.
You nod, slow and lazy. “Mhm. Thank you, Daddy.”
You’re curl into his lap, limp and trembling, your cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers slip from you now, but his arms don’t move. One hand strokes your back in slow, grounding circles. The other rests on your thigh, warm and steady.
The chair creaks softly beneath you both again, but neither of you moves. You’re still slick between your legs, the mess of your release soaking into his jeans, but he doesn’t care. He just presses a kiss to your hairline—gentle, lingering.
“You were so good,” he says softly. “So damn sweet.”
There’s a pause. Like he wants to say more. Like there’s something sitting heavy in his chest. But instead, he just holds you tighter.
“Let’s just stay like this a while.”
“Just let me have this,” he says, barely audible. “Just for a little longer.”
And you do. Because right now, in this hush, in his arms—you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Okey i’m gonna be honest…i don’t like this but i also missed writing for daddy Joel sooo…I hope you guys enjoyed it! Also this is not proofread🫣 please let’s just ignore all the mistakes and things that don’t make sense
Now i’m gonna concentrate on some requests, and then i’ll probably post ex hitman!joel! He is miserable, bleeding but still soft for her <3
kianamaiart
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
gamechangershow
pixelskylines
