(U)nhinged (S)mut (E)nthusiast

Side Writing Blog. I LOVE TO READ AND WRITE SMUT. You can either call me USE or HONEY (preferably). Proshipper. 28 years old. She/Her. Bi 🌈Sagittarius. Autistic/ADHD. she/her. Blk/🇭🇹. Requests Closed. Minors DNI. Main page: www.tumblr.com/blog/honey-flustered

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[baronessvonglitter]

THE SLEEPOVER

best friend’s stepdad!Joel Miller x f!reader | 4.7K | read on AO3

Summary: Your plan to seduce your best friend's stepdad is coming along perfectly. But there's one small hitch..

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Girthy age gap (reader is 21, Joel is in his 50s). Frenemy relationship. Alcohol. Passing out. TW: Stepcest. TW: Dub con. Unprotected piv. Voyerism. F!masturbation. Jealousy. Multiple orgasms. Secret relationship. Daddy issues. Mention of virginity loss. TW: infidelity. Nipple play. Creampie. TW: drugging. Not beta'd because I'm insane enough to think it's pretty good.

A/n: another one that's been in the wip folder for centuries 😅 this is purely for entertainment reasons, if you don't like what's in the tags feel free to keep scrolling.

dividers by @/sisterlucifergraphics 👑

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

Tonight's the night. You're finally gonna fuck your best friend's stepdad.

Joel Miller has been haunting your every waking thought since you first met him over Christmas break. You and your new college friend Katie spent a few days with her mom and her new husband after you decided you couldn't stand your own family for very long. And that was when Katie's stepdad became a fixture in your fantasy department.

Tall, broad, a permanent tan from working in the sun, and with biceps as big as tree trunks, Joel is first on your list of Old Men to Fuck.

Before him you never bought into the whole "older guy" kink. Most men Joel's age are balding, with bulging guts and tiny dicks. Mr. Miller himself has none of those things. And the third one you hope to find out for yourself.

You show up on Katie's doorstep unannounced, your overnight bag in hand. Your bikini is already on under your shirt and shorts. She looks less than enthusiastic. Surprised, even.

"I wasn't expecting you until next weekend," she tells you, looking like she might even shut the door on you.

"C'mon, don't leave your best friend hanging." You prop the door open with the flat of your palm, swooshing past her and into the foyer. Joel and his wife have a nice place. Lots of different rooms and a huge pool in the back. "My parents are fighting again. Don't be a shitty friend and turn me away." Your words have a bite despite the smile plastered on your face.

"How long are you staying?" she asks, trudging upstairs after you.

"Umm.. not sure. How long is your mom gone for work?"

"The rest of the week. She comes back Thursday night."

"Where's Joel?" you ask innocently.

A pause from Katie. "He's in the backyard."

You ignore Katie's weirdness and stride outside, through the French doors and onto the deck. Joel's out at the grill, and the scent of cooking meat greets your nose.

"Well, hello there Mr. Miller." You saunter up to him, your top and jeans chucked off in Katie's room, your big and perky tits on display under the neon orange bikini top. Your bottom isn't a thong but it may as well be, the amount of ass you're showing.

Joel smirks at your chipper greeting, offering a little nod. "Hey there, scooter," he says. You want to lick up the drops of sweat beading on his forehead. He's the epitome of the Ultimate Dad, dressed in a navy blue Dallas Cowboys shirt and tan cargo shorts, crisp white New Balance sneakers on his feet.

"That looks so good," you tell him, leaning over the grill, arching your back so he can get a good look your generous cleavage. "Ooh.. I just love a good, thick sausage!"

The brief smirk on his face isn't lost on you, and you give him a little wink as you walk to the pool. He wipes his face on his sleeve before going back to the grill.

It's so easy to flirt with him. He takes it in stride, but you know it's because he can't openly flirt back in front of his stepdaughter, who will surely tell her mom on you both.

You stay within his line of sight, spreading sunscreen on your skin even though Katie has the spray kind. You take your time, hands roaming over your body, surreptitiously glancing at Joel. And he's definitely watching. Smiling, you come up to him as he closes the grill, getting ready to join you and Katie in the pool.

"Get my back?" you ask, handing him the bottle.

You untie the knot holding up your halter bikini top, feeling the heat of his gaze upon your skin. His large, roughened hands knead the cream onto your shoulders, smoothing down your back, settling briefly on your waist, squeezing lightly before tracing back up, massaging the sunscreen into your skin. "Anywhere else?" he asks gruffly.

You glance over at Katie, who's sitting on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water. She's glaring at you, but turns away when she catches your eye. She's either angry or embarrased, probably both. You don't care. You're gonna be bouncing on her step-daddy's dick soon.

It's easy to keep Joel's attention on you once you have it. Your breasts are practically spilling out of your top. You make it a point to show them off as much as you can, especially in the pool, staying in the shallow end so they stay above the water, bountiful and enticing. You can practically see him licking his lips. Later when you eat you keep eye contact with him as you seductively eat the sausage on your plate. By the time lunch is over you're sure you're getting that cock tonight.

You lay on the lounge chair, soaking up the sun. Katie naps peacefully in the chair next to you, mouth open, snoring lightly. Joel's on your other side, the sunlight gleaming on the water droplets on his skin, his arm over his eyes to block out the harsh sun. You admire the soft paunch of his belly, the hairiness of his navel, the little peek of a happy trail leading down to his swim trunks. And there, currently at rest, the soft line of his thick cock, just visible through the material.

You run your tongue along your lips, reaching out ever so cautiously. But Joel looks up in time to grasp your hand. "What do you think you're doin', little lady?"

"Just admiring the view, Mr. Miller." you tease him, not releasing from his grip. You glance over to Katie. "She's asleep, she won't see anything," you whisper to him.

Joel's mouth is set in a firm line, and you can practically see the decision-making going on behind those dark lustful eyes. "You always this bold?"

"Only when I see something I want.."

"You're trouble," he whispers.

"You don't know the half of it.."

Katie wakes up suddenly, breaking the mood. But you've come prepared, and bring out the bottle of whiskey you brought with you. "Shots, anyone?"

You wake up groggy, your mouth dry and bitter, your stomach swirling with nausea. Your phone lights up at your touch, showing it's two in the morning.

The last thing you remember is doing shots with Katie and Joel. Maybe you went past your limit, though you pride yourself on handling your alcohol. Sitting up in Katie's bed you try to clear the fuzz in your brain as you reach for a bottled water on the nightstand.

Only then do you realize Katie's gone. Hopefully she just went to the bathroom. Refusing to divert from your plan of seducing Joel you get up and change into the sexy pajama set you'd bought for just this occasion, and start your way downstairs.

Your heart is thudding with excitement, your pussy already drenched with thoughts of what you're going to do to him.. and what he's going to do to you.

Halfway down the stairs you hear a thud coming from the living room, and then a harsh "Sh!" and a soft groan.

Joel's not alone.

Did his wife come home early? You peek into the living room where the TV casts its cerulean glow on a completely unclothed couple on the sofa, the woman writhing on the man's lap, his large hands on her hips. Your heart lurches when you see who it is.

Joel and Katie.

They're trying to be quiet, despite the rhythmic thwacking of flesh on flesh, and they're too absorbed in each other to notice you standing in the doorway. Katie's little whimpers of pleasure fill the room as Joel stares up at her, eyes evoking unbridled lust.

It makes your head spin as you put all the pieces together. Katie hadn't wanted you around this weekend - specifically because she wanted Joel for herself. She must have put something in your drink to make you fall asleep so she could sneak out and fuck him.

Katie's not as much of a shrinking violet as you thought. Part of you can't help being a little proud of her subterfuge.

You know you should leave, but a bigger part of you stays rooted to the spot, your hand going into your sleep shorts and under your panties as you watch your best friend and her stepdad.

Joel covers Katie's mouth as she comes, his huge palm barely able to mimimize the moan of pleasure that emits from her. Once she recovers he gently places her on her back, her legs hanging over his shoulders as he steadily pumps into her.

Your fingers are inside you, scissoring to spread you as wide as you imagine Joel's dick is, pumping your hand into you at the same speed that Joel is going. It should be you stuffed full of his cock on the living room sofa. It should be you moaning his name in ecstasy, barely attempting to quiet yourself.

Every time she comes he talks her through it, murmuring sweet things to her as he lets her come down and then switches position again, likely wanting to feel her in every way possible. Now he has her face-down ass-up as he pummels into her from behind, his grip on her so strong it's leaving bruises on her hips.

You whimper as you imagine yourself in Katie's place, but they're too engrossed in each other to hear it. You're waiting for her to come so you can let go too. And right as she's moaning his name Joel pulls away, stroking himself until he spills his load on her ass, both of them breathing heavily and slumped over. You come right after, soaking your hand in your panties, your free hand clamped over your mouth. What a rush, and yet you have so many questions as to what you've just witnessed.

They're talking now, speaking in low tones, likely trying not to wake you, under the impression that you're still asleep upstairs.

"I'll send her away," Katie's saying. "I know you don't like her. I don't like her very much, either."

Biting back a retort you harden your gaze at the two of them, laying side by side on the sofa.

"I saw the way she was throwing herself at you," she continues. "I wanted to push her into the pool."

Joel chuckles low and soft, the way you'd been fantasizing he would do with you. "She's the type of girl who's used to getting what she wants. She's nothing like you, soft and shy and quiet. I love that I don' t know what's goin' on inside that pretty head of yours." To top it off he kisses the top of her head.

"She's only my friend because she wants to sleep with you," Katie warns.

"She ain't gonna get that far," he says as a promise. "Look at me." He cups her chin and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. "It's just you and me, okay? Not even your ma can come between us."

You're back in bed when Katie returns. Even as she stands over your bed, you feign sleep. You don't have the mental fortitude it takes to process what you just witnessed. It was like a porn coming to life. Except it should have been you, not Katie.

"Wake up," she says. "I know you saw us."

"What?" you murmur, feigning tiredness. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Cut your bullshit," she growls. "You saw me fucking Joel, didn't you?" You've never seen this side of her before. Sweet, gentle Katie, who cried at those stupid SPCA commercials and said yes ma'am/yes sir to everyone over the age of thirty. The Katie you thought was a virgin and saving herself for marriage, or at the very least, romance.

Maybe you've met your match.

You sit up, dropping the act. "So what if I did? I was on my way to fuck him myself. Little did I know his own stepdaughter got to him first. You're gross, you know that? He's practically like a father to you."

"He's not my father. Besides, I love Joel, and he loves me."

This makes you laugh. "You're kidding, right? Katie, he's married to your mother! The man's not gonna drop everything just to be with you. He found an easy lay. No one in the world is dumb enough to give that up."

"You're just jealous."

"Yeah, let me tell you how much I want to run away with your stepfather." You roll your eyes. "You really think he loves you? You're delusional, Katie."

She sits on the bed, shoulders hunched. The closer she gets, you can get a whiff of sex off her.

"It's real between us, you know," she says quietly. "It's not just sex. We really do love each other."

"Oh honey, be real," you urge her. "It's fine for you to have your fun with him, but it's not gonna go anywhere. He'd lose everything. It's not worth the risk."

She's quiet, as if she's contemplating your words. Of course sweet little virgin Katie would fall head over heels for the first older man to give her some attention. You just never thought it'd be Joel Miller of all people.

"How did it happen?" you ask out of curiosity, a gnawing need that must be sated. Scooching over, you make room for her in the bed with you as she begins her story:

She used to steal his flannel shirts from his hamper when he was out. She liked the scent of him, whether it was the cologne her mom had bought him for his birthday or his own natural scent, the sweat the lingered on him as he came inside from mowing the lawn or working in the shed out back.

It was her secret sin that she had a crush on the man her mother married. Her own dad left to start over in another state with a younger woman who worked at his office. He wrote emails, sent gifts, but didn't put the effort in that showed his love. Joel hated him for that, cussing him out whenever his name was mentioned.

"You deserve better than that," Joel would mutter, squeezing Katie's shoulder. It was innocent at first. He had eyes only for her mom. He saw her as a daughter of his own, or so he'd told her. He'd never done anything inappropriate or acted untowardly with her. Part of her was relieved. A deeper, darker part of her wished he'd cave in so she could do so too.

She studied you, your behavior around men when you used them to get what you want. Standing shyly on the sidelines, she learned how to move, how to use her voice, how to dress. Luckily Joel didn't seem to mind what she wore, always complimenting her whether she had on her worn overalls or the sundress she'd borrowed from your own closet.

She was wearing that sundress the first time she kissed him.

He'd froze at first before pushing her away, telling her she shouldn't have done that, it was wrong for numerous reasons. But then he gave in and kissed her again.

That's all it was at first, just kissing and touching, always when her mom was out, or upstairs in bed, aided to sleep by a combination of pinot noir and heavy medication. Katie was a virgin, but despite her curiosity she didn't want to rush into this.

Certain sins she kept from him, like the way she'd steal his favorite flannel shirt from the laundry hamper, still bearing his scent, his sweat, the remnants of his cologne.. When he was out she would sneak the shirt into her room and touch herself, playing with her pussy while she held the fabric to her nose, imagining things she didn't dare suggest to him outright.

One night she didn't count on him coming home so early, and had fallen asleep on his bed after bringing herself to pleasure over and over..

Joel's heart stopped as he took in the sight of her on his bed, her legs bare beneath the t-shirt. He felt a jolt of desire course through him, his fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to touch her. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, torn between doing what he wanted and doing what was right. He slowly approached the bed, his eyes roaming over her body. His hands itched to touch her skin, to pull her into his arms. "Katie," he whispered, his voice almost reverent.

"Mm?" she moaned, waking up slowly.

Joel froze as she stirred, his heart thudding in his ears, He didn't know what to do, what to say. "You.. you're in my bed," he managed to croak out, his eyes glued to her half-naked body.

"S-sorry," she realized she was still holding his flannel. Joel's eyes flickered to his shirt still clutched in her hands and swallowed hard, trying to find a coherent thought. "You shouldn't be in here.."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, with no excuse for why she was in there in the first place. Joel shook his head, his voice a low growl. "Don't apologize." He took a step closer to the bed, his body moving of its own accord, drawn to her like a magnet.

Her breath shuddered and despite herself her core grew warm and wet. "I'll go."

"No," Joel said firmly, his hand shooting out to grip her wrist as she started to get up.

"Joel?" She gasped when he pressed her down, undoing his jeans. Her panties were pushed to the side as she held onto him, heart buzzing with excitement.

"Katie.. God, I'm sorry," he groaned as he settled between her thighs.

All her breath left her as he pushed forward and she gasped in surprise. Joel stilled above her, his face mere inches from her. "Did I hurt you?" His body trembled with the effort to keep still.

"I'm okay," she whispered, the pain melting already. As soon as she said that he started to snap his hips against hers and she cried out.

His breath caught in his throat, fingers gripping her thighs as he thrust fast and deep. "Christ.. Katie.."

Before she knew it he was pulling away, removing from her as something warm and sticky covered her belly. Joel groaned as he spilled himself onto her stomach, feeling both relief and guilt wash over him. He looked down at Katie, her body trembling under his. "I'm so sorry.. I shouldn't have.."

"It's okay," she whispered, her mind still spinning with what had just happened.

"We won't tell anyone what happened, okay?" He found a towel and cleaned her, his touch gentle.

"And so.. what, you've been fucking him ever since when your mom's not around?"

Katie shrugs. "Yeah.. she's been going on more work trips lately. I don't think she suspects anything.."

"Katie, she's not stupid. You're fucking her husband under her roof. She's bound to figure it out eventually. You or him or both of you will slip somehow."

"What is wrong with you?" she counters. "You told me yourself that you mess around with your own stepfather."

"That's different," you huff. "I only blow him sometimes when I want a little extra spending money. I would never straight up fuck him!"

"It is different.. because Joel and I love each other," Katie stresses.

"He doesn't love you! He just wants to fuck you!" you nearly shout. "Jesus! What would happen if your mom found out? She owns a fucking gun!"

"Quiet!" Katie hisses. "She'd never hurt us. When the time is right he's going to leave her and be with me."

"You don't honestly believe that, do you?"

Katie doesn't answer you, she just gives you a sad look, as if you could never understand.

You're starting to think you don't want to understand.

Still, that doesn't deter you from pursuing Joel yourself. Now that you've seen that cock in action you need it. If a sweet, simpering virgin like Katie can somehow persuade him, you with all your know-how will land this easily. Piece of cake.

After making sure Katie won't bother the both of you, you find Joel on the deck outside, enjoying an ice cold beer.

"You look comfy," you purr, standing in his direct sunlight so he has to look up at you.

"What're you doin' out here?" he mutters, sipping a beer, sitting straighter up as you sit next to him on the deck sofa.

"I just wanted to come out and say hi," you say prettily, swiping his beer and taking a sip, letting the tip of your tongue linger on the bottle.

"Where's Katie?" he asks, voice rough as he watches you.

"She got her period or something. She had to run out to buy pads." A little smirk dances across your face. "So we're all alone. What should we do?"

He turns to glance over his shoulder at the house, as if to check that Katie really is gone. "It's up to you, darlin'. Wanna get in the pool? Sunbathe a little?" His smirk matches yours.

"I've got something better I'd like to do." You perch your barely-covered ass on his lap, grinding down slightly, his bulge twitching beneath you.

Realization dawns in his eyes and he keeps his hands at his side, a feat of restraint. "You're practically just a kid."

"The last time I checked, twenty-one is a full grown adult."

He exhales through his nose as you continue to press him. Another sip of beer passes his lips before he replies. "I'm over twice your age," he mutters.

"So?"

"I'm old enough to be your dad. I've got wrinkles and everything."

You trace your fingertip over his crow's feet and the deepening ridge between his brows. "I think your wrinkles are cute."

"You're just bullshittin' me." Joel's blushing though.

"No bullshit. Promise." You rub your hand on his knee. "Girls my age love older men."

He's intrigued now. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Because y'all know what we need while we're still figuring out what we want."

He makes a hmph sound in his throat, but he's nonetheless intrigued. "And what is it that you want, kid?"

Your fingers wander to the graying curls at the nape of his neck. "I want to take care of you, see that your needs are met."

Joel shakes his head. "Why waste all that on an old man?"

"I just think we could have a good time together."

"Good time, huh? What exactly do you think we'd be doin'?" His brow arches.

"Might be more fun to show you."

Joel gives an amused scoff as you pull him close, brushing your lips against his. His rough hands grab your waist, pulling you to straddle him. Your lips part, allowing his tongue in your mouth, exploring and tasting.

He's married, he's involved with his stepdaughter, and now this.. you're a beautiful girl and he's just a weak man.

His arms wrap around you, hands sliding up your tank top, stroking your soft skin. His kiss turns rough and greedy, biting your bottom lip and tugging it between his teeth. You start to grind on his lap, moving your hips in little circles as you slowly pull your top off. Joel's breath hitches in his throat, his eyes hungrily admiring your flesh. He'd be lying if he said he'd never snuck a look at you before. And now you're giving him exactly what he wants.

He leans in, leaving a trail of kisses down your neck and chest. You arch into his kiss, his beard lightly scratching your skin. "I want to feel you," you moan softly.

"Yeah? Think you can handle me?" he mumbles against your skin. "I'm more than two decades older than you, sweetheart."

"I'm well aware." You grind down on his lap as he gazes up at you with his big brown eyes, his hands gripping your thigh, holding in you place on him. "They say older trees are the sturdiest," you add.

"Never heard that line before, darlin'.." He gives your thigh a squeeze, his hand sliding up the hem of your shorts.

"Glad I can give you some kind of first," you whisper, your lips running down his neck as you unbutton his jeans. You lift off him enough to touch him through his boxers. Joel inhales a sharp breath, reaching to grasp your wrist. "Don't you think you're gettin' a little ahead of yourself, darlin'?"

"What? Don't tell me you're feeling guilty.." you tease him, unclamping his hand from your wrist so you can pull down your shorts and panties in one go. "I wanna feel you, Joel.."

That's the moment when his self-control goes out the window. "Fuck," he growls, eyeing the slickness present between your thighs as you climb into his lap. "Think it'll all fit?" you murmur, allowing the tip of him to sink in.

"Gonna find out," he grunts, thrusting up into you, his hands gripping your hips. God, he's big, bigger than you'd dreamed, and thick.

"You okay?" He gives you a chance to adjust to him. After you nod, he pulls almost all the way out then back in again at a torturously slow pace. "Takin' me all the way in," he mutters, running his tongue along the side of your throat.

"Joel, you're huge," you sigh. "I can feel you in my belly."

"Yeah? Right here?" He presses his palm to the small bulge protruding in your lower stomach. "Come on, sweetheart, take it. Ride me like you mean it."

"Oh, fuck.. it's so good," you moan as you start moving in earnest, bouncing on his lap as your pussy squelches around his cock. He grabs your hips, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he tries to steady you. "Slow down, darlin'," he warns you. "I'm close. Don't want this to end so soon."

"Already?" You tsk-tsk. "Poor guy.. you must really need to get rid of that load." You hear his scoff and decide to go for the jugular. "I bet Katie never lets you come inside her.."

"What?" His eyes jerk up to yours, hands tightening on your hips, ready to throw you off. "What are you talking about?"

"Easy, tiger. She already told me everything. I found you two by accident on the couch, fucking like the perverts you are," you whisper, bearing down on him with punctuation.

"What the fuck.. you saw that?"

"I did.. and I got myself off to it.. so hard." You swivel your hips just so, still riding him. "You want to fill me up, don't you? Young and pretty thing like me, filled up with you?"

His eyes close as you kiss his cheek, his body reacting way ahead of his brain. "Yeah, I do. Gonna let me come inside this sweet pussy?"

"I have an IUD. You can pump me full of you." You gasp as he dips his head, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking it, swirling his tongue over it.

"You're gonna be leakin' me for days," he warns you, guiding you up and down, thrusting up into you at a relentless pace.

"Fill me up.. use me," you whimper, your walls starting to convulse around him. Joel felt the tremors beginning deep inside you and holds back until you're coming apart on top of him, wet and tight and urging him to spill. His hips stutter as he comes hard, bottoming out as his warm release jets up into you.

"Look at you. All messy." He lifts you off of him, a combination of your fluids already oozing out, glazing his dick and his pubes.

"I'm gonna go to sleep just like this, full of you," you plant another kiss on his lips before you get to your feet and get dressed. "And when I wanna get filled again, I know exactly where to go." You wink at him before going upstairs.

Checking on Katie upstairs you find her still asleep, knocked out from the sleeping pills you crushed into her drink earlier. A little payback for the way she'd drugged you the night before. "See? All I wanted was a taste," you tell her, softly stroking her hair. "You didn't have to be so greedy. We're best friends, after all. And that means we share everything."

if you've made it this far, thank you! follow @baronessvonglitter-fics for updates 💖

taglist: @time-for-my-weekly-spanking | @easybbgrl | @mcthsman | @ess-evo | @tateypots | @madpanda75 | @aurorawritestoescape | @milla-frenchy | @kokoluwie | @sawymredfox | @joelalorian | @speaktothehandpeasants | @goonersquad101 | @artsymaddie (if you no longer want to be tagged in this please LMK)

[usetheeauthor]

I live for this drama lol my jaw was dropped. This was so spicy and fun! 🌶️🔥

[mrsnanamiller]

Show me how bad you can hurt me [series]

Chapter 13 - Blowin' in the wind

[AO3] [Wattpad] [fic masterlist]

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Chapter Summary: The tables have turned. Now you have an ungrateful, stubborn cargo with cute freckles and a terrible temper. And the quiet grief of a relationship that died barely after it was truly born.

Fic Summary: Four years after the outbreak, Joel and Tommy Miller are hardened smugglers in the Boston QZ: mean, violent, and willing to do whatever it takes to survive. When they’re paid an obscene amount to smuggle you across the ruined country to Columbus QZ, they didn't ask what secrets you carry to be worth that much. They just expect an easy job. You're supposed to be just cargo. They will soon discover this cargo has teeth… and the power to make even the worst men start to crack.

Tags: Tommy Miller x Reader, Dark!Tommy, Raider!Tommy, Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Stockholm Syndrome, Dark Romance, Tommy is mean but not too much, Tommy Miller Fanfic, Enemies to Lovers, Tommy was corrupted by Joel, Vaginal Sex, Fireflies (The Last of Us), Slow Burn

wc: 10k

Frank's arms closed around you, and you allowed yourself to melt into it. You'd always known you could trust him, and you never once doubted he would not rest until he found you.

You held on tighter, the relief of it hitting you all at once. Weeks of careful calculation and constant concern are gone. For a moment you let yourself just be held.

The other four rifles stayed steady on the brothers.

Tommy's hands were still raised, his eyes locked on you and Frank. By any reasonable logic, his priority should have been the four guns leveled at them and the math of how he and Joel were going to survive the next sixty seconds. But his mind kept asking a stupid, consuming question: who the hell was Frank?

All Tommy could see was a man you'd never once mentioned, the two of you clinging to each other in a way that made it impossible to determine, from where he stood, what exactly he was to you except someone who loved you. Family? Your presumed estranged brother?... Your supposedly dead uncle? Or… Something else? He had no category for it. The only thing he could conclude with certainty was that there were many things about you he still didn't know.

For one unguarded second, your eyes found Tommy's over Frank's shoulder.

He was still looking at you the way he'd been looking at you minutes ago. None of that had left his face yet. It was still there, raw and unprotected, the same man who said I love you back to you with everything except for words. But now it was covered with concern and doubt.

"Took long enough," Frank murmured against your hair, his voice cracking like that have been held tight for far too long. "We found the trail outside Boston three weeks back. Lost it twice. Started thinkin' we'd lost you for good, sweetheart."

"…He always trusted you to look after me." You pulled back just enough to look at him, a small, tired smile finding your mouth despite everything.

"Somebody had to keep up with your mess, right? My big trouble maker."

You felt the whole weight of the last minutes sitting in your chest at once. The kiss, the secret, the song, the long seconds his mouth had been the only thing in the world. And understood, with a kind of grief, that right now you’d risk to close a door on all of it. Because there was probably no version of the next ten minutes that let you keep both things: the woman who'd sat in his lap singing, and the woman who was about to win this clearing.

You were genuinely afraid. You could only hope things went out as expected and that he understood it all and continued at your side. You held his eyes for one more second as you could convince him just by doing so.

Behind you, the clearing was frozen.

Joel hadn't lowered his hands either, but his eyes were doing the exact thing they always did: the Miller protocol that had kept him alive for years. Cataloguing, counting weapons, counting exits… Measuring the dimensions of the trap he'd just found himself standing inside.

"You got her?" you said low to Frank

Frank's eyes flicked, briefly, toward Joel.

"Yes," he murmured back. "Got her shortly after you went missing. She's safe."

"You got evidence?"

"In my pack."

Something in your chest unlocked. Sharp and bright and deeply, deeply satisfying.

You kept your face neutral as you turned back around, but inside, every piece had just slid into place at once. You had a card now. A strong one. An actual, physical lever sitting in your hand, and you knew exactly how to use it. All those weeks trapped between two Millers, all those long silent roads and miles of walking while you turned every angle of this exact encounter over in your head, calculating, preparing, hoping. It had all finally materialized into the precise advantage you needed. It would cost you. Could possibly cost you Tommy. But there was no other way.

You looked past Frank to the rest of the group.

"Bella." You found the woman first, rifle steady, eyes sharp. "I owe you more than I can say." Your eyes moved to the next. "Marcus. Eli. Dom." Each name landed clean, and you watched something shift in each of their postures as you said it: pride, maybe, or simple relief at being seen. "Thank you. All of you. I don't know how to repay all the trouble you’ve been through because of me."

"Wasn't a question of repayment," Bella said simply. “We'd have walked twice that distance, and counted ourselves lucky for the chance."

You let yourself smile satisfied. You could feel the brothers absorbing every syllable, recalibrating in real time. Let them understand precisely what kind of loyalty they were standing in the middle of.

You gave a short, sharp nod toward Marcus and Dom.

They moved forward without hesitation.  They stripped the guns from both brothers in seconds. Then, with a brutal motion, each man's boot caught the back of a knee - Joel's, then Tommy's - driving both brothers down hard onto the ground, the muzzles of their weapons pressed close enough to skull that neither Miller had any illusions left about resistance.

You held Joel’s gaze, steady and unhurried, and let him watch you become exactly what you actually were. You stepped forward, out of Frank's shadow, and let your spine straighten.

Tommy hadn't said a word. You felt his eyes on you rather than saw them now.

He stood there with his hands still half-raised, his mind slowly spiraling down in ways he couldn't stop. Was any of it real?  Every soft word, every time you'd melted into his hands when you had every reason in the world to hate him, every time you'd given yourself over to his arms despite the bruises he'd put on you… he started to question now if any of that had been real, or had it been exactly what it looked like right now: a woman who knew precisely how to make a man trust her completely, right up until the moment she didn't need him anymore?

He closed his eyes for half a second.

I love you, Tommy.

He could still hear it. Could still feel the exact warmth of your voice against his ear.

When he opened his eyes again, he found Frank watching with relief, pride and pain, all at the same time.

"Have you seen our signs?" Frank asked. "We've been leaving them since Boston."

"Saw one in the gymnasium," you said. "Thanks for that... Kept me hoping."

You kept pacing across the brothers, and let the silence to stretch on purpose, strategically. You moved unhurried and calculating one last time: turning every possible version of this moment over in your mind until you knew the outcomes could only go your way.

"You wanna explain," Joel said, confident despite the guns still trained on him, "what exactly your plan is here? Or are we just gonna stand around starin' at each other like idiots all night?"

"Shut up," you replied promptly, voice triumphant. "You're not in control anymore, Joel. You'll wait, and you'll stare at my face, and you'll look like an idiot for as long as I want you to. And then you'll do exactly what I need you to do."

"What if I don't want to?"

Marcus, who had his gun trained on Tommy, answered the provocation faster than you could with a sharp kick to Tommy's ribs that doubled him over.

Tommy exhaled a sharp, sonorous "Fuck!" lowering his raised hands for the first time, both arms wrapping around his middle as he fought to breathe through the pain.

Joel hissed, jaw clenching, his whole body straining forward an inch before he caught himself.

"That hurt, right, Joel?" Marcus said, voice almost pleasant. He grabbed a fistful of Tommy's jacket collar and hauled him back upright, none too gently. "Don't pretend we don't know how this works between you two. You wanna play games, little brother pays for it." His grip tightened. "Same goes the other way, pretty boy." He taps Tommy’s shoulder. "Big brother's gonna pay for whatever you decide too. So choose wisely."

Tommy straightened slowly, breath still ragged, and lifted his head to find you directly. The look on his face changed now, but it wasn't pain, it was something colder. It was the look of a man watching someone he'd trusted reveal exactly how little he mattered to the larger machine she commanded.

Your chest cramped at the sight of it. Your hand closed into a fist at your side, hard enough that your nails bit into your palm. Every instinct in you wanted to turn on Marcus, wanted to snap don't you touch him again loud enough for the whole clearing to hear it.

You took one step. Just one, barely an inch, before you caught yourself and forced your weight back onto your heels.

You knew exactly what it would cost you if you finished that step. The words sat right at the edge of your tongue, and you swallowed them back down so hard it physically hurt, your jaw aching with the effort of holding still. Because you knew the authority of your own people couldn't fracture in front of the people you needed most to believe in it. A leader stands by the decisions of her team, in the room, in front of everyone, and saves the reckoning for later, in private, where it belonged.

So instead you moved your eyes slowly from Tommy's face to Marcus's, letting your expression carry everything your voice couldn't. You held it there until you saw the small, understanding nod.

It still cost you something. You weren't sure Tommy would ever know how much.

You looked back at Tommy. He was still staring at you, but like he didn't recognize you at all.

You wanted, more than anything, to rush back to him and put your hands on his face and tell him none of this changed what was real between you.

You wanted to say that everything you’re about to do, it’s coming for his own good too.

But you couldn’t.

So you held his gaze and hoped, with everything you had, that some part of him still trusted you enough.

"So here's where we actually are.” You stopped in front of Joel. “You are two guys. We are six. You have a hand that can't hold steady and a brother with a bullet wound. I have a full team that hasn't slept worrying about me but is otherwise entirely intact." You tilted your head slightly.

"And I have something you care about, Joel." A pause, deliberate, letting it land. "So I'm going to be real generous and offer you a trade. The best deal you're going to get tonight." Your eyes didn't move from his. "Tread carefully, Joel. I rehearsed this moment in my head at least three hundred times on the road here. I have a plan B for every single outcome you might be considering right now."

Joel stayed on his knees, head turned diagonally up toward you, eyes burning with barely contained fury.

Tommy had stopped looking at you entirely. His gaze had dropped to the dirt in front of him and stayed there.

You reached down and took Joel's face in your left hand, fingers closing firm around his jaw.

"You're going back to Boston," you said delightedly, "escorted by part of my team. You'll behave. You won't try to come back for me. And you'll find Lincoln and you'll smuggle the fucker outside Boston. I don't care where you drop him. I just need him out of my business. Permanently." Your grip tightened slightly. "As payment for that small favor you don't get killed tonight. And you still receive part of what he promised you. Say, a quarter." You let go of his jaw, straightening. "Consider that a very, very generous offer."

You turned and paced toward Tommy.

"And my last request," you said to Joel, "is that you don't go looking for your brother either."

Both brothers' heads came up at that, Tommy's eyes finally lifting from the ground, Joel's narrowing in open confusion.

" Tommy's coming with me to Baltimore."

For one long second, nobody spoke, as if everyone were processing it simultaneously. Then everything broke at once.

The Firefly crew looked at each other, confused murmurs passing between them. Joel cursed something low and venomous that you couldn't quite hear, drowned out completely by the sound of Tommy's voice landing like a blow straight to your chest.

"The hell I am—" Tommy's voice cracked with disbelief. "You ain't takin' my brother anywhere, and I'm not goin' anywhere without him."

Frank crossed the distance in three quick strides and closed his hand around your arm.

You looked at him at Tommy. Two seconds. Maybe three. It felt like hours, stretching out endless and silent in the middle of all the noise, your eyes locked directly on his searching, disbelieving, furious. You could read every piece of what was happening behind his face: anger, frustration, the unmistakable accusation that you'd put him in this position without warning, without preparation, without a single moment to brace himself.

And you were furious right back. What exactly had he thought would happen, the moment this came? That you'd simply leave Joel standing there, unaccounted for, free to walk straight back into your life the second your guard dropped? And the absolute audacity of it after everything, defaulting straight back to his brother's side. Less than ten minutes ago his mouth had been on yours, his promise still warm in your ear. We'll get you to Baltimore. I'll convince him.

Frank's hand tightened on your arm, pulling you out of it.

"What are you doing?" His voice was careful, controlled, but there was real concern underneath it now, edged with something close to indignation. "Why do you want to bring him?"

"You have to trust me, Frank." You kept your eyes on Tommy even as you spoke. "Tommy's ready. He's going to join us, and—"

Tommy opened his mouth, something protesting rising in his throat. Joel got there first. A short, harsh laugh tore out of him, sharp and humorless.

"He ain't joinin’ nothin'." His eyes cut to you with open contempt. "I already told you. He stays, princess."

You let the silence stretch for exactly one beat. You could have let it go. You knew you should let it go.

But you didn’t.

"Funny, Joel." you said, voice bright and entirely too pleasant, "considering you just walked in on him kissing me, whispering he'd already decided to come with me.” You tilted your head slightly, watching it land. "Honestly, I was impressed you're still capable of being shocked at this point. You've had the chance to see it weeks ago, and you still chose not to see."

The space went dead silent. Tommy's jaw worked, his eyes closing briefly like he could somehow will himself out of the moment entirely.

Joel's face went through several things at once before ending up on something far worse than fury. His face was painted with pure and devastating disappointment, and despite everything, despite the cost of saying it out loud in front of your crew, it had been worth it just to see it.

Joel turned his head toward his brother, still kneeling, Dom's rifle pressing him back into place the second he tried to shift.

"I was right," Joel said, voice low and venomous. "Wasn't I. You were really gonna run off with this bitch and leave me out here alone." A short, bitter exhale. "That was your choice. After everything I did for you." His eyes raked over Tommy with open disgust. "Tell me exactly where she got you, Tommy. Was it the pretty words? The hope, all that delusional bullshit?" His voice dropped lower, crueler. "Or did you already fuck her, and decide that was worth more than years of—"

"Don't you dare!" Tommy's voice exploded out of him, raw and shaking, cutting Joel off completely. He surged forward, getting half a foot before Marcus shoved him back down. "Don't you dare stand there and act like I was ever gonna actually leave you, Joel! I had a fucking hundred reasons to walk away from you and I stayed! I always stayed by your fucking side!" His chest heaved, voice cracking wide open. "And all you've ever done, all you've ever done, is makin’ me feel like a child, and as if protectin' me physically was the same thing as carin' about me! It ain't the same thing, Joel! It was never the same thing!"

Joel lunged. It happened fast: Joel surging up off his knees despite Dom's rifle, closing the distance toward Tommy with his hands already reaching, and Tommy meeting him halfway, both of them colliding in a furious, grappling tangle of fists and shouted curses. Marcus and Dom moved instantly. They successfully split the brothers, both men fighting against the grip for a few more seconds before finally going still, breathing hard, furious, planted several feet apart with rifles trained on each of them again.

Frank's hand closed around your arm harder now and twisted you to face him.

"What the fuck was that?" His voice was low, perplexed, edged with real anger now. "You got involved with him? Or is this just one more of your games? You were gonna tell me at all?" His eyes searched your face.

You didn't know how to answer. You lifted your chin instead, jaw set, eyes steady as Frank had known since you were younger, that meant you weren't going to elaborate.

He exhaled hard through his nose. His eyes moved to the brothers, then back to you.

"I know it's your call," he said, quieter now, something careful underneath the frustration. "But I think we should end this here."

"No." Your voice came out flat, immediate. "We're not killing them."

"Your uncle would disapprove all of this."

"Well, he's not here, is he?"

Frank's eyes held yours, unflinching. "You've killed before for lesser reasons than this. What's changing now?"

You felt your jaw tighten, anger flaring hot and immediate at him for saying it out loud, here, now, in front of an audience that absolutely did not need to hear it. You glanced quickly toward the brothers close enough, both of them, that there was no version of this where they hadn't heard every word. You needed to see how it landed. They were both staring at you.

And in that moment, you understood, with sudden and total clarity, just how perfectly mirrored they were. Two men carved from the same blood and the same loss, standing several feet apart and looking at you with two versions of the exact same rage. Joel's face held no surprise at all. Just angry at the confirmation that you were everything he'd already decided about you.

Tommy's face held the opposite. Same anger, but of a man who had let himself believe something different and was now watching the floor drop out from under it in real time. He wasn't looking at you like a predator confirmed like Joel was. He was looking at you like something he'd trusted had just turned out to be made of glass.

"I kill," you said, turning back to Frank, "only when there's a purpose to the kill." You said it quietly, almost gently. And that was exactly why it was terrifying. Frank's jaw worked once. He swallowed, nodded, and took a step back without another word.

You turned and squatted down in front of Tommy. Close enough to see the freckles that always undid you a little, scattered faint across his nose. Except his eyes were doing something else entirely now, piercing you with an intensity that made the freckles disappear into the background.

"What changed, Tommy? I thought you wanted to come with me."

"What changed?" His voice was controlled. "What changed is you knew they were comin'. You saw their signs days ago and you never said a word, even after I told you I'd cooperate. And now you're tryin' to send my brother away like I needed you to protect me from him." His jaw tightened. "You did that on purpose. Made him madder at me than he already was. You knew exactly what sayin' that would do to him, and you said it anyway." His eyes flicked, briefly, helplessly, toward Frank. "And now you show up with some man who—" He stopped himself. You watched him try to swallow it back down and fail. "Who—." His hand twitched at his side like a reflex reaching for your skin, for the comfort of your warmth. He caught it almost instantly, fingers curling back into a fist instead, the gesture redirected into something that looked, from the outside, like pure aggression.

"Frank," Frank said, before you could answer, flat and final. "I’m Frank. That's all you need to know, asshole."

Frank eyes moved over Tommy trying to understand exactly what this particular person had that warranted this much risk, this much complication, this much of attention from you. Tommy held the look and didn't flinch from it.

"Tommy, that's not important right now." You kept your voice level. "You really want to interrogate my choices? You kidnapped me. You don't trap a cat in a corner and act surprised when it comes out clawing."

"I didn't trap you." His voice cracked slightly. "I offered to help you. The best way could. We could've talked about all of this before it came to this—"

"Talk." You let out a short, humorless breath. "That's your answer for everything, isn't it. You think you can talk your way out of every single problem, every time, if you just find the right words." You shook your head slowly. "Some things don't have a talking way out, Tommy. No matter how badly you want one. No matter how hard you try to be good." You reached out, almost without deciding to, and tucked a loose curl back behind his ear. He let you.

"You're really still choosing your brother," you said quietly. "After everything."

The silence stretched out long enough that it became its own answer.

"Okay," you said softly. You pressed your lips together for a second, blinking hard, willing the burn behind your eyes to stay exactly where it was. "Got it."

You stood, looking down at him now.

"Doesn't matter anyway," you said, voice hardening back into command. "You're coming to Baltimore regardless, Tommy. Right now I just need the two of you apart from each other." You looked between the brothers. "I know exactly how you two work together. Give you half a chance and you'll find some way to pair up, turn this around, and come after me. I'm not giving you that chance."

Tommy made a low, furious sound in his throat.

"Marcus. Cuff him. They're in his left pocket."

Tommy lunged, instinct overriding everything, and Eli and Bella's rifles snapped up instantly, the muzzles finding him before he'd made it two inches. He went still, breathing hard, fury radiating off him in waves. Marcus crossed to him, pulled the cuffs from his pocket, and locked them around his wrists while staring him dead in the eye. Tommy stared back, unblinking, hatred and heartbreak tangled.

You turned to Joel. "As I said before," you told him, "you're going back to Boston. And I'd recommend you accept this gratefully. I'm not killing you, Joel, even though I have every reason to. Because I don't want Tommy hating me, and because… credit where it's due. You were willing to save me from Gilead Crew when you had the chance. So I'm giving you that. I'm taking your little brother with me, but I'll release him once we're in Baltimore, and he's free to run straight back to you if that's what he wants."

Joel's eyes were black with something dangerous now. "You think you won already," he said, low. "You can send as many of your little toy soldiers after me as you want, princess. I'll put every last one of them in the ground and find my way back to you anyway, and I will bring you to Columbus even if I have to break every single bone in your body."

"Oh, Joel." You shook your head slowly, almost sad. "You're still so sure you're the smartest man in every room you walk into, aren't you." You crouched slightly, bringing your face level with his. "Don't you want to ask me what it is I have that you care about?"

He didn't. He held your gaze instead, jaw locked, refusing to give you the satisfaction.

You let yourself smile, just slightly.

"Fine. I'll tell you anyway." You straightened. "Dom. Tie him. Hands behind his back."

While Dom worked the rope, you got closer.

"Central Boston," you said. "Hawley Street. Building seventeen. Apartment twenty-two." You savored each word while his face twisted at the acknowledgement. "Ring any bells, princess?"

The blood ran out of Joel's face so completely and so fast that for a moment he looked like a different man entirely.

You watched the desperation hit him immediately, the first crack you'd seen in. And watched him fight it, jaw clenching, refusing to give you even that.

"Bullshit," he said, but his voice had lost its certainty. "That's a bluff."

You turned to Frank and held out your hand. He fumbled in his pack and reached for a document, passing it over without a word. You held it up in front of Joel's face, close enough that there was no possible way to mistake what he was looking at.

A photograph of a face he knew quite well. A name typed beneath it in clean block letters.

THERESA SERVOPOULOS

Joel's reaction was instant and total. A furious, desperate surge against the ropes, his whole body straining, a wordless sound tearing out of him in rage. Eli moved fast, helping Dom pin him back down by the shoulders.

"How," Joel snarled, "did you get that?! What did you do to her? What did you do—"

Eli's fist caught Joel across the jaw, hard enough to silence the sound building in his throat.

"You can't lead a revolutionary movement," you said evenly, "and not know what happens in your QZ, Joel." You glanced at Tommy. "I admit, I failed somewhere. I had no record of Tommy at all. That's how important you were in this trio, Tommy. I knew about Joel. I knew about Tess. I never once knew about you." You say, purposefully cruel. You turned back to Joel. "I keep contingency plans, Joel. The same way any operation worth running does, like a government keeps a line of succession, the way you plan for the version of events where the person in charge doesn't come home. My people know exactly what to do if I disappear and don't resurface in a set window of time. And buried in that plan, specific and clear, was a single line: if Miller is a problem, take the girlfriend. Tess."

"And here's the part that matters most, Joel," you continued. "She is safe now. But if my people aren't back in Boston within the next weeks, she starves. In a hole nobody can hear her scream or find her in time. Nobody saves her." You held his gaze. "So believe me when I tell you. You want to get back to Boston. As fast as your legs and that horse can carry you."

Something in Joel broke loose. He moved faster than anyone anticipated: the rope at his wrists somehow giving way, a blade appearing from his boot that nobody had thought to check, and then his hand was around your throat, dragging you against him, the knife pressed flat and cold beneath your jaw.

"Where," he snarled, right against your ear. "Where is she."

Frank moved instantly, closing the distance and grabbing Tommy in response, gun pressed hard against his temple before Joel had even finished speaking.

"Let her go," Frank said, voice low and absolutely level, "or your brother's brains end up on that tree behind him."

"And Tess dies regardless," Bella added coldly. "Whether you kill her right now or not. Only one of us walking out of these woods knows where she's being held, Joel. And it isn't you."

The clearing went utterly silent except for your own breathing, ragged against the blade at your throat.

Tommy's voice cracked through it, raw and desperate.

"Joel. Joel, let her go. Just let it go—"

Joel's eyes moved past you to his brother, to the gun at his temple. He had no way out and he knew it. His brother's life in one hand. Tess's life dangling on a string he couldn't see the end of. And you, the only person who knew where either thread led.

His voice came out hoarse, defeated. "Tell me the address. I'll go alone. You want me out of your hair that bad, I'll go gladly."

You held perfectly still, the blade still resting against your throat, and made him wait one more second before you answered, so he understood completely that this victory belonged to you only.

"Drop the knife first."

A long pause. Then the blade fell away from your throat, clattering into the dirt.

You stepped away, rubbing your neck.

“Blanche Street. Two hundred and four. Close the old Union building.”

Joel moved promptly for the nearest horse, swinging up onto it with urgency. Every gun in the clearing followed him except Frank's, which stayed pressed to Tommy's temple.

Joel hesitated at the reins and looked back at his brother. Cuffed, held at gunpoint, watching him with an expression that contained four years of every single thing that had passed between them, every moment Joel had failed to say the thing that needed saying.

"Tommy's not goin' with you," Frank said evenly. "That was never on the table."

"If you leave," you said, quieter now, almost gentle, "you leave alone, Joel. Either both of you come to Baltimore, or you go alone to Boston. But Tommy isn't going anywhere tonight except with me."

Tommy lunged against Frank's grip, twisting hard enough that Frank's hand found the wound at his shoulder and pressed, sharp and deliberate, until the fight drained out of him in a sharp gasp of pain.

"Joel." Tommy's voice broke completely, all the fury gone out of it now, nothing left but pure, naked pleading. "Joel, don't—."

You watched Joel's hands tighten on the reins. Watched the war happening behind his eyes, the clock ticking somewhere invisible.

You couldn't stop yourself.

"Tick tock, Joel," you said, soft and merciless. "Tick tock. Will you actually make it in time? Or will this be one more woman you loved that you couldn't save?"

It settled exactly the way you wanted to: a direct hit, surgical and cruel, straight into the oldest wound he carried. You watched something seize in his chest, his breathing going shallow and fast, his whole body caught for one terrible second between fight and flight, between his brother and the ghost of one more  person he failed to save in time.

“We’ll keep Tommy safe. I promise.”

He looked at Tommy one last time.

"I'm sorry, Tommy. I meet you back in Boston."

And then he turned the horse and rode hard into the dark, the sound of hooves fading fast into the trees.

"Eli. Dom. Bella." Your voice was steady even though nothing inside you felt steady at all. "Go after him. Make sure he gets there."

The three of them mounted quickly on the two horses left and rode off into the dark after Joel, hoofbeats fading into silence one by one until the clearing held only the fire, the four of you, and the enormous, ringing absence of what had just happened.

You turned back to Tommy. He was still held at Frank's side, Marcus's rifle trained on him again, his eyes fixed on the empty trees where his brother had disappeared.

"Guess we're both disappointed," you said quietly. "Neither of us was the first choice of the person who was supposed to choose us."

Frank's grip shifted on Tommy's arm, hauling him forward.

"Move it, cargo," he said flatly.

---

The morning had come and gone without anyone saying much of anything.

You walked at the front beside Frank, your pace steady, eyes fixed on the road ahead more out of necessity than focus. Behind you, Marcus kept Tommy moving with the occasional shove between the shoulder blades whenever he slowed even slightly. Tommy never said anything. He just kept walking with his cuffed hands hanging in front of him, eyes fixed somewhere past the horizon.

Frank carried Tommy’s guns slung across his own pack. The silence had stretched all day long, and everybody actually preferred that way. You could feel Tommy's presence behind you the entire walk, a constant, magnetic pull at the base of your spine, and you didn't let yourself turn around to check on him more than the bare minimum required of someone keeping watch over a prisoner.

The sun had started its slow drop toward the tree line, throwing everything into the long gold haze of late afternoon. You'd been walking for hours. Your legs ached. Nobody had asked to stop, and you hadn't offered.

Frank finally broke the silence.

"We need to talk."

"I don't think we do."

Behind you, you felt Tommy's attention sharpen instantly, with no pretense of disinterest at all, his whole body angling subtly toward the conversation. Marcus noticed it too, and pretended not to care but kept his attention to grasp anything at all. Everyone in the group had questions. Nobody had the nerve to ask them out loud except Frank.

"Oh, we do. You owe me that much. You gonna tell me, or am I supposed to guess?"

Frank watched your silence for a long moment. Then his hand gently found yours, and you hissed sharply, pulling back on instinct, the still-healing fingers protesting the contact.

"What happened to your hand?"

You said nothing.

He took it again, more carefully this time, turning it over in his palm, his thumb tracing lightly over the swelling along your knuckles.

"Is it broken?"

"Maybe."

"How'd this happen?" His eyes lifted to yours, searching. "Did somethin' happen to you out there?"

You stayed silent. Something in Frank's expression shifted, hardening fast. "Tell me it wasn't one of these motherfuckers… I swear to God, I'll break every bone in both their hands myself. Was it him?" His eyes cut sharply toward Tommy. "Fuck, I should've killed both of them the second we—"

"Frank." Your voice came out soft but firm, cutting through it. "I'm fine. I won't say I was given good treatment. But I wasn't tortured either. They did wrong things. They did right things too." You gently pulled your hand back. "They don't deserve to die for it. Can we please stop talking about this."

You kept walking. Kept your eyes forward, your jaw tight, every part of you fighting two opposite urges at once: the desire to stop completely, turn around, and put your hands on Tommy's face; and the equally strong desire to slap him for choosing Joel, again, after everything. You wanted to kiss him and you wanted to kick him right between his legs. The two impulses sat tangled together in your chest with no clean way to separate them.

Frank's patience finally cracked.

"You just dropped a bomb back there about a kiss," he said, voice rising slightly, "about somethin' Joel had apparently been blind to for weeks, happenin' right under his nose." His eyes flicked toward Tommy, hard and assessing. "You drag this man along with us, clearly expectin' he'd join us willingly, and now look at him." His chin jerked toward the cuffs. "And you expect me to just not talk about it? I'm owed at least an explanation."

"Whatever happened between us ain't your business," Tommy said from behind, rough.

Frank turned on him so fast Marcus had to step half a pace to keep pace with the shift.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Tommy's jaw was tight, his cuffed hands flexing slightly at his front.

Frank closed the distance fast, shoving a hand flat into Tommy's chest hard enough to rock him back a step. "She's not thinkin' straight right now," Frank said, voice low and furious, "and somebody's gotta point that out, since apparently you sure as hell ain't gonna be the one to do it."

Tommy lifted his chin and kept his gaze on Frank in response.

"Stop it." Your voice cut through both of them, sharper than you intended. "Stop. Both of you." You turned to face them fully. "I'm tired of both of you acting like I'm out of my mind. Like I'm some helpless, dumb girl clinging to her own kidnapper out of desperation or need." Your eyes burned, and you blinked hard against it, refusing to let it become anything visible. "You wanna know what happened, Frank? I saw it in him. Everything we swore to protect. Everything we promised ourselves we'd bring back into the world. He showed it to me, over and over, buried under all the things he's done to survive” Your voice cracked slightly. "I saw a real man, a good man, buried under a pile of awful things." You shook your head slowly. "I saw that buried, and I had to dig. For him… and for me."

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know anymore now. Maybe I was wrong.”

Frank shook his head. "And what exactly are we doing with him when we get to Baltimore?"

"Just what I said. He's free to go if he wants…” You say with no enthusiasm at all in your voice. “… I just needed to create distance from him and Joel. They are too dangerous together."

Your eyes found Tommy's, and neither of you looked away. It stretched out long and aching, both of you caught in the same current: wanting, more than anything, to close the space between you. Yet, held back by the devastating disappointment you each carried for the other.

Frank made a disgusted sound and walked ahead, putting distance between himself and the conversation entirely.

Tommy drifted slightly closer, close enough now that you could feel the heat of him beside you, close enough that your body remembered things your mind was still furious about. The warmth of his chest at your back on the horse. His mouth against your ear, low and desperate. The guitar between your hands, his fingers guiding yours through chords, the kiss by the fire. Your body hadn't gotten the message yet that all of that was supposed to be over.

And he stared at you from that short distance with a similar ache.

Goddamn you, he thought, the words burning behind his eyes. He hated how beautiful you still looked walking ahead of him. He hated that even now, furious and betrayed and dragged like livestock, some stupid part of him still wanted to reach for you. Still wanted to pull you back against his chest and bury his face in your hair and pretend none of this had happened.

He hated most of all that he believed you. Believed all you said. And that made him feel like the biggest fool alive.

Marcus shoved Tommy forward again, breaking the moment with a rough hand between his shoulder blades.

---

You walked for another hour before Frank finally raised a hand, signaling a stop. A large, abandoned auto shop sat back from the road, its corrugated metal siding rusted through in places but mostly intact.

Frank guided Tommy in first, one hand fisted in his collar, gun raised, scanning the dim interior. Marcus moved through behind him, checking the corners, the stairwell, the rows of dead vehicles.

The place was clear.

There was a small break room near the back, a few cots, clearly meant for workers' midday rest decades ago. And above it, accessible by a narrow, steep metal staircase, a glass-walled office that had probably belonged to a manager once.

Frank and Marcus pushed Tommy up the stairs.

You followed, stepping into the small office space behind them. A heavy metal desk sat bolted to the floor near the window, and beside it, an old radiator pipe ran floor to ceiling, thick iron.

Frank uncuffed one of Tommy's wrists just long enough to loop the chain around the radiator pipe before locking it shut again.

Tommy fought it. A sudden, furious surge against both men, shoulders straining, a wordless sound of pure frustration tearing out of him before Marcus's fist caught him square in the stomach, doubling him over and ending the struggle in one brutal motion. They finished locking him to the pipe while he was still catching his breath.

"Don't fucking hurt him." Your voice came out sharp, immediate. "I’m not asking."

Frank rounded on you, eyes hard. "I'm tryin' to understand you right now. I’m trying to be comprehensive with this bullshit, I really am. But you're makin' it real hard."

You didn't answer him, because your eyes found Tommy’s and somehow it just dragged you out of that conversation as hypnosis.

He was on the floor now, back against the pipe, breath still ragged from the punch, looking up at you from below with something ashamed written across his face: the specific shame, you realized, of a man finally understanding in his own body exactly what he'd put you through.

You looked down at him and there was no satisfaction at all in it. No smugness, no sense of justice finally served. Just a deep, quiet sadness that sat heavy in your chest, looking at him chained to a pipe the same way you'd been chained to a hundred different things since this whole nightmare started.

You held his gaze as long as you could. Frank's hand closed around your arm, firm, pulling you toward the door.

"Let's go."

You let yourself be moved, eyes staying on Tommy's for every inch the distance allowed, until the doorway finally broke the line between you.

Frank pulled the door shut behind you, sealing Tommy alone in the dark office.

You, Frank, and Marcus made your way back down the narrow stairs toward the cots below.

"I'm grateful," you said, the moment your feet stepped inside the room. "I want you to know that. What you did… coming for me, not givin' up. I'll never be able to repay it." You turned to face him fully. "But I need you to remember who's in charge here, Frank. I need you to stop talkin' to me like you know better than me what's good for me."

Frank rounded on you, something raw breaking through his usual composure.

"I don't give a damn about hierarchy right now." His voice cracked slightly, frustration and fear tangled together. "I care about you bein' safe. I care about you still bein' in your right mind after everything those men put you through. I'm doin' this for you, and I’m doing what your uncle would like me to."

"Frank." Your voice softened despite everything. " I really like him… He’s a good man. Believe it or not."

He shook his head slowly, eyes searching your face like he might find an explanation written somewhere on it. "You never used to behave like this. Why are you doin' this? Why him?"

"It's not somethin' I can explain." You held his gaze. "And honestly, Frank… that's exactly the point. That's exactly what it means that he has something real in him."

"Of course Tommy—" he said the name like it cost him a lot. "Of course Tommy has something." He exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face.

“It’s just a coincidence, Frank— “

“I know it is,” he cuts bluntly. “Otherwise this is fucked up as hell”. He turned away for a second, pacing two short steps before stopping, hands flexing at his sides. “Anyway. You've got bigger things to worry about than him. Especially with what we're walkin' into in Baltimore." He paused. “Tell me you don’t—” Franks pauses. “Have you… told him?"

"Not all of it." Your voice stayed steady. "But the most important part, yes. I did."

Frank's hand slammed flat against the doorframe. He left without another word, disappearing into the dark of the shop floor.

You stood there for a moment, breathing through the silence he'd left behind.

"Don't be too hard on him." Marcus's voice came from behind you. His hand landed lightly on your shoulder. "You know he loves you, and that it’s hard for him to be around you after… after what happened. He just wants to make sure you're okay."

You turned and let yourself lean into him for a moment, Marcus’ arms coming around you briefly.

"Thank you," you murmured against his shoulder. "For everything. For coming."

"Always," he said simply.

---

A few hours later, both men were asleep, dead on their cots. Frank curled on his side, Marcus sprawled loose and boneless beside him. You watched them for a moment, struck by exactly how much the last weeks had cost them. The hollows under their eyes. The way even unconscious, some part of them still looked braced for something. They had walked hundreds of miles on a rumor and hadn't slept properly in longer than that, and now, finally, their bodies had simply given out beneath them.

You sat there in the quiet, listening to their breathing even out, and thought about the narrow metal staircase, and the locked door at the top of it, and the man chained alone in the dark.

You were disappointed. Deeply, achingly sad. But you couldn't blame Tommy, at least not entirely, for choosing family.

You stood quietly, careful not to wake either sleeping man, and moved to gather a few things. Then you crossed to the narrow metal staircase and climbed it silently.

The office door opened without a sound. Tommy was leaned awkwardly against the radiator pipe, his cuffed hands resting in his lap, trying and clearly failing to find any position to sleep. His eyes were opened looking at the window.

He straightened immediately when he saw you.

You crossed the small room and lowered yourself to the floor beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his thigh.

You uncapped a water bottle first, then held one of the painkillers up between two fingers. He looked at it. Looked at you. Then opened his mouth, silent and patient.

You placed it carefully on his tongue, your fingers brushing his lips pretending it was completely unintentional, and tipped the water bottle slowly to his mouth after. He swallowed, throat working, his eyes never once leaving yours through any of it.

You set the bottle down and unwrapped a protein bar, breaking off a small piece and lifted it to his mouth, and he leaned forward slightly to take it from your fingers, his lips grazing your fingertips as he did, unhurried. You felt it everywhere, that small, electric graze, and didn't pull your hand back as fast as you probably should have.

You fed him another piece. Then another.

The silence between you had a different nuance now than it had all day. His eyes stayed locked on yours through every motion, dark and unreadable and somehow, impossibly, still soft.

"You made me sad, Tommy." You finally said it. "I thought you wanted to be with me."

"Well, I'm sad at you too." His voice was rough, quiet. "Thought I could trust you."

"You can trust me."

"Can I?" His jaw tightened. "You knew your people were comin'. You knew, and you said nothin'. Then you throw it out in front of everybody, make sure Joel hears every word about us, make sure he knows exactly how I betrayed him." His eyes searched your face. "And then this man shows up, and who the hell is he, and why does he act like—" He stopped himself. "Why's he act so strange around you?" He looked away, then back, something raw surfacing despite his effort to hold it down. "You never once mentioned him. And the best part: Weeks of you preachin' to me about hope and second chances, and I find out today you've killed people too. Feels like there's a whole lot you never told me."

Your voice came out sharp, immediate. "I've killed. FEDRA. I despise every single one of them and I’ll do it again every time I have the chance." You held his gaze, unflinching. "This is unbelievable. After everything you've done… And I’m the wrong one now.  I still believed in you, Tommy. Everything I said to you was real. Every single word."

"Ohh. Sure." His voice cracked slightly. "Was it real, or did you just need the help? Did you need somebody useful, somebody you could turn against his own brother so he'd serve whatever purpose you needed him for?"

A single tear spilled before you could stop it. "That's so fucking unfair." Your voice shook. "Do you know what I actually wanted? Do you want to know, Tommy?" You held his gaze, raw and unguarded now, nothing left to protect. "I wanted to be your girl. Just that."

The words left your mouth and stood there in the air, enormous in the small dark room.

"I wanted to save you and I wanted you to love me. I wanted a whole life with you, somewhere we got to actually do some good to this broken world, and I wanted to wake up every single morning in your arms."

Your voice softened, slowed, something tender bleeding through your hurt.

"I wanted you to reach for my hand before either of us even opened our eyes. I wanted slow mornings where you kissed me until neither of us could remember why we'd ever been in a hurry for anything. I wanted to make love to you slow, Tommy. I wanted you to never stop kissing me." Your voice broke completely. " That's all I ever wanted."

You pulled back, the tears falling freely now, humiliated by how much you'd just given away.

"And you think I was using you? Turning you against your brother on purpose?" You shook your head, already moving to stand. "Fuck it, I should go—"

His cuffed arms came up following the pipe trail and looped around you before you could rise, locking around your back and hauling you forward, guiding you until you adjusted straddling his lap, his forehead dropping hard against your collarbone.

"I hate what you do to me," he said, voice rough and broken open. "I hate that I can't make a damn bit of sense out of it." His arms tightened, pulling you closer, his hips shifting slightly beneath you, pressing up in a way that stole the air from your lungs. "I hate that you're so far under my skin I can't think straight no more."

"I hate that you're so stubborn," you breathed, rocking forward against him without fully deciding to, "and too much of a coward to admit you're not what Joel made you into."

"I ain't a coward."

"You are." Your hips pressed down, slow and deliberate, and you felt him groan low in his throat. "You're a coward who'd rather bleed for his brother than reach for somethin' good when it's right in front of you."

"That ain't fair."

"None of this is fair, Tommy."

His mouth found yours before either of you said anything else, hard, furious, hungry, every word you'd both just thrown at each other dissolving into the kiss instead.

"You're—" his lips moved against yours between breaths, his arms tightening, pulling you down harder against the press of him, already hard beneath his jeans, "—a spoiled brat who manipulates everyone into—" his tongue found yours, deep and insistent, swallowing the rest of the sentence before he forced it back out, "…into doin' whatever you want, whenever you want it."

Your lips kept alternating between kissing and biting each other lips softly and allowing tongues to twirl, breathing and beefing against each other mouth in a non-stop cycle.

"You're a broken man, Tommy— hmm.”

You rolled your hips against him. “… pretendin' to be tough," you breathed against his mouth, feeling him groan low against your lips, "who can't admit you're built for exactly the same thing I am."

"Yeah?" He pressed up into you harder, his cuffed arms trying awkwardly to hug you, dragging you closer still. "What—” his tongue found yours again, breaking seconds after once more. “—what am I built for?"

You rubbed yourself against him, needy and aching, and felt him shudder beneath you.

"To resist." Your voice came out wrecked, kissing him over and over again.

"Same as me… To resist—hm—every bit of corruption and cruelty they force into us."

He broke the kiss completely. His eyes found yours, something burning behind them.

"Take off these fuckin' pants."

You pulled back out of the loop of his cuffed arms just long enough to obey, fumbling the button, shoving the fabric down and off in a rush, and then you were back between his arms exactly where you'd been, his hands finding your back again the moment you settled. Your fingers went to his jeans next, working the button open with shaking urgency, freeing him with a low, broken sound escaping you both at once, and immediately sinking down onto his cock in one slow, aching motion. The stretch pulled a broken moan from both of you at once.

Your mouths crashed together again, messy and furious, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, breathing hard into each other like you were trying to devour the anger and the love at the same time. Your hips rolled down, taking him deeper, and Tommy groaned into your mouth.

“I hate you, Tommy,” you gasped against his lips, riding him slow and deep, grinding down hard with every roll of your hips. “I fucking hate you.”

“I thought I heard you say you loved me,” he growled back, biting your bottom lip sharply before slamming his hips up to meet you, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden thrust made you cry out, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you harder, tongues tangling, foreheads pressed tight together.

You kept moving, riding him with desperate rhythm, your hands fisted in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss. Neither of you could say it cleanly with words anymore. His cuffed hands, useless for almost anything else, found place at the small of your back and pulled, pulled, pulled, like he could fuse the two of you together if he just held on hard enough. You needed it just as badly, needed the proof, in skin and breath and the obscene, wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again, that whatever was broken between you hadn't broken the one thing that had always been real: the hurt, the need, and the terrifying comfort you only ever found in each other's arms.

It was the only language left that could make you understand each other, where your own beliefs and his rationality couldn't keep tearing the two of you apart.

“You make me so fucking angry,” you breathed, forehead still pressed to his, lips brushing with every word. “You make me want to scream at you and kiss you at the same time.”

He thrust up harder, eyes burning into yours. "You make me fucking angry too." His voice came out ragged, almost desperate. "I should've gotten rid of you before you got into my blood like this. Before I started needin' you like air."

You moaned, rolling your hips faster, chasing that perfect angle. Your mouths crashed together again, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, breathing ragged and desperate between kisses.

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered against his mouth, foreheads still locked together, sharing the same desperate breath. “Tommy, please, don’t stop,”

“Never,” he groaned, voice breaking. “I couldn’t stop even if I tried.”

Your orgasm hit you hard and sudden, crashing through you with a sharp cry that he swallowed with another fierce kiss. Your walls clenched around him, trembling, pulling him deeper as you rode it out. Tommy followed right after you, burying himself as deep as he could go with a low, guttural groan, spilling inside you in hot pulses while his arms locked tight around your back, holding you impossibly closer.

You both stayed with foreheads pressed together for a long time, mouths barely apart, breathing each other in. Your arms wrapped around his neck, his arms around you, holding you trapped there. You buried your face in the crook of his good shoulder. He pressed his face against yours.

"The thing you told me before," Tommy spoke slowly, voice still rough. "About your... condition. Are you doin' anything about it?"

"I—" You hesitated. "I don't wanna talk about it right now. But let's say... yes. There's somethin' in Baltimore to discuss about it."

He nodded against your hair, accepting it without pushing further.

You stayed like that a moment longer, neither of you quite ready to let the silence end and the rest of it come crashing back in.

"Who's he? Frank?" he finally asked.

You laughed softly, despite everything. "You really won't rest until you know, will you? Why's it matter so much who he is?"

His jaw tightened slightly. "You never once mentioned him. He's attached to you like family and behaves like somethin' more, and I don't understand a single piece of it."

You shook your head slowly. "Frank was my uncle's boyfriend. They were together since before the outbreak." You felt Tommy go a bit relaxed against you. "He loves me like an uncle too, and he feels obligated to look after me since my uncle passed. And it's also why he behaves strangely around me. Because I look enough like my uncle, sound enough like him, that it hurts him just to be near me some days."

Tommy was quiet for a long moment. "Guess… that answers it," he said finally.

You shifted off his lap, helping him resettle his jeans before pulling your own back on.

"Let me go." His eyes found yours, sudden and direct. "Let me go after Joel. I can't sit here not knowin' if he will make it."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

"So I'm just supposed to sit chained to a pipe and trust three strangers with my brother's life."

"Fuck, Tommy. You’re still choosing him over— Whatever. I’m so tired of this. Joel will be fine."

"Will he? Will Tess be?" His voice sharpened. "Because that, by the way… that was dirty. Bringin' her into this whole mess. That was fucked up, she's got no part in any of this—"

"Oh my God, Tommy." You were on your feet before you'd decided to move, pacing the small space, voice rising. "You're really doin' this? Right now? Just after we—" You shook your head, disbelief flooding through the anger. "What the fuck, Tommy. If she's in trouble, that's on Joel and that’s on you. Not me. I do what I have to do to."

"Funny," he said, low. "You're soundin' just like him. It’s a valid excuse when it’s convenient to you?"

"Don't you fucking—" Your voice caught, fury and hurt tangling together so fast you couldn't separate them anymore. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes for a second, breathing hard. "This is completely different, you both kidnapped me and you expect… You know what? Fuck you, Tommy. Fuck you."

You turned and walked out before he could answer, his voice calling something after you that you didn’t register, the words lost in the pounding of your own pulse as you took the metal stairs two at a time.

You crossed back to the cots in silence, chest still heaving.

Frank was awake. Standing, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that should have been judgment and somehow wasn't.

"You really like him, sweetheart?" he asked quietly.

"I— I do, Frank."

He crossed the distance and pulled you into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"It's okay," he murmured. "If he's meant to see the light, he'll see it. Can't force a man toward hope before he's ready to walk into it himself. All you can do is leave the door open and trust he finds his way to it." He squeezed your shoulder once. "And if he does, we’ll gladly take him in.”

---

Bye bye Joel, see you never again your asshole <3 haha

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[winteryn]

THE CASE OF A GRUMPY PEEPING TOM older neighbor!bucky barnes x female!reader [15.3k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door and he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience. everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you aren’t really that far behind. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; set in summer; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s but it’s only mentioned that she is younger than him); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky; loner!bucky; size difference (bucky is taller + beefy); they’re both perverts; possessiveness & jealousy; obsession; stalker-ish behavior; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (🙂‍↕️); sexual fantasies; dirty talk; masturbation (f & m); fingering; oral (f receiving); squirting; brief spanking; sexual acts in “public”; pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; slight degradation; a few uses of slut & he calls himself old multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; creampie.

A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark 😭 jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, it’s one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... 🥵 sorry for any typo and for the “unpolished” smut but I’m really tired and studying for my uni exams. hope you’ll enjoy it 💋

The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that it’s the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.

He’s in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.

This only makes him more noticeable.

He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he sees—invitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.

He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone else’s expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesn’t suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.

His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didn’t require one of them becoming someone else.

See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.

As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.

He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he simply doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol car’s lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.

He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.”

Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.

He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.

His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They don’t expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked door—solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.

And it works. Until your arrival.

The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before complaining about the noise.

Then you step into view.

You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone—a friend, maybe—reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.

Bucky’s frown deepens.

You’re younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft, bright, lively. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… happy, comfortable.

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.

Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple—fresh off their last noise complaint—wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman—the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains—shows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling “correctly.” 

He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.

Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly.

Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself you’re just another neighbor, another disruption… another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.

Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.

The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, hi!”

Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.

He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… noise.

“I’m your new neighbor.” You continue anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.

You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood… anything.

However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.

“Okay.” You draw softly, but recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”

You wait another second yet his gaze doesn’t move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.

That somehow makes it worse.

The next few times, he tells himself it’s just bad timing.

He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like it’s reflexive.

“Morning.”

He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride. 

Two days later, he’s unloading groceries when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.

“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.

Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind. 

He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.

“Thank you.” You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.

Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.

On trash day it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.

“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk much.” You add eventually, not accusatory. 

He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake to deal with existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.

He stops without meaning to.

You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.

“Oh! Good morning—sorry, I think this thing hates me.” You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.

He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.

Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciated that.”

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

“Have a nice day!” You call after him.

He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.

By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.

Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple brags—loudly—about you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.

Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.

“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.” 

Bucky’s nostrils flare.

How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and God—your lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.

And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.

Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.

Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.

On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows. 

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.

“Hi.” 

His hands freeze.

You’re standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.

Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

“I just...” You hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.

“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just—” You sigh, dejected. “I’d like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t do anything.” He mutters reluctantly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.

“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”

“It was.” He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.

You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.

You nod once. “Okay.”

Your eyes drop to the ground.

“Well, I’m sorry.” Your answer is no louder than a mumble. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.

That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.

The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.

Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to?

It’s later than Bucky’s usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.

That’s when a light flicks on across the street.

He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.

At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.

Straight into your world.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.

Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.

An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesn’t remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.

He shouldn’t be watching.

The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but it’s not hard to pretend. He’s heard it before anyway—that soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness.  

Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.

He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.

The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.

He looks anyway.

Your window is lit once again and you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever it’s playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.

His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

It’s almost… fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.

And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.

The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.

Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, that’s all.

He doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.

Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.

When he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence. 

Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?

Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open. 

When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.

When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.

Background noise is your best companion: a TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.

It’s summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.

You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.

You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand—something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.

Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they aren’t.

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

This doesn’t stop him from perking up like a dog at his owner’s arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.

You’re not alone. 

Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. It’s only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companion’s face.

It’s a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the man’s hair as his head works under your eager guidance.

Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.

The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight. 

Still, an itch burns deep in his chest—an ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.

Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.

The worst part is that Bucky doesn’t stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesn’t know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he can’t stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, he’d need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.

In theory, there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when you’re riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.

The worst is that Bucky likes to pretend—in some deeply disturbed part of his mind—that you know he’s there, that you want him to hear. It’s not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.

What a miserable, old man. It’s so pathetic that at his age he’s been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. It’s humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.

As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You’ve been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.

But these boys don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.

They don’t know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.

Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness. 

And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usual—shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.

The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.

The first time he talks to you after his fiasco it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.

Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes it’s coconut sunscreen.

Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.

“C’mon.” You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.

Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyed—at the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.

You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didn’t hear him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.

You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked. 

You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”

He crouches beside the device. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line. 

“You don’t have to—” You start.

“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. “If you want.”

You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to understand if he’s either onto some cruel joke, or if he’s going to make you pay real money for it.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.” Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.

“It’s fine.” He mutters.

Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.

When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”

You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.

Your face lights up. “Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

“Um,” you say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”

His body stills completely.

“I mean,” you fret. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”

“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.

You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. “James.”

He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.

“Most people call me Bucky, though. My friends.”

Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.

“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”

There’s another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds quickly. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”

Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.

Like the day your car won’t start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesn’t own a car.

And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.

Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. What—”

“I’ll take care of it.” He mutters simply.

He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like they’re longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.

Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.

“I really appreciated it.” You quip. “You keep saving me.”

He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”

Sometimes it’s a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you can’t lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldn’t carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.

He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you don’t complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.

There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldn’t come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.

Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.

Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.

He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.

Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.

Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Bucky’s thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

He stilled for exactly ten seconds.

Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”

He grunted. “No.”

It’s a blatant lie, and they all knew it.

The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it—no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.

Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.

Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark, “You sure you’re okay, Barnes?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk.

The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.

It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear—that sharp, ugly thing moving in his chest—hasn’t still gone away. It’s just been waiting.

The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.

Empty, except for your car.

Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.

Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Bucky’s hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.

He parked, cut the engine, and didn’t linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.

Your light is on, and there you are.

No one else in your room, just you—alone, safe, winding down.

Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.

He’s in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.

The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.

He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.

You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending it’s someone else’s toying with your turgid peaks.

Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.

What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?

Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.

He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.

A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.

Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.

Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.

Bucky can’t help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.

When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.

When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.

His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.

His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.

He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.

His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.

Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.

His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.

Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.

They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.

Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldn’t care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.

Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?

Bucky growls out a curse.

He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.

When you finally come, it’s completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... It’s a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.

With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his hand—some even land on the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.

When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.

Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.

That Sunday morning you hear on the news that it’s going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.

By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.

You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. It’s not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.

A second rumble follows several minutes later.

Then a third.

And rain starts shortly after.

At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.

The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.

You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.

It’s the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.

For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.

The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.

The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.

Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.

Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.

“Are you alright?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Hi, Bucky.”

His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. “Are you alright?”

There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.

“Yeah,” you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. “Yes, I’m alright.”

His eyes briefly scan your face as though he’s verifying the answer for himself.

“Did the branch hit the house?” The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.

“What?”

“The one that fell in your backyard.”

Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”

A small frown appears between his brows. “Didn’t you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.”

“Oh.”

That’s what that noise was.

“Did it hit anything?”

Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. “I don’t think so...?”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “You don’t think so?”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, I haven’t exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weather’s been making that a tad difficult.”

For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, that realization warms your chest.

Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.

Bucky’s blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.

“My electricity’s still on.” He blurts out, the words almost sound as though they’ve escaped by accident.

You blink. “Okay?”

His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.

“If you want,” he starts, oddly careful. “You could come over until they fix it.”

Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past months.

If anything, he seems uncomfortable.

It’s such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months you’ve known Bucky, you’ve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but you’ve never seen him hesitant.

The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.

For the first time since you’ve moved in this small town, Bucky doesn’t look like a man trying to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He looks like a man hoping you won’t say no.

Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.

You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.

The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.

Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.

The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.

The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.

Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.

Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.

“Well,” you murmur to yourself, moving closer. “This feels promising.”

The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasn’t determined to dismantle.

The psychology section catches you by surprise.

At first you notice one or two titles.

Then five turn to ten.

Soon you’re standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.

Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.

“No.” A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.

You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.

“Oh, Bucky.”

You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.

The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.

You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and that’s when something slips free from behind it.

The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.

Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.

You only glance at the page because you’re trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because that’s your name written inside.

The handwriting is unmistakably Bucky’s—or well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.

The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.

You read the first few lines without fully understanding what you’re looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.

She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I don’t think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.

As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.

Every entry is about you.

Every. Single. Day.

Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.

She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I don’t like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didn’t even stop to check the mail as usual.

As usual?

How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?

Your eyes move lower.

I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didn’t. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

The entries continue. Page after page after page.

The yellow sweater again. I still think it’s her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?

She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.

Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldn’t hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.

You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.

Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still don’t understand why she lets people walk all over her.

Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh. 

It’s been weeks from your last date, and though it’s not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.

You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.

You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing—an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.

Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all. Until you’d started to wonder if the problem was you.

You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.

She came home smiling, but it wasn’t real. I know the difference.

You gasp at the next paragraphs.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.

I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.

His girl?

The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these aren’t mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.

She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.

I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.

This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?

There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably don’t register until you are the one telling them. Things you don’t notice about yourself but that completely make sense.

This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.

Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.

I should stop looking for her every night.

The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.

I should stop wondering who she’s with when she doesn’t come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when I’m trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.

I should stop. But I don’t want to.

By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.

When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.

The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.

“James.”

This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expression—furious, eyes blazing.

“What is this?” Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.

That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.

Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He replies tiredly.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you have to say right now? Seriously?”

His expression tightens. “No.”

“You’ve been literally documenting my entire life like I’m some kind of lab project.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t start minimizing it.”

He swallows thickly.

“You…” Your voice shakes. “You’ve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?”

“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he can’t find a version of that sentence that could help him. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” You laugh, caustic and humorless. “Do you have any idea of how I feel right now? It’s fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.”

His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.

“Do you do this with everyone?” You press, words coming faster now, sharper. “Is this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start… what, cataloguing people?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You are so fucking confusing.” You continue, voice rising. “One minute you won’t even look at me, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like it’s your job—”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“—and for fuck’s sake, you were threatening my dates!” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.

Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly… and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.

“I just want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”

You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They take what you give them and then run away,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction.

You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.

“That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”

“I know,” he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time so easily to guys who don’t even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminals—who can’t see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention… sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.”

You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”

Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“I didn’t ask for... whatever you are doing.” You whisper eventually.

“I know.”

“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!”

Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but there’s something far too dangerous curling underneath it.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.

“Every time you bring home someone,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

“And yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.

“You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”

His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint to not touch you.

“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here making excuses?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea—your anger, his obsession, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.

But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.

His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything—or change it beyond repair.

God, he wants you so bad.

He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.

He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like it’s instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. 

His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire—it’s so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make.

Bucky’s been fighting this longer than you have, and every step he’s taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.

His sanity.

And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.

Because you need this.

You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.

Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that you’ve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for.

The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.

The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certain—one still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. 

It’s rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.

You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan. 

Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.

Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Shit.” He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.

His hands wander everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.

“You know how hard it was watching that?” He speaks against your lips.

You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens. 

“You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I could only live in my wildest dreams.”

You press a hand to his chest, firmly. “Bucky.”

For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks. 

“I started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to watch you at first. It just… happened one night. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and shaky. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you weren’t.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.

“I apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing it—” He stills, eyes widening slightly. “What did you just say?”

“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”

Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.

“What was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?” He pants against your mouth. “All this time I’ve been beating myself up over it.” His lips move on your neck, making you gasp. 

“An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind. 

“But you are just as filthy as me, baby.” 

Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment. 

His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”

Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little. 

“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S—Someone might see.” You protest weakly.

He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich couple’s house. 

“Better stay quiet then.” 

And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass. 

Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure. 

“There we go, sweetheart.”

You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker. 

“How were they?” He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.

“Answer me.” 

“Not—not like you.” You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. “Oh my God.” 

“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That’s why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards weren’t satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol’ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”

Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.

“Don’t be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.

“Hm, I’ve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.

Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear. “That’s right, feel it sweetheart. That’s all for you, look what you do to me.” He grits out.

His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips. 

“Quiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”

You can’t elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Bucky’s attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.

“C’mon, doll.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I’ll let you touch it.”

Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I—fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.

“This is what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.

He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn’t just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.

You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky’s breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes. 

“Need more.”

He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.

“Stay put.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill. 

His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway. 

“Such a messy girl.” He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs. 

He promised he would let you touch it. 

“Don’t whine. I have to make sure she’s ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?” 

You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can’t believe you’re really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It’d be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what’s going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes’ house—the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being—and your lips keep parting around shameless moans.

It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.

“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old man’s dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.” 

His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. “I knew you’d taste fucking delicious.”

“Careful, old man.” You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can’t go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything can—Bucky!”

Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.

“Ah.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”

You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. It’s incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.

His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face. 

“She’s so pretty.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. “Look at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.”

You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.

“Perfect pussy,” he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. “Perfect ass. Perfect tits.” He squeezes your butt. “You’re perfect everywhere, doll.”

A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.

Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.

“She’s all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?”

You nod even if he can’t see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. It’s only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan. 

He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.

“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.

“Good girl.” Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. “‘M gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.”

The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.

“Big.” You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut. 

Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.

His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.

“You can take it.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.

“Look how well you accepted me.” He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot. 

You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur. 

However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.

“It’d be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.”

You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fast—just how you like it.

“Some of them could be watching right now.” He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family. 

Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. “Yeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”

You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Bucky’s palms are weathered and callused from his job—he’s always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.

It’s primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.

“Feeling good, hm?” His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. “My pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jus’ need a thick cock inside her and she’s gushing like a little fountain.” He snickers.

Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You’re pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.

“Yes yes yes!” You mumble deliriously into your arms. “Right there, Bucky.”

He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.

“Gonna come, oh God, please please don’t stop.” You whimper.

“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I’ll make you leak for days—”

“Please!” You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that you’re getting fucked raw for anyone to see. 

Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.

“That’s it,” he draws out. “That’s it, she’s tightening so good around me. Now it’s my turn, gonna fill you up so good you’re gonna feel me for days.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.

“You’ve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty tits…” He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.

“She’s all full now, hm?” He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. “But I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.”

“Bucky…” You mumble lightheaded. “Gonna come again.”

“Yeah?” His smile is depraved. “Creaming my cock once wasn’t enough? Need to mark what’s yours, babygirl?”

“Yes!” You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.

This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.

“I’m coming too, baby. Shit—” He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.

You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.

Maybe you were right…. maybe he really did get a cramp.

When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long you’ve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.

A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldn’t be more satisfied—another reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.

“Took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.

He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.

“Finally mine.”

The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it’s just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.

Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, it’s some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.

And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, it’s not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩶 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie @onyx8514 @nash-dara @tt-bby @midnightmondaykiss @mikonawa @oomexluvsseb @floraslcve @erina00 @clover1004 @eatingyourboyfriend @starfire-irl @phoenix-in-writing @shyshyraven-writes @thegirlfatherr @jamesbbcrnes @yapeez @jynx-the-dynx @verss88 @yustlove13 @love4lando @wiltedfae @oomexluvsseb

[usetheeauthor]

This is hot af

[reideneris]

i might get alot of flames for this but,

the x reader "consumers" on tumblr lowk are so entitled, i said consumer bcs these people do nothing to support the writers but complain about FREE fanfics that other people write for FUN and for the LOVE of the game. THEY DON'T OWE YOU ANYTHING.

i'm so tired of you people who can only pressure these writers, make memes, and ridicule them for writing something that was not fit to your standards or liking.

you don't even write or contribute anything to the community, don't even support or atleast reblogs to the writers you actually like.

stop filling the tags with your consistent complaints about the fanfics that obviously wasn't meant for you (not to your liking) and start learn how to write.

[daltoncharm]

I don't...I don't mind / YES YOU DO

[littledes1re]

What if…we reverse the roles for a second and imagine it's you who takes Peepaw Joel's virginity?

Yes, of course old Joel dated. Plenty. I mean, look at him. Women were gushing for him. But going to bed with them? Never happened. And after the outbreak, sex just wasn't his priority. Survival was. Trust was. And by the time he reached Jackson, he'd built walls so high that even he forgot there was a virgin hiding behind them.

But Jackson changed things. Tommy was happy. Maria was pregnant. Joel watched those couples walk hand-in-hand, and something twisted in his gut—a hollow ache. He never had that. Not even once. And now he's sixty, belly soft from steady meals, hands calloused from years of work, he figured it's too damn late.

Who the hell would want a grumpy old virgin?

Then you came to Jackson.

Bold, young, too goddamn pretty. Everything Joel needed to stay away from, because his heart couldn't take it anymore. But when you placed a kiss on his cheek, told him he looked handsome, and invited him over to your house—he couldn't possibly say no.

"Ain't never...done this before," he blurted out the moment your hand slid under his shirt, while you sat on top of him. He braced for your reaction, embarrassed, but you only cooed, kissed him, and promised to take real good care of him.

And yes—Joel's cock was excited. He's old, but he's not dead. The moment your hands started roaming—his thigh, his belly, the zipper of his jeans—he hardened like a rock. Blood rushed to his groin with a desperation he'd never felt before.

But his insecurities hit hard. When you started to tug his shirt up, he grabbed your wrists. "Too much gut on an old man like me."

You just nuzzled your face into the soft skin of his belly and told him how much you wanted it pressed against you while he fucked you.

And when you finally wrapped your hand around his cock for the first time? That poor old man nearly had a heart attack. Deep, shaky moans spilled from his mouth. He tried to stay quiet at first, but the new sensations wrecked him—little gasps, grunts that turned into desperate groans, maybe even your name said like a prayer when he got close.

First time your cunt clenched around him? He was already gasping. A few pumps up and down, and he was babbling: "I'm gonna—fuck, I can't hold it—stop or—"

And he spilled inside you, all pathetic and breathless, gaping for air. His cock pulsed and pulsed, twitched and twitched until he collapsed, face buried in your neck, breathing hard. He was mortified. "That...that was damn pitiful. I'm sorry."

But you just stroked his hair, smiling to him. "It was perfect. And we've got all night."

And because he's old but not spent—once he caught his breath, his cock stirred again, curious and ready.

This time, you let him take control.

He was slower. More gentle. He wanted to please you. Wanted to make up for that quick finish. So he fingered you, licked you, followed your instructions until he had you gasping beneath him. Then he pushed in again, and he lasted longer. He learned. He memorized every sound you made.

And Peepaw Joel was not a virgin anymore.

[usetheeauthor]

This is so good 🫦 pls more Virgin Peepaw Joel. I’m begging on my hands and knees 🙇🏾‍♀️ as I’ve hoped someone would take this concept for so long

[fewerstars]

“look at the stars”

| summary: you surprise Joel with a picnic in your garden for his birthday, and find out why the stars break his heart. Long story short he cries in your arms, you comfort him and then you know how it goes. 😛

| authors notes: I’ve been playing around with this idea for a while and I’ve been so excited to finish it, so I hope you enjoy!? (I think I’ve came to the conclusion that I just really like men crying…)

| content: fem reader, smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), riding, sad!joel, gentle!reader, angst, reader comforts Joel, slight talk of loss, they do the tango outside 🫪, crying!joel, grief, yearning!joel, Joel can’t accept he’s enough, hurt/comfort

| word count: 5k

For as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been the same when it’s came to birthdays. He usually doesn’t want anything, he never causes a fuss; and in fact, he tries to avoid mentioning it all together. Of course when you started getting closer to him, you opposed to this. You told him you’re his ‘friend’ and you’re allowed, even obligated to surprise him every once in a while. Birthdays are supposed to feel special, even if he pretends not to care about them.

Of course, he thought the whole idea was ridiculous. So every time you’d mention it, he’d shrug and give you that familiar look, then say something like, “Y’know me, as long as I got you,” with that stupid grin of his that you absoloutely adore. You never fought him on it, just rolled your eyes and tried not to smile too much, muttering “Whatever, old man.”

But this year you wanted things to be a little different. Not anything over the top or dramatic like some huge surprise party, but a small gesture to show him that you love and value him. Just something to show him you’re grateful you have him, to spend another year by his side. Something intimate for the two of you. Candles, wine. Something like a picnic.

You wake up on and stretch, the morning light filtering softly through the curtains. After about half a second of consciousness, you realise it’s the day- Joel’s birthday, and the evening you’ve got planned for him is running through your head. You scramble out of bed, hastily flattening your sheets down and moving quickly to get dressed. Yes, you told yourself you won’t make today a big deal, but you can’t exactly help it, he never lets you do stuff like this.

Truth is, he doesn’t even know, so he couldn’t have stopped you either way. You open your drawers and throw on a little white dress, then start doing your makeup quickly. You can’t help but smile in excitement. Once you’ve puckered your lips up to put on some gloss, then unrolled your hair from those shitty rollers that do more harm than good, you start putting on your shoes.

Your eyes flick to the mirror to have a double take, and once you’re sure you’re ready, you grab your car keys and head outside the door. The drive to the shops is quick, you nod your head to the radio and tap your fingers on the steering wheel. The whole time there’s a feeling of warmth and excitement engulfing you. Eventually, you get to your first stop and park your car outside, getting on with the things you need to buy.

Once you’re done with the first shop, you get back in the car, tightening your seatbelt and starting to move through your list with a quiet smile.

At the bakery you pick up a fresh loaf of bread and a few croissants. In the supermarket you grab these gorgeous strawberries, his favourite herby cheese, and some olives. You tick off everything mentally, then shrug and run back to the aisle you just skipped. You grab a bottle of red wine, then run over and pick up some brownies.

Might aswell.

The last stop is the florist, where you get a small bouquet of white lilies and pink roses. Everything fits neatly into your tote bag once your list is complete. You load it into your trunk and drive home, already picturing the peaceful setup under the tree in your back garden. Back home, you unpack everything onto the kitchen counter, keeping it all neat and simple.

After a little while of humming along to the music in your headphones while you set everything up, you take a step back and admire the little picnic in your garden. You can’t help but crack a proud smile at yourself, for being able to actually pull this off.

You and Joel are a little complicated, you’re not together but you’re also not not together? After the outbreak, after meeting in Jackson, you established this strange relationship. He’s yours, and you’re his and you both know it, but neither of you have admitted it, whether because you’re scared or for some other unknown reasons. He runs errands for you, he helps you on patrols, he calls you baby. But for some reason or the other, you haven’t named what it is between you yet. You haven’t even had sex yet.

Joel arrives at your door eventually, and once you open the door with your glowing eyes and big smile, he knows something’s up. He sighs in acceptance as you pull him in, shutting the door behind him. “Baby-” he starts, hands on his hips in protest. You just wave your hand in his face, like you’re not willing to argue on this, then pull out a thin piece of fabric and hold it up to him.

“Turn around then” you giggle, and he has no choice but to do as you say. You stand on your tiptoes while you tie the blindfold around his eyes, before pressing a shy kiss to the nape of his neck, which is dusted with silver hairs. You pat him on the shoulder to say you’re done, and he straightens up with an amused grin, letting you guide him.

“Lord,” Joel chuckles, shaking his head as you drag him through the house, a blindfold over his eyes. You giggle, holding his arm tight, guiding his broad figure around tables and chairs to get to the glass double doors in your kitchen, the ones that lead to the back garden. “Baby I’m gonna trip,” he laughs, allowing you to push and shove him in the right direction.

“Shh you party pooper, we’re here” you pout, halting at the door, tugging at his sleeve to stop him from walking into the door, but probably a little too late.

“Ah shit” hisses Joel, rubbing his nose that just collided with the door. He steps back cautiously, a hand still over his face as he groans softly.

You clasp your hands over your mouth to stop yourself from bursting into laughter and say “Shit, I’m so sorry Joel,” as you choke through giggles. He shakes his head, just happy he can hear that sweet laugh of yours.

“That’s alright, can I take this stupid thing off my eyes now?” he grumbles as you watch him frown. You sigh, tugging on the sliding door to your garden.

“Okay, step” you instruct him, and he takes a wobbly step over the door. You laugh softly and tell him, “Yeah, whatever, you can take it off now” as he fumbles with the fabric and eventually pulls it off.

Joel blinks against the soft twilight that has wrapped the backyard in gentle shades of purple and gold. His eyes adjust slowly, landing on the corner you’ve created under the old oak tree. The stripy blanket lies on the grass, anchored by a few stones you’d gathered earlier. At the center, a jar holds the bouquet of lilies and roses you’d picked out for him, their petals releasing a sweet fragrance into the evening air.

Arranged around it are the fresh loaf of crusty bread, the golden croissants, and the bowl of glistening strawberries you’d bought. He lets his lips form a small smile when he sees the wedge of that specific cheese you know he likes, along with those fudgy brownies. The bottle of red wine sits beside two simple glasses, with the string lights you’d draped overhead now flickering in their reflection.

He stands motionless for a long moment, his broad frame silhouetted against the house. One large hand rises to rub the back of his neck, a gesture he has a habit of making when he’s caught off guard by affection. “What is all this?” His voice comes out low and gravelly, laced with that familiar mix of protest and underlying warmth.

You feel a rush of nervous excitement but step forward anyway, your white dress swishing softly around your legs. “Happy birthday, Joel. It’s not anything crazy or over the top. Just something small for- us. I really wanted tonight to be special for you.”

He exhales a long breath, shaking his head slowly, though the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble, darlin’. I told you before—I don’t need fussin’ over. As long as I’ve got you, that’s enough.”

“I know you said that,” you reply gently, reaching out to take his hand. His palm is warm, rough from years of work, and his fingers close around yours without hesitation. “But I wanted to do it anyway. You deserve it- even if you say birthdays don’t matter.” Your eyes flick up to his softly as you ask, “Come on, sit with me?”

Joel holds your gaze for a beat, those deep brown eyes searching your face as if looking for a way out. Finding none, he nods with a fond sigh. “Alright. You win this one, bossy.”

You lead him across the grass to the blanket, watching with affection as he lowers himself down. His knees give a faint creak in protest, and he stretches his legs out in front of him, one boot heel digging slightly into the ground at the edge of the blanket. You settle beside him, smoothing your dress over your thighs, and reach for the wine. The cork releases with a satisfying pop, and you pour two glasses for you both, the rich aroma of berries filling the air between you as you hand him one.

You sit for a while, quiet and comfortable. You tear off chunks of the bread, spreading them generously with the cheese before offering bites to him. He accepts each one with a soft grunt of appreciation, his eyes lingering on your face more than on the food. You pop a strawberry into his mouth next, the juice staining his lower lip a faint crimson. Leaning in without thinking, you kiss it away, tasting the bright sweetness mingled with the salt of his skin.

“You’re spoilin’ me awful tonight,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you, his expression softer than usual.

“Good,” you whisper back, smiling. “You work so hard all the time, Joel. You take care of everyone- let me take care of you for once.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling in his chest like distant thunder, and takes a slow sip of wine. From there, the conversation unfolds naturally, like it always does between you two. You tell him about your day in more detail- the quick drive with the radio playing his favorite old country songs, and the way the bakery lady had smiled knowingly when you mentioned it was for a special occasion.

He tells you snippets about his own day, about the young apprentice who nearly crushed his thumb off, and some more talk about contracting and buildings and bricks. You love listening to him talk about his day, and you watch him with love as he speaks, barely hanging on to the words he’s saying. His shoulders loosen visibly with each passing minute, the tension he permanently carries easing under your company.

As the sky shifts fully from twilight to dark blue, and the stars begin to show, you scoot closer to him until your knee rests warmly against his thigh. The air between you feels thicker now, charged with intimacy and the kind of quiet understanding that only comes from deep love. Joel sets his glass down carefully on the grass and turns toward you, one big hand coming to rest on your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles through the thin fabric of your dress.

“Thank you,” he says after a while, his voice sincere and a little rough around the edges. “For all of this- the food, the flowers, the effort. Didn’t expect nothin’ like it, but it means more to me than I can explain baby.”

Your heart swells, pressing against your ribs. Baby. Unable to help yourself, you reach up and cup his stubbled cheek, feeling the familiar rasp under your palm, and before you know it, the words are slipping off of your tongue like honey. “I love you, Joel. So much.”

The words settle between you like a gentle spark. He goes completely still, his eyes widening slightly as they lock onto yours. Even though you’ve exchanged sweet words before, something about the care you put into this, the stars above and the vulnerability of the setting makes “I love you” land heavier. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“Yeah?” he breathes, the single word cracking with raw emotion. In the next instant, his strong arms wrap around you, pulling you onto his lap with that effortless strength that always makes your breath catch. You settle across his thick thighs, your dress riding up slightly as his hands anchor firmly on your hips, holding you close like you’re something precious and fragile. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply the scent of your skin, the faint floral notes of your perfume and the summer night air that clings to your locks.

“God, I love you too,” he murmurs, the words vibrating warmly against your collarbone. “So damn much it scares me sometimes. Don’ know what I did to deserve you baby.”

You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, fingers sliding into the silver curls at the nape of his neck, holding him just as tightly. His embrace grounds you, the steady beat of his heart thumping against yours. You stay like that for what feels like a long while, wrapped up in each others arms under the old tree. The string lights cast a soft golden glow over his shoulders as the faint breeze carries the sweet scent of the roses in the air.

Eventually, Joel shifts beneath you. He leans back a little, tilting his head upward to gaze at the sky. The constellations are clear tonight, scattered like diamonds across the dark canvas that’s the sky. His expression changes subtly- something distant and aching flickers across his weathered features as his eyes trace the familiar patterns. You watch him quietly, sensing the difference in his mood.

“Sarah used to love nights like this,” he says softly, almost to himself at first. “She’d bother me every night to take her outside with this little plastic telescope she’d saved up for. Knew all the constellations by heart- Orion’s Belt and shit.” His voice thickens noticeably, cracking with the weight of memory. “She loved the stars. So much. I’d forgotten how much I missed seein’ them through her eyes.”

You can see his eyes beginning to glisten as the fairy lights twinkle off them. What pains you is the fact that you know how hard he is on himself, how he’s trying so hard not to cry. Your own eyes sting in response, and so you cup his face gently with both of your hands, thumbs brushing tenderly over his jaw.

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice full of care. He doesn’t pull away, but his jaw clenches tightly, fighting against the rising tide. His broad shoulders tremble once, then again. You rub the nape of his neck gently to soothe him, fingers meeting his soft curls as your hands move up and down. “It’s okay Joel” you murmur softly, your breath warm against his skin. “You don’t have to hold it all in.”

He shakes his head softly, like he’s convincing himself more than anyone that he’s okay. “I’m fine, I just- I missed her y’know?” he asks, and his voice cracks. His eyes are threatening to let tears out, and he still doesn’t want to admit he’s in pain.

You can’t watch him hide from the world like this- hide from you. Gently, you move your hands to cup his face in both sides and whisper to him, “Joel, I’m here, just let it out.” At that, a teardrop rolls down his face as he blinks it away, but even then he’s shaking his head, wiping at his eyes nonchalantly. “Please Joel.” you whisper as you look into his brown eyes.

Finally, the dam breaks in quiet waves. His arms tighten around your waist as deep sobs roll through his chest, the grief buried for years finding release in the safety of this moment. You hold him through every croak, your fingers gentle and comforting in his hair, the other hand rubbing his back. He presses his face into your chest, his breath hot and uneven against you. Between his whimpers, you whisper reassuringly to him: “I’m right here,” and “You can talk to me,” pouring every ounce of gentleness you can into the words so he feels it.

The minutes stretch out, the quiet sounds of his crying blending with the rustle of leaves overhead. When the sobs gradually ease into shaky, uneven breaths, he finally lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening with grief, but there’s a clearer, lighter look in them now, as if a burden he’s been carrying has shifted ever so slightly.

“I don’t deserve any of this,” he rasps, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Don’t deserve you. Not after all the ways I’ve failed.” You shake your head firmly but lovingly, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose, then each of his damp eyelids reverently. “I ain’t worthy of shit.”

Your lips brush softly over his wet eyelashes, over the last traces of his tears. “You do deserve this, Joel. You’re worthy of birthdays and picnics and stars and-” you pause to breath, exasperated. “You deserve the world baby, and I love you with everything in me.” You swipe your palms across his cheeks, gently drying the glistening trails that were his tears.

He lets out a shaky exhale and rests his forehead against yours. The air between your bodies feels heavy with everything you’ve shared- grief, comfort, love. Your mouths meet in a slow, lingering kiss that begins tender and reverent, full of all the things you haven’t managed to say yet. His lips are warm and slightly salty, tasting like tears.

Gradually, the kiss deepens, and his tongue brushes yours with need as his hands slide down your back, settling firmly on your hips and pulling you even closer against him. Your chest is pressed to his as he holds you, both muscular arms firm around you, covering you like a shield. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin.

When you finally pull back to part for air, foreheads pressed together and breaths mingling, Joel’s voice drops to a rough, but soft whisper that sends a shiver right down your spine. “Let me make love to you, baby.” he asks, eyebrows furrowed like he needs it.

“Yes,” you breathe immediately, your heart pounding hard. “I want you Joel.”

He captures your mouth again in an urgent kiss, his hands moving with purpose. With careful strength, he eases you back onto the blanket, the cool grass beneath you having a gentle contrast to the heat building between you. He hovers above you, his eyes shining with nothing but love. His calloused fingers trace the thin straps of your white dress, slipping them slowly down your shoulders one by one. He follows the path with his mouth, pressing gentle kisses along your collarbone and the swell of your breasts until he tugs the fabric lower, and you’re bare to the cool night air.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs reverently, his mouth pressing wet kisses onto one of your breasts. His tongue licks softly, teasing and giving you attention until you arch up into him with a soft, needy moan. Your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close as he gives the other breast the same devoted treatment- sucking gently, just enough to send sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

His free hand wanders lower, bunching the dress at your waist before lifting your hips to pull the garment off completely over your head, along with slipping your underwear down your legs. The cool breeze kisses your hot skin, but his body quickly chases it away as he settles his broad shoulders between your parted thighs.

He kisses a slow, worshipping trail down your body, to your stomach, your hips, the sensitive crease where your thighs meets where you need him most. When his mouth finally reaches your core, you gasp sharply at the first touch. He licks a long stripe up your folds, humming deeply in satisfaction at your taste. “So sweet f’me,” he groans softly, the vibration sending pleasure through you. He closes his eyes and lets out a soft groan, yearning for you. It’s like there’s nothing he needs more in this world than you- nowhere else he’d rather be than between your thighs.

His eyes meet yours, and without losing eye contact, he moves his hand until two thick fingers tap against your entrance, like he’s asking for permission. You nod, eyebrows knitted together in desperation, and gently, he presses them inside you, moving them deeper excruciatingly slowly. His own mouth falls open in awe, and he looks back up to watch you, curling his digits expertly to stroke your sensitive spot.

“Joel- oh, fuck,” you whimper, your hips bucking up instinctively into his face. His lips seal around your clit as he watches your euphoric expression, and he sucks with perfect, gentle pressure. He holds you steady with one powerful arm across your waist, sleeves rolled up, showing the dusting of grey hair across his forearm.

“That’s its dollface, just feel it,”His fingers pumping in a steady rhythm as his tongue works relentlessly faster. Pleasure coils tighter and hotter in your belly with every movement of his fingers.

He adds a third finger, stretching you impossibly while his mouth doesn’t move, like his mission is to make you break. Before you know it, your legs feel weak. “Ah fuck, Joel please-” you moan, hips shaking around his head.

All he does is whisper “Shh, I got you.” into your heat, pushing your leg down firmer with his free arm. “Let go f’me sweetheart.” His voice is low, coaxing you to let go.

Your first orgasm hits you intensely- walls clenching hard around his fingers while you cry out his name, your thighs trembling around his head. “Good girl,” he whispers into you. He doesn’t stop, easing the high with soft kitten licks through every wave until you’re shuddering, only moving back to give your nub a gentle kiss.

He crawls back up your body, pressing his lips to yours so you can taste yourself on his tongue. You moan into it, hands fumbling at his chest to get off his shirt. He helps you, pulling it off to reveal his broad, defined chest- covered with scars you know the stories of, and a trail of light hair leading downward.

Your palms roam over his chest greedily, and you can feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your hand. He unbuckles his belt quickly, pushing down his jeans and boxers together to reveal his heavy cock. It stands flushed and hard and you can’t help it when your lips part in desperation, seeing him already glistening. You wrap your soft hand around him, stroking slowly with your thumb swirling over the sensitive tip until he groans like he’s in pain, his hips twitching forward into your grip.

“Fuck baby, I ain’t gonna last,” he groans, voice strained with need as he hovers over you.

You smile up at him teasingly, guiding the glistening head of his cock to your slick entrance. He lowers himself, following through with it. “Joel, I need you, please.” you beg.

He locks at you, eyes full of emotion. “Look at me, darlin’.” As your gazes hold, he asks gently, “Are you sure you want this?” Your breath hitches and you nod your head desperately. His heart aches at your visible need. Finally, he takes hold of his throbbing length. “Alright, I gotcha sweetheart,” he says understandingly, “let me take care of you.” With extreme care, he starts to push in slowly, inch by thick inch.

He stretches you open with that burning fullness and all you can do is moan. You feel like he’s about to tear you apart. A low groan tears from deep in his throat as he bottoms out, filling you entirely. For a long, breathless moment he stays there, forehead pressed to yours, your hot breaths mingling. “I love you,” he whispers weakly. “So fuckin’ much.”

He begins to move, back snd forth while his tip consistently hits that sensitive spot. The blanket beneath you bunches beneath you with the power of each snap of his hips. You cling desperately to his back, nails clawing at his shoulders as waves of pleasure spark up your spine. He fucks you like it’s his job, and keeps going, his hand trailing to your face, the other braced onto your side to keep himself up. “Joel” you whine desperately, “I need you- I need more.”

The stars shine silently overhead, the cool night breeze a contrasting with the wet heat between you, where your bodies join. Joel bucks his hips into you purposefully, the hand on your face moving to your mouth.

“Look at me,” he rasps again, voice rough. You obey, locking eyes as he thrusts, faster. The raw emotion in his gaze tightens something deep in your chest. He hooks his thumb into your mouth, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he fucks you. “That’s it baby, suck.”You close your lips around his thumb, swirling your tongue around the digit as the rhythm of his thrusts grow more urgent. The obscene sound of skin slapping on skin fills the night air, mixing with your moans and whines.

Suddenly, he shifts angles, hooking one of your legs higher over his hip. The new position lets him hit that spot inside you, making you moan with devastating pleasure. Your walls flutter around his length, releasing slick as he moves in and out.

“Attagirl,” he encourages through gritted teeth, a bead of sweat formed on his brow. “Let go while I’m deep inside you baby,”

You shatter again with a broken cry, but around his dick this time. Joel lets go of a few strained curses, groaning as his thrusts become irregular while he chases his own peak. He bucks his hips into you a few more times, his thrusts powerful and deep and then buries himself as far as possible, closing his eyes desperately. “Fuck- I’m gonna-” he croaks, hips faltering as he repeats your name over and over again desperately. “Baby- you feel too good, please-” he begs.

You whimper, overwhelmingly full with his final deep thrusts, and noticing that he’s close, finally say, “Mhm, let go inside me.” At that, noises you’ve never heard from him escape his lips, and he breaks- spilling hot and thick cum inside you with a long, groan of your name. His hips twitch through the aftershocks, filling you completely as he kneads one of your breasts, desperate for anything to hold on to.

He collapses carefully over you, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you while he tucks his face into the curve of your neck. You stroke his back in lazy circles as you both come down from your high, hearts pounding together in sync. After a few minutes, he rolls onto his side, pulling you flush against his chest.

His fingers trace affectionate patterns along your spine while you nuzzle your face against himc, pressing soft kisses to his collarbone and shoulder. “Best damn birthday I’ve ever had,” he murmurs eventually, his voice sleepy as his hands move down to rest on the swell of your ass.

You smile against his warm skin. “We’re not even done yet, old man.”He lets out a soft, rumbling chuckle that vibrates through both of you as hands begin to wander again. One hand rests on your ass, the other reaching to hold your breast and teasing the nipple until it peaks under his thumb.

Fresh heat stirs low in your belly, after you’d thought it impossible considering how hard he just fucked you. You tease him right back though, nipping at his jawline, biting and licking at his stubble. Soon he’s helping you sit up on him while he lays back. You sink onto him with a relieved sigh, pressing both hands to his chest to ground yourself. This round is slower and more loving, his hands maps every inch of you reverently: the dip of your waist, the valley between your breasts. When you begin grinding, he praises you, knowing it’s what you need right now. “That’s it sweet girl, just like that.” he coos, letting you take the lead and give yourself the pleasure you need.

Much later, when the night air turns cooler and the sky is dark, Joel gathers you into his arms lovingly and carries you inside the house, with your legs wrapped securely around his waist. In the bedroom, he lays you down on the bed with gentle care, like you’re an angel laying beneath him. The third time is lazy and unhurried. Your bodies move in perfect, familiar rhythm, fingers intertwined, soft gasps filling the quiet darkness. It’s like you’re savouring the pleasure, wanting it to last forever as you gasp breathlessly against eachother mouths.

You eventually fall asleep wrapped in his arms, his steady heartbeat like a lullaby against your ear. The smell of vanilla, sex and him linger warmly on your skin as you lay, intertwined together.

When morning light spills through the curtains the next day, you open your eyes to find Joel propped on one elbow, watching you with lovingly, a seriousness in his gaze. His fingers trace lazy circles along your cheek and jaw, his expression relaxed, unlike anything you’ve seen in a long time.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, meaningful. “For last night. For seein’ all of me- the good and bad parts. For lovin’ me anyway.”

You lean up to kiss him, sweet and full of promise. “Always, Joel. Happy birthday.”

He pulls you closer into his chest, and in the gentle morning glow, surrounded by his warmth and the lingering memories of stars, you know this is only the start of many more birthdays you’ll make sure he never spends alone.

[mrsnanamiller]

Show me how bad you can hurt me [series]

Chapter 7 - Can you save me from this darkness?

[AO3] [Wattpad] [fic masterlist]

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Chapter Summary:

You got a glimpse of who Tommy Miller used to be... and who he still could become beneath all the pain. Your hope is not enough to comfort a world that refuses to stay gentle for long.

Fic Summary: Four years after the outbreak, Joel and Tommy Miller are hardened smugglers in the Boston QZ: mean, violent, and willing to do whatever it takes to survive. When they’re paid an obscene amount to smuggle you across the ruined country to Columbus QZ, they didn't ask what secrets you carry to be worth that much. They just expect an easy job. You're supposed to be just cargo. They will soon discover this cargo has teeth… and the power to make even the worst men start to crack.

Tags: Tommy Miller x Reader, Dark!Tommy, Raider!Tommy, Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Stockholm Syndrome, Dark Romance, Tommy is mean but not too much, Tommy Miller Fanfic, Enemies to Lovers, Tommy was corrupted by Joel, Vaginal Sex, Fireflies (The Last of Us), Slow Burn, Canon-Typical Violence

wc: 9k

2 years earlier

“Come on, pumpkin. Path is free.”

Your uncle extended his hand, helping you climb over the crumbled section of wall. He stayed right beside you, guiding your steps until you were safely on the other side of the debris. He was always this careful and patient, never making you feel weak for needing the help.

But you hated how much you still needed it. By now, most survivors had hardened into something capable. They could run, climb, fight, disappear into shadows. You had none of those skills. Your heart had always made you fragile, and the shame of it clung to you like a second skin. You told yourself it was okay… that your brain could make up for what your body couldn’t do. But deep down, you still felt embarrassed.

Your parents had tried to shield you from everything. Your uncle, on the other hand, had done the opposite. He dragged you into the world anyway, on every errand, every risky supply run, every quiet mission to find people who might sympathize with the rebellion they were planning against FEDRA. He exposed you but stayed close, ready to catch you if you fell.

As you both slipped outside the Denver QZ walls, a chill ran down your spine. Out here the threats weren’t just FEDRA patrols. Infected. Raiders. Hungry survivors.

Your uncle noticed the way your shoulders tensed.

“Hey,” he said softly, nudging your arm. “We’ve done this before. We’ll be fine. You trust me?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He broke into a warm, familiar laugh. “You, of all people, should be the least afraid out here. Don’t stress. This one will be easy.”

You assumed it was another supply run or a search for potential sympathizers. That’s what these runs usually were. But today your uncle hadn’t told you the purpose, and something in his tone felt… different.

You walked longer than usual, moving carefully through the ruins of what used to be Denver, sticking to shadows and overgrown streets. Eventually, he led you to a half-collapsed coffee shop.

Your uncle turned to you with a small, mischievous smile.

“Today’s not a mission,” he said quietly. “It’s a surprise. For you.”

Your heart lifted with sudden excitement as you stepped inside the wrecked place. It used to be one of those warm, cozy cafes, with mismatched armchairs, shelves full of worn books, and tables where people would play cards. A few faded board games were scattered across the floor among broken mugs and overturned chairs.

He moved to the corner of the space, and reached for a guitar resting in a chair. It was still beautiful and intact. He handled it to you.

“Wow… amazing!” you breathed, tilting it and checking its details.

“Think you still remember how?”

You sat on a dusty old chair while your uncle dragged another one over, positioning himself in front of you.

“Let’s find out,” you whispered, a bright smile breaking across your face. “I’ll try an easy one first.”

You started playing Blowin’ in the Wind.

“Of course it would be Bob Dylan.” Your uncle said, smiling.

The first minute felt messy, your fingers clumsy after so long, but soon the muscle memory came back. By the end of the song, the notes flowed smoother, more confident.

“Well, you’re a natural,” he said softly, pride clear in his voice. “Try your favorite now.”

You smiled, heart swelling, and switched into Girl from the North Country. The melody filled the quiet, ruined coffee shop. When the last note faded, you looked up at him.

Your uncle watched you with soft eyes.

“That was beautiful, pumpkin. Really beautiful.”

“Thank you…. This was so sweet. Bringing me here. Thank you, uncle.”

He gently took the guitar from your hands and set it aside. Then he looked at you for a long moment, something tender and heavy in his expression.

“You know what day it is today, pumpkin?”

You thought for a second, then shook your head.

“Hmm. No.”

“It’s the anniversary of your first heart surgery.”

“Oh! You still remember that?”

“Of course I do,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “How could an uncle forget the day his favorite girl came back from surgery stronger than before?” He paused, smiling. “I remember seeing your tiny feet kicking the blanket away the second you woke up. You were complaining the blanket was itchy, the color was ugly, and it was too hot. Even half-drugged and fresh out of surgery… you were already full of attitude.”

He laughed quietly, reaching out to caress your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Always a pain in the ass, you mean,” you teased.

“That too,” he laughed softly. “And then came the second surgery. And the third.” He paused. “And here you are.”

His voice grew thicker with emotion.

“To think of those long hours in the waiting room… holding your mom’s hand, standing beside your dad, praying for the doctor to come out and say you made it. Those moments felt like pure torture.” He swallowed hard. “Little did we know… that those surgeries wouldn’t just save your life. That one day, they might help save everyone else’s too.”

You smiled, shy and emotional, a lump forming in your throat.

“You’re the hope for this world, pumpkin,” he said, eyes shining. “I hope you know that. I hope you never forget your purpose… you’re going to be the one who brings the light back.”

Your breath caught. Your heart sped up. In that moment, you felt the weight of it.

Your uncle reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pendant. He held it up so you could see it clearly. On one side was a delicate firefly etched into the metal. On the other, your name and the number 00001.

“We’re making it official now,” he said, voice full of quiet pride. “We finally have enough people. We’re a real revolutionary group.”

Your eyes widened.

“Oh! And… why didn’t my parents tell me?”

“Well, you know them… always busy with theories. And anyway, I wanted to surprise you myself.” He smiled. “We decided to call ourselves Fireflies.”

“My favorite thing when I was a kid,” you giggled, eyes misty.

“Of course it is. And you are the first one. As it should.”

“That’s… so sweet. Thank you, uncle,” you whispered, lowering your head.

He carefully placed the pendant around your neck.

“We’re going to do amazing things for the people,” you said softly.

Your uncle’s eyes shone with pride.

“I have one more surprise.” He grinned.

“We found a lead on your doctor. The lists we stole from the QZ say he could be in either Boston or Baltimore QZ. It’s a long way… but it’s a real clue.”

Your face lit up with pure excitement. “Really?! No way! That’s… incredible!”

He laughed at your reaction, then reached for the guitar again. He strummed a few gentle chords, playing an old, familiar song the two of you used to sing together.

You closed your eyes, letting the music wrap around you like a blanket from another life.

You were about to leave when your uncle stopped.

“One last thing.” He walked over to the dusty bookshelf and pulled out a worn one, handing it to you with a gentle smile. “For Whom the Bell Tolls. My favorite Hemingway.”

“Ohh, nice! I can finally read it myself… What’s this one about again?”

Your uncle expression softened as he recalled the story.

“It’s about an american sent to fight with a group of guerrillas during the Spanish Civil War. His mission is to blow up the enemy plans, but it’s probably a suicidal mission.”

He paused, looking at you meaningfully. “By the time the story begins, he’s already exhausted. Tired of the killing, of the corruption he’s seen on both sides. Tired of watching good people turn into monsters just to survive. But then… he meets a girl. And in just a few short days, something changes in him. For the first time in years, he chooses something good. He chooses love. He chooses to protect someone instead of just destroying things.”

Your uncle smiled gently.

“Anyway. It’s much less about the war, and more about a man who’s seen too much darkness… but still decides that life and love are worth fighting for.”

---

When you heard the soft click of the basement door being unlocked, you were already awake. You expected to see Tommy stepping down the stairs.

But he didn’t. The door remained closed, just unlocked now.

You lay there for a long moment, eyes still closed, letting the remnants of the night wash over you. Your body felt… different. Deeply satisfied in a way you hadn’t known in years. You had slept better than you had in weeks.

But your mind was a storm of confusion.

Because… what the fuck happened? You wanted to prove yourself - and to Tommy as well -  that he was able to demonstrate empathy and care. Damn, you wanted so badly for him to take care of you. You saw the way he cared about Joel, how he checked on his brother pain even Joel pretending he didn’t need, he went through hell to get medications… you just wanted to be seen that way, worthy of it too.

But last night? That was definitely not the kind of care you expected.

Not that you would complain. Being on Tommy’s hands had softened every muscle, left a pleasant dizziness in your limbs, and quieted the constant ache in your chest for a few precious hours. You felt re-energized, glowing.

A slow, secret smile touched your lips as memories returned. The way his dark eyes had devoured you, worshipful. But also, the way he allowed himself to feel again.

But the smile faded as reality settled back in. Did he really?

It was like pleasuring you was both a gift and a punishment. Like he felt he belonged there, touching you, making you moan… but didn’t believe he deserved to feel good too. Like he was starving to make you feel good… but he hadn’t allowed himself any release.

Your heart twisted and things were spinning in your head.

The colorful unicorn brooch image comes back. The way he had gone against his own instincts just to do something good.

And then…. the book.

From all the proofs you had used to convince yourself that this man deserved a second chance, this was the final, undoubtable one.

For Whom the Bell Tolls. Lying on the bedside table.

Like a quiet cry for help.

You picked it up again, flipping through the pages slowly. The connection to your uncle made your chest ache with nostalgia… but the parallel to Tommy ached in a different way.

You closed the book, pressing it against your chest.

You waited a few more minutes before slowly climbing the stairs. When you reached the top, Tommy was standing buttoning a fresh shirt. His hair was damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead and neck.

Your eyes met. The gaze lingered too long. There was an immediate thick and awkward air between you. Neither of you spoke. His expression was tight, distressed, exhausted. You could tell he hadn’t slept at all. Had it been nightmares again? Or… had he been thinking about you?

You sat down quietly at the kitchen, watching every movement. Waiting him to say something.

Tommy avoided your eyes. He moved stiffly, grabbing a glass of water, more medication, and some food before disappearing into Joel’s bedroom. He returned a minute later, still refusing to look at you, like he was ashamed of his own actions.

You tried to break the suffocating silence.

“Showered, Thomas?” you said lightly. “What a miracle.”

Tommy gave you a bothered, almost pained look.

“Helped Joel shower,” he muttered. “Thought a cold one might bring the fever down. He’s burning up… started vomiting a few hours ago. Not sure what’s happening.” He stopped mid-motion, as if realizing he didn’t own you explanations.

No... No, no, no.

Two sips. That was all Joel had taken. It wasn’t supposed to hit him hard.

Seeing Tommy this worried hurt even more than thinking of Joel suffering. The guilt twisted violently in your stomach.

“But.. how’s the leg?” you asked carefully, trying to keep your voice steady. “Have you seen it? Is it that bad?”

“It’s bad,” Tommy answered, voice rough. “But he’s been through worse. I think it’s something else.” He paused, clearly uneasy. “I don’t know.”

You fought to control the rising panic.

“Antibiotics take time. It might be at least two days before any improvement. Maybe his immune system was already weak. Maybe it was something he ate.” You speak, too fast.

Tommy stood by the sink, hands braced against the counter, his back to you as he stared out the window.

You continued quickly, as you tried to fill the silence and hide the guilt clawing at you.

“If it’s something stomach-related, maybe we can find some medicine. Or herbs… peppermint tea, ginger, chamomile… those usually help settle the stomach, right? Don’t we have any here? Or maybe in one of the neighboring houses? I’m sure tea isn’t something people usually scavenge for, we might fi—”

“I should have never done that yesterday,” Tommy’s voice cut through yours, low and heavy. He kept his back to you for a long moment, shoulders tense.

“I’m… I’m not this kind of man.”

He swallowed hard, clearly struggling to get the words out. You stopped talking, watching him carefully.

“I’ve done a lot of awful things in my life,” he continued, voice rough and quiet. “But this… That’s… that’s never been me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Wait.” You cut him off, almost laughing in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

Tommy turned his head toward you, surprised by your reaction.

You stood up slowly and walked closer to him, stopping just a few steps away.

“Let me see if I got this right,” you said, voice laced with disbelief. “You’ve drowned me, punched my ribs, wrecked my face,” you pointed at your still-red eye, “and finally, broke my fingers… but that’s what you’re apologizing for? That’s hilarious, Tommy. Actually hilarious.”

He twisted his mouth and tapped his fingers nervously against the sink.

“No, Thomas,” you continued. “You don’t get to feel like you used me. If anything, I used you.”

You step closer. “And for the record… I expect you to finish what you started.”

Tommy turned fully toward you, puzzled. You were close enough to see every detail, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his pupils had blown wide, the tension in his jaw.

“Why?” His voice was rough, almost cracking. His eyes landed on your bruised eye and lingered there with visible pain. “Why would you feel any attraction to me after everything you’ve seen me doing? After everything I’ve done to you?”

You held his gaze.

For a moment, all you could focus on were the faint freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. Your eyes drifted down to his lips, before slowly rising back to his.

“…Have you read it before?” You asked softly but urgently. “The book you brought me. Did… Did you choose it on purpose?”

He let out a small laugh and shook his head.

“Do I look like a man who reads fucking Hemingway?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation.

He faltered for a second, swallowing hard. “Where are you going with this?”

“You asked me why,” you whispered. “You already know why.”

You stayed close, enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

“Because you’re not this.” Your voice softened, almost tender. “I like you. I like Tommy. The real Tommy... The one you keep trying so hard to bury.”

You reached out and brushed your fingers lightly down his forearm. Tommy caught your hand immediately, placing his rough palm over yours, holding it firmly against his arm. He didn’t push you away. He simply held you there, torn between pulling you closer and pushing it away.

“Tommy is not the man who broke my fingers,” you continued, gripping his forearm tighter. “The real Tommy is the man who played Bob Dylan for me. The man who’s been trying to redeem himself in small acts of kindness to me. Tommy is the man who risked himself to save a family he doesn’t know... who’s desperately trying to do good, even when it goes against every instinct he has now.”

Tommy’s throat worked as he swallowed, clearly fighting to keep himself together.

“You’re sick, woman. You’re sick and out of your damn mind.”

You continued, voice steady and full of quiet fire. “You still have a chance to be better. We all do. The Fireflies-"

“Stop.” Tommy’s voice suddenly turned sharp, cutting you off. His expression hardened instantly. “Just stop. I can’t hear any more of that bullshit. Not today.”

He tried to pull away, but you dug your nails into his arm, holding him in place.

“I need to go to Baltimore QZ, Tommy. This is bigger than you and me. You can’t just hand me over to Kevin in Columbus. Please… I’m begging you.”

He yanked his arm free with a frustrated growl and stormed into the living room. He started pacing, clearly trying to put distance between you.

You took a shaky breath. It was pointless.

“Can I have a shower?” you asked quietly.

Tommy huffed, clearly irritated. “You and your damn showers.”

“Can I?”

He moved to his pack and started rummaging through it, getting ready to leave.

“Later,” he muttered. “I’m heading out to look for more medicine for Joel.” He walked back toward you and grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the basement. “Come on.”

You anchored your feet, refusing to move. “No, no, please. Don’t lock me there during the day. Let me go with you. Let me get out of this house. I’ll behave, I promise. I won’t try anything.”

Tommy stopped. He stayed silent for a long moment, jaw tight, clearly weighing his options. Then, with a heavy sigh, he pulled your wrists fiercely toward him.

He fumbled in his pocket, took out the small key, and unlocked the cuffs.

“I’m trusting you,” he said, voice low and deadly serious as he shoved the cuffs into his own pocket. “But you better not try any fucking tricks. I’m not joking.”

You simply stared down at your free hands for a moment, feeling the sudden lightness, the quiet thrill of trust. Then, slowly, you lifted your gaze, dragging it up his chest, his throat, until you met his eyes.

Something bold and electric sparked inside you. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressing your body against his. Your chest molded to his, hips brushing. Tommy stiffened, but he didn’t pull away.

His hands eventually rose, settling tenderly on the small of your back. His palms were large and warm, pulling you even closer, fingers pressing into your spine. For several long seconds, you simply held each other that, bodies glued together, breathing the same air.

Your faces were inches apart. You looked at his lips, then back into his eyes, voice barely a whisper.

“Kiss me.”

Tommy’s breath hitched. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there.

Then he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he muttered.

His hands tightened on your lower back for one last second, and then firmly pushed you forward toward the door.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice strained. “Before I change my mind and lock you.”

You huffed in frustration, but quickly slipped on your boots, wincing slightly as your still-sore feet settled inside them. They were healing, but every step reminded you of the long days barefoot on the road. Without a word, you followed Tommy out the door.

He was still limping, though he did his best to hide it. You walked side by side in heavy silence, passing several abandoned houses along the quiet street.

“Aren’t you going to check these?” you asked, nodding toward the buildings.

“I already cleared all these blocks yesterday,” he answered curtly, eyes scanning the surroundings. “Nothing useful left.”

Tommy guided you through the familiar gaps in the barriers you used to slip in the neighborhood. You moved carefully, staying low and alert. After some time, you came across three infected slumped in a sleepy, half-dormant state against an old fence.

Tommy instantly moved in front of you, shielding your body with his own. He pointed silently toward a cluster of rusted metal bins a few feet away. You obeyed quickly, ducking behind them.

You watched, heart racing, as he approached the first infected from behind with deadly silence. In one fluid motion, he sliced its throat. The creature barely made a sound before collapsing. He did the same with the second, then the third almost graceful in his violence.

You couldn’t help but feel a mix of awe and unease at how skilled he was. How lethal.

“Let’s go,” he muttered.

You slipped out from behind the bins and followed him.

You moved in careful silence from house to house. Tommy always entered first, scanning every room with sharp eyes for any threat before allowing you to step inside.

The first six were empty, stripped clean long ago. Nothing but dust, broken furniture and smell of decay. Tommy’s limp grew more noticeable with every step.

When you reached the seventh house Tommy noticed the heavy door in the basement. A bunker.

He raised a hand, signaling you to stay back. He drew his knife, lifted the lantern, and slowly opened the hatch.

The beam of light revealed shelves packed with supplies. But in the far corner, two clickers stood motionless, heads twitching slightly, their grotesque fungal growths catching the light.

Tommy closed the door with agonizing slowness, not making a sound.

“Shit… shit,” he whispered.

“What?” you asked.

“Two clickers. The place is full of supplies, but it’s not worth it.”

“Can’t you kill them?” you pressed. “You did it with the ones outside.”

Tommy shook his head, voice low and serious. “Clickers are different. They’re blind, but they hear everything. The space down there is too tight, there’s no room to dodge if I miss.”

“Well, just shoot them.”

“One gunshot and we’ll bring every infected in a mile radius down on us. We’re not risking it. Let’s go.”

He turned and started walking away.

You followed for a few steps… then stopped.

Your eyes lingered on the closed bunker door. So much medicine. So many supplies. Tommy was already limping badly, and Joel was getting worse. You made a decision.

When Tommy stepped outside the house, you quietly doubled back.

It took him nearly a minute to realize you weren’t behind him anymore.

“Fuck—!” he hissed, spinning around. Panic flashed across his face as he rushed back inside the house, gun drawn.

He found you just as you were climbing out of the bunker. A heavy box of medications in one hand and a sealed box of energy bars in the other.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he growled, voice low but furious as he slammed the bunker door shut behind you with his boot. “Are you trying to get us killed? What the hell were you thinking? I told you it wasn’t safe!”

“You’re welcome,” you replied, voice steady.

He grabbed your arm violently, yanking you toward the front door and out of the house.

“I told you those clickers were too dangerous in a tight space.” he hissed as he dragged you down the street. “One wrong move and we’d both be dead. What the fuck is going through your head?!”

He didn’t let go of your arm, pulling you roughly along, jaw clenched tight with anger and lingering fear. After a few more steps, he suddenly stopped, spun you around, and gripped your shoulders firmly, forcing you to face him.

“Why?” he demanded, eyes dark and intense. “Why the hell would you do something that stupid?”

“I can be real silent,” you said. “Besides… you forget I have nothing to lose.” You pulled the collar of your shirt down enough to show the long, faded scar across your chest. “I don’t know how much longer this thing will work. And if I’m not going to Baltimore, then it’s just a matter of time until I die pointless, anyway.”

Tommy stared at the scar for a long second, then back up at your face. He looked irritated, furious… and for a moment, completely speechless.

Without another word, he snatched the boxes from your hands. He quickly opened both of them and dumped the contents into his own backpack, slinging it over his shoulder with more force than necessary.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he growled. “If you ever get bitten, I’ll leave you behind to turn into one of those things. That was fucking stupid.”

You let him walk ahead. Once he was a few steps away, you spat back:

“Fuck you. I did it for you. Because you care so much about your stupid brother, who doesn’t even deserve it. And for me… he could die and rot right now!”

Tommy spun around, furious, fists clenched as he stormed back toward you.

You widened your eyes, but something in the house beside you suddenly caught your attention.

“Look at that!!” you exclaimed, pointing excitedly before bolting toward the house.

Tommy swore under his breath and ran after you.

He entered right behind you, gun already drawn, scanning every corner for threats. He heard your footsteps rushing upstairs and followed quickly, heart pounding with anger and worry.

You were in the master bedroom, standing in the bathroom, eagerly turning the shower knob. Water started flowing, first dirty and brown, then slowly clearing.

Tommy stood in the doorway, absolutely furious and ready to grab you, yell at you, drag you out of there—

“Did you see?” you said, voice bright with excitement. “Solar panels! Oh my God, if they have warm water… can you imagine?”

You giggled, genuinely thrilled, waiting as the water ran.

Tommy froze.

All the rage drained from his body in an instant. He was completely disarmed. You weren’t trying to escape. You weren’t causing chaos. You were just… happy. Over something as simple and human as the possibility of a warm shower.

He lowered his gun slightly and put it back at the holster, stepping inside and watching you with a strange mix of irritation, surprise, and something dangerously soft.

“Do you think it will work?” you asked, holding your hand under the stream, waiting impatiently.

Tommy exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“Maybe,” he muttered, voice hesitant but gentler than before.

The water gradually grew warmer under your palm. You smiled wider, almost in disbelief.

“It’s getting warm!!”

Tommy pressed his lips together tightly, fighting the small smile that wanted to break across his face. He looked away for a second, trying to hold onto the last scraps of his anger.

You kicked off your boots. Then you grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head. Tommy’s eyes widened, breath catching in his throat as he watched the fabric slide up your body, revealing soft skin, the curve of your waist, your breasts perfectly embraced by a black bra, your soft skin so different from his scarred one.

Your hands moved to your jeans, unbuttoning them and pushing it down with a little wiggle.

The way your body moved naturally, unselfconscious, glowing with quiet excitement made heat surge through him instantly.

Tommy stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom, completely lost.

He knew he should turn around. He knew he should walk out that door and give you privacy. But he couldn’t. His feet refused to move. His body had betrayed him the second you started undressing.

You approached him with a sassy little smile, wearing nothing but your bra and panties. The confidence in your step made his breath hitch. Without a word, you reached up and eased the heavy backpack off his shoulders and threw it to the ground. He didn’t stop you, he just couldn’t fight anymore.

Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, using only one hand, you undid them one by one, never breaking eye contact. The silence between you was electric. When the last button came undone, you pushed the shirt open, revealing his scarred, toned chest. Tommy yanked the rest of the shirt off himself in one slow motion, letting it drop to the floor.

His gaze stayed glued to you, desperate, and helpless.

He was just a man after all. A starving man. And you were standing there like warm light in the middle of his endless darkness. So full of life. So fucking beautiful it hurt. His eyes dropped to the ugly bruises on your ribs. The ones he had put there. And a sharp wave of regret twisted in his chest. But even that wasn’t enough to make him step away.

You reached out, brushing your fingers slowly across his bare torso, tracing the lines of old scars and hard muscle with quiet delight. Your teeth caught your lower lip as you looked up at him.

“You’re so handsome, Tommy,” you whispered, voice soft and sincere.

Then you took his hands and gently guided them to your back, silently asking him to open your bra. His fingers trembled slightly as he obeyed, unhooking it with surprising care. The fabric slipped down your arms and fell to the floor.

His gaze dropped to your breasts. He stared, completely transfixed, like he was seeing something sacred and forbidden at the same time. The soft curve, the way they rose and fell with your breathing. He had forgotten beauty like this even existed.

You tried to open his jeans with just your left hand, struggling with the button. After a moment, you looked up at him with that sweet, dangerous little smile.

“Help me?” you asked sweetly.

His heart was racing; his breath was fast.

He was completely under your spell. Without thinking, he reached down, unholstered his gun and set it in the sink. Then his hands moved to his jeans almost mechanically, unbuttoning and unzipping and slipping out of them while his eyes stayed locked on yours, hypnotized by the way your eyes burned with desire on him.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and slowly slid them down your legs.

His eyes dropped to watch the movement with raw, unrestrained. “Fuck…” he breathed deeply.

You took his hand and pulled him into the shower with you.

The moment the warm water hit his skin, Tommy let out a low, broken sound. The heat was shocking in the best way, cascading over his shoulders, down his scarred back, soaking his hair. It felt like a blessing, like mercy he didn’t deserve.

You folded your arms around his shoulders, reaching up to gently tug the tie from his hair. The moment it slipped free, his wet curls fell forward, dark strands framing his face and clinging to his forehead and temples. You kept hugging him, pressing your body flush against his. Skin to skin. The sensation was overwhelming. Your soft, warm curves sliding against his hard, battle-worn frame, water running between you. His cock, heavy and aching, pressed against your stomach, throbbing with every heartbeat.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, lips brushing his wet skin. Slowly, you began kissing him there, along the side of his throat, savoring the taste of him, the salt of his skin mixed with water. You moved from spot to spot, like you were worshipping every inch you could reach.

One of his big hands slid down to grab your ass, squeezing firmly and pulling out a sweet moan from your lips straight on his neck. He pulled you even tighter against him. His other hand splayed across your back, fingers digging into your spine as if he needed to make sure you were real on his arms.

The warmth of the water, the softness of your body, the way you kissed his neck like he was something precious… it was all too much. He hadn’t felt anything this sweet in years. Maybe ever. His chest tightened with disbelief. How could the world still give him something this tender after everything he’d done? After everything he’d become?

Yet his hands refused to let go. His hips rolled subtly against you, his hard cock sliding against your wet stomach as the water continued to pour over both of you like a gentle rain. He tilted his head slightly, eyes close, giving you more access to his neck, a quiet, helpless groan rumbling in his chest.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Water streamed down both your faces, dripping from your lashes.

“Kiss me, Tommy.”

For a long, conflicting second, he simply stared at you. Kissing you meant losing the last tread of control he had… that would be the final line. If he let himself cross it, there would be no coming back. He couldn’t.

He spun you around in one smooth motion, pressing your back flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck from behind, inhaling deeply, lips brushing against your wet skin but never quite kissing. His arms wrapped around you, one hand sliding up to knead your breast, the other gripping your jaw before slowly dragging down your throat, over your collarbone, spreading wide across your chest to feel your scar, your skin, until both hands were cupping and caressing your breasts.

The warm water made everything fluid. You moaned softly at the same time he did, the sound vibrating against the back of your neck as he pressed his face harder into your skin.

“You’re so fucking perfect... So fucking beautiful.” He whispered against your skin.

Your hand reached back, fingers threading through his wet curls, pulling him even closer to your throat.

“Kiss me, Tommy… please,” you whispered, voice trembling with desire, while you arched your neck, offering more skin.

He kept close. But never kissing. One of his hands slid lower, trailing down your stomach until his fingers found your pussy. Your knees buckled slightly at the sudden touch. His other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you upright and firmly against him.

His fingers began to move slowly, stroking through your wetness as the water continued to cascade over your bodies.

You let out a soft, shaky protest. “Tommy… I’m still a little sore from last night.”

He hummed low against your neck, his voice rough and soothing at the same time. His fingers stayed firm but careful, circling your clit with just the right pressure.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’ll go slow. You can handle it.”

“No, Tommy…” you breathed, voice trembling with need. “I want you.”

“You have me,” He slid one thick finger inside you slowly. “I’m right here.” He slid a second one, stretching you open. Both of you moaned at the same time, echoing softly in the bathroom.

“No,” you insisted, desperate. “You.” Your hand slipped from his wet curls, reaching behind you, fingers brushing and then wrapping around his hard, throbbing cock for one heated second.

He grabbed instantly your wrist, pulling your hand away and locking it firmly against your chest, pinning it there with his strong arm while his other hand kept working between your legs.

“Don’t,” he rasped against your ear, voice strained with restraint. His finger curled inside you, stroking that perfect spot as his palm pressed against your clit. “I decide what to give you.”

His fingers kept moving and curling perfectly against that spot inside you while his thumb circled your swollen clit with precision. The warm water kept pouring over you both, making everything slippery.

You came hard on his hand with a broken cry, thighs trembling violently against him while his arm hold you fiercely, helping you to keep standing.

He kept stroking you gently through it, savoring every flutter, every gasp, every twitch of your body until you started to come down.

Then he slowly dropped to his knees in front of you. His bad knee protested sharply, but he ignored it.

“Hold onto me,” he rasped.

You grabbed his shoulders for balance as he gently maneuvered you, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder. The new position left you completely open to him, your core just out of the direct stream of water.

Tommy leaned in without hesitation. The first slow drag of his tongue through your pussy made your back arch and a loud moan tear from your throat. He licked you with long, deep strokes, then focused sucking on your clit, until your legs started shaking again.

You were losing your mind.

Your injured hand found its way into his wet curls, holding on as much as the pain allowed.

He kept going until you came again, harder this time, crying out his name as your hips jerked against his mouth.

He pressed his face against the inside of your thigh, breathing hard and ragged against your skin for a few seconds, like he needed a moment to steady himself. Then he turned his head and bit down gently on the soft flesh of your thigh. You whimpered at the sharp sting of pleasure.

Before you could recover, he dove back in. You tried to protest, oversensitive and trembling, but he held you firmly in place, one strong arm wrapped around your leg to keep you standing while his mouth devoured you.

It didn’t take long before the third orgasm ripped through you, even more intense than the last. You came on his tongue with a broken sob, fingers tightening in his wet hair as your whole body shook.

Tommy stayed there, face buried between your thighs, breathing hard against your soaked core as you trembled through the aftershocks.

You both stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard under the warm spray. Your body was still trembling against him. Eventually, you reached up and turned the shower off.

Tommy pulled away and stood up with a quiet groan, pretending the ache in his knee and the much more painful throb between his legs didn’t exist. Every cell in his body screamed at him to take you, to bury himself inside you, but he forced himself to turn away, using every ounce of willpower he had left.

You stepped out right after him, water still dripping down your skin.

“No,” you said, voice hoarse but determined. “You’re not doing that again.”

You pressed yourself against him, hands wrapping around the length of him, clumsily trying to guide his throbbing cock toward your entrance.

He caught both your wrists in one of his large hands. “No,” he repeated.

You didn’t fight him. Instead, you sank gracefully to your knees right there on the wet tile, eyes locked on his aching cock. The sight of you like that — naked, on your knees, lips parted, staring up at him with pure hunger — nearly broke him.

He reacted on instinct, pressing his palm against your forehead, holding you back before you could lean in.

“Please, Tommy…” you whispered, voice sweet and desperate. “Give it to me. I need it so bad. Let me make you feel good.”

“I said no,” he growled, pushing your head back gently but firmly.

You lowered yourself even more, looking up at him from under your lashes, mouth inches from his leaking cock, eyes pleading.

“Give me,” you breathed. “I want it.”

Tommy gripped your hair, holding you still. He looked wrecked: chest heaving, eyes wild, every muscle in his body screaming with need.

“I’m not going anywhere near those teeth,” Tommy growled, voice low and strained.

“I just want to make you feel good,” you whispered, looking up at him with wide, hungry eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Please, Tommy… please.” You leaned forward just enough to drag the flat of your tongue slowly along the underside of his cock, licking a slow stripe from base to tip. The moment your tongue touched him, Tommy’s whole body jerked like he’d been electrocuted. A raw, broken groan tore from his throat.

“Fuck—”

He snatched the gun from the sink and pressed the cold barrel firmly against the side of your head, right at your temple. His other hand fisted tightly in your wet hair.

“Okay,” he rasped, breathing hard. “But try anything…”

The metal was cold and heavy against your temple. The danger of it sent a dark thrill racing through you, electric and undeniably arousing. You looked up at him with glistening eyes, lips parted, visibly excited by the threat.

“Oh, Tommy…” you breathed, voice sweet and filthy. “You underestimate how much I want this. I would never…”

You didn’t finish the sentence, you leaned in and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, sucking gently. Tommy’s hips jerked forward on instinct. You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, working him with your tongue while your left hand reached for him and stroke in the same rhythm.

He was losing his mind too fast.

It had been so fucking long. The wet heat of your mouth, the way you looked up at him with tears already gathering in your eyes, it was too much. He was so sensitive he had to fight with everything he had not to come in the first few seconds.

“Shit— wait—” he gasped, pulling your head back by your hair just as he felt himself tipping over the edge.

He barely had time to breathe before you dove back in even more ferociously, taking him deeper, sucking harder and hungry. Your hand kept stroking him along. Tommy threw his head back with a guttural groan, the gun still pressed against your temple as his hips started twitching.

“God… just like that,” he groaned.

You were overwhelmed. Amused. He was so big, thick and delicious on your tongue. However, it wasn’t just by the physical act; but by the vulnerability he was allowing you. This guarded, dangerous man, who had kept so much of himself locked away, was letting you have this. Letting you see him like this, completely at your mercy for once.

You moaned around his cock, the vibration making him curse under his breath.

“Fuck, I’m not lasting if you—”

You pulled off just enough to look at him, lips shiny.

“Oh, look at you, Tommy Miller… All strong, rough and tough… and I ruined all that in a minute.”

You slowly pushed his gun away from your head, smiling devilish.

He let you. He dropped the gun back onto the sink with a loud clatter. In the next second, both of his hands were in your hair, gripping tight.

“You always have to run that fucking mouth,” he snarled, voice dark and dangerous. The dare gave him control back, and he thrust forward, sliding his cock deep into your throat in one rough unexpected motion. “That what you want? Huh?” He held you there and you gagged around him, tears spilling down your cheeks, but you didn’t pull away. You moaned instead, the vibration making him curse loudly.

He started fucking your mouth in in deep, punishing thrusts, holding your head still. Every time you gagged, he pulled back just enough for you to gasp for air, only to push back in again.

You took it all, eyes watering, spit dripping down your chin, looking up at him like he was everything.

He pulled back to allow you to breathe for once, but instead you just dived back, still hungry.

“Jesus Christ… you wild, greedy little thing,” he groaned, voice hoarse with disbelief and lust, still thrusting into your eager mouth.

You whimpered around him, tears streaming down your face, eyes locked on his like you were daring him to break.

And he did. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as his control was finally shattered.

You pulled back just enough to gasp against the head of his cock. “Give me every drop.” before swallowing him again.

That was it.

Tommy’s head fell back with a broken, guttural groan. His grip in your hair tightened almost painfully as he came hard, spilling across your tongue and down your throat. He kept thrusting shallowly into your mouth through it, lost in the overwhelming pleasure, hips jerking as wave after wave hit him.

When it finally ended, Tommy was breathing like he’d run for miles, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

“Fuck… that was insane,” he rasped, voice completely wrecked. “You’re insane.”

He leaned down and lifted you until you stood up, bringing your arms around him. One of his arms hooked under your thighs and he lifted you up. The tenderness of his touch was unexpectedly gentle compared to the roughness from moments before. He carried you out of the bathroom like you weighed nothing.

“What are you doing?” you asked softly, still breathless.

“Just… let’s rest a bit,” he murmured. “Twenty minutes.”

He lowered you onto the dusty, abandoned bed and climbed in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. The sheets were old and messy, clinging to your still-damp skin, but neither of you cared. The warmth of his body against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing in your hair… it felt too good, almost unbelievable.

You both drifted off almost instantly.

When you woke up, Tommy was already sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his clothes back on.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you stir.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice neutral but not cold.

You got dressed quietly. As you both headed downstairs, Tommy reached the front door first. Instead of just walking through, he paused and held it open for you.

You stepped past him, your shoulder brushing his chest. For a brief second, your eyes met. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, soft and shy. You smiled back, warm and real, before stepping outside.

The tension between you had shifted. It wasn’t gone, but it felt… different. It wasn’t awkward.

As you walked back through the neighborhood, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. Tommy eventually broke it.

“You really went back into that bunker just for some meds and snacks?” he asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “I have to give you that one. You’re brave as fuck. Reckless, but brave.”

You shrugged, smirking. “Maybe. But it worked.”

Tommy shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Good thing I checked you all over for bites,” he added, his voice dropping into something boyish and teasing.

You let out a surprised little laugh. “Oh, so that’s what all the hands were about? Just a very… professional bite check. Right?”

He chuckled and nodded. “Thorough inspection.”

Your heart did something dangerous in your chest.

It was happening. There he is.

There he was, the real Tommy. You could see the cracks widening in real time, and God… it made you stupidly, helplessly happy.

A few steps later, his tone softened again.

“…The water was nice, though,” he admitted quietly. “Been a long time since I had a warm shower.”

You glanced at him, smiling softly. “Yes… It felt like heaven.”

You kept walking side by side. Tommy eventually asked something about your life back in Canada, and you answered with a small smile, sharing memories. He listened, nodding occasionally, offering a short comment here and there. For a few precious minutes, it felt hopeful. Until it all shattered.

A low growl ahead made Tommy stop abruptly. Two infected shambled into view. He moved fast, killing them with the precision you’ve seen before. You stayed back, watching him work with that deadly efficiency.

But just as the last one dropped, you both heard it: a faint human voice, panicked and close.

“Stay here,” Tommy whispered, drawing his gun now.

He crept forward to check. A minute later, you heard him curse under his breath. Against his order, you followed the sound.

In the shadows of an old porch, a teenage boy was kneeling on the ground, cradling a girl no older than fifteen. Half her throat had been torn out. Blood soaked the boy’s hands and shirt. He was rocking her gently, babbling through shock and tears.

Tommy lowered his gun slightly, expression grim and heart tight.

The boy looked up at him with glassy, broken eyes. “Please… help me. She’s… she’s not gone. She can’t be gone.”

You rushed forward before Tommy could stop you.

“Hey— don’t look,” Tommy warned sharply, but you ignored him, dropping to your knees beside the boy.

You checked the girl quickly, uselessly, then turned to the boy.

“Are you hurt? Let me see.” you grab his bloody hands, inspecting it. You turn urgently to Tommy. “Tommy, what do we have? In the backpack. Gauze? Meds? Help me here!” you turn again to the boy trying to calm him down.

Tommy grabbed your arm. “Hey.”

You looked up. He nodded toward the boy’s leg. The trouser was torn, and a clear bite mark was there just above the ankle.

The boy was still in shock, barely conscious of what was happening to him.

Tommy pulled you back firmly, voice low and urgent. “Look away and be ready to run. Once I shoot, more could come.”

“No, Tommy, don’t,” you pleaded, grabbing his jacket. “Please don’t kill him. We can wait. We don’t know for sure—”

“He’s bitten,” Tommy said flatly. “He’ll turn. He will kill other people if we let if happen.”

“I know, but let’s just wait a bit. In the Fireflies—”

Tommy’s face darkened with impatience. “I don’t care about your Fireflies and their experiments. This isn’t Denver. This is real life.”

He moved toward the boy, raising his gun.

You stepped in front of him, desperate, trying anything to gain time. “Tommy, you said using the gun is dangerous.”

His jaw clenched. Anger and exhaustion flashed across his face. “You want me to choke him instead? Stab him? Is that better for your conscience?”

“No! Just… wait a little. It costs us nothing to try! That’s not how we do it—”

He abruptly interrupt you. “We? Don’t include me in your delusions. And don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Keep your rebel trials to your gang.”

You held onto his arm tightly, refusing to let go. “No. You’re not doing it. You’re not killing him like that.”

“Enough,” he growled.

The boy suddenly snapped out of his shock, eyes widening in terror as he finally understood what was about to happen. He scrambled backward on the ground, hands slipping in his own blood and the girl’s.

“No, please!” he begged, voice cracking. “Don’t! I’m not— I’m not turning, I swear! Please don’t kill me!”

He tried to crawl away, sobbing, but his injured leg gave out beneath him. “Please… I don’t want to die… I won’t hurt anyone, I promise!”

“Tommy! please, just, listen—"

Tommy’s patience snapped. “See what you’ve done? You made it worse.”

The boy kept crying, tears cutting clean lines through the blood and dirt on his face. “Please… just let me go… please…”

He pushed past you roughly, pressed the barrel of the gun to the boy’s head, and painfully pulled the trigger.

You stood frozen, eyes wide, staring at the scene. Tommy grabbed your arm and pulled you quickly toward a hidden spot behind a nearby wall, shielding you with his body as he scanned for any new threats.

Nothing else came. The street remained deathly quiet.

Tommy stayed completely still for a long time, gun raised, listening. You stood right beside him, frozen and scared, heart hammering against your ribs. When he finally lowered his weapon, the softness you had seen in him just minutes ago — the warmth, the brief crack in his armor — was completely gone.

He turned on you, eyes hard.

“You and your stupid fucking ideas,” he hissed, voice low but venomous. “Keep preaching that Firefly bullshit at me. Go on. Tell me again how we should just ‘wait and see.’ Look what it cost us.”

You stayed silent, watching the last traces of the man who smiled so genuinely at you minutes before disappearing in real time. The gentleness, the vulnerability… all of it wiped away like it had never existed. Beneath his anger, you could see how much he hated what he’d just done. The disgust. The exhaustion.

It wasn’t fair.

Life had punished him the second he dared to let a little light in. The moment he allowed himself even a sliver of softness and happiness, reality ripped it away and reminded him exactly who he was supposed to be.

“Are you even listening to me?” Tommy snapped.

The question pulled you back. You blinked.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He let out a bitter, angry breath.

“Those fantasies of yours just got that kid even more scared than he needed to be. Congratulations.”

That hit you like a slap.

“Don’t you dare call it fantasy. It’s the only thing that still gives me hope in this fucking nightmare.”

Tommy didn’t even flinch. His voice dropped cold.

“Your hope just made a boy die begging for his life.”

He turned away from you, shoulders rigid, and started walking again.

@xodilfluvr @twilightvelour @igotyoubabygirlao3 @ireneadlerwrites @alanageorgy @brittbrat1990 @that-antler-queen @gorygladiators @luckybug48 @honey-moon-13 @the-clear-northern-skies @gabetmiller @awkwardambition @aphroditekillz

[turtlerabbitme]

imagine a henry spinoff where, in the final scene, he's lying on a quiet field while the sun slowly sets, and he's sleeping, but forever...

and then the end ...

[jcbbby]

touching something slimy when you’re doing the dishes

[nocasdatsgay]

All Is Well In Camazotz

Pairing: Henry/Reader | Rating: E | Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, manipulation, and sex

Summary: The events from 1970 to 1987 are made of questionable decisions and good intentions. Now all is well in Camazotz, as the kids called it. You, the picture perfect wife in the picture perfect house, with a somewhat picture perfect husband. You knew your role. You played it well. And you will do anything to keep it that way. Or so you thought.

Author’s Note: First of all, don’t come for me. Second of all, I didn’t watch the play. Lastly, if the Duffer Brothers can do whatever the fuck they want, so can I.

Read here from the beginning here on AO3

Ch 1: All Is Well In Camazotz | Ch 2: Right Here Waiting | Ch 3: Devil in Disguise | Ch. 4: Little Lies | Ch. 5: House | Ch. 6: A Drag Path | Ch. 7: Earned It | Ch. 8: Any Way You Want It | Ch. 9: Happy Birthday | Ch. 10: Devil’s Backbone | Ch. 11 House Tour Part 1 | Ch. 12 Separate Ways… | Ch. 13 House Tour Part 2 | Ch. 14: Indigo

[usetheeauthor]

Love finding new Henry fics to read ☺️

[creelcutter]

My favourite dynamic to read between Henry Creel and the Reader is whatever this is

Yes this is mostly about @lazarusawakens @nocasdatsgay and @usetheeauthor ‘s works 😭

[usetheeauthor]

Gotta knock him down a notch sometimes 😂

[oh-katsuki]

Chubby reader taking dekus virginity as he moans and begs for her to “please slow down” because she feels too good... how would this play out cuz I don’t know-

….. babe…. I can’t- I- okay… here u go

he gets so overwhelmed. there’s so much for him to grab, so much for him to look at. izuku didn’t think he’d love the feeling of your thighs on either side of his hips as much as he does but that’s what’s driving him out of him mind. the combination of your tight, pillowy cunt mixed with the fat of your legs and thighs pressing against him puts him into overdrive.

he begs, tears pricking in his eyes as your grind back and forth on his cock, “baby, s-slow down, m’gonna cum too fast.”

but you can’t hear him, you’re too lost in how thick his cock is. it’s so fucking big, splitting you open while your pussy drools over it. izuku can feel the slip of your slick and it makes him stupid, his hands guiding your hips despite his pleads for you to go slower and his eyes screwed shut. it isn’t long before he’s cumming inside of you, too pussy drunk to think to pull out. izuku comes with a whine, with a climbing high pitched moan that sends you tumbling over the edge around him, relishing in his voice as your cunt pulses around him rhythmically.

[mysicklove]

i can imagine izuku still being a virgin and getting so pussydrunk because it's his first time

𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐘

Pairings: Virgin! Sub! Top! Pro-Hero! Izuku x Experienced! Dom! Bottom! AFAB! Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Alcohol use, heavy overstimulation, vaginal penetration, biting, hickeys, creampie, crying, begging, nicknames,, multiple rounds

A/N: Guys Im going to be honest. This is lowkey mostly plot heavy and not too much smut. Im sorry anon I should have made it short and smutty, but I just had this idea and one thing lead to another... I will make short smut stuff!!!!!

Izuku was desperate to have sex. He may be doing fantastic career-wise, but his life in the sheets was dry. So unbelievably dry. He was so pent up, so frustrated, he needed it so badly. Every night he has to get himself off, and by god, he wanted more.

He met you a couple of weeks ago, and you have clouded his mind ever since. He doesn't even know your name. All he knows is you were wearing a red dress, and you kissed him so hard he couldn't breathe. Pressed your knee on his clothed cock, and just like nothing happened, disappeared.

He was drunk. The both of you were. He remembers the smell of alcohol on your breath, how flushed you look. He was probably no better, the fact that this happened at all means he had to be wasted. He barely has the confidence to talk to girls.

It happened at some sort of party that only celebrities or the rich attend, but with all the Google searches in the world, he couldn't find you. His search history was embarrassing.

But even so, he fantasized about you. The purr of your voice, the soft hands that ran over his muscular body, the way you said, “Such a pretty boy in front of me, you must have all the ladies in the palm of your hand, hmm?” while pressing your lips, coating with red lipstick, onto his neck.

He couldn't get you out of his head. He attended every single party, but alas he could never find you. He would end up at home, alone, touching himself.

Until he found you again, two months later. At another party.

He spills the champagne in his hands, when he sees you, eyes wide, before stumbling up and over to you. You are at a table by yourself, sipping on some sort of cocktail. You were in a dark blue tight dress today, and instead of that red lipstick that stained his neck, you were wearing clear lip gloss.

He awkwardly, and hesitantly taps your shoulder, and flushes when you turn around. The thoughts of that night come flooding back to him, and he has to look away so he doesn't get a hard-on.

“Oh! Deku, I didn't know you were here.” You say with a bright smile and he blinks at you. He just cannot stop thinking about the fact that this is the face he gets off to daily. The way you look now is so different than last time. You look so innocent, grinning so widely, it's nothing like the flushed, domineering persona you had that night.

Either way, it's still you and he gulps. “Hey! Yeah…I was invited.”

You smile into your glass cup. “I would hope so.”

He blushes. Such a stupid thing to say. Of course, he was invited and you were too, what was he even talking about? “So..What's your name?”

You hold out a hand and grin. “Y/N.”

He takes it and gently shakes it, trying to hold back his nervous shaking. “It's nice to me you, Im–”

“Deku?” You prompt with a tilt of your head.

He falters, “Uh yeah! But I was going to say, Izuku” He trails off and you laugh.

“Sorry. Got ahead of myself! It's nice to meet you Izuku.” And suddenly your facial features flip. That smirk is back. He loves it. “Your tie is all messed up, mind if I fix it?” He blushes but nods. You grin and grab onto the green tie, and he goes needle straight. “Yknow. You look awfully familiar, Izuku.” You say in a lone tone, that makes the blood flow straight to his cock.

He splutters, “You, you think so?” You drop the tie and hum. Your mouth opens, beginning another probably teasing remark when a call of your name cuts you off. A female voice, he takes specific note of.

You turn to him and smile. “Well, that's my cue. I'll see you around, pretty boy.”

He stands there staring at the space you just preoccupied with a blank face. And then it hits him. Pretty boy. That’s what you called him that night. You remember. You had to. He turns around quickly and says, “Wait!” but you are already gone. Hidden by the crowd of dancing and drinking rich idiots.

He eyes the cocktail you left, sighs, and finishes it off. He has gotta get some liquid courage in him if he wanted to be bold enough to deal with you.

He searched the party all night, but alas he couldn't find you. He almost began to give up hope, when suddenly he saw you. Alone, once again, and on the balcony. He sets his drink down and uses the silver reflection of his plate as a mirror to quickly brush through his hair. He sighs and then as calmly as he could so nobody would say anything, walks to the balcony.

When you hear the footsteps, you turn around, and when you see who exactly it is, you grin. He laughs nervously. “Woah, funny seeing you here, Y/N.”

You raise your eyebrow and turn to lean your back on the balcony ledge. “Oh don't give me that, I saw you looking for me all night like a lost puppy.” You throw your head back in a laugh and his ever-returning blush is back.

“Y-You knew? But, why didn't you…” He trails off when you step closer to him. Now you were less than a foot away, grinning up at him, he could almost feel your breasts press against him. He gulps and looks away, hoping to fight his arousal. He could smell the traces of alcohol.

You grab his face to make him look at you, and you lean forward like you are going to kiss him, and then pause, centimeters away. “Izuku, what do you want from me?”

“Everything.” He whispers eyes half-lidded as he stares at your lips.

You smile. “Good answer.” And then press his lips to his. He groans, low and softly, but leans into the kiss. He grabs your waist and presses you against him, and you pull away when you feel his hard cock. “Where should we go?” You prompt, basically inviting him to ask you to his place.

But, much to your dismay, he doesn't get it. “Bathroom,” He says, thinking back to that one night, and then leans forward for another kiss.

You pull away, eyebrows furrowed in disgust. His eyes widen when he feels your warmth disappear. “Bathroom, really? You–You are just like all the others. I thought after the whole romantic balcony scene you would at least have the decency to ask me to your place.” You turn around to head back inside.

He stumbles forward, and grabs your wrist, eyes pleading. “Wait! I'm sorry! I'm nervous, please come over! I've never done this before, I promise I'm not like the others,” He basically begs and this time your eyes widen.

“Oh my. Don't tell me, the number one pro hero, is a virgin?” He looks away and goes silent. You throw your head back in laugh at the confirmation, and he pouts. Then, you grab onto the green tie and pull him forward, he stumbles in front of you, the blush returning. “I'm going to have so much fun with you, pretty boy.”

Tonight was the best night ever, Izuku decides when his head is thrown back, mouth open, as you sink onto his cock. How could he be missing this all of his years? It was so much better than the fantasy. So much better.

“Oh god,” He groans, hands coming to your hips instinctually. You begin to steady your movements, sitting on your knees in his lap.

“How does it feel? After all this time, you finally lost your virginity,” You say with a grin, hand running down to trace his chest. He nods, a drunken smile pulling at his face.

He gazes down at your sexes and moans. “Feels good. Warm, mhmm so warm.” His voice cracks, “and tight. So much b-better than my hand.”

You laugh, but it comes out in broken pants, so you lean forward to kiss him. He pulls away quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I'm going to cum. No, no, it's too earlier. I can't” He shakes his head and clutches at the sheets beneath him, trying desperately to hold it back, as you continue to ride him.

You shake your head with an adoring gaze. “’s alright. We will just have to go again. And again and again, until you are all fucked out, hmm?”

He stares at you with hearts in his eyes, nodding rapidly. “Yes. Yes, please, please. Fuck. Cumming. I’m cuming!” And just like he said, he released his load in you and rolls his eyes back. Small gasps and a silent moan tumble down from his lips, and his hand shakes as he grips onto your hips.

You coax him through it with a smile, running your fingers through his unruly hair. When he comes down from his high he stares at you with a lazy grin, and the next thing you know you are being flipped over.

Your eyes widen as you feel Izuku start to move in and out again. It was surprising, he had just come down from his orgasm. Wasn't he being overstimulated? His pathetic whine answered your question. “Iz-Izuku, do you want to take a break?” You sigh when he begins to pick up the ruthless pace again.

He leans his head into your neck and shakes his head rapidly. His voice comes out in a pitchy whine, “But you said!” He grips the pillow next to your head and whimpers into your neck, feeling the pain of his spent cock being overworked.

“We can go again after you recover.” You gasp and clutch onto his back, sending nail marks down it. He groans. “So it won't hurt you.”

He shakes his head again and you can feel the drip of the tears falling onto your neck. He was trembling. “No. Please don't make me stop. ‘m good. So good. Feels so so good.”

You grin, maybe a little sadistically as you watch him begin to crumble. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. He moans, high pitched, and loud. He presses his lips to your neck, sucking and marking any area he can lay his mouth on. You crane your neck to allow his urges. “I love it. I love it.” He half murmurs half whines in between kisses.

“Hmm?” You respond, not trusting yourself to speak while he begins to pick up the pace. One hand grips onto his hair and the other continues to scratch his back.

“Your pussy. S-So warm and tight. ’s like it was made for me.” He gasps and you laugh, to the best of your ability.

You pull him back by the mop on his head and he whines, eyes shut, as his head tilts backward. “What happened to my bashful virgin? You're so lewd now.” His hips pick up the pace.

He tries to the best of his ability to shake his head but ultimately fails under your grip. “But I love it! I do!” You laugh at the ridiculous response and let go of his hair. He collapses back and immediately buries his face into your neck again. “Im going to cum again. Can I cum? Please, please.”

“So quick. Still have a virgin body. Alright. For me, yeah?”

He nods a little embarrassed, and he feels his muscles begin to contract. He bites down on your shoulder and you hiss, but he ignores it, riding his second orgasm through. It's stronger and harder than the first and he screams into your skin, tears falling copiously down his round, flushed cheeks.

He peers down and widens his eyes when he sees his cum begin to leak out of your pussy. He gulps, feeling himself get hard once again, and flips you over immediately. “More. More. Please, just one more. One more time.” He lays completely on top of you and interjoins his fingers with yours.

He uses his arm to lift your hips up so that it was easier to fuck. It makes you raise your eyebrows. He must have watched a lot of porn to know that trick.

“What if I say no?” You tease and he releases an unsteady whine. His eyes are blurry from the tears.

“Please don't say no. Please, I love it. I love it so much. Please, Y/N!” He begs, dropping his head on the pillow next to your face.

“So needy.”

“P-Please.” He whimpers, in a voice so low you could barely hear and you grin.

“Alright. Go ahead.” You could barely finish your statement when all of a sudden he is pounding into you again, mumbling stuff like “Thank you. Thank you.” and “Good. So good.”

You know it hurts him. It has too, overstimulation is no joke. But the way he continues, eyes watery and hips frantic shows just how desperate he is. How obsessed he is with it. The pain didn't even matter to him, the thought of driving his cock into you spurred him on.

He wanted more. You opened his eyes, and once uncovering the truth, he could never get enough of it.

Fucking Izuku may not have been a good idea. In an instant, you turned this poor, cute virgin, into a pussy-starved man. But alas, he seems to only seek it from one particular person, so it may not be all that bad.

He came five times that night and you twice. He asked to go again, but you had to stop him when you took a peak at his fuming red cock, tear-stained cheeks, and trembling body. He doesn't seem to know when to stop.

You left early that morning, legs wobbly and body completely spent. He slept in, his body seeming to be more exhausted than yours.

When he woke up, his body sticky from sweat, his hair messy and body was sore, the first thing he took notice was the sticky note stuck onto his forehead.

Messy, cursive handwriting spelled out, I’ll be waiting for my lost puppy to come crawling back to me again. Xoxo, Y/N

He fell back onto the pillow with a groan. Not even a phone number. You were so cruel.

So, he does what any good puppy does. He attends every party for the next three weeks until he finds you again.

[mrsnanamiller]

ᖭ༏ᖫ Edge of Town | Masterlist ᖭ༏ᖫ

A Tommy Miller Firefly-era fic

[Tommy Miller x f!Reader]

[📖 AO3] [TAGLIST] [📚 Wattpad]

🔞❌ 18+ only — you’ve been warned 🔥

Fic Summary: You were FEDRA’s rising officer in the Boston QZ. Tommy Miller was the Firefly you were supposed to kill - a fact you learned far too late. Loving him felt like hope in a world ruled by fear, until the truth surfaces and you realize that this love might cost you everything. Inspired by Gabriel Luna’s song: Edge of Town Warnings: Canon-typical violence, post-outbreak (the last of us), slow burn, romance, past sexual abuse, smut, heavy angst, enemies to lovers, explicit sexual content, jealousy, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, mild power dynamics (consensual), oral (M/F)

Chapter 1 - City walls

Chapter 2 - Wicked Games

Chapter 3 - Gods and Monsters

Chapter 4 - Erase and rewind

Chapter 5 - Full Circles

Chapter 6 - Look after you

Chapter 7 - Undisclosed desires 🔥

Chapter 8 - Ace of Hearts 🔥🔥

Chapter 9 - Nobody's Soldier

Chapter 10 - Confortably Numb

Chapter 11 - The less I know the better

Chapter 12 - We just kept dancing 🔥🔥

Chapter 13 - Like an animal 🔥🔥🔥

Chapter 14 - Ordinary Love 🔥

Chapter 15 - Lies

Chapter 16 - You're gonna hit me like a lightning 🔥

Chapter 17 - Ghosts again

Chapter 18 - Duvet

Chapter 19 - Tomorrow never came 🔥🔥

Chapter 20 - Ring of Fire 🔥

Chapter 21 - Heart of gold

Chapter 22 - Back to 505 🔥🔥

Chapter 23 - Music to watch boys to

Chapter 24 - Hole in my soul

Chapter 25 - Matador 💀

Chapter 26 - Eyes without a face

Chapter 27 - Bitter taste

Chapter 28 - I'm your nostalgic bitch

Chapter 29 - Army of me

Chapter 30 - Let me live or let me love you

Chapter 31 - Living dead girl

Chapter 32 - Break my legs so I won't walk to you

Chapter 33 - Bad girls do it well

Chapter 34 - A storm is coming💀💀

Chapter 35 - Punished 💀💀💀

Chapter 36 - Ptolemaea 💀💀💀

Chapter 37 - Let the light in

Chapter 38 - I can feel it coming ❤️

Chapter 39 - Kiss up, and rub up, and feel up on ya 🔥🔥🔥

Chapter 40 - Wild horses ❤️❤️❤️🔥

Chapter 41 - Cause we survived the great war

Chapter 42 - Born to Run 🔥❤️🔥❤️

Chapter 43 - Edge of town 💀❤️🔥

Chapter 44 - If tomorrow never comes

Chapter 45 - Western stars ❤️🔥

art by the amazing @kenobiwanx

🎬Tommy HBO - [EoT edit1] [EoT edit2] (a bit of spoiler for future chapters!) [EoT edit3]

🎬 Tommy Game - [EoT edit]

🎧 Spotify Playlist

[tommyluna]

[mrsnanamiller]

The serious look. Then the tummy. Then the tiny smile at the end.

Lord, please, i can’t anymore.