pairing: husband!joel miller x reader
rating: 18+
tags: established relationship, 20s/50s age gap, sexual themes, mostly fluff, housewife reader, traditional gender roles, Joel likes you to sit there and be pretty, possessiveness, jealousy, ddlg themes, lil spanking here and there.
word count: 3,720
summary: you enjoy married life with your new husband
“When I met him, like an arrow, like a bird in the heart, like a sparrow. In the dark, we're a match; he's just in my bone marrow.”
જ⁀➴🦅જ⁀➴🦅જ⁀➴🦅જ⁀➴🦅જ⁀➴
It’s something you’ve never experienced. Joel's type of love. Genuine, passionate, steady, consistent, and all-consuming. You think he’d kill for you if you asked.
When you first met Joel, you had found him in a dimly lit bar that played old blues. He was sitting alone on a corner stool. Carhartt jacket with the collar popped to shield his face, in some jeans, and run-down boots. He wore a trucker hat to truly hide his presence, but you saw him. He was hard to miss. He was the only thing you saw when you entered, truly.
You approached him first; he was the only man not to ogle you when you walked into the room, which made you desire him more.
The first thing you truly noticed were his hands, how they were scarred and worn, as they clasped around some glass with brown liquor; he’s a worker, a hard one at that. Hard to miss. You could feel your heart beating out of your chest when you neared him.
You could tell he didn’t want to be approached by his body language, hidden and disengaged, and the confusion on other patrons' faces as you approached, but you didn’t have much to lose. Life wasn’t kind to you, and hitting on a man twice your age wasn’t too out of your element.
“Hiya,” You offered, scooching into the space between his bar stool and the one next to it, watching confusion twist on his face at the sight of you, so close to him, smiling dearly.
“Guessing you want me to buy you a drink?” He doesn’t say it with malice or discomfort, just a kind southern gentleman nature - assuming if a girl were to approach him in a bar, it’d be for that reason. Especially a girl who looked like you.
You laugh, a small giggle before shaking your head, eyes roaming over him to get a better look to confirm your suspicion that he’s just as handsome as you thought he’d be from the bar entrance - he smelled good too. Not like cologne or anything, just a natural warm fragrance that made you wanna bury your face in his jacket.
“Nope. Just wanted to see ya better s’all,” You admit honestly, your hand moving to his forehead to swipe some of the fallen hair that doesn’t fit under his hat, revealing a small scar that leads from his brow up. Freckles dotting his cheeks, lines that show his age, parted lips that draw in shallow breaths, & deep eyes that search yours in bewilderment.
“How old are you, darlin’?” Joel mutters as his accent flows like honey through your ears, biting your lip back as you understand he must be your father's age, wherever he is now. But that doesn’t matter.
You assume he asks to scare you off, maybe, as if you couldn’t see his age on his face.
“Doesn’t matter,” You hummed, reaching for his hat, removing it, and placing it on your head instead, smiling at his hat hair as you earn a small smile for him, not anything too big, just a small quirk of his lips, smitten with you.
He took you home that night. Something Joel hadn’t done since he was in his 30s. Then he decided to keep you every night after that.
Months later, Joel proposed to you in that same bar, mind made up on marrying you. And once Joel's mind was made up, he was for certain. And the rest was history.
Now, a year into marriage, life is a simple bliss.
You had never imagined being entangled with someone, let alone married, but Joel was a once-in-a-lifetime type of man. You knew it, felt it deep in your bones when you first saw him, as if some invisible magnet pulled your souls to merge as one.
Apparently, unbeknownst to you, he had the small town in west Texas wrapped around his finger as well. A mountain of a man. He made his living in carpentry, which built most of the town, making him quite the figure.
You hadn’t known when you first arrived, assuming he was some random handsome man, but you became the talk of the town, too. Some people assumed you to be a goldigger after an older man. Some older women, scoffed at you in the street, jealousy-ridden at you picking up one of the few older eligible bachelors in the town.
Most people, however, minded their own. Partly out of fear of Joel but mostly out of concern for their own lives.
Didn’t bother you one bit; you could even say it fueled you. Knowing that other women sought after him, but he chose you, swiftly and decidedly. That you were the one for him, and he was the one for you.
You were the one able to get the anti-social town grump in your arms. You were the one to get him to open up to you mentally and physically. You were the one able to burrow under his skin and set up camp, and he loves every part of it. It was all you.
He’s hard with everyone else but you, you know it. You see it in his interactions - how dry and uncommunicative he can be, never with you. He’s known to be helpful and generous, but also cold and hardy. He’s fiercely protective of what’s his, whether that be his work, his home, or you.
It’s something you’ve never experienced. Joel's type of love. Genuine, passionate, steady, consistent, and all-consuming. You think he’d kill for you if you asked.
He never told you to cook for him, help him get ready, or see him off whenever he leaves in his blue pick-up truck. You just do.
He never asked you to welcome him home every evening with dinner and for you to ask him about his day; what went wrong, what he loved, who pissed him off. You just do.
He would never ask for any of what you do, but you want to because making him happy seems to be your only goal.
It’s a simple thing. You don’t really know when it happened, you just enjoy being his little slice of peace… and occasional trouble here and there.
In the mornings, you’re up before him, brewing his coffee and preparing his meals for the day, feeling the way his strong arms wrap around your waist as you pack his lunch, tugging you back to meet his body in a strong collision as his face greedily fits into your neck, sucking sweetly at the skin as you whine and whimper.
“I tell you how much I love you?” He speaks in that deepened morning Texan voice, a shudder running up your spine as he speaks his common phrase, he mentions daily as he peppers your skin with morning kisses.
Sometimes you roll your hips back to press against his crotch, tipping your head back and whispering, “Tell me again.”
And of course, one thing leads to another, and he has you bent over the sink, fucking you at a slow and tender morning pace, gushing about how much he loves you while he roots himself deep in your core.
During the day, you busy yourself with house activities, sometimes you spend his money, sometimes you lazily lie around, tempted to call and bother him at work with nonsense. He doesn’t mind it, but you know he has better things to do.
In the evenings when he’s drained, you help remove his boots and settle him into a bath where you can drag the washcloth along his body and scrape at any daily grime - washing his hair tenderly until he’s groaning at your touch, completely undone by your devotion.
If he’s pent up, you get him into bed and take it upon yourself to ease any worries. Climbing on top of him, pressing your hands to his chest and letting him position himself at your entrance, sliding down on him as he croaks out like a frog - riding gently to relax his aching bones until he’s fully relaxed, coating your walls with his seed.
He’ll tell you he doesn’t know how he went this long without you, doesn’t know what he’d do without you, or who he’d be, and that only encourages you to ride faster until you find your own pleasure through his affirmations.
In the evenings, when he still has energy, you tend to find him in his workspaces. Sometimes, whittling in his woodworking room. Sometimes carving figures with some glasses perched on his nose while he blows away some excess wood, presenting you with some of your favorite animals every now and then. You have a nice growing collection.
Your favorite evenings are when he takes his guitar to the porch and sits on one of the two rocking chairs he crafted. You join him out there every time, with some sweet tea for him and a blanket for you, closing your eyes as you listen to him pluck at the strings or play you one of your favorite songs he’s learned that you sing along to. Sometimes you even drift off in a soft slumber.
Once the sun eventually sets, he’s rising up, heading inside, expecting you to follow, but you hate when nights like these end. A small slice of heaven every time you watch the departing sun glow on Joel and encapsulate how you see him, pure and full of light. He is your sun.
“I’ll join you in a little,” You object, watching the way his hand reaches out to you to help you out of the chair, wishing you could stay in that moment forever.
“Cmon now.” He’s stern when he says it, eyes set dead on you in a commanding tone & you know why. He likes to close down the house, make sure all the windows and doors are locked. Likes to make sure you’re in bed, safe, next to him.
You give in, of course, pouting, letting him win, and taking his hand.
It’s silly, you think. He bought the surrounding land when he built his house, which sits within the Texan hills, hidden from anyone who would desire to wish any of you harm for whatever reason. But it is in the middle of nowhere, so you allow him his worry.
He makes you feel better during the night, fitting you close to him, limbs entangled with yours as your ear presses to his chest, hearing his emboldened heartbeat that lulls you to sleep. He always says he loves you right before he’s gone with sleep, even in the depths of exhaustion, still only thinking of you and the love he carries.
The hardest days are when he goes on a fishing or hunting trip with some of the men from work, or often just his brother Tommy. He heads to the cabin he owns a couple of hours from town and spends the day trekking through the forest for game with a gun in hand, or on a boat with some beer, fishing for bass.
He departs before you’re awake, before the sun has a chance to awaken, kissing at your temple as you whimper and attempt not to cry through your drowsiness, knowing if you were to object enough, he’d stay home. But that’d be cruel to him, knowing he deserves this.
He calls routinely, once when he arrives, in the evening, and in the morning. Just to make sure you’re safe and unharmed. You know better than to not answer, once having had the sheriff stop by when you slept through one of his calls.
He won’t return until the day after, towards late afternoon or evening. Sometimes you’re pouty upon his return, feeling extra needy and not knowing how to show it - only answering him with one-word answers until he understands your frustration and lies you on the kitchen table and feasts on your cunt until you're undone and a mess and all his again. Beard soaked and dripping with you until you admit you just missed him dearly.
“I know it, darlin’, missed you too,” Is what he says when he kisses you there, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.
Sometimes you’re in a more upbeat mood upon his arrival, standing at the front door in a pretty white apron and only your lacey panties with one of his favorite cherry pies in your hand - freshly baked.
“Yer’gonna ruin me, girl,” He says, cheeks turning as red as the pie as his eyes take all of you in.
He kisses you first, leaning over to invade your space with a small, polite peck, then another, and another until he gives in to his needs, burly arms moving around your body as you’re hoisted up to his chest, your chest collding to his as he deepens the kiss, lips moving aggressively on yours, tongue snaking into your mouth to taste the cherries you were eating while baking.
Kissing you as if you’re the only person to ever exist, slowly and sweetly - then possessively as he whispers how he couldn’t stop thinking of you over your warm lips.
He fucks you then, reaffirming that you’re his while he does. Saying that you’re the only one for him. You do it back, telling him how amazing he is to you as your eyes roll back once he finds that perfect rhythm that undoes you both on the wooden floor, as you couldn’t make it upstairs to the bed.
It's routine, finding ways to show that you missed each other, sometimes verbally, often physically.
-
Bored. You’re bored.
During your morning debrief, you had told Joel that you’d head to the grocery store, needing a couple of items. It was a good walk, but far, you didn’t mind.
“Wait f’me, we’ll go together.” He mumbled against your lips in a kiss before heading out the door, knowing he enjoys time spent with you. He also mentioned he doesn’t like it when you walk alone. You don’t really pay attention to your surroundings, and he’s correct, but you still think it’s silly.
The most dangerous thing that happens here is when the teens drive drunk. But you don’t fight him on it, knowing better than to challenge him on anything when it comes to your safety and well-being.
There’s only his truck; you don’t need a car, really. Don’t enjoy driving, don’t need to drive. But now you’re bored and stuck.
It’s rare you find yourself in this headspace, a bratty mood enforced by your boredom, but you decide to go anyway. Placing a good walking shoe on and heading out by yourself.
You do it on purpose, knowing by the time Joel is home, he’ll know where you're headed. You really only had to wait another hour for his arrival, but you’re bored and enjoy raising your husband's blood pressure every now and then.
It’s like a game of hide and seek. You like to play hide n seek with him, mostly because of what comes after. You don’t know if he knows it just yet, but you love feeling hunted by him, like you can’t escape him. Makes your belly swirl with desire.
It usually ends with a brutal fucking where he reminds you of who you are to him, your value, and preciousness, all while you’re on your third orgasm.
You don’t leave a note when you leave; you always leave a note. But, you’re bored.
Eventually, after some time, you make it through those sliding screen doors, cursing at yourself for making brash decisions in Texas heat, ignoring the sweat on your body, and instead basking in the air-conditioned store, picking up a handbasket.
You get the usual groceries, piling them into the cart before stopping in an aisle you rarely find yourself in - picking up a box of condoms, curiously reading ‘Ribbed for Her Pleasure’
The clerk, probably around your age, stocking down the aisle, stares at you a bit before you catch his gaze, watching him blush a bit before continuing, turning your attention down to the box again.
You can smell him and hear his footsteps before you see him. The woodsy oak sawdust scent settles in your nose, boots pressed against the ground nearing you as an arm eventually slides around your waist - you don’t jump, don't scream, just smile gently knowing it’s him. He’s found you.
He tugs you to his chest, always needing to be close to you, it seems. You wouldn’t have anticipated it when you first met him that his love language would be physical touch.
“Ain’t leave a note,” He murmurs grumpily into your ear, tickling you there with his breath as you giggle a bit, his lips pressing to your temple, knowing his girl and her antics, still irritated at you not listening.
“That worry you?” You ask innocently, leaning away slightly, blinking up at him to see him in the grocery store light, worn from the day, as his hair is tousled a bit, with some stains on his white shirt from the workday. Strong and handsome as ever - he’s tanned a bit too from working outside.
He snorts a bit, rolling his eyes, tightening his grip as his fingers flex against your body, digging them into your side again to make you squeak, “It did. S’why you did it.”
You smile, as if you won something, giddy with the fact that he knows you so well as he takes the basket from your hands chivalrously, knowing that he probably wasn’t too worried. You locked the door behind you, a move you made to tell him there was no intruder, just you being silly.
“Whatcha gonna do about it?” You tease gently, brows going up in a tantalizing manner as he looks up to scan the store, then back down at you, eyes dark as they settle on yours.
“Think I’ll take you home and show you.” His one strong hand grabs at your face, cupping hardly and roughly, so your cheeks press up together, putting your lips at a pout as you laugh a bit once he releases you, excited for how he’ll take out his frustration on you. You wonder how he’ll do it this time. The belt is still your favorite.
Makes you wanna run home.
“Ribbed for her pleasure? Should we get ‘em?” You change the subject, watching Joel's eyes land on the box in your hands, face puzzled.
“Ain’t never used those with you, don’t plan on it now.” He scoffs a bit, as if you insulted him by insinuating you should be fucking with protection.
You smile, getting under his skin, “Think it’d be a nice change, I saw a flavored one, and one that warms - hey, scuse me, sir? Which ones do you prefer?”
The stocker looks up to you, then Joel, eyes wide with disbelief as he opens his mouth, stammering a bit before blushing, “They’re all pretty good- I believe- I imagine.”
“Gonna give the poor boy a damn heart attack,” Joel mumbles, a bit tickled but refusing to show it, keeping up his stern appeal as the worker departs, knowing you won’t get Joel jealous. Trusts you too much.
You don’t get the condoms, just head to a checkout lane, standing a bit in the way as Joel places the items on the conveyor belt. You offer a small smile to the cashier that she doesn't return, eyes focused on Joel when she speaks.
“Hey, how are ya, Joel?” She smiles brightly, causing a scornful expression to appear on your face as he looks to her a bit, finishing up.
“Good, Joanne,” He doesn’t make small talk; he hates small talk. You know that, you know him. Makes you a bit possessive over him as the bagger bags the groceries. Thrills you that he doesn’t give her what she wants.
Joel isn’t jealous. But you can be. Having always had a bit of a competitive streak, you can feel anger rising.
He moves you forward a bit so he can fit behind you, your body falling a bit back onto his as he holds you there, enjoying the bit of physical touch granted in that moment. Feeling extra needy within Joannes's presence.
“True that y'all buildin’ a movie theater? Be nice not to have to go a town over…” She continues, not taking the hint, a strong, heavy, obnoxious sigh leaving your mouth that catches her attention as you stare daggers.
“That’s the plan,” Joel mumbles, looking at the total, getting his wallet out as you tip your head back and up, asking for something there.
He knows better than to not oblige you. Knows better than to not give you what you want when you’re touch-starved despite his aversion to PDA.
He leans over you sweetly, pressing his lips to yours in a small, simple, chaste kiss that has you smiling at her once you lower your head, feeling accomplished, marking your territory.
“Have a great rest of your day.” You offer sweetly, smiling brightly and combatively as if you’re an animal bearing its teeth.
Joanne nods a bit, not smiling anymore at Joel, as you walk towards the exit, a brown paper bag in Joel's arm as he walks beside you.
“Gettin’ lil jealous back there?” He teases as the warm air hits you, walking back to the truck in the parking lot, his voice deepened with temptation. Usually, you do the teasing. Seeing a different side of him makes you excited to experience different sides of marriage with him.
“She’s a cunt.” You shrug matter-of-factly, digging in the bag as he walks, watching him lower it for you so you can get out a snack.
“Easy, darlin’,” He chuckles, absolutely enamored by your jealousy, “Let’s get you home- still gotta teach you a lesson.”
His hand lands on your ass with a smack that has you jolting, a slap not even near his full power as you gasp out, turning to look at him as he opens his passenger side door, a slight smirk on his lips that tells you you’re in for it.
You hop in, trying to hide your excitement, wondering if you both will even be able to make it home. You hope not. Would give you a chance for the world to see Joel claim you on the side of a dusty road. Your husband. He’s yours, you’re his. Forevermore.
summary: they didn't even know each other. but after one shift on morning patrol, joel knew that if he was partnered up with her again, he wouldn't be able to hold himself back.
warnings: 18+ content, minors dni, SMUT, unprotected piv, female anatomy, she/her pronouns, sexual tension, praise kink, size kink, he's gonna make it fit, virgin reader, reader gets bucked off a horse, alcohol
word count: 10k (oops!)
A/N: Thank you all so much for the love and support. I hope you like this one just as much as I did!!
Nobody in Jackson was ever thrilled to be paired with Joel Miller for morning patrol.
He had arrived in town just a few months ago, and his arrival was a community event. Everyone was pleased to be a part of Tommy’s reunion with his brother.
But that excitement for his presence dwindled down pretty quickly as Joel became known for his stoic, quiet, and intimidating demeanor.
Joel wasn’t exactly a rude man by any means. He mostly just kept to himself when not working, either in the stable or on his front porch with a guitar perched on his lap. He never joined community events, whether it was movie night or Sunday morning church.
However, his lonesomeness seemed to be a threat to the community. Rumors floated through town, most often spread from patron to patron at the bar or amongst the women who cooked for the Sunday brunch.
He’s just too quiet. So judgemental. Did you see him yell at his brother yesterday? What a prick.
Of course she had heard these rumors, which is exactly why she felt deep despair when she found out she was being paired with him for morning patrol for the next week.
Tommy had posted this week’s duties on the town hall board. It wasn’t unusual for her to be on patrol duty, in fact she preferred it. It was peaceful, getting up bright and early to see fresh, untouched snow powder on the ground. The sound of it crunching beneath the hooves of her horse, a beautiful black mare, was the highlight of her day, everyday.
But usually she was paired with Ian, a 30-something-year-old man who had become one of her best friends since she arrived a year ago. Occasionally, she would be paired with Eileen, a woman who was around the same age as her. Eileen was very strict, almost too strict. There had been plenty of times where her intense rule-following put their lives in danger.
But nonetheless, she would have much rather been paired up with Eileen than Joel Miller.
She woke up Monday morning with an atypical amount of anxiety, swirling deep in her chest. She barely got any sleep last night, her mind racing with possible scenarios that could play out on her patrol with Joel.
She had never even met Joel before. Sure, she had seen him talking to Tommy in the bar on occasion, or heard the soft strumming of his guitar late in the night, way after everyone had fallen asleep but she was still awake, unable to turn off her brain.
But the two had never shared the same space before. She wasn’t even sure if he knew who she was. Of course, the community of Jackson was ever so small, but she didn’t have a giant presence in the community herself. She attended church for the sole purpose of false hope that there was something greater out there, and she helped hand out popcorn to the kids on movie nights.
But other than that, she would spend her time in the library, reading every book she could get her hands on, no matter the genre. It was a tiny reminder of life before the outbreak, when she was still a child and spent all her free time reading adventure novels.
Begrudgingly, she got up and dressed, opting for her typical jeans, boots, flannel and winter coat. She braided her hair back into a french braid, her signature style. After wrapping her gun holster around her thigh and shoving her knife into her boot, she set out towards the stable.
She was usually early to the stables in the morning so she could sneak her horse an extra apple she had taken from brunch. So it was quite a startle when she flicked on the stable lights to see Joel, already saddling up his brown quarter horse in the dark.
“Oh!” She squeaked out, hands reflexively squeezing the straps of her backpack. She froze in her place, unsure how to go about the situation.
He looked at her over his shoulder as he finished tightening the cinch of his saddle with a huff. His eyes took one sweep over her before he just turned back to his horse, his face locked in a nonchalant scowl.
Joel knew who she was to a certain extent. He noticed her when he visited the library for the first time during the tour Tommy was giving him of Jackson. The library was in an old house that had been remodeled. What used to be the living room and kitchen was now one big room, the walls lined with bookshelves.
She was sitting on the tiny loveseat that was placed in the corner of the small room. Her feet were tucked underneath her as she was nose deep into a copy of some old romance novel. She didn’t even spare him a glance as Tommy introduced him to the librarian, an older woman named Connie.
The next time Joel saw her was at the bar. She was celebrating her 21st birthday with a group of people he didn’t recognize. He had only been in Jackson for a handful of weeks at the time, and he spent more time at the bar than his own home, grappling with the loss of everything he’d ever loved.
The group was purely obnoxious, offering her drinks left and right, singing and dancing to whatever old CD was playing on the radio. Joel stared straight ahead at the bar, downing a few glasses of whiskey before he finally had enough of the young group. He angrily shrugged on his coat before rising from the bar.
His eyes landed on her, dancing in the middle of a circle of people. She was wearing a short black dress, something the town tailor made for her as a gift for her birthday. His eyes didn’t linger, but the memory was burned into his mind.
The way the dress hugged her curves, the huge smile on her face, the way her makeup was slightly smudged with a night’s worth of drinking and dancing. For a brief moment, it felt like things were normal. Like he wasn’t in a stranded town in the middle of an apocalypse but rather spending another lonely night in a bar, watching women far too young for him get drunk and grind against men they didn’t know.
That exact memory played in his mind when he saw her standing in the stable doorway, much more modestly dressed this time. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils, focusing on adjusting his horse’s saddle with a frustrated grunt.
She frowned momentarily before blinking herself back to consciousness and turning towards the first stall on the left, where her beautiful mare stood waiting patiently.
“Hey, pretty girl,” she whispered softly, smiling when the horse snorted in response. She unlocked the stall, walking up to the horse and tickling her chin before scratching her chest, muttering soft coos and compliments to her.
She pulled back to unzip her jacket, pulling out the apple she smuggled and offering it to the horse, “here you go, good girl.” The horse took it happily, eating it in one bite and snorting with pleasure.
“Tack up,” Joel’s rough voice echoed in the stable, causing her to jump again at the sudden sound. She looked over her shoulder to see him pulling himself up on his saddle with a strained groan before clicking his tongue and walking towards the door, staring at her the entire time.
“Be ready in ten minutes or I'll leave without you.”
The two had been on patrol for a total of twenty minutes and she was already desperate to be done.
They hadn’t spoken to each other, not even a discussion of the rules. It wasn’t necessary, they had both been on countless patrols. Joel simply took off on the trail, not caring if she followed him or not.
She trailed a solid distance behind him, refraining from any possible interaction she could. Her demeanor was steady as she clicked to her horse and occasionally pet her neck with words of encouragement, but her mind was swirling with anxiety.
Joel was doing exactly what he was supposed to, analyzing the trail for any signs of life, infected or human. He didn’t care to check on her, make sure she was following protocol. He heard the clip-clop of her horse’s hooves against the ground behind him, and that was enough for him to know she was still following him.
Another painfully silent ten minutes passed and the two still hadn’t acknowledged each other. The trail led into the woods, a clear path ahead of them thanks to years worth of patrols.
The sounds of the forest were one of her favorite things. The way the leaves brushed against each other in the gentle breeze, the chirping of the birds, frogs croaking in the faraway river. It was so serene, such a deep contrast to the state of the world.
The sound of a twig snapping caused both of their heads to whip over to the left, her hand reaching straight for the pistol strapped to her thigh, Joel immediately aiming his shotgun towards the noise.
The two horses stalled immediately. Her heart was racing as she noticed her horse’s ears pinned and twitching towards where the noise came from. Joel scanned the area with keen eyes, looking for any movement.
There was absolutely nothing for a solid thirty seconds. Both of them didn’t move, didn’t even look at each other. Just staring deep into the forest for any signs of someone.
Joel clicked his tongue ever so quietly, urging his horse off the trail and towards the noise. His horse didn’t even complete two strides before a deer jumped out of a bush next to her, darting behind her horse, kicking up rocks at her as it took off.
Her horse spooked at the feeling of something unknown behind her, rearing up with a whine before falling back forward and kicking back towards the now far away deer. Joel whipped around with wide eyes and an aimed shotgun, quickly lowering it when he noticed her spooked horse.
“Shh!! Shh, girl, stop! It’s okay!” She pleaded, holding on to her reins and squeezing her thighs against the horse as tight as she could, trying not to fall off. But her horse was too far gone, spooked and bucking relentlessly.
With one particularly strong kick, she flew from her saddle with a yelp, landing hard on her back. Her horse took off back towards Jackson, following the trail back to where she knew was safe.
“Y/N!” Joel yelled, sliding his shotgun under the horn of his saddle and sliding expertly off his horse, running over to her on the ground.
She was rolling over to her side with a loud groan, reaching back to hold her back that was now sore from the fall. Joel stumbled down to his knees with a groan of his own, eyes scanning over her to assess her condition.
His hands hovered over her body, unsure if he should touch her or not. “Y/N, are you alright?” He asked, his voice raspy and deep. He reached for her head, touching the top of her head with a featherlight touch, “did you hit your head?”
She shook her head with a groan, “No, just landed a little hard.” She inhaled deeply before slowly sitting up, her back and ass aching from the impact. She stretched her neck, her wrists, her ankles, making sure she didn’t break any bones. She sighed with relief that she was still intact, albeit a little sore. “I’ll be alright. Let’s just finish our rounds.”
Joel frowned slightly, watching as she stretched out her muscles. He knew what it felt like to take a fall like that, and if it had been him, he wouldn’t have been able to stand straight for a week.
He wanted to protest her as she began to rise to her feet slowly, but he just kept his lips shut, offering her support. He wrapped one arm under hers, grabbing her waist to help lift her to her feet.
“Fuck,” she huffed at the pain, but was able to stand up straight. Once she was back upright and her head stopped spinning, she realized she was still holding on to Joel’s shoulder, and quickly disconnected herself with wide eyes. “I’m good.”
He watched her with uneasiness as she hobbled over to where her backpack had been flung off her horse. She groaned in agony as she bent down to pick it up, shrugging it onto her shoulder with all her strength. She turned back around to him, noting the expression of uncertainty on his face.
“I’m fine,” she reiterated, her tone more insistent this time. She made her way back over to him, huffing as she walked past him and towards his horse. She knew they had to finish their rounds.
Just because it was a deer this time doesn’t mean it won’t be a clicker next.
Joel stood stuck in his spot, watching as she limped over to his trusty steed. He crossed his arms, watching with a smirk as she attempted to lift her leg up into the stirrup, only to fail with an exasperated huff.
She turned to Joel with furrowed brows, gesturing to the horse. “Could you help me, please?” She asked so sweetly, frowning at her condition but determined to finish their rounds. Joel noted that determination before he walked back over to his horse, shaking his head with disbelief.
“Tough girl,” he stated as he pulled her backpack off of her shoulders, slinging it over one of his. He helped her lift her foot into the stirrup slowly, letting her move at her own pace as she winced in pain.
“‘M gonna lift you on three,” he mumbled, placing his hands on her waist. She sucked in a breath at the feeling of his big warm hands through her jacket. She bit her bottom lip, doing everything she could to ignore the butterflies that fluttered softly in her stomach at the feeling of him touching her.
He counted up to three before hoisting her up, and she stood up straight with her foot in the stirrup before swinging her leg over slowly, groaning in pain in the process. Joel tapped her foot, signaling her to remove it from the stirrup so he could join her atop the horse.
She slid as far forward in the saddle as she could, taking her feet out of the stirrups and instead stretching out her legs. Joel reached up to grab the horn of the saddle, his arm resting against her thigh in the process.
She did everything in her power to ignore that sensation, too.
Joel hoisted himself up, sliding into the saddle behind her and adjusting his feet in the stirrups. Her back was pressed right up against his chest, the back of her thighs warm against the top of his.
Her ass pressed right up against his pelvis.
Joel inhaled sharply at the realization of their proximity. He attempted to scoot back in the saddle, but there was no way to escape how close she was.
And her heart was racing at the feeling. She was only 12 when the outbreak happened, and a pandemic wasn’t exactly the best conditions for finding a romantic partner. She had only experienced her first kiss just six months ago after getting drunk and finding the bartender particularly attractive that night. And she was lucky enough that he had his eyes on her also.
She hasn’t been to the bar since that night.
“Um,” Joel mumbled behind her, interrupting her thoughts. His voice vibrated through his chest and into her own body, sending a shiver down her spine. “I need the reins,” Joel said flatly, trying his best to remain nonchalant.
“Oh,” she said softly, lifting her arms so he could reach under her arms and grab the brown leather reins. He cleared his throat, reaching for the reins and clicking his tongue, encouraging his horse back onto the trail.
For the first five minutes, his arms hovered above her thighs with extreme hesitation. But his arms were starting to ache, and he had to lower them.
“Is it okay if I, uh-,” Joel said, his voice breaking the prolonged silence. He didn’t finish his sentence before resting his forearms against her thighs with caution.
She took in a deep breath at the feeling. The sight of his strong hands sitting just inches away from the apex of her thighs and his arms resting against her thighs, the only barrier being her jeans, was very overwhelming.
“Yeah,” she answered breathlessly. She scolded herself internally at the sound of her pathetic little agreement, worried that he might think she is actually enjoying this closeness.
Even though she is absolutely enjoying this closeness.
The sound of her little whimper of a ‘yes’ sent adrenaline straight down to his dick. He cursed himself out in his mind when he felt his cock twitch to life behind the confines of his jeans.
He absolutely would not get a boner right now.
Right now with her back pressed against his chest.
Right now with her thighs on top of his strong, muscular thighs.
Right now with her hips moving against him in rhythm with the steps of his horse.
Right now with her ass nestled against his cock.
Fuck, he thought to himself as his dick began to press more persistently against the zipper of his jeans.
In that moment, he prayed to God for the first time in a decade. Praying that she couldn’t feel his cock growing harder against her.
It was a week after she had her first interaction with Joel.
That first day played in her head on repeat. The two had finished their rounds without incident, and Joel was able to hone in his teenage-like hormones with the thought of how many people he’s murdered over the years.
When they had returned to Jackson, everyone rushed to the door, worried sick for their wellbeing. Her sweet mare had returned to the town without her, which sent everyone into a panic, assuming the worst had happened.
To say you were the talk of the town for the next two days would be an understatement.
Much to her dismay, Joel had convinced Tommy to take you off of patrol for the week. You were replaced with John, the most boring, mundane white dude in Jackson.
John was the perfect patrol partner for Joel.
Not her.
Tommy insisted that she stayed home for a week to recover from her fall, even though she wasn’t actually injured. Maria checked in on her every day, making sure she wasn’t concussed or something.
She really did not understand all the fuss.
Anytime she left her small home at the end of the street, it was like there were people posted specifically to help her. Two or three people would swarm her, offering to help her with anything she needed.
“I’m fine, thank you,” became her slogan.
She wondered why Joel was so insistent on switching partners. Did she do something wrong? Her horse getting spooked wasn’t her fault, and everyone knew she was a steady shot. She didn’t even talk to him for the rest of their rounds, so she couldn’t have possibly said something to hurt his feelings.
One thing she did know, however, is she could not get him out of her head.
She had never felt this way about a man, about anyone really. He was the first thing she thought of when she woke up, wondering if he was up too, if he was already at the stable and preparing for patrol. He was the last thought before she dozed off, wondering if he would dream of her like she did of him.
It had only taken a week, one day’s worth of interaction, for Joel to worm his way into the folds of her brain.
And Joel had become a ghost.
It seemed like he was avoiding her at all costs. He was never on his porch, never near the stable, never at brunch or dinner or movie night. She didn’t even see him sitting with Tommy in the evenings, sharing a beer like they do every evening.
Which is why, exactly a week from the day they met, she made her return to the bar.
The door chimed with her entry, and she was thankful when she saw a woman bartending rather than the guy she had drunkenly traded saliva with all those months ago. She made her way straight to the bar with one goal in mind and one goal only.
To get drunk.
“Whiskey sour, please,” she asked softly, sliding onto a bar stool and bracing herself against the bar.
“Good choice,” the bartender nodded with a smile, reaching for a glass and pointing to her with squinted, inquisitive eyes, “are you the chick that fell off her horse?”
Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she brought her hands up to cover her face with a playful groan. “Oh god,” she chuckled softly, the bartender giggling at her reaction as she began pouring the whiskey. “I don’t even want to know what you’ve heard.”
“Not much,” she shrugged, squeezing lemon juice into the glass. “Just that you’re a badass.” She grinned at her as she slid the glass to her across the bar, “I’m Lena.”
“Thank you, Lena,” she smiled back, taking a generous sip of the drink, humming as the liquid burned its way down her throat. “Y/N.”
The sound of heavy boots thudding against the floor caught her attention. She turned towards the sound, noticing a man leaving the restroom. She turned back to Lena, opening her mouth to say something before the man slid onto the stool a few feet away from her.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
Her spine straightened at the sound of the voice, a sound she had been imaging for a week straight. She couldn’t even look at him, her breath stuck in her throat as she stared straight ahead.
“Yes sir,” Lena said, walking over to prepare his drink. She put the glass down in front of him before pulling a bottle off the wall, pouring a generous amount into his glass. “You see we’ve got the town badass here tonight, Mr. Miller?”
Her heart was racing, and even though she had been seeking him out for the last few days, she wanted nothing more than for a sinkhole to form right below her stool and suck her into it.
Joel looked down the bar to see who Lena was referring to, doing a double take when he noticed that it was her. She lowered her face behind her hand in embarrassment, but her rose tinted cheeks were still very obvious.
She was dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a plain black women’s henley with all four buttons undone, showing off her cleavage. Her hair was brushed, laying against her back in long, shiny locks, a striking contrast to her typical French braid.
Fuck, Joel cursed to himself when he felt his whole body temperature increase a few degrees just at the sight of her.
Yes, he had been avoiding her.
He had begged Tommy to change his patrol partners, making sure he was never paired with her again. He refused to put himself in any position where he would see her, staying inside when playing guitar or sharing a beer with his brother.
That night after their shared patrol, he laid in his bed, unable to sleep. She was the only thing on his mind. Her determination, her stubbornness, her scent, the heat of her body, the softness of her hair. All of it, he couldn’t get enough.
His dick had been hard for so long it was becoming painful. Joel struggled with his conscience for about ten minutes before he finally shoved his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and wrapped his long fingers around the length of his cock, groaning as he imagined it was her hand wrapped around him.
He fucked his fist to the thought of her that night, cumming harder than he had in years.
There was no way he could face her after that.
He had heard through the grapevine, now that she was a local celebrity, that she never visited the bar. Of course the day he decided to grab a drink, she ended up making her return to the goddamn bar.
An awkward silence had fallen on the three of them as Joel simply stared at her. Lena’s eyes flicked between the two of them for a moment before she raised an eyebrow, “Alrighty then.”
Lena turned down to the other end of the bar, chatting up a regular and serving him another beer.
Joel kept his eyes trained on the woman next to him, watching as she slowly lowered her hands and finally met his gaze. The sight of her big eyes staring back at him through her lashes was enough for him to remember exactly why he was so turned on by her.
She chewed nervously on her bottom lip as she looked at him, wanting to say a million things all at once, but the thought of actually speaking made her feel unbelievably nervous. She grabbed her glass in front of her, downing the rest of her whiskey in hopes it would encourage her to face him.
He watched her throat as she drank the liquor, licking his lips at the sight. The sound of her glass hitting the bar top was loud in the rather quiet establishment. He inhaled sharply before finally breaking the silence.
“How’s your back?”
She cleared her throat, her lips forming a straight line as she nodded, her eyes trained on her fingertip that she traced around the rim of her glass nervously. “Fine,” she answered, sitting up slightly straighter to punctuate her point.
He hummed, turning his attention to the bottles of alcohol that lined the wall behind the bar and taking a healthy sip of his whiskey. He noticed her leg bouncing ever so slightly from his peripheral, her lip drawn back between her teeth and her brows furrowed.
What he didn’t see was her inner turmoil, trying to decide how to approach the situation. She had so many things she wanted to address; why was he avoiding her, what did she do wrong?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Joel letting out a small groan as he leaned over, his arm reaching out towards her. She jumped slightly as his hand reached for the underside of her stool, gasping softly when he pulled her and her stool closer to him possessively.
There was maybe only a half of a foot between them, she could feel the heat radiating off of him. His actions only made her more confused as she stared at him with wide eyes while he drank the rest of his whiskey before turning to face her fully, his thighs pressing against the outside of hers.
“What’s got ya so worried?” He asked gruffly, leaning against his elbow on the bar as he studied her.
Her face was flushed red in embarrassment, confusion, and worst of all – arousal.
He was so close, so warm, so big, and so intimidating. She couldn’t even bring herself to form words, overwhelmed by the proximity. She could literally smell him, a mix of whiskey, tobacco, and a musk that was so distinctly him.
He couldn’t help but smirk down at her, noticing her flustered state. For just a brief moment, he was transported back to 2003, before the outbreak. When he would sit in a bar and flirt up a girl for hours before taking her home and having his way with her.
Joel was about halfway through that cycle now with her, and he didn’t plan on breaking that cycle tonight.
He opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by Lena, her eyebrows raised in surprise at her patrons’ newfound closeness, “Getting snuggly in here, huh?” She reached for Joel’s glass, filling it again for him to which he nodded in appreciation for. Lena giggled at Y/N’s obvious embarrassment, “you want a refill, hun?”
Y/N cleared her throat, shaking her head while she fiddled nervously with her fingers in her lap, “No, thank you.”
Lena nodded, taking her empty glass and placing it next to the old sink, “Alright. Remember you two – no fucking on my bar top!” Lena laughed softly when Y/N gasped before prancing off to serve the newest patron at the bar.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Y/N muttered under her breath, combing her fingers through her head to shield her face from Joel’s heavy stare. He couldn’t help himself when he automatically reached out, tucking her hair back behind her ear before letting his hand fall down, rubbing her arm softly before bringing his hand back to his knee.
Her skin raised in little goosebumps at the feeling of his calloused fingertips brushing against the soft skin of her cheek and ear. She closed her eyes at the feeling, trying to will away her desperate arousal and ignoring the growing warmth in her core.
Joel refrained from smiling at her reaction as he sipped his whiskey refill.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” She blurted out of nowhere, causing Joel to choke slightly on his drink at her sudden outburst. He looked at her while wiping a dribble of whiskey from his bottom lip with raised eyebrows.
She frowned, her body relaxed instantly as if that single question had been what had her wound up so tight. When Joel saw that sweet pout on her face, mixed with a tinge of uncertainty and sadness, he damn near fell apart.
He inhaled deeply before letting out a sigh, taking his time to find his words before he slowly brought his hand from his own knee to hers, holding her thigh just above her knee, his thumb rubbing back and forth against a little grass stain on the knee of her jeans.
“Didn’t want to avoid you,” he said softly, his voice strained and low. His tongue swiped across his bottom lip as he stared down at the little grass stain, almost nervous to look at her face. “Had no choice, darlin’.”
She tried to ignore the way that little pet name sent a shiver down her spine and a flutter to her core. Her mouth ran dry as she watched his thumb rub against her knee, the heat of his big hand hot on her thigh. She was confused by his answer, but before she had time to press on, he was already answering her unasked questions.
“I knew that if I had to go on patrol with you again…” he trailed momentarily, leaning back to grab his glass and down the rest of the liquor, hoping to calm his nerves with the liquid courage. “Knew that if I even saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to hold myself back.”
Joel finally lifts his head to meet her eyes, his own flicking between hers, searching for any reaction.
“Can’t get you out of my head, darlin’. Can’t stop…fuck, I can’t stop imaging your ass pressed up against me in that saddle.”
Her jaw dropped open in shock, a blush creeping up her neck all the way up to the tips of her ears. She was completely speechless, staring at him with wide eyes as she processed his words. Her pussy fluttered at his admission, and suddenly she felt like she was being suffocated by their proximity. Her eyes flicked across the room, nervous that any of the other patrons just heard what he said.
“Oh…” was all she was able to utter, unsure how to respond. Her body felt like it was on fire, and she frantically searched around the room, focusing on anything but him.
He watched her nervously, immediately wishing he could swallow his words back up and keep them locked in the deepest depths of his soul, never to be heard.
There was a long stretch of silence between the two of them, and Joel was about to just apologize and leave before she finally said something in response, reaching for her jacket while she stood up.
“Leave ten minutes after I do,” she said, standing on her feet between his thighs. His eyes widened as he shifted so she could walk away, listening intently to her instructions.
“I’m going to go home, Joel. Come to the back door.”
Joel stared at his watch for the entire duration of the ten minutes after she walked out of the bar. His knee was bouncing anxiously, his mind was racing, and his cock was already getting excited at the thought of what was to come.
He walked as inconspicuously as possible, hoping nobody was paying him any mind. Luckily, it was late out, and most of the town had retired to their bed already. He made his way through her backyard and up to her back door, taking a deep breath before knocking on the screen door.
It opened after a brief moment, and she ushered him inside. She had already taken off her coat and shoes, and she had a few candles lit in the kitchen.
“Could I get you something to drink?” She asked politely, reaching up in a cabinet and grabbing a glass.
Joel nodded, “water’s fine.” He took in her space, noticing the large bookcase that sat in her living room. She had one loveseat that sat across from a fireplace, the mantle above it decorated with hanging plants and small wooden horse figurines. There was one framed photo placed directly in the center of her mantle. He made out two adults and a child in the photo, presumably her and her parents.
She poured him a glass of water, handing it to him and gesturing to the couch, “please, make yourself comfortable. I can take your jacket.”
He shrugged off his jacket, handing it to her with a polite ‘thank you’ before making his way over to the couch. She didn’t take long to follow suit after hanging up his jacket, pouring herself a glass of water and joining him on the couch.
A long stretch of silence weighed heavy, tension so thick in the air she could feel it pressing down on her lungs. Joel stared into the fire while taking a big swig of his water, gulping down half of the glass.
His body felt like it was on fire being so close to her. Joel hadn’t been with a woman in years, he had no desire to. But something about her was so divine and enticing, drawing him in like a moth to a flame from the moment she first stepped foot into the stable.
She leaned forward to sit her glass down on the little coffee table in front of the loveseat. Her hands were shaking, and Joel noticed. Her entire body seemed to be fidgety, like a live wire.
After she sat back upright, Joel sighed, sitting his own glass on the coffee table before leaning back up against the couch. He didn’t look at her, his eyes trained on the fire once more, but he reached out, placing his hand on her thigh, just above her knee.
She took in a deep breath at the feeling, swallowing nervously. Joel’s thumb traced little circles on her jeans before his hand started to move, ever so slowly inching up her thigh.
“You’re a very pretty girl, ya know that?” Joel said softly, finally turning his head to look at her. He was pleased when he noticed her flustered state and rosy cheeks. His hand made its way up to her hip, where he gripped her flesh possessively.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
She let out a shaky breath, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip before she shook her head, moving one of her hands to his forearm, holding the strong, warm muscle.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Joel took in a long breath at her words, exhaling even longer. His eyes searched hers for any caution, any uncertainty. And when he found none, he leaned in to wrap his arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap.
She straddled him with a tiny yelp of surprise, giggling at how easily he was able to move her. He smiled at the sound of her giggle.
She smiled back at him. She had never seen him smile before, his teeth were straight and clean, suiting his features perfectly. She tried her hardest to etch the image into her memory.
Joel hummed when she brought her hands up to his shoulders, rubbing the tense muscles softly. He brought his hands to her thighs, rubbing them gently before moving his hands to her ass, giving them the same treatment.
Her ass was simply perfect. It fit in his large palms like a missing puzzle piece, meaty and strong. He couldn’t help himself when he drew his hand back, clapping it back against her ass with a grin.
The whine that left her lips was completely beyond her control.
She was already overwhelmed by the feeling of being so close to him. The feeling of his warm breath fanning across her face, the feeling of his body beneath her relaxing with her touch, the feeling of his incessant need growing harder against her core.
So when he smacked her ass, she couldn’t help it.
And he couldn’t get enough of it.
He smacked her ass once more, this time on the other cheek, grinning in satisfaction when she moaned louder this time.
“Fuck,” Joel muttered, adjusting himself and unintentionally lifting his hips up against her. They both let out a little moan at the sensation, and his cock felt like it was about to rip through his jeans itself.
“Joel,” she whispered, her eyes closed as she tried to recalibrate. His cock jumped at the sound of his name on her lips.
She hesitated for a moment, too embarrassed to admit her secret. She let out a groan and shoved her face into the crook of his neck, trying to hide from him. His brows furrowed in confusion, but he lifted his hand from her ass to her back, rubbing her back in small circles.
“What is it, darlin’?”
With a small pout, she muttered the words against the skin of his neck. He was too concentrated on the feeling of her lips against his skin for the words to process, but when they did, he knew it was over for him.
“I’m a virgin.”
Oh. Oh.
He nearly just came in his pants.
The thought of him being the one to touch her first, claiming her as his and his only, showing her how good it could feel to be bad. God, it was almost too much for him.
And she knew it when he let out a groan and lifted his hips against her even harder. She didn’t know what to expect, but him being into the idea was the last thing she expected.
“Oh, sweet girl,” he cooed, trying to hone in his strong need to fuck her into next week and instead give her the affection she needed. “We don’t have to do anything,” he grumbled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple as he continued to rub her back, bringing his other hand up to her head to run his fingers through her hair.
“But I want to,” she said, closing her eyes and enjoying the feeling of him comforting her. She had never felt this before, so cared for and considered.
Joel smiled, “me too, honey.” He bit down on his lip as the hand on her back trailed back down to her ass and the hand in her hair gripped her locks gently, just enough to pull her head back and face him.
He lifted his hips against her with a hum, smiling when she let out a pathetic little whine. He hadn’t even kissed her yet and she was already so far gone.
“Feel how bad I want ya?” He asked, rolling his hips against her once more. She moaned a little louder, rolling her hips back against him, causing him to sputter out a little, “fuck.”
She sat back up in his lap, licking her lips and grinding against him a little harder, eliciting a groan from deep in his throat. “I’m a little nervous,” she admitted, “I don't want to disappoint you.”
As she stared at him with those big eyes, he couldn’t bear the thought of her thinking she could ever disappoint him.
“Could never disappoint me, darlin’,” he rasped, one hand gripping her ass and the other moving up to her cheek. He drew her in slowly, his eyes focused on her lips. He was just millimeters away from kissing her before uttering one final phrase that made her simply melt.
“Such a good girl.”
His hot lips pressed against hers in a slow, innocent kiss. Her body was on fire as she moved her fingers to his hair, gripping his salt and pepper curls to ground herself. He groaned against her at the feeling, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue against her lips delicately.
She opened her mouth, moaning at the hot intrusion of his tongue against hers. Her hips moved on their own accord, grinding down against him. The feeling of his hard cock straining against the confines of his jeans made her heart race, her hips moving on their own to continue to rut against him.
Joel quickly became hungrier, needier. His hips bucked up to meet hers, his hand on her cheek moving to her fist her hair, pulling her head back before he moved his hot lips to her chin, tracing her jaw and placing delicate kisses against the column of her throat.
The sensation of his hand in her hair mixed with his mouth on her neck set her skin on fire, her chest heaving as she struggled to maintain a steady breath. She let out a moan when he smacked her ass while simultaneously biting her pulse point, making sure he left a mark.
Joel couldn’t help himself as he pulled her closer into him, if that was even possible. He pulled away from her, grumbling a low, “where’s the bedroom, honey?”
“Second door on the left,” she huffed out, moving to stand up but being abruptly cut off when Joel wrapped his arms around her waist, hoisting her up. She yelped, wrapping her arms and legs around her, giggling as he placed featherlight kisses against her cheek as he walked towards her bedroom.
The sound of her giggles in his ear made him chuckle softly against her cheek as he continued to pepper her face with kisses when he walked into the bedroom, swiftly making his way over to her bed and sitting her down gently.
She reached up to turn on her lamp, a little pink shade with a white base. Joel stood at the foot of the bed between her thighs, grinning down at her.
After a few moments of his staring, she couldn’t help but laugh nervously, moving her arms to try and cover herself, feeling hot under his gaze. He smirked at her nervousness before sinking to his knees at the foot of the bed with a groan, his knees popping in protest.
She sat up, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He reached for one of her ankles, pulling off her sock gently before moving to the next one. Her heart swelled at the sight: Joel Miller on his knees between her thighs, pulling off her little white cotton socks.
Once both of her socks were off, Joel brought a hand to each of her calves, massaging the muscles gently. “Such a beautiful girl,” he said, his tone full of admiration. “Does my pretty girl want to take off her clothes?” he asked, softly.
She nodded, her pussy fluttering at the possessiveness in his words. He hummed in response, reaching up and putting his hands on his hips before thumbing the hem of her shirt. Slowly, his big, warm hands slid under her shirt, grazing her nipples through her bra before pulling the shirt up and over her head.
She shuddered at the feeling of his hands against her skin, and her whole body twitched when his hands ran over her pebbled nipples.
When Joel finally got her shirt off and tossed it to the side, he couldn’t help but moan pathetically at the sight of her little black bralette that held her beautiful tits in such a way that he felt jealous of the bralette.
“Fuck, you’re like a goddamn angel,” he said softly, reaching to cup her breasts through the bralette. She gasped at the feeling, moaning when he brought his index finger and thumb together to pinch her nipples through the lace fabric.
He brought one of his hands down to her hip, watching her every move as he slowly dragged his hand across her thigh before up and tracing the hem of her jeans, smiling when her body twitched in response.
“How about we get these jeans off ya, princess?”
She nodded excitedly in response, leaning back on the palms of her hands while he began to make work of the button and zipper of her jeans. He took his time sliding the zipper down, smirking up at her as he watched her breathing get heavier by the second.
Finally, he curled his fingers through the belt loops of her jeans. “Lift your hips, baby girl,” he said gently and she immediately followed orders. He slowly slid the jeans down her thighs, his fingers grazing her skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally pulled her jeans off her ankles, tossing them in the same direction as her shirt.
Instinctively, she squeezed her thighs closed, embarrassed to have someone so close to her core. Joel looked up at her through his lashes with a threatening expression, clicking his tongue and bringing his hands to her knees, wordlessly spreading her legs apart.
The look on his face sent her heart racing even more, and she felt herself clench around nothing.
Joel licked his lips when he was finally face to face with her panty-covered pussy, smirking at the obvious wet patch on her light pink cotton panties.
“My god, straight from Heaven,” he uttered before bringing his hands around to her ass and tugging her towards the edge of the bed. She let out a little squeak of surprise, moving her hands to his hair as he moved in closer to her core.
He could fucking smell her arousal and it smelled like the sweetest honeysuckle known to man.
He hesitated before going in, wanting to be sure he didn’t push her too far. Looking up at her, he nodded towards her, “can I taste? Please?”
She damn near came at the sight, nodding and spreading her legs even further apart.
He moved in, pressing his nose against the wet patch of her panties, breathing in as deep as he could. She gasped at the feeling, running her fingers through his hair nervously, trying to ground herself and realize that this was actually happening.
Joel let out a low hum before pressing a gentle kiss to her thighs, his hands moving from her ass to the waistband of her panties. He couldn’t even mumble out the question before she was already lifting her hips, and that made him smile.
“My good girl,” he whispered as he pulled her panties down her legs.
After throwing them to the side, he was finally face-to-face with her bare pussy. Leaking sweet nectar, her puffy lips glistening in her arousal, Joel decided then and there that if he were ever to be asked what his last meal on Earth would be, her sweet pussy would be his answer.
He mumbled out a little, “oh my god,” before moving in, pressing his lips to the top of her mound. She had her lip drawn between her teeth and her eyes squeezed shut, trying to focus on the sensations.
She couldn’t help the moan that slipped past her lips when he brought his hand from her ass to her pussy, spreading her lips and pressing a kiss to her swollen clit. He pressed a few more soft kisses against her clit before finally pressing the wet, hot muscle of his tongue up against her.
A guttural moan she didn’t even know she was capable of ripped through her, and she felt immediately embarrassed. But Joel hummed happily in response to her, making her whine again and suddenly she didn’t care how loud she was.
And Joel only wanted her to be louder.
He moved his finger down to her patiently waiting hole, barely pressing his fingertip against her. His other hand moved to her mound as he brought his thumb to her clit, his tongue and thumb performing perfect ministrations against her.
Slowly, he pushed his finger further into her tight, virgin hole, curling it upwards against her until he hit that particular spot that made her moans grow even louder.
She fell flat on her back against the bed, her tits bouncing and her fingers pulling on his hair in pure ecstasy. He watched the whole thing, groaning against her as he began to add a second digit, and then a third. He watched her body contort as he moved his thick digits inside of her, his thumb and tongue still working on her clit.
“Oh fuck,” she cried out, her thighs beginning to quiver. She squeezed her thighs against his head as her orgasm quickly approached, overwhelming and overstimulating.
With one skilled curl of his fingers, she came undone. Her orgasm washed over her with an intensity she never knew was possible. Joel didn’t stop, instead fucking her with his fingers and lapping up her nectar even faster, taking everything that she was willing to give to him.
After a few minutes of this, it became all too much. She whined, pushing her hands against his forehead and wiggling away from him, mumbling nonsense.
He finally pulled away against his will, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean, savoring any last drop he could. He stood up to his feet with a groan, leaning back over her.
Her face was flushed a deep tinge of pink from the intensity of her orgasm. She was a babbling mess, her hair splayed all around her and a slight collection of drool dripped down her cheek.
Joel fell in love with her at that moment.
She reached up for him, tugging on the collar of his flannel and pulling his face down to hers. His chin glistened with her arousal, and she could taste herself on his lips. His wet beard and mustache spread her slick all over her face, and all she could was hum in satisfaction.
She began fumbling with the buttons of his shirt desperately, pulling away from the kiss to mumble little pleas.
He moved with just as much urgency, kicking off his boots, pulling down his jeans and boxers to his ankles and tossing them to the side before slipping off his flannel and white t-shirt he always wore underneath it.
And there he was. Joel Miller, completely naked before her. Completely naked in front of a woman for the first time in three years.
If his dick wasn’t so painfully hard, he would’ve taken more time to relish the moment.
When she finally laid eyes on his cock, her jaw dropped in shock. He was massive. From the base that was covered in soft little black curls, all the way to the angry red tip, he was thick. Prominent veins caught her attention, running up and down the length of him.
And then the anxiety set in.
“There is no way that is fitting inside of me,” she said anxiously, her brows knitted together in worry. “I mean like absolutely no way.”
Joel couldn’t help the small chuckle he let out, shushing her softly and leaning down to press a gentle kiss against her forehead, then each of her cheeks, and then her lips. She physically felt her heart rate slow down at the sweet gesture, but she was still in disbelief at the size of him.
“We’ll make it fit, my sweet girl,” he said softly before pressing another gentle kiss against her lips. “If you still want to do this,” he added, making sure she knew she could back out if it was too much.
She nodded, whispering a soft, “okay,” before bringing her hands up to wrap around his shoulders, tangling her fingers in his hair. “Just, please go slow.”
“Of course, baby girl,” he smiled, pulling her into another intense kiss as he adjusted his hips, laying his cock flat between her lips. They both moaned at the contact, and Joel knew that this was going to be the ultimate test of patience.
Joel moved to his lips her jaw, then her ear, and then her neck, all while reaching behind her and popping off her bralette masterfully.
Still got it, he thought.
He groaned at the sight of her bare breasts, moving his hand to massage one and pressing kisses against the other, working his way down slowly before finally pulling her nipple between his lips.
She gasped at the sensation, closing her eyes and trying to take deep breaths, calming herself down. Joel slowly moved his hips, bringing his already leaking tip to prod against her tight little hole.
Joel removed his lips from her nipple, looking up at her with a sense of endearment. “Take in a deep breath, baby,” he said softly, moving over to her other nipple and sucking it into his mouth.
When she followed his orders, breathing in deeply from her belly, Joel pushed the tip into her hole, effectively stretching her out. The intrusion was extremely painful, and she made it known with a groan and clawing her fingers down to his shoulders from his head. He grunted, his arms practically shaking as he tried to hold back from burying himself to the hilt.
“Doing…so good, baby girl,” he damn near whimpered, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. When her breaths finally slowed down, he pushed a little further. Her face scrunched up in pain, but it was slightly more bearable this time. “Tell me to stop,” he said through strangled breaths, sheathing himself at a snail’s pace.
She nodded, concentrated on keeping her breathing steady and her body relaxed. Each painful millimeter by painful millimeter, Joel kept his eyes focused on her in case she hesitated for even a millisecond.
But she didn’t, all the way up to when he was buried balls deep inside of her.
For a second time this week, he noted her determination.
She let out a long exhale when she felt him fully buried inside. It was extremely painful, and she couldn’t move an inch. Her body was frozen, just silently taking him in.
And Joel was placing gentle kisses across her chest and neck, whispering little praises in between each kiss.
“So good,” “feels so fucking perfect,” “like you were made for me,” “my sweet princess.”
He was struggling, using all of his willpower to not move even though he wanted nothing more than to slam into her with full force. But he refrained, making sure to take things at her own pace.
This time, at least.
After a long pause, she finally opened her eyes to meet his, her breath shaky and hot against his face. He drew her in for a kiss before raising a brow, “you okay, honey?”
She nodded, “‘S good, so fucking big.”
He chuckled softly, “I know, baby girl. You ready for me to move now?”
She hummed softly in response, giving him the go ahead. She hissed when he started moving, which made him stop immediately. She shook her head, “‘S okay, keep going.”
So, with every fiber of his being, he slowly moved out of her entirely. He took a moment to appreciate the view of his cock, coated in her slick, pressed against her weeping hole.
“Fuck,” he sighed appreciatively before pressing back into her, moving slightly faster this time. She moaned, to which he responded with, “Taking me so well, baby girl, doing so good for me, yeah?”
“Feels good,” she shuddered out, her skin covered in goosebumps as he slowly fucked her. He hummed in agreement, leaning back and gripping her hips to watch as his cock slid into her before pulling out even slower, his tip tugging on the rim of her hole before he pushed back in.
The movement of her hand caught his eyes as she brought it to her ribs and ran it slowly down her stomach, bringing it to her pussy where they connected. She moaned at the feeling of his cock pushing in and out of her, throwing her head back and bringing her fingers to her clit, rubbing small circles around the sensitive nub.
The sight alone made Joel’s hips stutter, his orgasm already surfacing. This little test of his patience seemed to have turned in the quickest orgasm of his life, and he let out a groan at that thought.
Just as he was about to pull out completely and try to take it down a notch to prolong his orgasm, her walls squeezed him with all her strength as her orgasm suddenly took over.
Her fingers stilled against her clit as her thighs began to quiver, her face contorted into an expression of pure ecstasy, her head thrown back against her pillows.
“Oh, fuck,” Joel groaned, his hips automatically moving at a quicker speed, causing her to moan even louder. “Yeah, baby, fuck... what a good fucking girl,” he said in between thrusts, now fucking into her at a remarkable pace.
“Where ya want it?” He asked gruffly, his hips sputtering in a chaotic manner. His orgasm was approaching faster than he had anticipated, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and will it to slow down with everything he had.
“Inside.”
That single word, in her soft-spoken little voice, was enough to bring him over the edge. He groaned a strangled, “fuck,” before burying himself as deep as he could, ropes of cum coating her cervix.
She couldn’t describe the feeling, in fact she was too overstimulated from her own orgasm to really even process what was happening. Her ears were ringing, her body was on fire, and all she knew was that she had just fucked Joel Miller.
And she was determined to fuck him again.
After Joel came down from his own high, he slid out of her, causing her to let out a hiss at the friction. He collapsed on the bed next to her, and she automatically rolled onto her side to cuddle against him.
He hummed, laying his arm down so she could rest her head on his bicep, bringing his other fingers to her chin to bring her into another sweet kiss that was full of a new sense of admiration and dare she say…love?
The two laid there in silence for a while. She ran her fingers back and forth through his greying chest hair as he drew little hearts with his thumb against her hip. He cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“You okay, darlin’?”
She hummed, her eyes closed and a relaxed smile on her face.
Drabbles for an upcoming multi-chapter fic featuring EX-HUSBAND!LEON x F!Reader.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who still cannot believe the divorce was finalised regardless of the several years that passed. Memories of you never left him, and he’s grateful that you agreed to keep in contact. He’s haunted by what could have been. By the time of the divorce, Leon’s depression intensified to the extent he stopped turning up to work, confining himself inside his apartment for weeks with no communication. Several of his colleagues were sent to perform well-being checks on him, finding hundreds of unfinished letters addressed to you scattered across his desk and bedroom floor. The perfume you left behind is almost empty on his nightstand, the side you used to sleep on occupied by the plushie he bought for you during your first anniversary together, almost fifteen years ago. It smelled like you—doused in your favourite fragrance.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who lacked the heart to face you again until he put the bottle down for good. That’s what drove the marriage apart; part of him hates that Chris was right, but he is forever in his debt for pulling him out of the depths he sunk to. All he wanted was to see you, feel the warmth of your hand when it’s linked with his at night after a long day at work. He misses you terribly, and it makes it so much harder to not want to drown out every emotion to block the pain. Every bottle of alcohol was emptied and thrown into the recycling, now replaced with fruit juices and protein shakes to redirect his urges.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who calls you every night before going to bed, being sure to inform you about his day and asking for every detail about yours. He hurls all sorts of questions at you to prolong the duration of the phone call, keeping you on the line with him for as long as he can. Your voice always made him smile, you could hear it whenever he spoke. It was hard to say goodbye, although hearing your soft “I love you too” before the disconnect sound cuts you out gives him enough drive to get through the next day just to hear it all again. Even though you’re not with him, he still whispers a final goodnight before closing his eyes, as if you were at his side.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who never removed his wedding ring. No matter what the occasion was, he made sure it was visible on his finger. He often received puzzled looks from colleagues, though they didn’t dare question his habits while he was still recovering from everything he was going through. Whenever he was approached by women, he’d automatically turn them away, flashing his hand before shutting any further advances down. His heart still belongs to you. He finds people’s attempts on him extremely off putting, largely affecting the way he perceives that person. Snapping at people took a lot usually, but any flirting would bring him to his breaking point in an instant.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who finally gathered the courage to meet up with you after a year of sobriety. Food was on him at the restaurant you spent a lot of your relationship binging. He didn’t need to glance at the menu to know what you’d order, he remembered every single detail of your preferences. In his eyes, you looked as beautiful as ever on the opposite end of the table, and it seemed like you were enjoying your time in his company too. That was the first night he brought you back home to his apartment. You seen the state it was in, and while it is certainly cleaner than it once was, you knew it would be bad for his wellbeing to remain this way. Together, you worked on removing the mold build up from the corners of the ceiling and sweep the floors and counters with antibacterial wipes.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who was overcome with happiness when you agreed to stay over that same night. Before getting ready for bed, he prepared you some toast and a warm tea, serving it with the sweetest smile. You could see how much better he looked compared to the day you left; it’s clear he’d been working intensely in the gym due to huge bicep muscles begging to burst free from his lazy white tee. It wasn’t part of your plan to end up underneath him in his bed, gasping for air between kisses, but you couldn’t pull yourself from him. His hands were all over you, the firm grip on your hips likely to leave bruises by tomorrow morning. All you could see in that moment was the man you fell in love with.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who burst into tears when he noticed the wedding ring he spent months picking still on your finger. Completely inconsolable. He turned his face to the side to hide it from you, though it didn’t do much when you were already straddling his lap, half of your clothes on the bedroom floor. You hold his cheek and gently whisper, unsure of what happened for him to fall apart this way. It broke your heart seeing him with swollen lips and damp eyelashes; his hair was shielding him for the most part until you combed it back with your fingers. All he could say was that he loved you, and it caused tears to prick in your eyes too. His chest was heaving when he eventually looked at you again, pulling you in to cuddle. Your hand trailed down his forearm until it eventually found his, and your fingers intertwined.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who was almost shocked to feel you snuggling him when he woke up the next morning, assuming the events of last night were too good to be true. He strokes your hair with the back of the hand to test if it was reality, and your arms squeezed him tighter. An hour passed until you stirred from your sleep, and Leon never moved an inch so you would get all the rest you need. Without straying from old habits, he kissed your cheek and asked how you rested. Things felt great, and you felt your heart tug when you heard him ask for another chance.
“Oh, Leon…” You mumble, shaking your head as your lips creep into a smile you wish you could suppress.
“Please. Let me show you how much better I’ve gotten.”
You couldn’t say no.
EX-HUSBAND!LEON — Who was diagnosed with rapidly developing Raccoon City Syndrome two years after rekindling his relationship with you. Every day grew harder, and you knew you had to do everything you could to take care of him during his medical episodes. It was becoming terrifying; the blood he’d cough up becoming more viscous as the virus grew stronger, but you knew you had to be brave for him. You would fasten his watch every day before work and help him dress on days when the symptoms were unbearable. It was killing him to become a burden to you for a second time after all the work he put in to be better.
"happy first day, officer kennedy" | re2r leon kennedy x girlfriend!reader
♡ tags: no use of y/n, tooth-rotting fluff, no t-virus outbreak au
♡ 1.2k words
♡ read on ao3
₊˚⊹♡
The lights are dim in the bedroom when Leon S. Kennedy gets home from work, the only source of light coming from the few candles lit around the outskirts of the room. He half expects to see you lying there naked for him given the romantic atmosphere, but what he sees instead makes his heart skip a beat. You’re sitting on the centre of bed with your legs crossed in a pretzel, a plush raccoon in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
“Happy first day, Officer,” you say softly, pride beaming from your smile.
Today was Leon’s first day as a cop at the Raccoon City Police Department.
“Oh, baby…” Leon breathes out. He crosses the bedroom in a few strides and kneels on the edge of the bed in front of you, resting his hands on your knees as he takes in the sight before him. “You didn’t have to do all this for me, sweetheart.”
“I know,” the words come out delicate, “I wanted to.”
You run your hands over his chest, your touch possessive and teasing, matching your tone as you say, “I’m the proud girlfriend of Raccoon City’s newest and sexiest police officer. Let me spoil my man a little.”
Leon laughs, his hair covering his eyes as he shakes his head. You tilt your chin up towards him and he gets the hint, closing the distance between you to give you a chaste kiss.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, then steals another kiss — just a peck. “I love you.”
“I love you too…” You hesitate for a moment, your smile playful, almost seductive, as you add, “Officer Kennedy.”
Leon laughs again, leaning down to nuzzle your neck with the tip of his nose. Your giggles harmonize with the sound of his laughter as your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scratching his scalp.
“How was your first day?”
He drops a kiss to the skin of your throat before pulling back to meet your gaze. He absentmindedly takes the raccoon plush out of your lap, turning it around in his hand to get a better look at it as he replies through an exhale, “Good… It was really good.”
Despite his exhaustion, you can tell he’s being genuine. You can see that childlike happiness radiating under his skin, shining in the blue of his irises.
Raising the raccoon plush, Leon presses its nose against your cheek, giving you a kiss. He even makes a little mwah sound to go with it. Part of you falls in love all over again at the gesture.
“One of the guys — Marvin — helped organize a little welcome party for me. They hung a banner up and everything.”
You run your hand up his chest and around the curve of his shoulder, caressing your thumb back and forth over the firm muscle of his bicep. You murmur softly, “That was really sweet of them.”
You can’t help but picture it; the love of your life welcomed with such enthusiasm and kindness on the first day of his dream career. The image of a little Leon, only about 7 or 8 years old, flashes through your mind too. A little boy with honey blond hair telling his teacher that when he grows up, he wants to be a police officer so he can help people. You see that little boy’s hopes and aspirations reflected in Leon’s eyes, only now, those dreams have been achieved.
He did it, just like you knew he would.
“They must’ve been so excited to meet you,” you begin warmly. “I mean, I can’t really blame them.”
You pinch his face between your fingers, your thumb on one cheek and your index and middle finger on the other as you tease, “Who wouldn’t be excited to meet this pretty face?”
Nipping playfully at your palm, Leon flirts back, “Trust me, baby, the prettiest face at the precinct is yours.”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “My face? Is there a warrant out for my arrest that I’m unaware of?”
“There probably should be.”
Your confusion grows tenfold.
“After all, you did steal my heart,” Leon finishes smugly, looking all too proud of his one-liner. You have to admit, it’s kinda cute — both the sentiment and the boyish grin accompanying it.
When you roll your eyes, he gives you a proper answer, “I put a picture of you on my desk. It’s in a little frame right by my name plate in the corner so when people look at my name, they’ll know that I’m not in the market for a Mrs. Officer Leon Kennedy.”
You scoff out a laugh, shaking your head with a little smile tugging at your lips. You set the flowers on the bed next to you in favour of looping your arms around Leon’s neck, pulling him in for a slow, languid kiss. He hums into the kiss, a proprietary hand finding the curve of your waist as his tongue parts your lips, finding yours. Leon eases you back against the bed, crawling over your body as he deepens the kiss. His hand roams across the smooth plane of your stomach, reveling in the heat of your skin brushing against his fingers where your t-shirt has ridden up.
“You know, I’m not even Mrs. Officer Kennedy,” you remind him, flashing your empty ring finger before his face.
Before you have the chance to move it, Leon kisses the spot quickly, mumbling, “Soon.”
“Soon?” The excitement and intrigue is palpable in your voice, completely overtaking any nonchalance you tried to have.
Your boyfriend clearly isn’t oblivious to this fact, smirking down at you.
“Fuck off,” you murmur, pushing his face to the side with a lazy hand.
He nips at your skin before snatching your wrist, pinning it down on the bed above you. Leon doesn’t give you the chance to protest, immediately capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. You don’t oppose, melting into the taste of him. Arching up off the bed, Leon’s hand slips under your back to press you flush against his chest. Your teeth catch his bottom lip, tugging slightly before soothing the subtle ache with your tongue.
Suddenly Leon pauses, breaking the kiss to draw his attention towards… the plush raccoon?
He takes a moment to turn the toy raccoon around, facing the wall. You look at your boyfriend, confused.
“Keep your eyes to yourself there, fella. She’s all mine,” he tells the raccoon.
“Leon Scott Kennedy,” you deadpan, each part of his name punctuated sharply, “Are you seriously jealous of a stuffed raccoon?”
“What?” he says innocently, shrugging simply. “He was giving you a look.”
“What look?”
His hands trace up and down your sides, each pass of his hands up your body teasing the hem of your shirt higher and higher up your stomach. Pupils dilated, Leon’s gaze falters to your lips, lingering there as he drawls, “The same look I'm giving you right now.”
You playfully hit Leon’s chest. “God, you’re so weird.”
He leans down, dropping kisses along your collarbone as he mumbles against your skin, “Yeah, but you love it.”
You cup Leon’s face in your palms, pulling him back from your neck to look at him. You comb your fingers through the thick hair across his forehead, pushing it back from his face to admire him fully. He’s beautiful and perfect and he’s yours. All yours.
“You’re right,” you sigh in content, brushing your lips against his. “I do love it. And I love you.”
Warnings: unprotected sex • age-gap dynamic (45-year-old Leon × younger adult Reader) • plus-size!Reader • oral sex (f receiving) • penetrative sex • praise kink • size/strength difference • mild possessiveness • Leon being touch-starved and emotional • cursing • unprotected sex •Fingering
It was supposed to be a simple first date.
Dinner, a few drinks, something light and low-pressure. You didn’t expect Leon Kennedy to show up at your doorstep in a sleek black Porsche, hair neat, shirt slightly rumpled, looking both painfully handsome and like he’d spent the last ten minutes giving himself a pep talk.
“You… look beautiful,” he said when you stepped outside.
You smiled shyly, he blushed darting his eyes away from you.
The date is perfect, awkward in a sweet way, full of small smiles and soft laughter. Leon’s sarcasm slips in, but so do those dumb jokes he clearly thinks are hilarious.
“Two cannibals are eating a clown,” he says, deadpan. “One looks at the other and says, ‘Does this taste funny to you?’”
You snort, then let out a small laugh behind your hand, he stares at you like he just witnessed a miracle.
By the time dessert comes, you’re leaning closer without realizing it. His hand brushes yours — accidental, innocent and the poor man looks like he’s going to combust.
And then the sky opens.
Rain slams down in sheets the moment you step outside the restaurant. Leon immediately puts a steady hand on your lower back, steering you toward the car.
“Right...of course,” he mutters. “I’m not driving you home in this. The last thing I need me driving and crashing and us dying on our first date.”
You laugh. “Dying? Are you that bad of a driver." You teased.
"I am an excellent driver."
You roll your eyes, but he’s already guiding you into the Porsche, carefully holding your dress so you don’t snag it.
He’s protective without being pushy.Gentle without being patronizing.And so painfully unaware of how attractive that is.
The rain gets worse on the drive, thunder rolling, wind shaking the car and Leon’s knuckles whiten on the wheel.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
“Yeah,” he lies. “Just don’t like bad weather when I’ve got someone I care about in the car.”
Your heartbeat stutters.
He glances at you, cheeks pink, then looks back at the road.“Uh. I mean. On a date. With someone. A hypothetical person,” he mumbles. “Shit.”
You giggle.
He pulls into the covered spot outside his building, something tidy, a nice place as he turns off the engine with a determined exhale.
“You’re staying here until the storm passes,” he says. “I’m not sending you into that.”
You start to protest, but lightning cracks you squeak, and Leon gives you a look that brooks no argument.
Inside, his apartment is… tiny.
It's clean, not expecting from a man who works as a DSO agent. The kitchen looks decent but barely used, the couch looks lived in and you can see his bed down the hall.
He rubs the back of his neck.“Yeah. Home sweet shoebox.”
“I like it,” you say honestly.
He glances at you, really looks as warmth spreads through his expression.
“I don’t get why you said yes,” he murmurs suddenly, almost too quiet to hear. “I mean. You’re… young. Gorgeous. And I’m—”
“Leon,” you interrupt gently. “You saved me.”
He freezes.
“From that creep outside the bar. A few weeks ago. My date stood me up, and you made sure I got home safe.”
Leon’s ears go pink, he clears his throat then adverts his gaze.“Yeah, well… I, uh...I also maybe… used my job to look up your number because I was too much of a coward to ask for it.”
You blink.
He winces coughing into his hand“Illegal,” he mutters. “Super illegal. Don’t tell anyone. Please.”
You laughed, a soft, warm sound as you cup his cheek.
He melts, eyes slipping closed leaning into your touch.
Lightning flashes outside.
Thunder shakes the window.
And suddenly Leon’s hands are on your waist, gentle but firm, pulling you closer. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back for weeks — soft, controlled, then deeper, hotter, as you curl your fingers in his shirt.
Your lips part for him.
He groans softly into your mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, “I swear I’m trying to be a gentleman—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “Not tonight...I don't want it."
He lifts you, guiding your legs around his waist as he carries you toward the bedroom. Your curves press against him, soft and warm, and Leon’s breath stutters.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers against your throat. “Do you know that?”
His hands roam your back, your hips, your thighs, reverent and hungry and when he lays you on the bed, he pauses just staring for a moment, chest rising hard with each breath.
Your thighs part instinctively as he climbs over you,pulling your dress up, worshipping every inch of soft skin with slow, warm lips. His hands knead your hips, your thighs, your belly like he’s memorizing the shape of you.When he finally slides your panties off, slow, steady, eyes locked on yours—his breath stutters.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice breaking. “So perfect.”
He strokes your pussy, fingers sliding through slick heat, and you moan his name.
He shudders violently.“Say it again.”
“Leon.”
He lowers between your legs, mouth hot against the inside of your thigh. “Leon—” you gasp.
“Let me taste you,” he murmurs, kissing higher. “Please.”
His tongue finds your pussy so gently you gasp — slow licks, soft kisses, savoring you as moans into you.
You thread your fingers into his hair, your hips lifting, your thighs trembling as he eats you with slow, deliberate hunger, building you up until you’re panting, clutching the sheets.
Clothes vanish and when he finally climbs back up your body, his cock hot and heavy against your thigh, he cups your cheek again trembling slightly.
“Tell me if you want me,” he whispers. "Or tell me to stop and I will...I'll stop and we can forget this ever happened."
You don’t hesitate.
“I want you, Leon.”
His eyes darken instantly.“Sweetheart,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, “you’re gonna ruin me.”
He slides into you slowly, deeply, until he’s fully seated inside your warmth.
Your pussy squeezes him instinctively and Leon’s breath breaks.
“Oh.....fuck...”
He holds himself over you, arms shaking, trying to let you adjust while his cock throbs inside your heat.When you move your hips just a little, he chokes on a moan.
“You feel… god… you feel unreal—”
He thrusts once, slow, deep and your mouth falls open. “Leon—”
He kisses you again, swallowing your gasp as he moves inside you, slow at first, then deeper, then harder when you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer.
“You’re so warm—” he groans into your neck, “so... fuck...sweetheart.I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you—”
His rhythm turns desperate when your pussy clenches around him, your moans growing breathless.
“Please, Leon,don’t stop—”
“Not stopping,” he pants, thrusting harder, deeper. “Not— not stopping until you come on my cock—”
Your orgasm hits fast, sharp, overwhelming, your body arching as you squeeze him tight. Leon groans into your shoulder and thrusts deep, spilling hot inside you, holding you close as he trembles through every pulse.
He stays inside you, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your cheek.
“Rain’s not stopping anytime soon,” he murmurs.
You smile lazily, fingers brushing his hair.“Good,” you whisper. “Then neither are we.”
Leon laughs softly, warm, breathless, undone as he gives you a lazy kiss.“Sweetheart,” he says, kissing you again, “I am so in trouble.”
THE SUNLIGHT WAS RUDE.Absolutely, unapologetically rude.
It spilled through Leon’s half-closed blinds, warm and golden and unforgiving, sliding across your bare skin and finally crawling up the length of Leon’s spine where he lay tangled with you.
He groaned.
Not the sexy “I want another round” kind of groan.
The “my spine is stiff and reality exists again” groan.
You blinked awake, still wrapped in the smell of his sheets, the warmth of his chest, and the pleasant ache of a night that went far deeper than either of you expected. Leon had fallen asleep with one arm around your waist, one leg thrown over yours, his face buried in your shoulder like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
He squeezed you unconsciously as he shifted.
Then he froze.
He lifted his head just enough to look past your shoulder, squinting at something across the room.
You followed his gaze with a tired hum.
The clock.
The clock read 12:07 PM.
Leon blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then.“…no.”
A beat.
“NO.”
He shot upright with the kind of speed that belonged on an action movie poster, nearly knocking himself off the mattress as he scrambled for his pants.
You sat up, clutching the sheets to your chest, startled and confused.“Leon?! What—?”
He was already halfway into his jeans, hopping on one leg like a frantic golden retriever.“I was supposed to be at work at SIX.”
He checked the clock again like it might apologize.
“SIX A.M. SIX!”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. "Leon, it’s—”
“Twelve. It’s TWELVE. I am six hours late!” he cried, pulling his shirt over his head backwards, ripping it off, and then trying again.
He looked delirious, hair sticking in every direction, face flushed, shirt misaligned, belt half buckled, socks nowhere in sight.
He ran to the mirror, cursed, ran back to the bed, cursed again when he realized he still had no socks, then dropped to his knees searching beneath the furniture.
It was one of the most unintentionally adorable things you’d ever seen.
“Leon,” you said gently, leaning on a pillow as you watched him spiral, “shouldn’t you call your boss?”
“I can’t call my boss, sweetheart, it’s the government...if I’m late they assume I’m dead!”
He found one sock.
Held it up like triumph. "Ha!"
Then immediately misplaced it again.
You finally crawled to the edge of the bed, giggling softly. “Leon. Stop. Breathe.”
He stared at you, stressed, beautiful, and wildly disheveled before melting slightly.
And then he leaned in, cupped your face with both hands, and kissed you.
Not a rushed kiss.
But a soft, slow, I would absolutely choose you over punctuality kiss.
Your hands slid up his chest, fingers brushing the familiar scars there.
He groaned,quiet, helpless and leaned further over the bed to kiss you again, deeper this time, his lips warm and lingering. Tongue brushing yours as he held you close.
For a moment, he forgot he was late at all.
Then the clock beeped, that annoying grinding sound that snapped him back into reality.
Leon ripped away from you like he’d been shot, eyes wide, lips swollen.“I HAVE TO GO!”
He grabbed his keys, dropped them,grabbed them again and kissed you a third time, somehow sweeter than the first two.
And you blinked up at him, dazed and flushed.
He froze at the doorframe, realizing he was still half on the bed, one knee sinking into the mattress as he tried and failed to stand upright.
You laughed outright now.“Leon, are you okay—?”
He pointed at you with dramatic urgency, finger trembling.“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE!” he blurted, breathless.“I’LL BE BACK! I PROMISE! JUST—DON’T LEAVE!”
You blinked, heart melting completely.
“Leon,” you whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhaled like you’d just handed him oxygen, his head nodding slowly. “Okay. Good. Great.”
He kissed you again, quick, clumsy, desperate as his body trembled. “I’ll bring food. And coffee. And—shit....shit...I gotta GO—”
He stumbled out the door, slammed it behind him, immediately reopened it, shouted“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE!”
And then disappeared again.
The apartment fell silent.
You fell backward onto the bed, warm, smiling, and very much in love with a man who could single-handedly dismantle bioterror threats but could not handle a late morning after a first date.
Summary - Tommy Miller wants a big titty goth gf and isn't above begging on his knees to get one.
Pairing - Tommy Miller/goth!bartender!Reader
Warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, begging, dom/sub undertones, switch!Tommy and switch!Reader, tongue piercings, nipple play, dirty talk, semi-public, hair pulling, vaginal fingering, kneeling, body worship
[crossposted on AO3]
There are very few things in the world better than a nice, strong drink after a long day at work. In fact, it tended to be Tommy Miller’s favorite part of the night. That—and chatting up the prettiest girls in his favorite bar.
Tommy and Joel would often go together after a particularly rough day in the unforgiving Texas heat, and the best bar in town was the best for no reason other than the bartender. Frank was a mean, old bastard—but Christ could he mix a perfect Old Fashioned. It was exactly what Tommy craved after a day like today, where everything went wrong and nothing went right and his calloused hands were marked up with cuts and splinters.
Except Frank, apparently, wasn’t working today. And you stand in his place behind the rickety mahogany bar. A small slip of a girl, nearly half Frank’s size but somehow no less intimidating. In fact, Tommy finds himself even more intimidated by you, with your dyed hair and ripped fishnets beneath a tight, black tank top that sports the white skull of the Misfits logo.
He sits at the bar beside Joel, but his eyes never leave you. Your fingernails are painted black, thumbs sticking through the netting over your hands, and Tommy thinks you look terrifying and captivating and lethal and beautiful all at once. It’s rare to see girls like this in the deep south—girls who embody the shadows as a fashion accessory, girls who look like they may sprout horns or claws at any given moment, girls with siren eyes and fatal lips and switchblade curves.
Tommy Miller will be the first to admit that you scare him. Tommy Miller will also be the first to admit that yeah—he’d definitely let you eat his soul.
You’re mixing a cosmopolitan for some uppity lady at the other end of the bar, and he watches your nimble fingers as you place the lime garnish and slide the glass to the customer. You give her a pretty smile, and Tommy admires the crimson stain on your lips and wonders if it’s possible to seduce a succubus.
When you walk over to them, he can’t help but attempt to immediately create rapport. He doesn’t know the Misfits well but has heard their new song on the radio once. He leans in and asks, “You gotta name, vampire girl?”
You don’t laugh, but it doesn’t deter Tommy in the slightest. You brace your hands against the bar and say, “Depends on who’s askin.’”
“No one special,” he says with a casual shrug. “Just the man of your dreams.”
The cutest snort leaves your nose, and it feels like a win. “Let me guess,” you say, pointing a finger at Tommy. “Old Fashioned. And for you…” For a moment, you narrow your eyes at Joel. “Either Jack and Coke or Johnny Walker on the rocks.”
It’s like witchcraft, he thinks. Because you’re completely right and Tommy’s only ever known Joel to order a Jack and Coke—and suddenly he’s fumbling, trying desperately to turn your attention away from his brother. “How did you do that?”
“Experience,” you say. “You need a double? You look like you need a double.”
He does—but Tommy isn’t sure whether to take your words as an insult or not. He finds that he doesn’t really care either way, because you're looking at him now and he’s grinning like a madman and desire creeps up his spine as you lean over and fill a glass with ice. Tommy’s always been an ass man, swore up and down once he always would be—but holy fuck, he feels himself changing. “A double would be great, darlin’. Maybe I can get a little something on the side, too,” he says with a playful wink.
“Jesus,” Joel huffs.
You set to work on mixing their drinks—Joel’s first, and then Tommy’s. When you set his on the bar, there are two glasses—one that looks like his normal Old Fashioned, and a shot glass filled with a clear liquid. “A little something on the side,” you tell him. “You guess what it is and I won’t charge you for it. Guess wrong and it goes on your tab.”
His first instinct is to say it’s vodka—it’s still like water, completely crystalline. But when he tries to pick it up to smell it, you put a black-painted finger up.
“Nope. That’s cheating.”
“It could be anything,” he argues. “What if it’s gin and I guess vodka?”
The corners of your pretty mouth turn up into a smirk. “Is that your guess? Vodka?”
“No,” he says quickly. “No, no—uhm…,” he stutters. Tommy has no goddamn idea and knows he’ll never be able to guess correctly, but you seem to be enjoying his struggle, so he flounders a bit longer than necessary.
But then you raise the stakes.
You lean forward, layered silver necklaces glittering in front of your god-blessed cleavage, and he has to try not to stare too long. He definitely stares—but not enough to be weird about it. “Guess correctly and I’ll give you my number, casanova.”
It feels a little like gambling. Tommy knows he has a way with women, knows a flash of his dimples and a little southern charm goes a long way around here. But something tells him it’s just not gonna work with you, and he wants you so badly that he’s willing to make himself look like a fool if that’s what it takes. “How long ‘til the offer expires?”
With a glance at an imaginary watch, you say, “I’m here until two. After that…who’s to say?”
Tommy sits there and watches you walk away, watches you give that pretty smile to another man who orders a shot of tequila.
When he takes a sip of his Old Fashioned, he wonders what the fuck is in it because it’s the best goddamn drink he’s ever had. Better than anything Frank has ever made him, better than any he’s gotten at that fancy bar in Houston he went to a year ago—smokey and bitter and strong and delicious.
Joel calls him stupid, says he’s insane for even looking at a girl like you, mentions how much younger you are and how you’re likely just entertaining him for tips. Tommy orders another drink anyway and promises to get a cab home when Joel insists he’s ready to leave.
The crowd dies down the longer the night stretches on, and you keep placing drinks in front of him moments after he finishes the one in his hands. Once, when you have your back turned, Tommy dips the tip of his index finger into the shot glass.
But before he can bring it to his lips, you’re suddenly standing right in front of him. Your hand flits across the bar and encloses around his wrist. You click your tongue and his gaze is transfixed on the flash of metal in your mouth. “Cheaters don’t get prizes,” you tell him.
Tommy watches dazedly as you bring his finger to your lips. “Cheating? I would never do something…” he loses his train of thought, because you suck the tip of his finger into your mouth, cleaning up the clear liquid, and he can feel the metal barbell pierced through your tongue. It sends a jolt of electricity dancing along his spine and he wonders how it would feel against other parts of him. When you pull away slowly, Tommy clears his throat and blinks a few times before he can resume his sentence. “…I’d never do something like that,” he finishes.
Two in the morning approaches way too fast, and while it may seem a little strange that he’s sitting here all alone for so long, pondering over this clear liquid, he finds that he loves watching you move. You’ve got some kind of dark magic about you, he thinks. Men throw themselves at you, some even more so than Tommy, but you never give them half a chance. He watches as you turn those siren eyes on them and take the words right out of their mouths, watches as you state clearly and silently that while their attempts interest you, none of them ever hold you.
He thinks about the phrase god is a woman, but wonders if the devil is, too.
After the last call, Tommy remains the last person in the bar. You graciously allow him to keep seated even as you clean the sticky bar top and turn the chairs upside down and lay them on the tables. You emerge from the back room a little after two-thirty with a black backpack shaped like a bat and a ruby leather jacket. “Last chance, casanova,” you say. “Got a guess yet?”
Tommy licks his lips. “I need a hint.”
“No hints. Time’s up. Guess.”
There’s the faintest smile on your face, and Tommy hopes that even if he guesses wrong you’ll take pity on him and give him something. He gives it his best shot; “Tequila?”
You don’t answer. Instead, you lift the shot glass to your mouth and swallow half of it. You slide it to him, and even though Tommy is more of a dark liquor person, he drinks the remaining liquid and cringes at the taste. “Should’ve followed your gut instinct,” you say.
Tommy hates vodka. Even more so now than he did the morning after prom. Still, he can’t help but laugh. “Oh, come on, darlin’,” he says. “I guessed it once. That’s gotta count for something.”
Through a soft laugh, you ask, “Why are you so determined? It’s just a game.”
Because he’s spent the last three and a half hours fantasizing about what a great lay you would be. Because he knows deep in his bones that you’d do some shit that’d make a man fall in love. Because he wants to unravel your pretty mystery and drink in that hypnotic poison. Because yes—it’s just a game, but Tommy Miller is no fucking loser. “I like to win.”
You let him walk you out, even let him walk you to your car at the back of the dark lot. Don’t you know how dangerous a situation this could be? All alone with him, beneath the cover of night…he isn’t a bad man, but something tells him you wouldn’t mind it even if he was. You say goodnight, and Tommy calls a cab and fights the urge to return to the bar the following night.
He waits until the weekend, like a normal person, despite the fact that he thinks of nothing but dyed hair and silver necklaces and fishnets and tongue piercings until then. He doesn’t carpool with Joel to work Friday morning, because he has every intention of staying at the bar and playing his hand until the early morning hours again.
But before he arrives, Tommy decides to turn his charm up a little. He stops at a local florist on the way and spends probably too much time deciding on which ones you’d like best. He settles on a half dozen roses whose color reminds him of that crimson stain on your lips but stops short at the checkout. Behind the counter, a bouquet of the very same roses is set in a half-empty vase—except the petals are dark and wilted. Tommy knows immediately that those are the ones he needs.
The florist raises her eyebrows in concern when he asks specifically for the dead ones, and Tommy promises he’ll pay full price for them if that’s what it takes.
He walks out of there with a bouquet of dead roses and sits on the same stool at the bar as last week. You’re serving someone across the room, a tray of margaritas in your hand. Tommy admires your long legs, thinks fishnets look even better on your thick thighs than beneath that one Misfits top. Your leather boots shine beneath the low lighting, and he has the sick desire to be crushed beneath them. When you finish serving the group of girls in the booth and turn back to the bar, his heart races in his chest.
You make him nervous, Tommy realizes. He wants to please you, wants you to like his gift, wants you to give him that pretty smile you always give everyone else. But when you set the tray behind the counter you don’t even look up at him before you start mixing another drink. Tommy thinks about how that makes him feel, how dissatisfied he is without your attention. But then you slide an Old Fashioned over the bar and give him something even better. “You miss me or something, casanova?”
Tommy hands you the dead roses and nods. “Like hell, vampire girl. You gonna let me take you out or what?”
You inhale the sickly sweet scent of the flowers, and when you look up at him through those dark lashes all the blood in Tommy’s head rushes straight to his dick. “You don’t wanna go out with a girl like me,” you say.
He folds his arms over one another and leans across the bar. “And why’s that?”
You laugh like God, Tommy thinks. And for a second he’s lost in the sound, the cluster of clinking glass and murmured voices fading into the background of his mind. But then you give him the sweetest, most innocent smile and say, “Because I’ll break your heart.”
“So?” The question is paired with a shrug, and it comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. But Tommy, once again, is more than willing to look like a fool to have you if only for a night. “C’mon, sweetheart. Give an old man a chance. I swear I’ll make it good for you.”
“Would you now?”
He nods once. “The best date you’ll ever have.”
“You don’t even know what I like to do outside of here,” you say. It’s a reasonable concern, and a true one. But he wants to know.
You snort and shake your head when he suggests playfully, “Picnic in the cemetery?”
“Right next to dear old grandma?”
“Be the first woman I ever bring home to meet the family, baby.”
Another man at the end of the bar snaps his fingers in the air to get your attention and Tommy suddenly feels like fighting. He doesn’t, though—and reminds himself when you giggle at someone else’s joke that you’re just working, just doing your job.
Friday’s are slower than Saturdays, it seems, and by midnight the only people left in the bar are you, Tommy, and a guy in a booth half passed out. You emerge from behind the bar with your backpack slung over your shoulder.
“I’m gonna step outside for a minute. Keep me company?”
It’s the most exciting thing he’s heard all night. Tommy jumps to his feet, the bar stool scraping noisily against the sticky floor. He lifts the partition up for you to walk through. “Ladies first.”
The midnight air is cool against his skin, and he notices as he leans against the siding of the bar that you smell like cherries. Cherries with poisoned pits. You pull a little metal box from your backpack, and Tommy watches you pull out a joint, place it between your lips, and light it. He watches you inhale deeply, watches you lick your lips, watches that metal barbell in your mouth like it’ll grant him his salvation.
Tommy can’t help himself. His words spill out of his mouth. “You are so pretty,” he says.
You laugh lightheartedly and turn those siren eyes on him again and he’s weak in the knees. He takes the joint when you offer it. Tommy hasn’t smoked weed since he was twenty-one, but the taste is nice, somehow earthy and fruity at the same time, and your eyes are searing him to the bone. “Thanks,” you say softly. “You’re pretty too.”
He chuckles and passes it back to you. “Well ain't you a peach,” he says. “If I’m so pretty why don’t you let me take you out?”
There’s a moment of hesitation before you answer. And for a split second, Tommy thinks you might actually give in to him. But then you ask, “Have you ever been with a girl like me, casanova?”
No, he hasn’t, and maybe that’s a part of the appeal. All he knows is that he wants to slip his fingers underneath your black tank top and fill up his hands with your softness. He flashes you an award-winning smile and answers, “First time for everything.”
A soft snort leaves your nose. “So, no, then,” you say, the smallest bit of disappointment laced through your tone. You take another long drag from the joint and smoke swirls around your pretty hair. “Probably couldn’t even handle it.”
His mouth falls open in mock astonishment. “And how do you figure that?”
“Call it intuition,” you say. “Or experience.” Tommy takes the joint from between your fingers and his lungs ache as he inhales. Your eyes stay there, right on his mouth, even as he slowly exhales and licks his lips.
It’s right then, as he watches your siren eyes darken, that he knows he’s made a dent in that black heart of yours. Or at the very least, he knows he’s making progress. The thought excites him so much he can’t hold back his smile. “You ain’t ever experienced me though, darlin',” he says.
“You’re persistent,” you say. “I’ll give you that.”
The weed is going straight to his head, creating an airiness in his limbs. Tommy asks playfully, “What’s it gonna take to convince you? A fancy date? Maybe dinner and a movie? Maybe we’ll take a day trip to San Antonio and visit that old school gothic cathedral they have down there. You ever seen it?”
“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “It sounds cool though. I’d probably like it.”
Tommy nudges you with his elbow. “Name the time and place and I’ll take you, vampire girl.”
“That wasn’t a yes,” you tease.
He hangs his head between his shoulders and quickly decides he’s not above a little groveling. “Come on,” he says. “Just one chance. What’s it gonna take? Name your price, baby. Want me to pick up some roadkill and set up a taxidermy date?” You let out a pretty laugh, and it feels like such a victory that he keeps going. “How about I build you a haunted house? A personal one all for you—I work in construction, you know. I could make it real nice. Ghost hunting? There’s an abandoned building just up the road, looks creepy as shit.”
You’re smiling so hard the apples of your cheeks are flushed the sweetest shade of pink. “That old apartment building? You wanna find the ghost of the maintenance man?”
Tommy shrugs. “Hey, if that’s what you wanna do, I’ll grab my wrenches for a summoning circle. Go all out for you,” he says. You shake your head, and he continues. “I mean, anything you want, I’ll do it. Sell my soul? Tell me where to sign. I gotta pen in my back pocket. You wanna drink my blood?” He pats the side of his neck, right above his jugular vein. You let out another laugh, and it brings so much joy to him that Tommy can’t help but laugh with you. “I’m all yours. Swear it. You want me to beg on my knees?”
“Now there’s an idea,” you say through your giggles.
And he knows it’s a joke, knows you’re not serious, and maybe it’s the weed making him feel so carefree and blithe but he fucking does it. In the front of the bar, where anyone could pull in and see him, Tommy Miller drops to his knees in front of you and places his warm, calloused hands on the back of your fishnet covered thighs. Your skin is so soft, he thinks, and he has to fight against the urge to lean forward and bite the supple flesh. Instead, he looks up at you through his lashes, noting the way your laughter stops and your breath stutters. And because his inhibition has been shattered by his need for you, he says lowly, “Is this what you want, sweetheart? You want me to beg for it?”
He watches your tongue dart out to wet your lips and swallows the low groan at the back of his throat. “Maybe,” you say, breathless.
Tommy leans forward, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a wet kiss to the soft flesh of your thigh. He can’t resist his smile when he feels goosebumps break out across your skin, and so he does it again. This time his lips are much greedier, much closer to the inside of your thighs, and he daringly decides to taste you. He can feel the rough edges of your fishnets across the flat of his tongue and wonders how he’s gone thirty years of his life without ever dating a goth girl, wonders how he’ll ever go back. He wonders how the fuck you’re so magnetic, how just existing this close to you makes his cock throb in his jeans.
His mouth nears the edge of your black denim shorts. Tommy expects you to stop him, expects you to laugh or shove him away. But you don’t. You instead slide pointy, black painted fingernails through the thick curls of his hair. Your touch is gentle, and lazy — such a contradiction to his desperate movements.
“Let me take you out,” he says. “I can make you feel so good, sweetheart.” And to prove his point, he does the one thing he’s wanted to this whole time; Tommy Miller softly bites the inside of your thigh, delighting in your sharp inhale. He kisses the sting away, tasting you again, taking your scent deep into his lungs. He wants to devour you, he thinks. He wants you to devour him. “Please,” he pleads, sliding his hands upwards to rest on the decadent curve of your ass.
Your hand in his hair tightens, pulling at the dark curls lightly. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” you say. There’s a too-long pause, and Tommy’s grinning like a hopeful idiot, and then you tilt your head and whisper, “No.”
He lets out an exasperated breath and presses his forehead against your abdomen. He can feel his cheeks warm from embarrassment, but then he looks up at you again and the mischievous glint in your pretty eyes makes the chagrin worth it. “Goddamn, girl,” he says. “You are mean.”
There’s no argument to be had from you, but your siren eyes stay fixed on him even as he stands from his knees and Tommy swears that dark desire still lingers in them. Especially when he straightens to his full height, towering over you, and places both palms against the brick wall of the bar. He cages you in, and you’re trapped, and more than ever before Tommy thinks he sees that demeanor falter. “Just a little bit,” you reply.
“Wanna know somethin’?” He leans his head down, presses a kiss into your hair, and says, “I can take it.”
You take your crimson stained lip between your teeth, biting so hard the matte color smudges the smallest bit. Tommy knows he’s getting to you, he can see it. But you still resist him and say with a shake of your head, “Break’s over.”
He lingers at the bar until close and asks one more time as he walks you to your car if you’ll go out with him. Still, you say no again and as he’s laying in bed that night, Tommy Miller decides to cut his losses. He still wants you — Christ he wants you, but he’s not willing to beg anymore. He’d done all he could do, and he doesn’t want to make your workday miserable. He doesn’t want to be one of those guys.
Still, when he comes back for a drink with Joel after work on Tuesday, he can’t hide his disappointment when he sees Frank standing behind the counter. They talk about you, though, when Joel tells Frank that Tommy ‘has it real bad for that scary chick.’
They go to a different bar that weekend instead of their usual. Tommy still has fun though, and chats up a pretty blonde girl who’s real nice to him. He doesn’t have to beg her on her knees, and it’s a nice change of pace. She even kisses him and moans into his mouth when he grabs a handful of her ass.
Except she’s got glossy pink lips, and her legs are bare beneath her white, pleated skirt, and Tommy wants the feel of fishnets in his hands. He wants the softness of your body, wants the warmth and the curves and the fucking chase. He wants to work for it.
She offers, but Tommy doesn’t go home with her. Instead, he sleeps alone in his bed. And the next night after work, he goes to see his very favorite bartender.
He walks in alone—Joel’s at home, helping Sarah with some art project—and it’s still early in the evening, but the bar is packed full of people. Tommy catches a glimpse of those fishnets that haunt his every thought, and watches you bend over to pick up straw wrappers from one of the booths. His usual seat at the bar is taken by some college kid, so Tommy sits at the very end.
Immediately, he can tell your nerves are shot. It must be overwhelming, he thinks, to be the only person working on a night like tonight. So when you walk past him, smelling of poisoned cherries, he snakes a hand out and wraps his fingers delicately around your wrist. You startle at first, but your whole body deflates when you see him. “Oh, thank God,” you say. “Come help me.”
Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He stands to his feet and lets you tug him back to a room with a padlock on it. While your fidgety fingers work in the code, he asks, “What’s the occasion?”
“Beginning of summer break,” you answer with a sigh. “And word got out about our new buy one get one deal on specialty drinks. It’s been busy all day.” The lock clicks and the door swings open. You flip the light switch and point to one of the three kegs beneath the shelves of sealed liquor bottles. “I can’t lift it,” you say. “And the one out there is empty.”
With a curt nod, he lifts the keg easily — it’s not any heavier than the steel beams he’s been carrying around at work. But he still sees the way your shoulders sag in relief, and tries his damndest to keep his eyes away from your low cut top. It’s a failed attempt, but Tommy thinks it’s gotta count for something. “Where d’you want it?”
The corners of your mouth turn up just slightly, and he can hear the innuendo on the tip of your tongue, but you never say it out loud. You just tilt your head, and Tommy follows you behind the bar to help you replace the empty keg. When he lifts up the partition to let himself through, you stop him with a hand around his bicep. “You’re staying a while, aren’t you?”
It hadn’t been the plan, truthfully. Tommy had just wanted one of those perfect Old Fashioned’s and to resign himself for the night. But your eyes are wide, and your dyed hair is pulled into a disheveled pointy tail, and the fishnets underneath your shorts have sequins on them, and you’re just too goddamn pretty. So he touches the tip of your nose and says, “Anything for you, vampire girl.”
Your answering smile is worth sitting in all this chaotic energy, Tommy thinks. It reaches those bright eyes made up with all that black and silver eyeshadow. “I’ll buy your drinks,” you say. “As payment.”
He nods, even though he pulls up the calculator on his phone to keep track of his drinks tonight and decides to put the cash into the tip jar the moment you’re not looking. Tommy settles into his stool and watches you flit around the room, watches you take orders and make fancy drinks and uncap beers. It’s so busy, but you’re juggling it all impeccably and he finds it admirable.
Somehow, even with the mass of people, you never fail to place another drink in front of him the moment he finishes one. You thank him way too many times, explain that having him here just in case is comforting, and Tommy’s glad to hear it. He keeps his comments and those dirty thoughts to himself, even though they push behind his teeth, sitting on the tip of his tongue. He and his whiskey and orange peel are perfectly content to sit in the corner and eye fuck the bartender, thank you very much.
He has to replace the keg one more time, it’s that busy, but he doesn’t mind it at all. Especially when you bend over to pick up a case of some hoppy IPA before he can grab the keg. There’s next to no room in the closet, and your ass is less than a hand’s width away from his jeans, and he has to close his fucking eyes. He wants to ogle you, goddamn does he want to—but Tommy Miller knows himself. Knows that if he starts looking, he’ll want to touch, and if he starts touching, he’ll want to fuck.
So he clenches his eyes shut tight and follows your orders. The night dies down slowly, and when you make the last call and start taking dishes to the back room, Tommy wipes the peanut shell dust from his fingers and holds his hand out to you.
At first, you stare at it, confused. And then when he points to the white rag in your hands you shake your head and say, “No. That’s like, illegal, isn’t it? Working for free?”
“It’s hardly free, darlin’. Give it here.” He reaches for it again and nearly loses his train of thought when you bite your bottom lip in contemplation.
But then you nod, and hand him the cotton towel, and watch him for just a moment as he turns and starts wiping down the empty tables. He creates a pile of watered down, half empty glasses on the bar, saving you an extra trip, and turns the chairs upside down when he’s finished. Everyone slowly filters out, and when you emerge from the back again the bar is empty save for Tommy and all your tables are bussed and clean.
He’s sitting at the bar, finishing his last drink, and your shoulders sag in relief that the night has finally, finally come to a close. He sits in silence as you count out the register and take the extra cash to the back room. When you start counting out your tips, you split it and push half to Tommy. “Here,” you say. “For all your help. I made more than I planned for, anyway.”
“I didn’t earn those,” he says, pushing it back toward you. “Keep it.” And he means it—he truly, truly does. Tommy would like to think he’d do it for just anyone, which is partially true. That southern charm is deeply rooted in him. But you’re…you, and apart from the fact that he wants to fuck your brains out, Tommy Miller also just straight up likes you. You’re funny, and kind hearted when you’re not putting on that mean-girl front. He can tell you’re good. And it makes him feel good, helping when he can.
But despite all that, he’s still Tommy fucking Miller. And he does, very much, want to fuck you. So he crosses his arms across the bar, leans in close and whispers, “You can repay me another way.”
A cute little snort leaves your nose, and you laugh and shake your head, but you don’t reject him. “Oh, yeah? And how’s that?”
“Guess,” he prods.
You narrow your eyes slightly, and Tommy can see the outline of that silver barbell pushing against the inside of your cheek. “A date?”
His mouth pops open in mock astonishment. “Oh, my my! I thought you’d never ask, sweetheart.” You’re laughing, and Tommy’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, and he wonders when the last time was when he felt excited about a date. A date with no promise of sex, just a simple, clean date. He takes your hands in his and presses a kiss to each of your knuckles. “Yes, of course I’ll go on a date with you, vampire girl.”
Your giggles die down, and the silence is comfortable but..heavy. He can tell something’s weighing on you, and he wants nothing more than to grant you ease.
“What is it, baby?”
Those pretty eyes of yours flicker down to his hands, calloused and rough and huge around yours. “Seriously,” you finally say. “Thank you for all your help. I don’t know what I would’ve done without it.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “No big deal,” he says. “Really. Should be a crime to not help a pretty girl in need.”
The corners of your lips turn up into a smirk, and he can see that you’re fighting it, but the joy is so plain on your face. You pull your hands from his and say, “Let me grab my bag. You can walk me to my car.”
Tommy nods once. “Yes ma’am.” He waits patiently for you to grab your things, and after you guys leave and you lock the door he tosses his arm around your shoulders. “You don’t work on Tuesday’s or somethin’?”
You stop in front of your car—black, and shiny, and he can see through the windshield that you have a glittering bat-shaped air freshener hung around the mirror. “You stalking me now, casanova?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just missed you is all,” he confesses. And it’s the truth, the god damn truth, and it’s so fucking weird for him to miss a girl he barely knows but here he is doing it anyway. It makes no sense that he’s had more fun watching you work than he did kissing that blonde girl last weekend. Tommy takes his arm from around your shoulder and gently takes your chin between his fingers instead, forcing you to look up at him. He notices the way your breath hitches, the way your pretty eyes are swallowed up by something dark. “That a crime?”
It’s a stark contrast, how different you look right now. All innocent and starry eyed and not at all mean. You look sweet, Tommy thinks. And he wonders if you taste that way, too. His mouth waters at the thought, and he runs his tongue along his teeth. “No,” you breathe, gaze following the movement. “N-no, just…”
“Just what? Hm?”
Your cheeks burn, and Tommy loves the pinkness against your skin, and he knows you have nothing to say. He knows you’re getting nervous. Eventually you exhale and say, “I don’t…know.”
Tommy likes that he makes you nervous. He likes you like this, all trembling fingers and honeyed eyes and sugary lips. But even more than that, he likes it when you look up at him through your lashes and softly, so fucking softly it’s barely audible, say, “You can kiss me if you want.”
He doesn’t waste a fucking second. He goes easy, at first. He presses his lips to yours firmly and discovers he’s right in his assumption of your saccharine. You taste a little like cherries and a little like moonlight and a little more like home. It reminds him of hot Texas nights under the stars, and being a little too drunk, and he kisses you deeper. Allows his tongue to swipe over your bottom lip, and you reward him with the sexiest little sound.
Your lips part for him, and Tommy is nothing if not a man starved for you, and so he drinks you in. That metal in your mouth feels even better against his tongue than he’d ever imagined. You’re so soft and his hands are on your hips and he can’t stop himself from squeezing the supple flesh, from pulling you closer, from pulling back for a wretched breath of air. “Goddamn, baby,” he grumbles, grinning from ear to ear, and then your mouth is on his neck, and his morals are somewhere on the floor.
Because he wants to do this right. For once in his life, Tommy Miller wants to take a girl out. He wants to do it real classy, too—wants to get to know you, wants to take you out to a nice dinner and tell you how beautiful you look in your fishnets, wants to take you to some uppity museum in San Antonio and show you fancy paintings and that gothic cathedral that made your eyes glitter when he mentioned it.
But your mouth is so hot, and your hands are tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck, clawing at him for reprieve. His heart is beating so fast. He swears it almost stops when the words tumble out of his mouth because he really, really does not want to ruin this. He sounds desperate because he is. “Can I touch you?”
“You are touching me,” you quip. He can feel you smile against his neck, and Tommy’s head falls back in frustration. You know that’s not what he means, but you don’t say no, and so he decides to show you.
Tommy hooks his arms around your thighs, grinning at the little gasp you make, the way you cling to him with all your might. He lays you back against the hood of your car and wraps his hand around your neck, and kisses you like he’ll never get another chance to.
And this time, you let out more than a whine. You’re moaning into his mouth, breathing fast, wrapping your legs around his waist, and pulling him in. It takes him by surprise, and Tommy laughs softly.
“Eager little thing, aren’t you?”
“No,” you immediately say, defiant. “I just know what I want.”
His heart hammers behind his ribcage. He wants to keep hearing your voice, wants to ingrain the sound of it into his skin like a tattoo. “Tell me, baby.”
The low flickering of street lights illuminates your face just enough for him to see the deep, dark flush of your cheeks. So dark it nearly matches that crimson color on your lips.
When he realizes what’s happening, Tommy shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “Don’t go all shy on me now, vampire girl. After all that talk?” He clicks his tongue and leans in close. His breath is warm against the shell of your ear. “Now, I know you can use the word no. I know you’re real good at it, too. You gonna say it now, baby?”
Despite the way his cock throbs in his jeans, pressed against your thigh, Tommy hopes you know he’s not one of those guys. He won’t do anything you don’t want him to do. He won’t even make you feel guilty for saying no, if that’s what you choose.
And when you open your mouth to speak, he half expects some smart remark to come out. Something like in your dreams or you wish. But your words are breathy and your siren eyes are wide as you whisper, “Touch me.”
His fingers curl around your neck—not squeezing, though. Tommy’s real gentle with you. “I am touching you,” he parrots.
And then you fucking beg. Literally, beg, and Tommy Miller feels like a teenage boy about to cum in his fucking pants at nothing but the word, “Please,” in your mouth.
He inhales a shaky breath, willing himself to calm the fuck down. This isn’t about him, he thinks. This is about you. It’s about showing you just how much he likes you, about proving himself a man worthy enough to touch you. And Tommy’s not sure if he is, not yet anyway, but he knows he can make you feel good.
The metal of your silver necklaces are cool against his palm. He moves his hand down your sternum slowly, over the curve of your breast, and stops just below the end of your cropped shirt. It’s black, of course, and modified—cut to shreds, really, only covering the most intimate parts of you. The fabric is soft and billowy and a size too large. He’s thankful for the extra room, though, because it makes it a little too easy to slip his hand beneath the curled edge and shove it over your breasts.
Your bra is black too, made of silky lace. Tommy takes one of your breasts in his hand, and it spills out between his fingers, and he silently confesses to himself that, yeah—he’s definitely not an ass man anymore. He leans down and presses a wet, open mouthed kiss to the flesh, and he can feel your nipple harden through the sheer lace. He hooks his thumbs beneath the band around your ribcage and pushes that up too, to join your top.
And bared to him, you’re even more beautiful than he imagined. And he tells you as much. “Such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs against your skin. Tommy holds both of your tits in his hands now, and slides his thumb over one nipple while he surges forward and takes the other into his mouth.
A shudder leaves you, and your hands fist themselves in his hair. He can feel your heartbeat against his fingertips, pace picking up when he swirls his tongue around the hardened peak. And when he bites down gently, you let out a gasp and push your hips up against his.
You don’t utter a word, but Tommy thinks suddenly he has you all figured out.
He kisses a trail to your other breast, spreading his spit lingering on the first with the pad of his thumb. He’s rougher this time, sucking harder, scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin.
“Oh, God,” you moan, fingernails scratching at his scalp. “You’re so…”
The words go unfinished, because he presses a hand to the seam of your shorts and all the breath seems to leave your lungs. All the thoughts seem to leave your brain, even—and Tommy thinks you look real fucking cute right now. “So what, baby? Hm?”
You’re shivering, wiggling your hips to generate some kind of friction, but Tommy doesn’t give it.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Use those words of yours. I know you can.”
“Surprising,” you admit. But he takes it as a good kind of surprise because you're pretty putty in his hands.
Tommy undoes the button of your denim shorts. He hooks one arm around your hips and jerks you down the hood of your car. “This what you want, pretty girl? Don’t want me to ask for it. You want me to take it. S’that it?”
You don’t answer, but he knows. He knows. Tommy unzips your shorts real slow. And he’s a little surprised to see that beneath all that black exterior, you’ve got baby pink panties on. Not crimson, not seductress red—pink. And they’re the sweetest things he’s ever seen. He trails his fingers along the edge and watches you squirm. “Please,” you say, begging again. Begging for him. “Touch me. I need you t-to, right now. Please.”
He slips his hand beneath your shorts, beneath your fishnet stockings and the pink cotton. And what he finds surprises him. “Aw,” he cooes, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Guess you really do need me, huh? You’re so wet, baby.” He runs the tip of his middle finger through your slit, exploring you, memorizing, gathering your slick and bringing it upwards. When he circles your clit, he laughs at the way your back arches off the hood of the car.
“Oh, fuck—yes,” you tell him. “Right there.”
Tommy presses harder, begins to move his fingertip faster. “Here, baby?”
He closes his mouth around your nipple again, using his free hand to keep your legs spread as far apart as possible. When he snakes his finger down and presses it into your sweet pussy, it takes a significant amount of strength to keep your legs open. You fight him, and your moans echo in the empty parking lot. Tommy is only vaguely aware of the passing cars on the freeway, and finds himself thankful you parked in the back of the open space. “Feels good, hm?”
“So fucking—mm—so fucking good,” you say. The praise is enough to convince him to slide another finger in, and it’s met with a pretty moan of approval.
His cock has never been this hard, Tommy thinks. It’s pressed against your thigh still, and every one of your little movements makes it worse. It makes him near delirious. He wants to bury himself inside of you but knows to save it for later. When he knows more about you, when he knows what it looks like when you cum. He’s got his fingers hooked upwards, caressing that sweet, soft spot, and his pace is unforgiving. He wishes your shorts weren’t in the way, but he does what he can with the clearance you’ve granted him. “Dirty little thing,” he says. “Wanna be touched so bad you spread your legs out in the open.”
Your nails are sharp, leaving indentations at the back of his neck. It only spurs him on more, that little bit of agony. “Don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t stop, please—yes—oh God.”
Tommy presses his thumb against your clit, sliding it through your dripping pussy with each rough thrust of his fingers. He can feel you squeezing around them, sucking him in even deeper. “There you go, baby,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss to your jaw. “You gonna cum for me? Hm? Pussy’s so fuckin’ wet.”
When your legs start to tremble, Tommy keeps his pace steady. He wants to tip you over that edge, wants to see the way you look when he makes you feel this fucking good. He leans back, breath coming fast, and admires how absolutely fucked out your look. Mouth hanging open, moaning his name, brows knitted together in concentration. Your hands bury themselves in his flannel, desperate for a tether to keep you grounded. Tommy grins, hand on your thigh leaving to instead wrap around your neck.
“Such a pretty girl,” he says through his smile. “You look so good when you fuckin’ behave, sweetheart.”
Your back arches off the hood of the car and your knuckles turn white in his shirt. “Oh, fuck—I’m gonna—”
“I know, I know. Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers—yeah, just like that.” Wetness flood between your legs, filling his palm, and it’s so fucking hot that Tommy moans in response. “Yeah, there you go,” he says, cock throbbing in his jeans. “Good girl, such a good fuckin girl, baby.”
It’s even better than he imagined; you look ethereal. He traces the arch of your body with his hand around your neck, moving it down the slope between your breasts, between your ribs, down to your hips. You fit so perfectly in his hands he starts to wonder if you were tailor-made for them.
When your fingers loosen and fall away from his flannel and your breaths begin to slow, only then does he slip his fingers out of you. He caresses your pusy in his hand, chuckling darkly when he slides over your clit and you let out a sharp gasp, thighs clamping closed around his hips at the sensitivity. When he finally pulls his hand from your denim shorts, his fingers come away glossy and covered in your slick.
Tommy locks eyes with you, raises his hand to his mouth and moans as the heady taste blossoms across his tongue. “Mmm. Better than bourbon,” he says through a low laugh. He licks his fingers clean, and you watch with rapt attention.
He takes a step back, adjusts himself, and holds his hand out for you to take. You let him pull you upwards, off the hood of the car, and he can feel your siren eyes on him as he pulls your bra and t-shirt back into place and buttons your jeans. Your legs are still shaking the smallest bit, and it feels like a victory. “Uhm…thanks. Again,” you say.
A smirk tugs at his mouth. “Turn around,” he orders. He’s a little surprised with how quickly you obey, as if any defiance that once existed within you had been snuffed out the moment he existed within you. Tommy watches your shoulders shake with anticipation, but all he does is pull your cell phone from your back pocket.
He calls himself, saves your phone number under 🦇🖤Vampire Girl🖤🦇, and tucks the device back into your pocket.
“Tuesday at ten,” he says, gathering your hair in one hand and laying it over your shoulder. He leans down, lips less than an inch from your throat. “Let me know where to pick you up.”
You nod softly. “Uhm, I—uh…yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
Tommy kisses your jaw and leaves without another word, feeling like a goddamn king.
summary: Each time Tommy Miller calls you his girl, and the one time that it sticks.
pairing: possessive!Tommy Miller x maneater!f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, porn without much plot, age gap(10yrs), infidelity but not against tommy or reader, toxic relationship dynamics, club culture, one use of the word daddy said as a joke, possessiveness, tbh reader is straight up mean to tommy but he's down bad and into it, protected & unprotected piv, dacryphilia, phone sex, f!masturbation, facefucking, facesitting, degradation, praise, choking, public sex, lots of dirty talk, pussy pronouns, jealousy, tommy uses another girl to get your attention but it backfires, creampie, overstimulation, modern/no outbreak au, no beta
note: you know those couples that fight in the middle of the baking aisle and then fuck it out in the car before they leave the parking lot? yeah that's these two.
» alexa, play toxic by brittany spears
wc: 12.08k
[masterlist] [AO3]
The first time you meet Tommy Miller, you’re twenty five and full of life in the way that sticks.
Creating memories that you’ll talk about when you’re seventy, going to every bar and club within a hundred mile radius. Making such a reputation for yourself that even the bouncers know you by name. Smile big and sigh heavy every time they see you as if to say, ‘Ah, shit. There she is. Here we go again.’
It was at a nightclub in Dallas where you first bumped into Tommy. Well, bumped into would be putting it lightly.
He’s standing outside with a pretty blonde girl, sharing a Marlboro Red and whispering sweet nothings.
And you’re shouting. Laughing, too, slung over the shoulder of a security guard, being kicked out for being disruptive. Whatever the fuck that meant.
For what it’s worth, he sits you back on your feet gentler than you deserve. “Oh, so bitches don’t know how to say excuse me and somehow it’s my fault? It’s fuckin’ bullshit, Dennis, and you know it!”
“Not my call, kid,” Dennis explains with a shrug. “Sorry. See you next weekend.” And without another word, the suited man disappears back into the nightclub, leaving you, and the blonde, and one Tommy fucking Miller.
You’d be embarrassed, if it weren’t for the six shots coursing through your bloodstream.
They stare. Both of them, but in different ways. Her gaze is concerned, maybe a little frightened. But Tommy’s is dark. Excited. Filled with lust, but you hadn’t known that yet.
“What? You never seen someone get kicked out before?”
“Sorry,” the blonde says quickly. “You okay?”
Nice. She was nice. That’s about all you remember. She helps you fix your too-tight dress and goes back inside. Tommy promises to follow her in a minute, once he finishes his cigarette.
But that doesn’t happen.
Instead, he sweet talks you in the way he’s always been good at. Makes you feel real special. Puts his mouth to your ear and makes obscene jokes, the heat of his breath sending goosebumps down your spine.
He touches you softly at first. A simple brush of his knuckles across your cheekbone. He flashes that killer smile and his hand finds a home on your waist. Drifting lower and lower and before you realize it, he’s slipping it up the back of your dress.
In hindsight, that first night should’ve been the red flag to end all red flags. He’d been at the nightclub with someone else, and somehow you’d wound up in the back seat of his truck with his cock buried deep inside you.
No one had ever gotten you to the finish line before that night. A couple of boyfriends had tried, but mostly, you’d had to ignore their rhythm and circle your clit yourself just to get there.
But Tommy isn’t like that. Not even a little. Seems to know the way around your body better than you yourself do. Lifts you off of him and replaces his cock with his fingers halfway through, and moves them just right until you soak him, only to slide right back in with a deep groan and that prideful grin on his face.
He likes to talk real nasty in your ear. That much never changed. That first night, as the condom swells inside you, he looks right into your eyes and says, “Damn, baby. You’ve got the kinda pussy that’ll make a man go fuckin’ crazy.”
If his girlfriend hadn’t been the red flag, you think that should’ve been.
But you were young and dumb and Tommy was older and exciting and delicious.
So, you give him your number when he asks for it.
Rookie mistake.
Two weeks later, you get a text on Friday night.
Going to Club Orchid with some friends tonight. Could use a back seat girl.
Back seat girl.
It makes you so fucking mad, so irritated that you complain about it to your roommates all day. And they all agree that it was a shitty thing to say.
Sure, Tommy was attractive. Tall and broad and rugged with that big Texas belt buckle that deep Texas drawl and those curls and the fucking mustache.
But he wasn’t God’s gift to the Earth. And when you and your friends find your way to Club Orchid that night, you seek him out to tell him just that.
And you do. Give him a glare sharp enough to cut and call him an asshole in front of all his friends. You remind him that his access to you is a privilege because it is, and warn that you’ll end up in his dad’s backseat if he’s not careful.
But Tommy takes your insults and threats with ease. Smirks the whole time like you’re putting on his favorite show. Leans back with an elbow against the bar and a glass bottle in hand. Licks his lips when you’re done and says, “You’re fuckin’ sexy when you’re all worked up. You know that?”
You roll your eyes and blow him a kiss with your middle finger before setting out to find someone else to dance with.
And you do. Some pretty boy from out of town who’s all too happy to let you grind on him in the middle of the dance floor. He buys you and your friends drinks all night and runs his soft hands up your thighs with no fear in him. The kind of boy you’d normally take home. Closer to your age. Nice, but not too nice.
You can feel Tommy’s eyes on you from across the room, though. Catch his gaze every couple songs, hot and lingering. You like the way it felt to have his attention. Like that he could have any girl in the room but he stares only at you.
A little after midnight, you step outside for some fresh air. And you can see him leave the bar from the corner of your eye, fully aware he’s following you and trying to ignore the way your skin prickles in excitement.
You don’t even make it to the backseat that night. Tommy shoves your dress up and your panties down and takes you right on the hood of his truck. Presses your face to the black chrome paint and fucks you hard. Tangles his hand in your hair and says, “Pretty girl got her feelings hurt, did she? S’alright, baby. You got me back good. Lettin’ that little boy touch you all night right in front of me. But pussy this good needs a fuckin’ man, don’t it?”
No one on Earth has ever irritated you more. But no one else has made you feel that good, either.
Tommy likes it deep. Gives you those fast, punishing strokes that have your eyes watery and your head all fuzzy. He brushes his rough fingers over your clit with expert precision, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you with ease. Like it’s his fucking day job.
He kissed you afterwards. Rights your dress, squeezes your cheeks between his fingers and presses his lips to yours with such intensity it steals the breath from your lungs. He hadn’t done it the first time, and it leaves you a little confused.
Enough that you consult the group chat the next morning. Half of the responses conclude that you’ve gotten the man pussydrunk, while the other half insist on blocking his number.
But you don’t, of course. Just chang his contact name to Tommy Miller - DNI.
You ignore his messages for a while and avoid the clubs and bars you know he frequents.
But it does little to change the course you’re on.
The next time you see him is at your favorite takeout place. You’ve already ordered and are waiting on the other side of the counter, wearing your comfiest pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. A far cry from your best look, but it didn’t seem to bother Tommy in the slightest.
He bypasses the woman behind the counter entirely, coming up to your side instead. He towers over you in a way that’s a whole lot clearer in the daylight. So tall you have to crane your head up to watch him speak. “Nice seein’ you here,” he says. “Best barbecue in Austin. Shame only the locals know about it.”
“I prefer it that way,” you admit, nose upturned, a cold edge in your voice. “Keeps away unwanted advances.”
He smirks at that. “Unwanted, huh? S’that what it was?” His eyes flicker down, right between your thighs. “Didn’t seem that way when she was cryin’ for me.”
You roll your eyes and bite your tongue, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave you be.
But Tommy only doubles down. Leans in close and says the most obscene thing you’ve ever heard in your life up until that point. “You know, some people would call it cruel, keepin’ a little girl from her daddy.”
“Jesus Christ,” you scoff. “You’re disgusting.”
Tommy smiles real wide. Presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head and says, “I’ll see you later, baby.”
He would not see you later, in fact. You’d make damn sure of it.
When he returns to the cashier, he tells her the name on his pickup order and you try to drown out the sound of his voice and the way he smiles at the girl behind the counter. Try to ignore the way she smiles back, and slides him a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it.
But when your order’s finished, and you pull out your debit card to pay, she informs you that it’s already paid for in full.
You try not to let it get to you. Try not to convince yourself paying for your food means anything. You didn’t ask for him to buy your dinner, and so you don’t owe him a thank you or the last thirty dollars in your account.
But you have a weird feeling he’ll try to hold it against you. Which is why you open that one sided text thread and send a message, half hoping he’ll leave you on read.
Thanks for buying my food. Didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it.
His response is immediate.
Yeah I did. I always take care of my girl.
His girl. It makes your stomach flip. Makes you feel equally nauseous and elated.
Not your girl.
Those typing bubbles pop up, disappear, and then pop up again. He’s hesitating.
Could be, though.
The hesitation is enough for you to make a decision. Tommy Miller doesn’t seem much the settling down type. You know guys like him. Take pride in seeing right through their facade and turning their own tricks back on them.
And, truthfully, you’re weren’t ready for anything exclusive or serious, anyway. You had no interest in being his girl. No interest in him at all.
You don’t respond.
But you see him. That weekend at Club Orchid, the following weekend at Frank’s Bar. It seems that no matter where you go, he’s always there. And you try to keep your distance.
Truly, you do. But it’s like Tommy Miller’s this beacon of light and you’re a brainless little moth. Sometimes he shows up in these too tight t-shirts that barely fit his strong biceps, sometimes he wears this cologne that’s sweet and musky and masculine and mouth watering, and you just can’t help yourself.
You always know he’s around when you walk in some place and you’re given a Jack and Coke before you even make it to the bar. It becomes a running joke between you and your friends. Like it’s his little way of saying ‘hey, baby. be seein’ you later.’
And god damnit, you do.
You christen every god forsaken inch of his truck, the backseat of your friend’s Camry, both the restrooms at Club Orchid, the alley behind Frank’s. He makes you feel like a horny teenager, never satisfied, always hungry.
And it goes on for months. Longer than any other casual hookup you’ve ever had before him.
Tommy has no problem keeping up with you. Even though you always poke fun at him for his age, sometimes offering a viagra when you share a cigarette and ask for round two before you even make it back inside to the thrall of the party.
He says, “I’m thirty five, girl. Not seventy five. Bend the fuck over.”
Each time it’s a little more dirty and a little more depraved. He gets to know you, to really know you. Can hear the difference between a moan that says, that’s good and one that says, Jesus Christ, right fucking there.
And you come to know him, too. Know just how hard to squeeze his cock to make his breath hitch, know when to suck and when to lick, know that if you look up at him with innocent eyes while he’s halfway down your throat it sends him careening off the precipice of release.
Tommy likes it when you’re sweet to him. He likes when you beg for it, likes when you say please. But you also know he likes the chase.
Convincing you is half the battle, and if you didn’t know any better you’d assume he enjoyed it more than the sex. He doesn’t embarrass easily, and you find that the meaner you are to him before he spreads your thighs, the harder he is when his cock finds home.
But on one particularly bad Friday, you find yourself at Frank’s alone. Your friends are busy and your roommates bailed last second. Not their fault—food poisoning happens to the best of us.
It’s not bad because you’re alone. It’s bad because you’d been laid off that afternoon and now were in a frantic search for a new job. Something temporary until you made it through the screening process at someplace that paid decently.
You’re drowning your sorrows when Tommy finds you. Ordering doubles all night and charging it to your credit card even knowing you shouldn’t.
He sits beside you at the bar. Doesn't say a word. Just exists with you in the silence and orders a drink for you both.
You hate to admit it, but you think it might just be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for you. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t offer to fix it, doesn’t urge you to sneak off to the back to have a quickie. He’s just…he’s just there.
And, after last call, he gently tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and says, “C’mon.”
You don’t know why, but you do as he says. End up sitting in the corner of the couch in his apartment, your dress in a pile on his bathroom floor, wearing a well loved Def Leppard t-shirt from his closet. He makes two cups of microwave noodles, sits beside you, and asks, “You like Pawn Stars?”
All you give is a shrug in response. Have never given a shit about reality television shows, really. But somehow, it’s exactly what you need.
Tommy sits there with you, arm draped around your shoulders, and watches reruns until you fall asleep. Doesn’t press you for answers or ask you for anything. He just…he takes care of you. In a way you’ve never been taken care of before. He’s kind and gentle and good.
He kisses your forehead when he turns the television off and retires to his bedroom alone. But, before he goes, your sleepy voice cuts through the silence. “Tommy?”
His heavy steps pause on the hardwood. “Yeah, baby?”
“Thank you.”
A soft smile curls at the corners of his lips. It’s the first time you see it; the love in his eyes. Not love in the typical way of the word. There’s no expectation tied to it, no hidden intention. It’s just good, simple, pure adoration. Given to you freely from a man who has a good heart but isn’t quite ready to give it away.
You wake up before the sun with a splitting headache and a clearer head. Even fully aware that it’s kind of a shitty thing to do, you slip out of Tommy’s apartment before he wakes. Send him a quick text that just says thanks again, and walk back to your car parked in Frank’s parking lot with your shoes in hand.
A little after you turn twenty six, James takes you by surprise. You meet him at a houseparty in Houston and hit it off quicker than you anticipate. He’s the sort of guy you’d bring home to your parents. And when he surprises you at your new office job with a dozen roses in hand just to ask you on a date, you can’t help but say yes.
He opens every door for you, gives you his jacket in the rain, walks on the outside of the sidewalk. Your friends like him, he’s funny, and he never once gives you any mixed signals. Even admits early on that he wants to take things slow because he’s dating not for fun but with the intent of eventual marriage.
James is a good guy. A really, really good guy. And you like him. Truly.
Which is why, several weeks into your relationship, you think it’ll be fine if you accompany your friends to Club Orchid on his arm.
You should’ve known better.
And you know it’ll be bad when that Jack and Coke is presented to you by a waiter before you’re four feet inside the door.
Your friends give you worried glances, but you try to shake it off. It’s just a drink. It doesn’t mean anything. And so you simply thank the waiter and sip slowly from the glass and go about your business.
The heavy weight of his stare prickles at the back of your neck. James asks to dance and you say yes, trying to convince yourself you’re not doing it just to get a good look around the room. To find him.
It takes a couple of songs. Club Orchid is busy, bustling with bodies and spilled liquor and the scent of cigarette smoke. But you do find him.
Sitting at a table near the back, feet extended, arms crossed over his chest and that fucking smirk on his face. He’s got on battered cowboy boots and an old pair of wranglers and that fucking Def Leppard t-shirt. The same one you’d slept in on his couch.
You’re not a cheater. Would never slip off to the parking lot while James waits for you inside, oblivious that you’re getting your back blown out thirty feet away.
And yet, the image in your brain gets stuck. Roots in deep. Makes a home inside.
But you’re not like that. You’re not.
When you tell James you’re going to run to the restroom for a second, he can sense your unease. He asks if everything’s okay, asks if there’s anything you need. His concern only makes the obscenities that haunt you feel that much more depraved.
You promise James that you’re okay, that you just need a second to yourself.
But you can feel Tommy’s familiar warmth at your back the moment you step through the door.
The restrooms are dimly lit, dark walls covered in graffiti. There’s a couple making out near the sinks and a young woman beside them fixing her lipstick in the mirror.
You don’t turn to face him. Not until you’re inside of the stall at the end, and he closes the door and latches it behind himself. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Could ask you the same thing, sweetheart,” he says. As if he has any right to.
“I already told you. I’m not your fucking girl.”
Tommy laughs. A deep rumble in his chest. “Mhm. Sure. Keep tellin’ yourself that.” He steps forward, crowding you. And when you take a step back to create much needed space, he just keeps coming until your back is pressed against the painted concrete wall. “You're his girl now, s’that it?”
“Yes,” you tell him. But your voice shakes when you say it.
Tommy catches it. Hears your hesitance. “Fine,” he says with a playful smirk. “I’ll bite. Just answer one question.”
A crease forms between your brows. You cross your arms over your chest and find that your heart is beating so fast you can feel it hammering against your sternum. “What?”
Tommy gently takes hold of your wrists, unfolding your arms. He stares you right in the eye, his gaze filled with so much intensity and darkness it chokes you. He takes your hand in his and presses it against the bulge in his jeans, and asks with a syrupy voice, “He fuck you like I do?”
Though you try not to react, your muscles deflate and a quiet whimper slips past your lips. You know if you lie he’ll taste it like smoke in the air. So, you say nothing instead. Keep your lips sealed firmly shut.
But your silence is answer enough. Tommy smiles wide and presses a kiss to your hairline. He rests his cheek against the top of your head—such a rare, affectionate caress that you almost don’t notice his free hand begin to gather the fabric of your dress at your hip.
He keeps the other held firmly against his cock, puppeteering your fingers, stroking the hardness there just how you know he likes.
“Don’t know why I asked. Already knew the answer,” he mutters, fingertips dancing over the elastic band of your panties. He slides them from your hip to that spot just below your navel—back and forth, back and forth, feeling the smooth fabric. “He know about that special spot, baby? Hm? He get as deep as I can? He keep up with you?”
No, no, and no. “It’s better with him.” Lie. “He’s nice to me.” True.
Tommy snorts. “You don’t like it nice,” he says. And then he slides his hand between your legs, middle finger pressed against your slit through the fabric of your panties. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want.”
His hand stays there, caressing you, sliding against your clit over and over and over. You can’t think like this. Can’t move, can’t breathe. Your hips tilt against his hand and you can feel his smile as he presses another loving kiss to the top of your head.
Corrupted.
You’re totally, completely corrupted.
Fucked in the head because you’re going to let him do whatever he wants to you in this dirty bathroom stall while your boyfriend’s alone on the dance floor.
And then Tommy steps away, leaving you cold and wanting and soaked.
Clarity comes trickling in and your stomach twists. But there’s a part of you, too, that wishes you’d been bolder. A part that regrets not saying yes faster.
“S’alright,” he says. “If you want to be with some fuckin’ asshole who doesn’t know his way around that sweet pussy of yours then fine. Be my guest. Suit yourself. But don’t let me see him touch you again, cause I’ll bash his fuckin’ head in.”
The words sound so unbelievable in your ears that you laugh. “You’re insane,” you say through your giggles. “Like, actually fucking crazy.”
He grabs your face, gentle enough not to hurt, firm enough that your laughter dies in your throat. “Do what you want, but I don’t want to fucking see it.”
It’s only then that it becomes clear to you. Behind his anger, there’s injury. You’re hurting him.
And you’d feel bad if you had a reason to. But Tommy’s not good to you. Doesn’t ask to take you on dates, doesn’t make the effort to get to know you, doesn’t even typically kiss you goodbye after he spreads your legs.
You deserve better and you know it. You deserve someone more like James.
He leaves you alone in that bathroom stall and you fight off the tears that well in the corners of your eyes.
When you regain your composure, you find James at the bar. He asks again if you’re okay and you admit that you’re not. Tell him you’re just not feeling it, that you’d rather spend the night tucked into bed with him.
And he’s all too happy to take you up on the offer. He makes you popcorn and rents that new romcom starring your celebrity crush. He gets ice cream delivered at midnight just because you say it sounds good.
You try not to think about Tommy. But that dull, thrumming ache between your thighs persists. As if your traitorous libido had been promised sweet, sweet relief, only to be let down.
And you try with James. Really, you do. You tell him what feels good and he goes down on you for half an hour with no complaints. But he’s…he’s kind. And you can only take so much trying before you’re just tired. You know faking it doesn’t benefit either one of you, but you don’t want to hurt his feelings, either. Because he’s so good in every other aspect and you’re terrified of scaring him off.
And it’s not that big of a deal, right? It’s not like the sex is bad. It’s just not what you’re used to. Different can be good, can’t it?
After he finishes he’s kissing you and saying goodnight and he’s dead asleep in ten minutes flat. It’s fine if you slink off to the bathroom after he’s started snoring to take care of the ache yourself.
It wouldn’t be the first time and you know it probably won’t be the last.
Except…it doesn’t happen.
You try every trick in the book. Even let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, but you just can’t get there.
Ten minutes go by. Fifteen. Twenty. Forty.
Your desire lingers, hot and heavy and suffocating. The entire night has got you so frustrated and worked up that you could cry.
And you won’t be able to sleep, not with the pent up arousal that demands attention. So, you make a decision.
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard on your phone. Unsure and yet still determined. You type out the classic you up? text, only to delete it.
You settle on a different phrasing. Still no better, but at least it doesn’t make you cringe as hard.
Are you awake?
Tommy’s response is instant. Like it always is.
Call if you’re serious.
It makes you roll your eyes and sigh in frustration, but you do it anyway. Move to the couch in James’s living room instead, further away from the bedroom to ensure he won’t hear you.
And then you call Tommy Miller for the first time in your life.
He picks up on the second ring. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you had it in you, baby,” is his greeting. Voice dark and sultry as he taunts you, the word baby sliding through you all soft and sweet and buttery.
It has your stomach fluttering, warmth slithering through your center. But irritation follows it. “Shut the fuck up,” you bite back. Mean.
Tommy just laughs and you can hear the amusement in his voice when he speaks. “Don’t think you called to tell me that,” he says. “Can I guess?”
His voice. Just his fucking voice.
Your heart rate kicks up, that familiar pressure forms between your legs, painful at this point. And you know it’s wrong but you don’t care. You just need relief.
Tommy continues to speak, even though you offer nothing in the way of an answer. Says, “I think I was right on the nose, huh? He might be nice, but he can’t fuck you right. S’why you’re callin’ me, ain’t it? Got that uppity, rich asshole wrapped around your finger, though. An’ it’s no surprise, really. So goddamn pretty in those little dresses.”
You put him on speaker and lower the volume as low as it’ll go, placing your cellphone on the back of the couch. Freeing up your hands so you can lift your t-shirt with one and slide the other beneath the waist band of your pajama shorts.
He continues, oblivious. “Got those sweet, innocent eyes an’ that smart ass mouth that looks like it was made to fit a cock like mine.”
Your head falls back, sighing as you circle your clit with the perfect pressure, the perfect speed. Pleasure shoots through you, building low in your belly.
“You let him fuck your pretty mouth, baby? Hm? Tell me. You swallow him down easy? Or do you cry on it like mine? Get all teary eyed and messy?”
His voice is so dark, so deep. But he’s looking for an answer and you don’t have the patience for it, you just want to get there. So in the silence all you can think to say is, “Keep talking.”
Tommy hears it, the breathlessness in your words. The need, the desperation. “Oh, shit,” he hisses. But then he chuckles, low and quiet. “You touchin’ yourself right now, darlin’?”
You don’t answer, too ashamed. But you pick up the pace, press a little harder against the sensitive nerves, and you try to swallow a moan. It comes out as a breathy sound instead, stuck in the back of your throat.
Somehow, the cadence in which he speaks grows darker. Sinister, even. ”Dirty fuckin’ girl. Bet you just had him inside you, huh? He in the other room? Tell me.”
“No,” you say. But it’s so unconvincing that Tommy laughs.
“Ain’t gotta lie to me. S’okay, though. I know how you get with that little attitude of yours. Too bad your boyfriend don’t know that all it takes to fix it is to get all up in your guts. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”
“You’re so—hmm—so fucking annoying.” You don’t mean it. Not really.
It doesn’t phase him. “You got your fingers inside yet, baby? Or are you still touchin’ her all sweet and soft?”
“Not…God—not yet,” you breathe out, trying to ignore the way your voice sounds so desperate in your ears. The pleasure coiling around your spine is already better than it was before, heightened just because he’s there.
Tommy clicks his tongue. “Got two hands, don’t you? Go on, now. Just one, greedy girl. Gotta pace yourself. Make it last, make it good.”
Even though you know he can’t see you, you follow his instructions to the letter. Use your free hand to slide a single finger inside—the middle one, pressing hard in just the right spot.
Your breath stutters the moment it happens, and you can feel your walls clench and shiver around the digit at the sound of that liquid smooth laugh of his.
“Got no fuckin’ clue how hard I am,” he whispers, voice smokey. “Got my dick leakin’ just thinkin’ about ya. From hearin’ all those pretty noises you make.”
You roll your fingers over your clit faster, chasing relief. Somehow it’s both too much and not enough, and before long you find yourself begging. The way you always do when that thick Texas drawl floods your ears. “Oh—fuck. Fuck, please, Tommy—”
His breath hitches on the other side of the phone. There’s a long, shaky exhale—and you know you’re getting to him. Can feel the sudden shift, can hear the strain in his words. “Christ. Slutty little thing. Sayin’ my name while he’s in the other room.”
The shame of it all makes you whimper, but it only spurs him on.
“S’alright, pretty girl. Ain’t gonna tell. Slide another finger in, baby. Ya earned it. Let me hear you,” he says.
And though your immediate compliance stirs something angry and irritating inside, you do as he says. Tell yourself it’s not because you have to, but because you want to. Would do it right at this moment even without his words.
The stretch is sweet and aching, fingertips finding home with practiced ease, warmth pooling low in your belly. Quiet, breathy sounds leave your lips, refusing to remain behind your teeth.
“Ohh, that’s it, ain’t it? This all you needed? Wanted me to talk ya through it. You cum for him like you’re about to cum for me?”
It’s right there, right there—your eyes squeezed tight, thighs trembling, breath getting stuck at the top of your lungs.
And then he laughs. A low, baritone sound that sends shivers down your spine. He says, “Nah. ‘Course not. That pretty little pussy ain’t his, is it, baby? My fucking girl. Not his. Mine.”
The way he says it—possessive, controlling, certain—sends you over the edge, diving headfirst into bliss.
You have to turn your head and press your mouth against your shoulder, fighting back the noises threatening to spill out, trying to keep quiet but failing miserably.
“Sound so pretty right now,” Tommy mutters. “Wish I was there with you, watchin’ you make a mess of yourself. Fuck, baby. That’s it.”
The sensation sticks. Lasts and lasts and lasts until you’re fighting for air, until your thighs clamp down tight around your hands between them.
And even after, as your orgasm slowly fizzles out and your muscles loosen considerably, your skin still tingles. You let your head roll back, falling limp into the couch cushions, trying to catch your breath.
Tommy says nothing for several seconds, but you can still hear him on the other end of the line. Can feel him. The tension changes. Not awkward, exactly. Reluctant. As if he wants to speak but is afraid to.
You’re the one who decidedly ends the silence. “Uhm…thanks. By the way.”
Whatever Tommy had wanted to say gets lost. Tucked away someplace else for a different time. “Ain’t gotta thank me for doin’ my job, darlin’. Told you, I always take care of my girl.”
With a scoff, you roll your eyes and pick your phone back up. Press it to your ear and deny his words, even though something about the way you say them feels like a lie. “Not your girl, Miller. Goodnight.”
You don’t let him get another word in before ending the call. But just before you hang up you can hear him laughing.
Not long after, you break up with James. Give the classic, it’s not you, it’s me speech and pick up a box of your belongings from his rental a week later.
It surprises you how relieved you feel afterwards. How little you care about his absence. Because while, yes, James is kind and honest and good—you realize you’ve gotten bored. Have begun to miss the excitement without realizing it. The push and the pull and the heady desire in the middle of a dance floor.
That first weekend, your roommates insist on going out. Say it’s their way of getting you ‘back out on the playing field,’ which you know is just an excuse to drink too much.
Still, you go. Decide on one of those nightclubs in the college part of town. Too expensive and too crowded and too loud, but somehow it’s exactly what you need.
And it’s the first night in months you spend just for yourself. You dance with your friends and even though your roommate's boyfriend lingers, the energy is good. Youthful and relaxed and healing, the way all girls' nights are.
You don’t see Tommy’s text message that night until several hours after he sends it.
Hey. Can we talk?
It makes your stomach turn. Because it feels like one of those messages. The ones you receive right before you block a phone number, insisting they need more from you. More time, more attention, more.
And you’re not ready to give Tommy up before you even go back to him. Not just yet.
Don’t want to be tied down after just cutting yourself loose, but you don’t want to lose him at the price of freedom, either.
Because he might be annoying and frustrating and too damn full of himself, but you like him. Like the things he does to you, anyway.
You’d never admit that, though. Not to his face. At least not now.
So, you wait until morning to text him back. Hope that time has given him some clarity. He asks to take you out for breakfast, and it only stirs up that anxiety once again.
Because you’ve been here before. Already know exactly what the conversation will entail.
If it were anyone else—anyone at all—you would’ve cut your losses by now and added his number to the graveyard at the bottom of your contact list.
But…his dick curves upwards. He eats you like a man starved for it and grabs you by the jaw and looks you right in the eye while he whispers that perverse filth, all while buried deep inside you.
You agree to coffee. Not breakfast.
Tommy’s already at the local shop when you get there. Leaning against the brick wall outside the door, silver belt buckle catching the light of the morning sun, one brown leather boot crossed over the other, cigarette hanging loosely in his hand.
He smiles when he sees you. A big, toothy grin. Laughs when you’re close enough to hear and says, “Jesus. Would you fuckin’ relax? Stop lookin’ at me like I’m holdin’ a loaded gun in my back pocket.”
“Stop looking at me like you’d let me point one right between your eyes,” you chide, hoping to set the tone before it spirals.
But Tommy doesn’t care. He never has. Just holds open the door and lets himself shamelessly ogle you as you walk over the threshold.
You order first, listing off the specifics of your favorite drink. The one you use as both a hangover cure and a pick me up on those days that like to drag on. You say please and thank you when the interaction permits and try not to feel the way Tommy crowds you, his warmth seeping through the fabric of your jacket.
He orders a simple black coffee. No cream, no sugar. When the young woman with blue hair behind the counter asks if he’s sure, he says, “Definitely. I like ‘em when they bite back.”
Mortification comes fast. “Oh my god, ignore him,” you interrupt. “I’m so sorry. How much?”
Tommy pays. Insists on it. And even though he tips the barista on his card, you take the stray bills at the bottom of your purse and stick them in the tip jar on the counter, too.
Instead of sitting in the cafe, you decide to go on a drive. Tommy’s truck is clean and smells like old leather and the faint scent of pine coming from the tree shaped air freshener hung around the rearview mirror.
“You know, I don’t…” he shakes his head, eyes focused on the road ahead. There’s no traffic and the city is still wet with morning dew. “I don’t normally do stuff like this, so I’m gonna get right to the point.”
You sit there, silently sipping your latte from the passenger seat, feeling more awkward than you ever have in your life.
“I know we…we’ve got a good thing goin’, you an’ I. And I didn’t expect to want more but I like you. Think about you every damn day. Waitin’ by my phone, hopin’ you’ll text.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, completely oblivious to the way your insides begin to twist and turn uncomfortably.
He glances away from the road for a second, letting himself savor the sight of your profile and the way the rising sun paints the sky orange and pink behind you.
You watch his jaw feather, teeth clenched. He’s nervous, you realize.
“I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is I’d like to…I don’t know. Try somethin’ else, if you’re down for that. Take you out on a real date. See you more than just to get off. S’that…s’that somethin’ you’re interested in? With me?”
Even knowing it’s your turn to speak, the words refuse to form in your mouth. Get lodged in the back of your throat, sitting heavy like a stone. You find yourself wishing you would’ve called this off. Told him you were busy today and tonight and every day going forward for the rest of your life.
Tommy laughs. “Relax, sweetheart,” he says. “Assumin’ lookin’ like you’re about to hurl is the answer. I get it.”
You let out a long breath. “Tommy, I’m sorry. I like…” you stop. The word you doesn’t pass easily. Instead, you amend the phrase, saying, “I like what we have now. And I’m just not ready for anything serious so soon.”
“So you did break up with him, then?” He turns to you, a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Looking less like he’d just gotten rejected and more like he’d just found out the most satisfying news of his life.
The smug look only serves to irritate you. With a scoff you ask, “Are you saying you thought I still had a boyfriend and asked me out anyway?”
“Wouldn’t exactly call him competition,” he says, eyes narrowed in amusement. “You only liked him ‘cause he was sweet to you. F’ya want flowers and love notes, I can make it happen. The difference between me an’ him is that I can do all that and fuck you right, too.”
“God. Do you hear yourself when you speak?”
“Only thing I wanna hear right now is you moanin’ my name,” Tommy says.
At first, you think he means it as a joke. Says it to get under your skin in the way he’s always been good at.
But then his eyes turn molten as he looks over at you, one hand clenched tight around the leather steering wheel, the other laying loosely on the center console that separates you. His gaze drags down your body; over your neck, lingering on the curve of your chest, over your soft thighs. “Why don’t you go’head an’ take those off for me.”
And god fucking damnit, you do. Try to quiet your breathing as he drives, speed increasing with each inch of skin you expose as you roll your leggings down.
He starts off slow. Calloused fingers kneading the inside of your thighs, creeping ever higher. By the time he presses his hand hard against your aching center, over the lace fabric of your panties (that you promise yourself you didn’t wear in anticipation for this very moment), you’re already so wet that he laughs as your slick soaks through.
Tommy teases you for so long that you’re breathless and whimpering before he even slides the fabric aside and dips his fingers through your sticky folds.
As much as you try to fight it off, he gets his wish. Has you moaning and crying out his name in minutes, fingers buried deep inside you, making a mess on his leather seat.
The worst part, you think, is that he doesn’t even ask for you to touch him back. Just gets you off while he drives in the fast lane, as if he’s satisfied with just that. You can see the bulge in his jeans, pressing hard against the denim, but he doesn’t acknowledge it in the slightest.
And once your head falls back against the headrest and you use a handful of napkins he’s got stored in the glove box to clean the wetness between your thighs, Tommy drops you off near your car in the cafe parking lot.
You don’t really know what to say. Goodbye feels weird and formal. See you feels like you’re promising to see him again, even knowing you need to cut him off entirely before this gets too complicated.
So instead, you say, “Thanks for the coffee,” and try to slip out of his truck without another word.
But Tommy doesn’t let it happen. Grabs you by the back of the neck, pulls you close until you can feel his breath against your cheeks. Smirks in that annoying, confident way of his and says, “Don’t let me see you step out with another man.”
The words are said quietly, like a threat. You curse your body for tightening up at the sound of them in his mouth, muscles tensing, needy in a way you try and fail to fight off. “Then I suggest you stay the fuck home.”
His eyes flicker to your mouth. Attention fixed on the curve of your lips, your cupids bow, the glisten of your lipgloss.
But Tommy doesn’t kiss you. He rarely does. Instead, he licks the corner of your mouth and moans like it’s his favorite taste. “You try an’ get with someone else an’ I’ll ruin it,” he whispers. “Promise.”
The way he says it, like his unwanted possession is a form of devotion has you rolling your eyes and shoving his shoulder. “Go fuck yourself, Tommy.”
With an arrogant raise of his eyebrows, he leans over the center console as you climb out of his truck. “Oh, trust me, baby. I definitely will be. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ of you and that sweet fuckin’ pussy you’ve got the whole time.”
You slam the door in his face and return home both satisfied and angry with yourself.
And the worst part is that when you see him that weekend at Club Orchid, there’s a pretty girl sitting in his lap.
She’s got her arms around his neck and her mouth pressed up against his ear, miniskirt riding high on her thighs, his big hands tracing the cobalt colored edge.
You try not to react.
Really, you do.
But how is that fair? Promising to ruin every relationship for you just because he didn’t get his way, only to taunt you like this so soon after?
Your friends, God bless them, do their best to distract you. Buy shot after shot and pull you to the dancefloor. Tell you to ignore him, that you deserve better. Say that he’s an asshole and he’s always been. Encourage you to move on.
Tommy doesn’t look at you, and somehow it feels worse than if he had. Because if he touched the girl on his lap but gave you his attention, you’d know he was doing it on purpose. Goading for a reaction. You would know that he still cared.
But he doesn’t. Just tucks the girl’s hair behind her ear and kisses her knuckles and his hand sneaks higher and higher on her thigh.
It makes your stomach turn.
Even knowing you rejected him and you have no right to be…jealousy is rarely coupled with sensibility.
You try to convince yourself it’s better this way. Better that he find someone else to twist up. To confuse. Tell yourself you shouldn’t feel jealous, you should feel sorry for the girl.
When you slip away from your friends for some fresh air just before last call, you freeze when you see Tommy standing outside the front door. Cigarette held loosely between his fingers, smoke curling around his face.
Painfully handsome, even in the low light of the street lamp. He stares with his mouth curved at the corners, unmoving, like he’d been waiting for you.
He doesn’t speak, and neither do you. He just waits. To see who breaks first, to see who opens up the path to all that emotion you’ve both been fighting off. His posture is casual, relaxed, but his eyes are anything but. Sparkling with challenge, with temptation, with invitation.
It would be effortless, you know. To fly off the handle, to be mean the way you want to be. Call him easy, ask him if she could taste you on his tongue, to quote his previous taunts and say, ‘Does she swallow you down easy? Or does she choke on it like I do, crying for it just the way you like?’
But you don’t.
You look right fucking past him.
Find the group of guys just a little further from the door. Slide into their little circle with no resistance, give the tallest one your sweetest smile and ask if you can share a cigarette.
You’re not sure how long Tommy waits before leaving the club entirely to find his truck in the parking lot. Not sure if he hears you introduce yourself to all three men and giggle when they compliment you on your peach colored nail polish.
The next morning, you wake up to a lengthy text message.
An apology. An explanation.
Tommy admits he has feelings for you. Plain and true and honest. Says he was only trying to make you jealous, to make you want him the way he wants you, that he never even kissed her. Couldn’t fathom tasting anyone but you.
He recognizes that the way he went about it was wrong and says this whole thing is new to him, that he’s never wanted to hold on to someone like this. Even confesses that your apathy had hurt him.
With the anger still fresh in your mind, your response is cruel.
Yeah I’m not reading all that.
He doesn’t respond.
And for months, you stay clear of Tommy fucking Miller.
Focus on yourself. Your career, your health. You start taking vitamins and drinking less and cooking more at home. Get a promotion and a pay raise, and you’re doing good.
Until one fateful Friday night when you go to pick up your order at your favorite take out place.
He’s sitting there at one one of the tables, leaning back, arms folded over his chest, long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. There’s a black suede cowboy hat on his head and he’s wearing a leather jacket with silver hardware that matches the pointed boots on his feet. Starched blue jeans and that belt buckle, looking all big and Texas and devastating.
Like always, he smiles when he sees you. It’s less playful this time, though. Feels more like genuine affection instead of that teasing smirk he always wears.
You try to ignore him.
But the brown paper bag sitting on the table in front of him has your name on it.
You try to grab for it, to be quick and get it from him so you can leave without speaking.
That doesn’t happen, though. Tommy’s hand flies out to grab your wrist. Not hard, just enough to give you pause. “Please,” he says, a desperation in his voice that you’ve never heard before.
A crease forms between your brows as you assess him, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard.
“I can’t get you out of my fucking head,” he says. “Please. Just…sit. Have lunch with me.”
You know you shouldn’t.
But you do.
Sink slowly down into the chair across from him and wait patiently as he pulls your food out of the bag. He sets it in front of you just as the woman behind the counter delivers him a separate order, as if he’d planned this.
And you think maybe he did, because his words are gentle when he speaks. Cautious. “Look, I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”
“You mean how to treat a woman like she has feelings?”
You can see the smart remark on the tip of his tongue. But for what it’s worth, Tommy swallows it down. “I should have been better to you from the start,” he admits. “Should’ve done this whole thing the right way, but I didn’t know at the time that I would feel the way I do.”
Unsure of his intentions, you say nothing.
Tommy continues. “The last time we talked, I know you weren’t ready for anything serious. But I…I’ve never felt like this for anyone. And if you could try an’ give me another chance, I swear I’ll be better. Try to be what you deserve. An’ if you still don’t want anything serious, I’ll take whatever you wanna give me. Just friends, if you want. Or we can go back to the way things were before. Whatever you decide, I’ll take it. ‘Cause, Christ, sweetheart. I fuckin’ miss you somethin’ fierce.”
“You just miss the sex. You hardly know me, Tommy,” you say.
“But I want to,” he replies. “An’ you’re wrong. It’s about more than that. F’you want, give me a real chance. Take you out on a few dates. Walk you to your doorstep and bring you those flowers an’ love notes you want. Won’t even kiss you ‘til you say so. Promise.”
There’s so much conviction in his words. So much sincerity. But you know men like Tommy. Know they’re real good at saying exactly what you want to hear and even better at convincing you they’ve changed when really, they’ve just gotten better at lying.
Careful. You have to be so, so careful.
“Let’s just see how lunch goes,” you say.
And much to your surprise, it feels…good. You learn more about him in a single hour than you have in the almost two years that you’ve known him. Learn that his best friend is his brother and that he has a niece named Sarah who his entire life revolves around.
It’s sort of endearing, the way he talks about her and how proud he was when she won her soccer tournament last week.
But he asks about you, too. About your family and your friends and your job, listening intently as you speak.
By the time you finish your meal, he hasn’t got you convinced exactly, but there’s a little softness around the edges now. He asks if you’d like to go see a movie with him next weekend, and you agree.
Your roommate knows something’s up the moment you walk through the door. And when she pulls the information out of you and the word Tommy falls from your tongue, she’s groaning before the second syllable.
Still, you go see that movie. He takes you to dinner afterwards, too. And you return home with plans for coffee in the morning and a fresh bouquet of roses in your hands.
It starts to trickle in slowly; the want. The desire. The need for him to touch you.
He takes you to a baseball game and splays his big hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd, keeping you safe, touch warm and inviting and possessive in the way that only he can be.
Tommy doesn’t make any moves. But sometimes you can see it in his eyes when you’re talking and he’s watching your mouth, breath hitching in his throat, gaze dark and wanting.
When he takes you out late one night for ice cream, he swipes vanilla cream from your bottom lip with his thumb and sucks the sugar off his finger. Moans quietly at the taste, but doesn’t make the dirty comment you can see swirling in his head.
He starts to text you more often. Sweet, short messages that say good morning, pretty girl and hope you’re having a good day and need anything from the store?
Once, he texts you in the afternoon.
Thinking of you.
And you don’t respond. Not right away. Instead, you wait until the sun sets. Wait until you’re tucked into bed beneath your sheets, thighs pressed tightly together, warmth gathering low in your belly in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
Thinking of you, too. Wanna come over?
He hesitates with his response, the typing bubbles disappearing three different times before an answer finally comes through.
I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning. Take care of her for me, my needy girl.
You’re not sure if you’re disappointed or satisfied with his response. The offer hadn’t been given with an expectation yet still, it softens you up just a little more.
You drag it out for weeks.
And not even once does Tommy complain.
Things change, though, the night you’re laying in the bed of his truck on top of a mountain of pillows and blankets, trying to see the supposed meteor shower that’s twenty minutes away. You turn on your side and ask, “Are you seeing anyone else? Be honest. I won’t be mad either way.”
You steel yourself in anticipation for his answer.
“Truth?”
You nod.
Tommy licks his lips. “I haven’t been with anyone else since I met you.”
It makes you laugh. You don’t mean to, but the amusement bubbles out of you anyway. “Jesus. You’re fucking lying to my face.”
“I’m not,” he insists. Doesn’t say it with any urgency or frustration, and the tone gives you pause.
You try to search his face. To see an ounce of dishonesty in his eyes. But you come up empty, and Tommy just stares at you. The energy between you turns heavy. Meaningful in a way you’re not used to. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” he says. “You’ve been stuck in my head since that first night. I think about it sometimes.” He chuckles, as if the information is amusing and not the most surprising thing you’ve ever heard.. “I remember that pretty dress you wore an’ the way you’d been screamin’ at the bouncer carryin’ you over his shoulder. Causin’ all kinds of trouble. Stole my heart right then and there.”
“Stole your heart, huh?” You say it with thick sarcasm, but you can’t wipe the grin off your face if you tried.
The realization hits you hard. Sharp and swift.
You want more, too.
More than these nights together. More than sweet gestures and breakfast in the morning and dinner on the weekends. You want to kiss him. You want to hold his hand and sleep in his bed.
You want to be his fucking girl.
Tommy laughs, shakes his head, and playfully shoves your shoulder. “Yeah, stole my damn heart. Fuckin’一thief…s’what you are. Don’t let it go to your pretty head. Forehead’s big enough already,” he teases.
But it’s too late. And you’re moving before you can think better of it, swinging your leg over him, straddling his hips, skin buzzing with anticipation. You take him by the jaw, delighting in the way his eyes darken and the air gets caught in his throat. “You love my big forehead,” you say.
An assumption. A risk.
One that pays off.
Tommy turns his head and presses an open mouthed kiss to your palm. “Fuck yeah I do,” he muses, lips curved at the corners in that way of his, the way that’s always made you weak. “Now c’mere. Let me taste you.”
You lean forward to kiss him, and the intensity skyrockets the moment your tongue touches his bottom lip.
Tommy rests his hand on your throat一not squeezing, just caressing. Feeling your pulse beneath his long fingers. He licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, not just tasting but savoring.
When you start to roll your hips over his, he moans against your lips and his fingers twitch around your neck. “Goddamn, baby. We gotta…fuck. Gotta stop. Wanna do this right. Rose一hm一rose petals an’ shit. Champagne and一”
“I hate champagne,” you whisper, kissing a trail down his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. You slide your hands beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt and drag your nails gently down his skin, feeling the softness turn to hard muscle, flexing beneath your touch. “But I like you.”
You shove the fabric up, exposing his sunkissed skin, and your lips immediately find it. He tastes warm. Ambery and masculine, like sweat and soap. Your mouth waters, leaving a trail of wetness down his chest, over his belly. When you kiss the left side of his hip, you suck a purplish mark there.
Claiming, without the need for words.
Shifting lower, you settle between his spread thighs and look up at him through your lashes as you stick out your tongue and lick his bulge through his jeans.
Tommy’s hands fly to your head, twisting in your hair, pulling you back. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses, breathless. “Do you mean that? You fuckin’...you like me?”
“Truth?”
He nods.
You smile. Can’t help it. “Yeah,” you answer. “I mean it.”
Tommy’s answering grin is full of elation and has you giggling. “My fuckin’ girl,” he states, and you can see the smug look in his eye. Can’t even really be mad at him for it, because there’s satisfaction in the words, too. Happiness.
With practiced ease, you unbuckle his belt and pull the zipper of his jeans down with your teeth. His cock is already hard and aching when you reach beneath his boxers to pull it free.
You start slow一kissing the tip, sliding your tongue over the veins on the underside of his cock. He pulses beneath your touch, his hands in your hair gentler now. Stroking the side of your head softly.
But that softness ends the moment you take him in your mouth and suck. You take him down as far as you can, fighting the pressure at the back of your throat. Wrap your lips tightly around him and watch the way his head falls back and his eyes squeeze shut.
“Shit, baby,” he sighs. “Been dreamin’ about that sweet mouth.” His hand finds the back of your head, pushing you further down.
Your eyes water and you struggle to suck in oxygen, but stay right where he wants you.
“Look so fuckin’ pretty like that, mouth all full’a me.” With his free hand, he swipes away the stray tear that leaks down your cheek with his thumb. “Doin’ so fuckin good.”
When you start to choke, Tommy lets up. Pulls you off of him, hand still in your hair, smiling wide as thick stands of saliva keep you tethered together. Spit coats your chin and your eyes are bleary, but the moment you catch your breath he’s guiding your mouth back to him, his hips bucking, forcing his cock to reach just a little further down your throat.
“Yeah, there you go. That’s it. Slutty little thing. An’ all mine,” he says. “Cryin’ for it. Bet you’re real wet, too. Lettin’ me fuck your mouth like a whore. Takin’ it like one.” You can hear his breath stutter, his grip in your hair tightening. Know he’s close before he even pulls you away again. “Lift up your dress, baby.”
You do just as he says, like you always have. Grab the ends of the flowing fabric and pull it up over your head until you’re sitting there in his truck bed, wearing nothing but honey colored panties, your favorite black bra, and the tears on your cheeks.
This time, you hadn’t anticipated it. Hadn’t anticipated him.
Tommy reaches behind your back and unclasps your bra with deft fingers, pulling the straps down your shoulders. When he traces the elastic band over your waist, he murmurs, “Cute. These, too, pretty girl.”
As soon as you shimmy your panties down your legs and toss them to the side, Tommy’s tugging you up his torso, hands firm on your hips.
“Bring that ass here,” he orders, sinking further down into the blankets beneath you. He pulls you up until your thighs bracket his head, hovering over him. Tommy stares up at you like you’re the most magnificent thing he’s ever laid eyes on, the intensity of it sending a shiver down your spine.
And he doesn’t break stride; holding that eye contact even when his tongue splits you open, flicking over your clit. “Oh, God.”
You can feel him smile against you, stubble scratching lightly against the inside of your thighs. He licks and sucks and leaves no inch of you untouched, tongue circling, your nerve endings spit slick and pulsing beneath his ministrations.
Though you try to hover, to give him room to breathe, Tommy won’t have it. His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you down, pressing you against his face, moaning when you shift your hips and grind yourself against the flat of his tongue. Hot and wet and desperate. “Just like that,” you tell him, your own voice foreign in your ears. “Fuck, yes, Tommy, please一”
He groans and you can feel the rumble vibrate between your legs. His tongue makes obscene sounds beneath you, soft and delicate against your most sensitive parts. He takes your clit gently between his lips and sucks, and you can feel that familiar warmth begin to quickly build.
Tommy’s always known just how to touch you. Has your pleasure down to a science. So it’s not surprising when you thread your hands through his dark hair, silky between your fingers, and your head falls back. “I’m gonna cum一fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m一ohmygod一”
It hits you hard. Your thighs shake around his head and your vision gets all spotty. Your spine bends, arching against his mouth, seeking the friction that Tommy’s all too happy to give. He just sucks your clit harder, tongue swirling, until the overstimulation becomes too much to bear and you’re pushing yourself up on your knees.
He chases you. Leaning forward to press one last open mouthed kiss to your wet heat. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, lips glossy with your arousal. “Look so goddamn pretty when you cum for me.”
And even though you can still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm, thighs still twitching, you find yourself insatiable for him. “Tommy,” you breathe. “Please, I need…”
“Tell me,” he urges. “Tell me what you need an’ I'll give it to you.”
“Want you inside me,” you say. “Please.”
You can see the flicker of disquiet as it crosses his face. Not disappointment, exactly, but…something despairing. “M’sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think we were doin’ this tonight. I didn’t bring anything with me. Here一why don’t you lay back. I’ll fill her up with my fingers, baby. Give that pretty little pussy what it needs.”
“It’s okay,” you insist. “I’m…I’m on birth control. If you want we can…” You’re not sure why the suggestion makes you feel shy all of a sudden. You’ve never done this, not with anyone. But you want it with him. With Tommy fucking Miller.
That smug smirk finds its way back to his lips. “You want me to fuck you raw, baby?”
When you nod in response, you swear you can see something shift inside him. As if he wasn’t head over heels for you already, he certainly is now.
“‘Course you do,” he says, tone full of adoration. “Christ, girl. C’mere.”
You straddle him again, sliding his cock through your slick folds, the head nudging your clit in a way that has you panting. You roll yourself over him once, twice一and then you’re tilting your hips at a different angle and he slips right in.
He lets out a groan and pulls you forward, arms wrapped tightly around your middle, chests pressed together. Tommy kisses you hard and begins to move underneath you, cock splitting you open, thick and punishing. “Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had, squeezin’ tight like it wants more. Greedy thing, just like you,” he mutters between kisses, fucking up into you. “So wet for me. No one else can fuck you like this, baby. Can they? Huh? Speak, girl.”
The words don’t come easy, all sense emptied from your brain and replaced with the way he makes you feel. Smothering, everywhere all at once. His heavy hands on your waist, his tongue against your skin, licking up the salty tears on your cheeks, his cock buried so deep inside you you can feel him in your belly.
You shake your head, dragging up the energy to cry out, “No, no one else一just you, Tommy just you一God一!”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he says. “Pussy fuckin’ belongs to me. Not even yours anymore, is it? S’all mine. Gonna fill her up, pretty girl. Fuck you full’a my cum till she’s all cute and sticky.”
That warmth builds again. Slower this time, but searing. Burning like a red-hot coil, curling up your spine. The perversion he speaks only heightens your desire, lewd sounds emitting from between your legs.
His thrusts grow sloppy. Harder, bruising. “S’like you were made to take my cock,” Tommy says. “Shit, baby. M’so close. You’re doin’ so good.”
Tommy doesn’t slow, even though you’re a moaning, writhing mess on top of him. His hold on you stays firm and his pace stays steady.
He grabs you by the throat, forcing you to look at him, squeezing just enough to make your head all fuzzy. “Say it. Tell me what I wanna hear. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I am,” you whimper, the truth burning like hot coals in your mouth. You think maybe you have been for some time, but only now are you able to admit it. “M’yours—fuck, feels so—so good. Your girl, Tommy—I’m your girl—” Your words are clipped, forced out in your haze, panting.
You can feel him pulse inside you, can feel the sudden increase in pressure as he empties himself with his cock buried to the hilt. “That’s right, sweetheart,” he praises, pressing his mouth to yours, moaning against your tongue, capturing your lips in an all consuming kiss that makes you feel robbed.
When you begin to pull away, trying to shift off of him, Tommy stops you with a firm hand at your hip.
“Nuh-uh,” he says. “Not finished ‘til you cum again. Wanna fuckin’ feel it.”
“But you—”
“Still hard, isn’t it?”
You blink, a little startled.
But Tommy just moves his hand around your neck down your chest, pushing lightly, giving him access to slide his fingers between your legs to press them gently against your clit. “Go on,” he urges. “Take it. S’all yours. Fuck yourself on my cock, baby.”
His words are filthy and depraved and make your clit pulse beneath his thumb. One tentative, experimental roll of your hips has him tensing—but Tommy moans low and thrusts up in tandem, giving you what you need, giving you everything.
It’s euphoric—the way he opens himself up to you, letting you take and take and take, letting you be selfish. Encouraging it.
All yours.
You find a good rhythm, his cock hitting the perfect spot inside you, buried deep. And with his fingers working between your legs it doesn’t take long before shocks of bliss shoot through you.
Short bursts at first, chasing it, chasing release—
And then he looks you in the eye and says, “Cum for me, baby.”
It barrels into you without warning—unrelenting, strong, intense the way Tommy has always been. The way you’ve always needed.
He fucks you through it, hips slamming against the back of your trembling thighs, thumb continuing to circle your clit. The breath leaves your lungs completely and the only sounds you’re able to form are helpless whimpers.
Tommy takes it in stride. Holds you upright when you fall forward, muttering all the while with his lips against your ear. “Yeah, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, pretty girl. Shit—she’s squeezin’ me so tight. You like that? Hm? Cummin’ on my cock like the good girl you are. So damn cute when you get fucked all stupid.”
When you begin to come down, he slows his pace until he’s barely moving—just reverent, rocking movements beneath you. Tommy holds you close, arms wrapped around your waist, his embrace warm and safe and good.
He kisses your cheek, your temple, the top of your head. The touches are careful, gentle, a stark contrast to the way he was only seconds ago. You find just enough energy to roll off of him, but Tommy doesn’t let you get far. Helps you tug your dress back over your head, tucks himself back into his jeans, and then pulls you back to his side.
The silence feels weighted, but not uncomfortable. Just…different. You lay your head on his chest, heaving with every breath, and his fingers gently trail over the curve of your spine, pressing into the tender muscle and tracing soothing patterns
And then quietly, he admits, “You’re stuck with me now. You know that, right? Gonna piss you off forever.”
It makes you smile. A wide spread grin, paired with a sudden flush that creeps up your cheeks. And even though no one has ever been able to get under your skin quite the way Tommy has, you find yourself with only one thought at the idea of being well and truly stuck with him.
You tilt your head up, press a chaste kiss to his stubbled jaw and say, “Good.”
Bucky didn't expect to like you. He definitely didn't expect to fall in love with you — the gentle, sunshine girl he's been hired to protect — but he has.
✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
✦ Summary: To the world, Bucky Barnes is steel and shadow. To you, he’s soft, clingy, and impossibly protective, always listening, always knowing the second your voice slips into danger.
✦ Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Soft!Possessive!Bucky, Clingy!Bucky, Fluff with a dash of Angst
✦✦✦✦✦✦
Bucky Barnes was not a gentle man. The world knew him as steel and shadow, jaw set like he’d carved it out of stone, eyes that could cut through a room and leave people trembling. He had the kind of presence that bent silence around him, the kind of weight in his voice that made even the bravest agents think twice.
But with you, all of that melted.
You found out the first night he kissed you... really kissed you when that calloused metal hand everyone feared cupped your cheek as if it were porcelain. His lips were desperate but tender, his chest pressed against yours like he was trying to crawl into your very skin just to stay close enough. He pulled back and whispered your name like it was a prayer, like you were the only thing anchoring him here.
And from that moment on, you knew: Bucky wasn’t just protective. He was possessive.
Not in the cruel way, not the way people used to whisper about when his past still haunted him. No, this was different. It was the way he hovered without realizing it, the way his arm always found your waist when there were too many people around, the way his jaw ticked when someone else made you laugh too hard.
Tonight was no different.
You were sprawled on the compound couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling your phone and trying not to smile at some ridiculous TikTok Sam had sent. Across the room, Bucky sat in one of those massive armchairs, book propped lazily in his flesh hand. He hadn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.
“Buck,” you called softly, without even looking up.
“Mm?” His head lifted immediately, eyes locking on you. The book slid closed with a quiet thud.
“You’re staring again.”
“I don’t stare.”
You finally looked over, raising an eyebrow. He was already halfway leaning forward in his seat, all broody scowl and heavy breath like he’d been caught in the act.
“You absolutely stare,” you teased, putting your phone down. “You’ve been staring since Sam left the room. It’s like you’re trying to memorize my face.”
“I already memorized it,” he shot back without missing a beat, voice low and rough. “Still doesn’t mean I don’t wanna look.”
The heat in your cheeks betrayed you. You ducked your head, pretending to fuss with the blanket in your lap. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it,” he murmured, standing now, slow and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. Except you knew better. He was all sharp lines and brooding edges to everyone else, but when his eyes found yours, you swore you saw the softest man alive.
He stopped in front of the couch, towering over you with that infuriating mix of menace and devotion, then sat down heavily beside you. His arm slid around your shoulders before you could protest, pulling you into his side like you belonged there.
Which, to him, you did.
“Better,” he mumbled against your hair, pressing a kiss there. “Much better.”
“You’re clingy tonight.”
“Clingy every night,” he corrected. “Don’t act surprised, doll.”
You laughed, tilting your head to look at him. “One of these days, people are gonna find out the big scary Winter Soldier is basically a giant cat that can’t stop cuddling.”
His metal fingers flexed against your arm, grip tightening just enough to make your heart skip. “They can think whatever they want. They don’t get to see this part of me. Only you do.”
The words sent a shiver down your spine.
“Bucky—”
“No,” he cut in, and his voice had that commanding edge now, the one that made you fall quiet every time. “Listen to me, doll. The world sees me one way. Let them. I don’t give a damn. But you?” His nose brushed yours, eyes burning into yours with something fierce and unshakable. “You’re mine. And I’m not gonna apologize for needing to keep you close.”
For a moment, all you could do was breathe. The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming not suffocating, but consuming, like stepping into fire and finding it warm instead of burning.
Finally, you whispered, “I don’t want you to apologize.”
His lips curved, softening. “Good. ’Cause I wouldn’t anyway.”
And then he kissed you. Slow, deep, like he had nowhere else to be, nothing else to prove except that you belonged right here in his arms.
Hours later, you were still curled up with him, your cheek pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He traced idle patterns on your arm with his thumb, his breathing so calm you thought he might’ve drifted off.
But then your phone buzzed, startling you. You reached for it, but his grip tightened just slightly.
“Who’s that?” His voice was soft, but the undertone was there sharp, possessive.
You smiled faintly. “Probably Nat. She wanted to send me that soup recipe.”
He grunted, loosening his hold only enough for you to grab the phone, though his eyes tracked your every move.
Sure enough, it was Natasha, but it wasn’t a recipe. It was a group chat invite for a mission briefing tomorrow. You sighed, typing back quickly, already feeling Bucky’s body tense.
“Don’t make that face,” you murmured, setting the phone aside.
“I don’t like it.”
“You never like it.”
“Damn right I don’t.” His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Every time you go out there, I’m on edge until you’re back in my arms. Drives me insane.”
Your throat tightened. “Bucky, I’m trained. I can handle—”
“Don’t say it,” he snapped, not harsh, but desperate. “Don’t you dare tell me you can handle yourself. I know you can. That’s not the point.” He swallowed, pressing his forehead against yours. “The point is, I can’t handle you not being safe. You don’t get it, doll. One change in your voice, one crack, one breath wrong—” His grip trembled. “I’d know. And it’d kill me.”
You closed your eyes, heart squeezing at the raw honesty in his tone.
“You listen that closely?” you whispered.
“Every damn second,” he admitted. “Always.”
The next day came too soon.
You weren’t nervous not really. It was just a routine sweep with Natasha. In and out, minimal risk. At least, that’s how it was presented at briefing. But you didn’t miss the way Bucky had sat there in silence, arms crossed so tight across his chest that the leather of his jacket creaked, jaw ticking the entire time.
He didn’t argue, not in front of the others. But the second the room cleared, his hand was at your wrist, tugging you back.
“Not happening.”
You blinked. “What do you mean not happening?”
“I mean you’re not going.” His voice was steel, eyes hard, but you could feel the tremor in the hand holding yours.
“Bucky—”
“No.” He cut you off with that edge again, the one that shut down entire conversations. But not with you. You didn’t back down so easily.
“Buck, I’ve trained for this. It’s just recon. Nat will be with me. We’ll be back before you know it.”
His jaw clenched. For a long moment, he just stared at you, the storm in his eyes nearly unbearable. Then he dropped his voice, rough and broken in a way that shattered your chest.
“You don’t get it. I can’t lose you. I can’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Don’t ask me to sit here and wonder if today’s the day I hear your voice go quiet.”
Your throat tightened, but you reached for his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’re not going to lose me.”
He didn’t believe you. Not fully. But when your lips brushed his, soft and certain, he let out a shaky breath and nodded once, miserably.
“I’ll have my comms on the whole time,” you promised. “You’ll hear my voice. Every step.”
That was the only thing that got him to let go.
Hours later, you regretted it.
The mission was supposed to be clean. A quick sweep, a few files retrieved, nothing dramatic. But “supposed to” didn’t mean much in your world. The intel had been wrong.
You and Nat found yourselves cornered in a dim warehouse, three men blocking the exit. Not Hydra, just opportunists dangerous enough. Natasha was already engaging one, her movements sharp and precise. You had your weapon up, hands steady, but adrenaline licked at your spine.
And then your comm clicked.
“Doll?” Bucky’s voice, low, concerned. He’d been quiet most of the op, letting Nat run comms. But the second things shifted, he knew.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, firing one shot that clipped a man’s arm.
“Don’t lie to me.” His tone was lethal. Not to you never to you but to the world standing between you.
You ducked behind a crate, heart pounding. “Just a little company, that’s all.”
The silence on the line was more dangerous than shouting. Then “Where??"
“Bucky—”
“Where are you.” Each word was a growl, heavy with a rage you knew wasn’t aimed at you but at the men foolish enough to put you in this position.
“Warehouse six, near the docks—” you gasped as one of the men lunged, forcing you back, your comm catching the sharp inhale.
That was all he needed. “I’m coming.”
You didn’t even have time to respond before the line went dead.
It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but with your pulse racing, it felt like an eternity. You managed to knock one man down, Nat taking another, but the last had you pinned against the wall, his hand at your throat, your weapon skittering across the floor.
And then—
The warehouse doors slammed open so hard they rattled on their hinges.
“Get your fucking hands off her.”
Your attacker froze. You knew that voice, low and venomous, enough to stop blood cold.
Bucky stormed inside like a nightmare made flesh leather jacket, hair wild from the wind, eyes blazing with murder. The man barely had time to turn before Bucky was on him, metal hand wrapped around his throat, slamming him into the wall so hard the concrete cracked.
You gasped, stumbling forward, but Bucky was already between you and danger, his body shielding yours completely.
“You alright, doll?” he rasped, not looking back at you, his flesh hand reaching blindly until it found yours. He squeezed tight, grounding himself.
You swallowed, voice shaky. “Y-yeah. I’m okay.”
His grip on the man tightened, a low snarl ripping from his chest. “You hear that? She’s okay. Which means I don’t have to kill you. But I want to.”
The man choked, eyes wide with terror.
“Bucky,” you whispered, tugging on his hand. “Let it go. Please. For me.”
That was the only reason he did. With a final shove, the man crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Bucky didn’t spare him another glance. Instead, he spun, cupping your face between both hands, eyes scanning you frantically.
“You’re hurt?”
“No—no, I’m fine, Buck, really—”
“Don’t lie.” His voice cracked, all the fury bleeding into desperation. “Your voice—God, doll, the second I heard it—I knew.”
Your lip trembled, and you pressed your forehead to his. “I knew you’d come.”
“Always.” His arms crushed you to his chest, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he loosened his hold. “Doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter what I’m doing. One sound from you, doll, one wrong note in your voice, and I’ll be there. Always.”
You melted against him, feeling his heart hammer against yours, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the mission, not the enemies, not even Natasha’s knowing smirk as she dusted herself off in the corner.
It was just you and Bucky. His arms around you, his voice in your ear, his body trembling with the sheer force of how much he loved you.
“I’ll never let anything happen to you,” he whispered fiercely, kissing your temple again and again. “Never.”
And for the first time, you believed it. He didn’t let go of you the entire ride back.
Natasha drove, throwing you little sidelong glances in the rearview mirror like she knew exactly what was going through your head, but she didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. Bucky had you in his lap on the motorcycle seat, arms locked around you like steel bands, chin resting on your shoulder.
He wasn’t even pretending to play it cool. His breath was uneven against your neck, his grip trembling slightly every time you shifted. It wasn’t the cold. It was him holding himself back, barely.
When the compound finally came into view, you thought maybe he’d ease up. He didn’t. He carried you straight inside like you weighed nothing, ignoring every stare, every smirk, every muttered comment from the others in the common room.
“Bucky, I can walk—”
“Don’t care.” His voice was flat, but the way his hold tightened betrayed him. “Not putting you down. Not yet.”
You sighed softly, resting your head against his shoulder. There was no winning this one.
He took you straight to his room, kicking the door shut behind him. Only then did he set you down on the bed, but even then he didn’t let go, kneeling in front of you like a man starved, hands running over your arms, your waist, your face.
“Tell me again,” he rasped. “Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” you promised, touching his jaw, brushing your thumb along the scruff there. “See? No scratches. Not a bruise.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him sane. “I can’t do it, doll. I can’t sit here and pretend I’m fine when you’re out there, when I can’t—” His throat worked. “I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You won’t lose me, Bucky.”
But that didn’t ease him. He shook his head, hands gripping your thighs so tight you could feel the imprint. “I knew the second your voice changed. Do you understand? One second you were fine, and then—” His voice broke. “And then I heard it. Fear. I can’t hear that again. Not from you.”
Your heart clenched. He wasn’t just being dramatic. This was real. This was him, raw and terrified, baring the part of himself no one else got to see.
“Bucky, you’re too hard on yourself—”
“No.” His eyes snapped open, piercing, desperate. “No, doll. You don’t get it. I need to know you’re safe. It’s not just about protecting you—it’s about breathing. I don’t function if I think something could happen to you. You’re… you’re it for me. You’re everything.”
The words hit like a tidal wave, overwhelming in their intensity.
You swallowed, your own chest tightening. “You’re everything to me, too, Buck.”
He made a sound then not quite a sob, not quite a growl, somewhere in between. And then he was pulling you into his lap, arms locking around you so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe.
“You don’t go anywhere without me anymore,” he said against your hair, voice rough but steady. “I don’t care if it’s a damn grocery run, doll. You call me, I go with you. You want to step outside, you tell me. If I’m not there, I’ll be listening. Always listening. You got me?”
You knew you should argue. You knew he was being unreasonable. But the way he was holding you, the way his voice cracked, the way his lips pressed frantically against your temple, your cheek, your jaw—
“I got you,” you whispered.
His chest deflated on a long, shuddering sigh. “Good girl.”
You felt heat rush to your face, burying against his chest. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, kissing the crown of your head. “But I’m yours. And you’re mine. End of story.”
And he didn’t let go. Not for the rest of the night, not even when you drifted off against him. His arms stayed locked around you, his breath steady against your hair, like as long as he held you, the world couldn’t take you away.
Like he’d carved Natasha’s words into his bones "get a man who listens to your voice and knows when you’re in danger."
Except Bucky wasn’t just that man. He was more. He was the one who’d burn the whole damn world down just to keep that voice safe.
Bucky remembered. Of course he remembered—he remembered everything about you with the kind of photographic clarity that would be impressive, if it wasn't so goddamn pathetic.
Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x 40s!Steve's Sister!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI; Dirty Thoughts & Innuendo, Dryhumping (kinda?), Major UST, Making Out (rather sloppily)
Additional Tags: No Y/N, Midsized!Reader, Late 1930s, Pre-WW2, Pre-CA:TFA, (technically?) Canon Compliant, Major Male Yearning™, Childhood Crush(es), You're Steve's Little Sister, Fluff, It's Not A Date (It's Definitely A Date), Coney Island, Bucky's POV, 'Technically' Smut-Free (But Holy Shit, He Wants You So Bad), Love Confession
Author's Note: HAPPY 200 FOLLOWERS TO ME!!!! this originally spawned out of me rewatching TFA and blacking out and waking up to like 20k of words a while back, and i decided it would work perfectly as a 200 follows special so i finished it up for y'all 💕 anyway as the tags suggest, this is written entirely from Bucky's POV and ohh my god, this man is down. BAD. i thought about splitting this up into chapters, but tbh i don't have the braincells for juggling the posting of another multi-part fic atm, so you guys get it all in one go (i might split it up for ao3 though?). this fic is also titled for the 1929 song, because it definitely fits this pairing <3 p.s. bucky does call the reader 'doll' in this fic, jsyk! & also i do try, but this fic probably isn't 100% historically accurate, at least not to the degree i normally try to be, because this is just supposed to be a silly little thing and not taken too seriously!!!
Fallin' for nobody else, but you.
Said you caught my eye,
Show me the ring,
And I'll jump right through...
All Fics Tag List: @herejustforbuckybarnes
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I've Got A Feeling I'm Falling (17.5k)
Bucky Barnes sat on the third step of the Rogers building's stoop, his work shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The humidity hung thick as wool over Brooklyn, and the brick façade of the tenement building still radiated the day's heat.
Somewhere three floors up, Mrs. Kowalski's radio was crooning Artie Shaw through an open window, the melody drifting down to mingle with the sounds of the neighbourhood settling into evening—children's laughter from the next block over, the rhythmic thwack-thwack of a jump rope hitting pavement, Mr. Chen's newspaper rustling as he read on the stoop across the street.
It was a perfect summer evening. And Bucky's gaze kept drifting to you, perched on the step above him. His best friend's little sister.
And the source of his perpetual torment.
You had your bare feet planted on the step where Bucky sat, your knees drawn up under the skirt of your faded cotton dress—pale yellow with tiny white flowers, the hem recently mended by your own hand, no doubt. Your hair was pulled back with a scrap of ribbon, but the humidity had coaxed loose strands free to frame your face.
And when you laughed—really laughed, that full-throated sound that came from your belly—Bucky could feel it in his bones.
You were laughing now, your head thrown back, at something your brother had said.
Steve sat on the top step, his thin frame propped against the iron railing, a sketchpad balanced on his bony knees. His face held more colour than usual—the heat was good for him, opened up his lungs—but Bucky could still hear the slight wheeze in his breathing.
"I'm just saying," Steve insisted, his pencil moving across the paper in quick, confident strokes, "if they're gonna charge a nickel for a picture show, the least they could do is make sure the villain doesn't look like he wandered off the set of a Keystone Cops short. I nearly laughed myself into an asthma attack."
"You did laugh yourself into an asthma attack," you corrected, your voice carrying that particular note of exasperated affection reserved exclusively for your older brother. "I had to haul you out to the lobby while you hacked up a lung. Very romantic for all the courting couples around us."
"Yeah, well, romance is overrated anyway," Steve muttered, shading something on his sketch.
Bucky made a sound that might have been agreement or protest—he wasn't sure which, he was only half-listening to what you both were saying, anyhow. Your foot shifted, your heel pressing briefly against his thigh before you resettled, completely unaware of the way that casual contact made every thought in his head go sideways.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he thought, and not for the first time that evening. Get yourself together, Barnes.
"Buck doesn't think so," you teased, and Bucky's attention snapped back to the conversation. You were grinning at him, that lopsided smirk that made your eyes crinkle at the corners. "Right? Didn't I see you walking Kathleen Murphy home from the church social last month? Now that was very romantic."
Heat flooded Bucky's neck—and not from the humidity.
Kathleen Murphy. Of course, you'd noticed that. You noticed everything except the thing that mattered, which was the way his eyes tracked you across a room. "That was..." he started, but faltered. "Kathleen's a nice girl, but—"
"—but nothing," you interrupted, and your tone made his stomach drop. Not jealousy. Worse than jealousy. Certainty. The certainty of someone stating an obvious fact. "You're always walking some girl home. Admit it, Buck, you're a serial romantic."
Steve snorted without looking up from his sketch.
The thing about you was that you said these things with zero malice behind them. You weren't needling him. You genuinely believed it—believed that Bucky Barnes, dockworker and neighbourhood fixture, was some kind of casual tomcat cycling through the girls of Brooklyn like they were dance partners. The irony was so sharp it could cut.
In reality, there had been exactly three girls in the past year. Three girls he'd taken out because they'd asked, or because Steve had encouraged it, or because he was desperately trying to convince himself that maybe, maybe, if he just spent enough time with someone else, his brain would stop memorizing the way your face looked in different light.
None of it had worked.
Bucky's fingers found the pack of Lucky Strikes in his shirt pocket, more for something to do with his hands than any real craving. He turned the pack over once, twice, feeling the smooth paper and the slight give of the cigarettes inside.
Serial romantic. Jesus Christ. The cigarette pack crumpled slightly, in his grip.
"I'm not..." Bucky started, stopped, then cleared his throat—he had to start over twice before the sentence held together. He pulled a cigarette free. "That's not what that was. Kathleen asked if I'd walk her home. Her brother usually does it, but he's working nights at the Navy Yard now, and Mrs. Murphy worries. That's all."
That's all any of them were, he didn't say. That's all any of them could ever be.
The unlit cigarette spun between his fingers. He became aware, suddenly, that he was giving this too much explanation. A guy who was actually a serial romantic wouldn't bother with defending himself.
Bucky bit down on the inside of his cheek and made himself meet your eyes. Those eyes currently looking at him with friendly, uncomplicated affection—the same way you'd looked at him since you were kids scrapping in the street together.
"Besides," he added, forcing his voice into something lighter, easier, and closer to his usual charm, "if I was such a heartbreaker, don't you think one of 'em would've stuck by now?"
He stuck the cigarette between his lips to keep from saying anything else stupid.
You, meanwhile, just rolled your eyes. "Then you're the common denominator, Barnes," you pointed out. "Now, I'm going to make some lemonade, so you boys behave, alright?"
"You got it, boss," Steve replied, ducking his head when you tried to playfully swat at him. Bucky watched you go.
He couldn't help it—he watched the way your hips swayed as you climbed the steps, the yellow cotton of your dress pulling taut across the generous curve of your backside before you disappeared through the door.
God Almighty, your ass is a work of art. He wanted to grab it with both hands, drag you back down just to—
—the screen clattered shut behind you, the spring giving its familiar metallic ping, and then you were gone.
Bucky exhaled hard through his nose and finally struck a match. He lit the Lucky Strike, shook out the match, and took a long drag that didn't do a damn thing to settle the restless energy thrumming under his skin.
He got exactly four seconds of peace before Steve opened his mouth.
"That was painful to watch, Buck." Steve didn't look up from his sketchpad. "Truly."
Bucky shot him a look that could've stripped paint. "Shut up, punk."
"I'm just saying—" Steve's pencil resumed its movement across the sketchpad, casual as anything, "—you could try actually telling her instead of making sad eyes at her."
"I wasn't... I don't make sad eyes."
"Sure you don't." Steve didn't even glance up. "You've only been making them since we were fifteen, and she wore that green dress to the church dance. Remember? The one with the..." he gestured vaguely at his own nonexistent chest.
Bucky remembered. Of course, he remembered—he remembered everything about you with the kind of photographic clarity that would be impressive, if it wasn't so goddamn pathetic.
The green dress had been second-hand, and you'd looked like something out of a movie magazine despite the frayed hem and the fact that you'd worn your winter shoes because you didn't have summer ones.
He'd been fifteen. You'd been thirteen. And he'd known, even then, that he was completely, utterly screwed.
"That was different," Bucky muttered, smoke curling from his lips. "We were kids."
"You're twenty-one now, Buck. She's nineteen. You work at the docks; she works in the Garment District. You've both got jobs and futures and no reason not to—"
"—Jesus, Steve, she's your sister."
Steve's expression didn't change. "Yeah. She is. And?"
"And?" Bucky repeated, incredulous. "And that's—Steve, come on. There's a code. You don't just—"
"—what code?" Steve set his pencil down deliberately, giving Bucky his full attention now. The kid looked deceptively fragile in the fading light, all sharp angles and hollow cheeks, but his eyes held that particular brand of stubborn intensity that had gotten him beaten up in approximately forty-seven alleys over the years. "The one where you pine after my sister for half a decade while pretending to date other girls, and I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice? That code?"
"I don't—" Bucky stopped. His cigarette had burned down nearly to his knuckles. He took one last drag and stubbed it out against the step, the ember dying with a soft hiss. "—it's not that simple."
"Sure it is." Steve's tone was infuriatingly reasonable. "You like her. She's single. You're single. You ask her to dinner, or to a picture show. You see where it goes. It's the same thing you'd do with any other girl, except you actually give a damn about this one."
Bucky laughed, humourlessly. "Yeah, well. That's the problem, isn't it?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. "She's not like any other girl, Stevie. What if I ask her, and she laughs? Or worse, what if she says yes because she feels bad for me, because she thinks I'm lonely or something, and then it's—it's awkward and I lose her anyway? Lose the both of you?"
There. He'd said it. The real fear, the one that woke him up at three in the morning when he couldn't sleep.
Steve let out a breath that carried the ghost of a laugh. "Buck. You really think my sister would say yes to anything out of pity?" He picked up his sketchpad again, but didn't resume drawing. Just held it, looking at whatever he'd been working on. "She turned down Tommy Hargrove last year. You remember Tommy? Star pitcher, whose family owns that butcher shop on Fifth? Kid's got prospects, and he's built like a damn Greek statue. But she wasn't even interested."
The memory hit before he could block it out—the flood of shameful, physical relief when you'd come home and told them about it over dinner, rolling your eyes about how Tommy had asked you right there in front of the whole shop, putting you on the spot, and all Bucky had been able to think about afterwards was how you were far too much woman for Tommy Hargrove to handle, anyway.
"That's different," Bucky said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"How?"
"Because..." Because Tommy Hargrove was the kind of guy who was acceptable. Safe. But Bucky? Bucky was woven into the fabric of your daily life. If you rejected him, he wouldn't just lose the possibility of you. He'd lose the reality that he already had—those tiny, precious moments of nearness that were both heaven and hell.
Steve seemed to read his mind. "You're already thinking about it ending," he observed. "You haven't even started, and you're planning the funeral. That's not like you, Buck."
Bucky's hand came up to drag through his hair, mussing the dark strands that had been slicked back this morning with pomade. The gesture left them standing up in unruly directions. "It's different when it matters."
"Yeah." Steve turned the pencil between his fingers. "I guess it is."
Overhead, the floorboards of the third-floor apartment creaked—your distinctive gait, purposeful and solid despite your small stature. He could hear the icebox opening, glass bottles clinking, and the pump at the sink groaning as you worked the handle. Each noise felt unnaturally loud in the thick evening air, a reminder that you were right there, just one floor and a conversation away from having your whole world potentially shift.
Or not shift at all.
Bucky leaned back against the step, the brick warm and rough through his shirt. A bead of sweat traced down his spine. "She doesn't see me that way, Steve. You know that. I'm just... Buck. The guy who's always around. Part of the furniture."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that." The vehemence surprised even him. "You heard her just now. 'Serial romantic'. She thinks I'm working my way through Brooklyn one dame at a time. She doesn't think about me like that. I'm safe. I'm her brother's friend. That's all I am to her."
Steve's fingers went back to the pencil, making small, idle marks on the paper. "You know what I think?"
"I'm sure you're gonna tell me."
"I think you're scared." Steve's tone wasn't mocking. Just matter-of-factly, the way he stated any observable truth. "I think you've built this whole story in your head about how it's gonna go, and you're so convinced you're right that you won't even try to find out if you're wrong."
Bucky's mouth opened. Closed. He had nothing. "That's not..."
"You carried her books home from school every day for two years," Steve continued, relentless now in that particularly stubborn Rogers way. "You taught her to throw a punch after that incident with the Donnelly boys. You brought her flowers last month when she got that promotion at the dress shop—flowers, Buck, and you tried to play it off like it was nothing, like you just happened to walk past a flower cart—"
"—they were nickel carnations from the corner, Steve; it wasn't—"
"—and she kept them in a glass on the kitchen table until every single petal fell off." Steve's blue eyes were steady, unflinching. "Even pressed one of them in that book she's always reading. The Austen one."
Hope punched through six years of carefully maintained denial. "Pride and Prejudice?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
Bucky's hand dropped from his hair to his knee, gripping hard. "You're making that up."
"I'm not." Steve set the sketchpad aside entirely now, giving Bucky the full force of his attention. "Look, I'm not saying she's carrying a torch for you or anything. I genuinely don't know what's going on in her head half the time—she's my sister. But I do know she doesn't look at you the way she looks at other guys. She doesn't..." He paused, searching for words. "She doesn't perform for you. You know how she gets around most fellas? All stiff and polite, like she's waiting for them to leave so she can relax? She's not like that with you. She's just... herself."
Upstairs, a door opened and closed. More footsteps—lighter now, purposeful. Heading back toward the stairs.
Steve's eyes flicked up, back to Bucky. His expression shifted into something wry, almost conspiratorial. "She's coming back down. You've got about thirty seconds to decide if you're gonna keep being a coward or if you're gonna do something about it."
You materialized in the doorway before he could even process that, the screen door bumping your hip as you manoeuvred through it. You were holding two glasses of lemonade, sweating condensation in the humid air. The ice clinked softly as you descended the steps, your bare feet sure and quiet on the worn concrete.
"Because I was feeling generous," you hummed, offering one to him.
She kept them in a glass until every single petal fell off.
Bucky's brain had shorted out entirely, at this point. He couldn't look away from you—the way the yellow dress pulled across your soft middle as you bent slightly, the loose strands of hair backlit by the hallway light, the bare skin of your shoulders where your sleeves had slipped down.
Pressed one in that book.
His fingers twitched against the offered glass, and he almost dropped it.
"Thanks," he managed, and his voice came out approximately normal. Small miracle, that. The glass was shockingly cold in his hand, almost painful after the day's heat. A slice of lemon floated near the top, bumping against the ice.
You settled back onto your step, the one above his, drawing your knees up again in that unselfconscious way you had. The other glass of lemonade rested against your thigh, already leaving a damp ring on the yellow cotton, and when you took a sip, Bucky had to physically redirect his gaze.
Instead, he took a drink of his own lemonade just to have something to do. It was tart and cold and perfect, exactly the way you always made it—a touch too much lemon and not quite enough sugar, because that's how Sarah Rogers had made it, before she'd passed.
She doesn't perform for you. She's just herself.
The words keep rattling around in his skull like loose change. You were humming something under your breath—he recognized it as the melody that had been drifting down from Mrs. Kowalski's radio earlier. Something about moonlight and romance, probably.
"You only brought two glasses," Bucky observed, latching onto the safest topic available.
"That's because Steve doesn't like lemonade," you replied, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you remember?"
Bucky stopped mid-sip. Shit. You were right. Steve didn't like lemonade—something about the acidity bothering his stomach, some complicated interaction with one of his medications that Bucky could never keep straight. He'd known that for years.
The fact that you'd brought two glasses—one for Bucky, one for yourself—wasn't generous.
It was intentional.
"Right," Bucky said, and his voice was strangled enough that he had to cover it with another drink. The lemonade stuck in his throat. "Yeah. I knew that."
Behind you, Steve coughed—a sound that was definitely not asthma-related and absolutely was a poorly disguised laugh. The bastard didn't even try to hide it, just picked up his pencil again and resumed sketching like he wasn't currently observing Bucky's slow-motion emotional unravelling.
You didn't seem to notice anything amiss, sipping your lemonade. His gaze caught on the movement of your jaw, the slight shift of your expression as you swallowed. You had a tiny scar just below your left ear—a childhood fall off a fire escape when you were kids. He remembered holding a handkerchief to it while you cried, promising you it wouldn't leave a mark even though he knew it would.
And it had.
What kind of sound would you make, if he put his mouth there? If he bit down hard enough to leave a mark of his own? If he sucked a bruise right over the scar, so everyone would know exactly who—
"—I was thinking," you mused, your voice lazy with the heat and cutting clean through his spiralling thoughts, "maybe we could go to Coney Island on Saturday, if you're both free?"
Coney fucking Island. Of course you'd suggest that. It was perfectly you, to want to go.
"Yeah," Bucky said, and his voice held steady. Steadier than he felt. "Yeah, I'm... I'm free Saturday."
His grip tightened on the lemonade glass.
"What time were you thinking?"
His mind was already racing ahead—the train ride out, the boardwalk, the beach. Steve would get tired fast in the heat and would probably want to sit in the shade after an hour or two. Which would leave the two of you to wander. Alone. Together.
The thought made his pulse kick up another notch.
You shifted on your step. "Early," you said. "Before it gets too crowded. Maybe catch the nine o'clock train?" You glanced back at Steve. "You up for it, Stevie?"
Steve made a noncommittal sound, his pencil still moving across the paper. "Maybe," he said, in a tone that meant absolutely not to anyone who knew him well enough. "Depends on how I'm feeling. You know how I get on the train, when it's packed like that."
Oh, now that was a lie. A transparent, deliberate lie.
Bucky's head whipped around to stare at his best friend, and Steve didn't even have the decency to look up from his sketchpad. Just kept drawing, his expression perfectly neutral except for the barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The little bastard.
Steve was setting him up for this. Orchestrating this with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, creating a scenario where Bucky would end up alone with you for an entire day at Coney Island. And he was doing it right in front of you, banking on the fact that you'd take him at face value, that you'd never suspect your chronically ill brother of faking it to play matchmaker.
Bucky gritted his teeth. He could call Steve out right now—could say something like 'you were fine on the train last week' or 'the nine o'clock probably won't be that crowded'—but that would require explaining why he was objecting, and there was no way to do that without revealing everything he'd been trying to keep buried.
This was it. The moment. He could let it drop, could suggest they reschedule, could keep everything safe and unchanged and exactly the way it had always been.
Or.
"...I could still go," Bucky heard himself say. The words came out before his brain could catch up, rough and too loud in the humid air. "I mean. If you still want to, just the two of us."
Your eyes found his, and you smiled. "Yeah, why not? It'll be like when we were little."
When you were little.
When you were thirteen and gap-toothed, and he was teaching you to skip stones at the pier. When you were fifteen, and he'd bought you a nickel cone at the boardwalk and you'd gotten vanilla ice cream on your nose. When you were children and none of this mattered because it was innocent and uncomplicated, and he hadn't yet realized that looking at you had started to hurt in a way that he couldn't outgrow.
You smiled at him—open, friendly, completely unguarded—and took another sip of your lemonade.
Behind you, Steve's pencil had stopped mid-stroke.
He should agree. Should laugh it off, make some joke about how you'd hit the Cyclone and the shooting gallery just like old times. Should keep it light and easy and exactly what you expected.
Instead, what came out was, "we're not little anymore, doll."
We aren't kids now. We're adults, and I want to tear that dress off and feel your skin heating against mine, want to bury myself inside you so deep you feel it in your throat, want to—
—you blinked at him. "No," you said, drawing the word out. Confusion or curiosity—he couldn't tell which. "I guess we're not, Buck."
Steve coughed—deliberately, pointedly—and the spell broke. You sat up straighter, tipping your head back to drain the rest of your glass in a few gulps.
His own mouth went dry.
"I gotta hit the hay," you said, wiping your mouth with the heel of your hand. "But we'll figure out Saturday, alright, Buck?"
He should be the one wiping that mouth. Licking the lemonade from your lip, forcing his tongue past your teeth to taste the sweet sugar and sour lemons, devouring you right here on the steps until—
"—yeah," Bucky managed to say. "Yeah, okay. Goodnight, doll."
"Night, sis." Steve added.
On the step above him, you paused, looking down. From this angle, with the hallway light behind you, your face was half in shadow. You smiled again, smaller this time, and turned toward the door.
Behind him, Steve let out a long, slow breath, once you'd gone back upstairs. "Well, that could've gone worse."
Bucky set the lemonade glass down on the step beside him with exaggerated care, like if he moved too quickly something would shatter. Then he dropped his head into his hands.
"I'm an idiot," he muttered into his palms.
"Yeah," Steve agreed. "But, you're an idiot with a date on Saturday."
"It's not a date," he lamented, the words barely audible against his palms. "She said it herself. 'Like when we were little'."
"She also looked confused as hell when you said you weren't little anymore." Steve's pencil resumed its movement—soft scratching sounds against paper. "Pretty sure she's trying to figure out what you meant by that."
Bucky lifted his head enough to glare at his best friend. "You're a real son of a bitch, you know that? 'Maybe I'll come, maybe I won't'. You weren't even trying to be subtle."
Steve's grin was absolutely unrepentant. "Subtlety wasn't working. You've been doing subtle for six years, and where's it gotten you? Nowhere. So, I figured I'd try the direct approach."
"The direct approach," Bucky growled, "is you abandoning me to spend an entire day alone with your sister at Coney Island?"
"Yep."
"And what if I screw it all up?"
"Then you screw it all up," Steve shrugged, still sketching. "But at least you'll have tried. At least you'll know instead of spending the rest of your life wondering 'what if'."
Bucky had been waiting at the station for twenty minutes.
Which was ridiculous. Pathetic, even. The train to Coney Island didn't leave until 9:05, and you'd said nine o'clock, which usually meant 9:03 in your world. He knew this. Had known you long enough to have your particular relationship with punctuality memorized down to the minute.
And yet here he was, standing on the platform like some kind of desperate fool, checking his watch every thirty seconds and trying not to look like he was checking his watch every thirty seconds.
The platform was already crowded with Saturday morning beach-goers—families with squealing children, young couples holding hands, and groups of girls in summer dresses giggling together. The heat was building even this early, the sun beating down on the concrete and making the air shimmer. Bucky had forgone his usual work shirt for a clean white button-down with the sleeves already rolled to his elbows, and he'd used more pomade than strictly necessary to slick his hair back.
Not that it mattered. This wasn't a date. You'd made that crystal clear.
Like when we were little.
He checked his watch again. 8:53.
A bead of sweat traced down his spine. He'd debated bringing flowers—had actually walked past the corner cart twice this morning before talking himself out of it. Too obvious. Too much. You'd ask questions he wasn't ready to answer, and then the whole day would be ruined before it had even started.
So instead he'd just shown up empty-handed and early, like an idiot.
8:54.
The crowd shifted, and Bucky's gaze automatically tracked toward the station entrance.
And then he saw you.
Green dress. Soft sage with tiny white flowers scattered across it. The fabric moved as you walked, catching the light, skimming over curves he absolutely should not be noticing. The full swell of your breasts, the soft roundness of your stomach, and the way the skirt swung around your thick thighs with each step...
Your hair was different. Pinned back, he realized—carefully arranged so that loose strands framed your face while the rest was gathered at your neck. It looked... intentional. Styled. Like you'd put effort into it.
And your mouth—
—Oh, Jesus Christ, were you wearing lipstick?
Just a hint of it, barely there, but Bucky had spent enough time staring at your mouth over the years to know what it looked like bare versus coloured. The slight deepening of the natural rose, the way it made your lips look fuller, more—
—he needed to stop thinking about your mouth.
You spotted him, and your face did something complicated—a flash of what might have been nervousness before settling into a smile. You raised one hand in a small wave, and Bucky managed to return it, though his arm felt disconnected from his body.
Crossing the platform now, you wove through the crowd with that solid, purposeful gait of yours. As you got closer, Bucky could see the flush across your nose and cheeks, more pronounced in the morning sunlight.
You'd put on lipstick, done your hair, and were wearing what was clearly one of your better day dresses.
For a trip to Coney Island. With him. Don't read into it, Bucky told himself firmly. Don't you dare read into it.
But his heart was hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free, and when you stopped in front of him—close enough that he could smell that sweet almond scent mixing with something floral, maybe your soap—he had to shove his hands into his pockets to keep from doing something stupid.
"Hey," he managed, and his voice came out roughly normal. Small miracle. "You look—" He stopped. Started over. "Morning."
Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth.
You paused, flushed slightly. "Morning," you replied, settling in next to him. You had a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, no doubt full of womanly mysteries he could only guess at. "You ready to lose at skee-ball?"
"Lose?" Bucky huffed. "Doll, I hate to break it to you, but I won last time."
"By two points," you countered, and there was that lopsided smirk he knew so well, the one that made your eyes crinkle at the corners. "And I seem to recall you claiming the lanes were uneven."
"Uh-huh. Sure."
The banter was safe. Easy. The same back-and-forth you'd been doing for years. But Bucky's heart was still hammering, and he couldn't stop noticing things—the way the green fabric pulled slightly across your chest when you shifted your bag, the fact that you were standing just a fraction closer than you normally would, and the nervous energy he could feel radiating off you in waves.
Or maybe that was just his own nervous energy reflecting back at him.
Down the platform, the train's whistle sounded—a long, sharp blast that cut through the morning chatter. The crowd began shifting, gathering closer to the platform edge. A mother corralled two small children. A young couple pressed closer together.
Bucky's hand came up automatically to your lower back—just his palm against the green cotton, guiding you forward as the crowd surged. Protective instinct, nothing more. He'd done it a hundred times before.
Except this time, his fingers registered the warmth of your skin through the thin fabric and the way your body was soft and solid under his palm, and he had to actively resist the urge to let his hand slide around to your hip and to pull you closer against him.
The train pulled in with a screech of metal on metal, hot air and coal smoke billowing across the platform. Doors opened, and the Saturday crowd pushed forward in a mass of bodies and bags and excited chatter.
"Stay close," Bucky said, and his voice came out lower than intended. His hand was still on your back—he should move it, should drop his arm back to his side, but the crowd was pressing in, and it seemed safer to keep you near.
Safer. Right. That's what this was.
Together, you pushed onto the train, and immediately, Bucky realized his mistake. The car was packed—every seat taken, people standing shoulder to shoulder in the aisle, holding on to the overhead straps and poles. The air inside was already stifling, thick with the smell of bodies and perfume and the metallic tang of the train itself.
And you were pressed against him.
Not intentionally—the crowd had simply compressed you two together, forcing your back against his chest as more people shoved in behind. Your shoulders fit just under his, your head level with his chin. That sweet almond scent surrounded him, mixed with something floral and clean, and when you shifted to adjust your bag, your entire body moved against his.
Bucky's hand found the overhead strap more out of desperation than necessity. He needed something to hold on to that wasn't your hips, wasn't the soft curve of your waist that was right there, mere inches from his palm.
"Sorry," you said, your voice muffled. You were trying to turn your head to look at him, but the position was awkward. "Didn't think it'd be this crowded."
"S'okay." The words came out strangled. He was acutely aware of every point of contact—your shoulders against his chest, the brush of your hair against his collar, and the way your ass pressed against his thighs when the train lurched into motion.
It was a specific kind of hell. His brain supplied the rest of the sensory data uninvited—how soft you'd feel yielding under his grip, how easy it would be to pull you back until there wasn't a millimetre of air left between his zipper and your dress. He was half-hard and terrified you'd notice, and completely wrecked by the wish that you would.
The train picked up speed, swaying slightly on the tracks, and you swayed with it. Your hand came up to grip the pole beside them for balance, and somehow—somehow—that meant your arm crossed over your body and your hand ended up just inches from where his was gripping the overhead strap.
Bucky stared at both of your hands. Yours are small and sure, with nails short and practical from your work at the dress shop. His hands were larger, scarred across the knuckles from dock work and the occasional street fight when he had to pull Steve out of trouble.
Six inches of space between you. That was all.
"Looks like a busy day," you noted, when you finally pulled into your station. "Good thing Steve didn't come along."
The relief Bucky felt when the train doors opened was almost physical—a release of pressure that had been building for the entire agonizing forty-two-minute ride. Forty-two minutes of you pressed against him, your hair tickling his jaw. Forty-two minutes of torture disguised as proximity.
"Yeah," he managed, his voice coming out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat as you both stepped onto the platform, the crowd immediately dispersing in multiple directions—toward the beach, toward the boardwalk, and toward the amusement park. "Definitely busy."
The air hit, then—salt and sea mixed with the unmistakable carnival smell of frying food and sugar. Hot dogs and popcorn and cotton candy, all competing for dominance. The sound was immediate and overwhelming: children shrieking with delight, carnival barkers calling out their games, the distant mechanical scream of the Cyclone as it plunged down its first drop, and underneath it all the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore.
Bucky's hand had dropped from the overhead strap when you exited, but he found himself wanting to put it back on your lower back, to guide you through the crowd the way he had on the platform. Instead, he shoved both hands in his pockets and tried to look casual.
You had moved slightly ahead of him, tilted your head back to look at the Parachute Jump towering against the blue sky. The movement exposed the soft line of your throat, and Bucky had to physically redirect his gaze to literally anything else. A hot dog cart. Perfect. Very safe. Very unsexy.
The green dress moved with you as you turned back toward him, the fabric catching the late morning sun. You'd pushed a loose strand behind your ear again, but the humidity was already making it spring free. Your cheeks were flushed—from the heat or the packed train ride, he couldn't tell.
"So," Bucky said, pulling his hands from his pockets because standing there like a statue wasn't helping anything. "What's first? Beach? Boardwalk? Or straight to the Cyclone so I can watch you turn green?"
The teasing came easier than the honesty. Safer ground. "Or we could start with skee-ball," he added, because apparently his mouth had decided to keep talking without consulting his brain. "Get your inevitable loss out of the way early."
"Oh yeah?" You grinned now. "Loser buys the hot dogs? You're on, Barnes."
The arcade was a cathedral of noise and light—bells dinging, wooden balls clattering up lanes, the mechanical whir of the strength tester, someone's victory whoop from the back where the ring toss was set up. The smell hit immediately: popcorn and machine oil and that particular mustiness of a building that spent half its life baking under the summer sun and the other half breathing in salt air.
Bucky paid for two games at the counter—a dime total, which the attendant took with a gap-toothed grin before gesturing them toward lane seven. The wooden balls sat in their return slot, scarred and smooth from thousands of hands, and the lanes stretched up at that familiar angle toward the target rings. Fifty points for the centre, descending values for each ring out.
"Ladies first," Bucky said, stepping aside with an exaggerated gesture of chivalry.
You shot him a look—amused, slightly challenging—and moved up to the lane. You set your bag down on the bench behind them, and Bucky tried very hard not to notice the way the movement made your dress pull across your backside. Tried and failed spectacularly.
Picking up the first ball, you tested its weight, and Bucky watched your face shift into that expression he knew so well—the one you got when you were concentrating. Your brow furrowed slightly, your mouth pressed into a line, and you rolled your shoulders once before releasing.
The ball arced up the lane, hit the wood with a solid thunk, and dropped perfectly through the fifty-point centre hole.
"Huh," Bucky said mildly. "Lucky shot."
"Uh-huh." You were already reaching for the second ball, and there was something deeply satisfying about the confident way you moved. No hesitation. Just muscle memory from a dozen previous trips to this exact arcade, this exact lane.
The second ball went up. Fifty points again.
Third ball. Fifty.
By the time you'd finished your nine balls—seven fifties, two forties—Bucky was reassessing his earlier cockiness. You'd scored 430 points, which was... uncomfortably good.
"Your turn, champ," you said, and your voice had that teasing lilt that made his stomach do complicated things. You moved aside, gesturing to the lane with the same exaggerated flourish he'd used earlier.
Your bodies passed close—close enough to catch that sweet almond scent again, your shoulder brushing his chest for half a second. The contact was brief, barely there, but Bucky felt the heat of it.
He stepped up to the lane, picked up a ball, and promptly overthrew his first shot. The ball bounced off the top rim and clattered into the ten-point gutter.
Behind him, you made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been a poorly suppressed laugh.
"Shut up," Bucky muttered, grabbing the second ball. He wiped his damp palms on his trousers. Ridiculous. He'd played skee-ball a hundred times, had beaten Steve's pathetic scores more times than he could count, and now suddenly his hands didn't work right because you were standing three feet behind him watching.
The second shot went better—forty points. Respectable.
The third shot clipped the edge and dropped into the thirty ring.
By his fifth ball, Bucky had found something resembling his rhythm, but he could feel your presence pressing against his back. The awareness of you watching made his shoulders hike up and made him second-guess the angle of his release.
"You're too stiff," you said, and then—Good Lord—you were right there, your hand on his shoulder blade. "Here. Loosen up."
Your palm was warm through his shirt, and Bucky's brain completely short-circuited. Every nerve ending in his body zeroed in on that single point of contact, the slight pressure of your fingers against muscle and bone.
"Like this," you continued, and your other hand came up to his throwing arm, adjusting the angle slightly. You were standing close enough now that he could feel the heat of your body against his back and could smell that floral soap mixing with the sweet scent of your skin.
Bucky inhaled, sharply.
"Now release on the upswing," you instructed. You sounded calm, like you weren't currently destroying his ability to form coherent thoughts. "Don't think about it. Just feel it."
Feel it. Right. The only thing Bucky could feel was the warmth of your hands on him and the way his heart was hammering against his ribs.
He released the ball. It sailed up the lane and dropped cleanly through the fifty-point hole.
"See?" Your hands dropped away, and the loss of contact felt like a punishment. "You just needed to relax, Barnes."
Relax. Sure. Easy.
Bucky turned to look at you and found you standing maybe a foot away, arms crossed under your chest in a way that did absolutely nothing for his composure. Your eyes were bright with that competitive gleam he recognized, and your mouth curved in that lopsided smirk.
"Yeah," he managed. "Thanks for the tip, doll. I got it."
With your help, his last three balls all hit fifty points. Final score, 390.
Still a full forty points behind you.
"Looks like you're buying lunch, Barnes," you hummed, and you sounded far too pleased with yourself.
Bucky stared at the scoreboard—his 390 glaringly inferior to your 430—and felt a complex cocktail of emotions. There was the natural, competitive sting of loss, sharp and familiar. But underneath it, warmer and more confusing, was a flicker of pure, unadulterated pride. You'd beaten him. Fair and square. No luck involved. Just cool, focused skill that made his blood hum. And you were standing there now, grinning that triumphant, lopsided grin, your eyes sparkling with victory, looking so utterly pleased with yourself that it stole the air from his lungs.
"Yeah," he said, dragging a hand through his hair, mussing the carefully slicked-back style. "Guess I am."
He fished the coins from his pocket, the metal warm from his skin, and paid the gap-toothed attendant for the games. The act felt surreal and mundane against the backdrop of his internal earthquake. Your hands on his shoulders, guiding him. The press of you against his back. The scent of you. Relax, you'd said. As if that were possible.
"C'mon then, loser," you said, hooking your canvas bag back over your shoulder. You didn't wait for him; you just turned and began weaving your way back out of the dim, noisy arcade toward the brilliant glare of the boardwalk. Bucky followed, a half-step behind, his eyes tracing the swing of your hips beneath the green dress, the way the sunlight caught in your hair.
The boardwalk was a riot of life. The cacophony was overwhelming—the tinny music of a dozen different attractions bleeding together, the shrieks from the rides, the relentless call of the barkers ("Three tries for a dime! Win a prize for your girl!"), the sizzle of food on hot griddles.
You stopped at a familiar stand, its red-and-white striped awning faded by years of sun. Nathan's Famous. The line was six people deep already. "Two with everything?" Bucky asked, his voice close to your ear to be heard over the din. It wasn't really a question. He knew how you liked your hot dog by now.
You nodded, pulling your purse from your bag. "I can get my own—"
"—nuh-uh," he said, shaking his head. A firm, playful smile touched his lips. "A bet's a bet. You won. I pay." He gently pushed your offering hand back toward your bag, his fingers brushing against your wrist for a fleeting second. The contact was brief, but the spark was immediate, a jolt that travelled straight up his arm. "Besides, you'll need your money for the ring toss. Or to bribe the operator of the Hammer to let you on a second time."
He was babbling. He needed to stop babbling.
When you reached the front, Bucky ordered, his voice loud and clear to be heard over the grill's hiss. He paid, and the vendor handed over two wax-paper-wrapped bundles, hot and fragrant, along with two icy bottles of Coca-Cola.
"Here," Bucky said, passing one of each to you. Their fingers touched again during the exchange, a deliberate, lingering pass this time as he made sure you had a firm grip on the slick glass bottle. "Let's find a spot."
You two ended up leaning against the boardwalk railing, a few yards down from the stand. Before you, the beach sprawled in a kaleidoscope of colour and movement. The Atlantic stretched out to the horizon, a vast, sparkling blue dotted with bobbing heads and white sails. The roar of the surf was a constant, soothing bass note beneath the boardwalk's treble.
For a few minutes, there was only the dedicated, messy business of eating. The hot dog was perfect—snappy casing, savoury meat, the sharp tang of mustard and kraut. Bucky watched, mesmerized, as you took a bite, a tiny dab of mustard appearing at the corner of your mouth. You licked it away absently, your tongue a quick flash of pink, and Bucky had to look very deliberately out at the ocean, his own food suddenly tasteless.
He took a long swig of Coke, the cold, sweet fizz doing little to cool the heat inside him.
Finally glancing back at you, he saw you were staring out at the water too, a thoughtful, almost distant expression on your face. The breeze off the ocean played with the loose tendrils of hair around your face. You looked... beautiful. Not in a generic way. In a specific, irreplaceable way that was tied to a lifetime of memories and this exact moment, with mustard on your lip and victory in your eyes and the whole wide world of Coney Island buzzing around you.
"So," Bucky said, his voice quieter now, meant just for you. He nudged your shoulder lightly with his own. "You gonna gloat all day, or are we hitting the Cyclone next? Gotta give me a chance to win my pride back somehow."
"I'll brave the Cyclone if you will," you grinned, licking the last bit of mustard off your thumb, the gesture utterly innocent.
The thumb-licking did him in.
The slight suction—the way your cheek hollowed—sent a jolt straight to his groin. He watched the wet slide of your tongue and the shine it left on your skin, and his brain immediately, traitorously, overlaid the image with another one. That same mouth. That same focus. But lower. On him—
—Bucky drained the rest of his Coke in one long pull, the carbonation burning down his throat. He needed the distraction. Needed the cold. Needed literally anything that wasn't the mental image of your mouth doing... that.
"Right," he said, and his voice came out only slightly strained. "Cyclone it is."
He took your empty hot dog wrapper and his own, along with both glass bottles, and deposited them in the nearest trash barrel. The mundane task gave him a moment to collect himself, to shove down the want that was currently trying to claw its way up his throat and out his mouth in the form of words he absolutely could not say.
I want to taste you. I want to pull the pins from your hair and wrap my fist in it, to devour that mouth properly. I want to slide my hand up your thigh, past the hem of your dress—
"—you coming, or are you gonna stand there all day?" you called, already a few paces ahead, your canvas bag bouncing against your hip.
Bucky followed.
The walk to the Cyclone was a study in controlled torture. The boardwalk was packed now, the late-morning crowd swelling as families arrived, and young couples staked out their territory. Bucky found himself unconsciously walking closer to you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours when the crowd pressed in, his hand coming to your lower back when you had to navigate around a group of shrieking children.
Each touch was necessary. Practical. Completely innocent.
And completely driving him insane.
The Cyclone loomed ahead, a skeletal wooden monster of angles and physics that had been terrifying people since 1927. The sound was incredible—the rumble and roar of cars on tracks, the mechanical clatter of the chain lift, and underneath it all the sustained screaming of riders being flung through space at speeds that defied common sense.
The line snaked back and forth under a makeshift awning that did nothing to cut the heat. The two of you joined the end, shuffling forward incrementally as the ride loaded and unloaded with mechanical efficiency.
Waiting was agony.
You were pressed close again—not as close as in the train, but close enough that Bucky could feel the heat radiating off your body. You had pulled your copy of Pride and Prejudice from your bag—dog-eared and worn.
"Light reading?" he managed, grateful for something to focus on besides the way your sweat was making the green dress cling to you.
You glanced up, a small smile playing at your lips. "Figured we'd be waiting a while. I'm almost done with it—again."
"How many times is that now?"
"Oh, I've lost count." You flipped absently through the pages, and Bucky caught a flash of something pressed between them—flat and brown and delicate. A flower. A pressed flower.
His chest did something complicated.
She kept them in a glass until every single petal fell off. Pressed one of them in that book.
Steve's words from Thursday night echoed in his skull. It could be any flower. From anyone. From anywhere.
Except Bucky knew, with an absolute certainty that felt like falling, that it was one of the nickel carnations he'd bought you last month. When you'd gotten that promotion. When he'd tried to play it off like nothing.
The line moved forward. You tucked the book back in your bag, oblivious to the small detonation that had just occurred in Bucky's ribcage.
You were almost to the front now. The ride operator—a kid who couldn't be older than seventeen, with slicked-back hair and a bored expression—was loading the current batch of riders with practiced efficiency. The cars were small, designed for two people pressed shoulder to shoulder on a single bench seat.
Bucky's pulse kicked up.
Your turn came. The operator gestured you forward with a jerk of his chin, and you climbed into the car first, scooting across the worn wooden seat to make room. Bucky followed, and immediately understood the full scope of what he'd signed up for.
There was no space. The bench was narrow, designed to keep riders pinned in place through sheer proximity. Your thigh pressed against his from hip to knee, your shoulder tucked under his, your bodies aligned and touching along a continuous line of contact.
The safety bar came down with a metallic clang, locking you both in place. The operator gave it a perfunctory tug to make sure it was secure, then moved on to the next car without a word.
"You okay?" you asked, and Bucky realized he'd gone completely still.
"Yeah," he lied. "Fine."
The car lurched forward, beginning its slow crawl toward the lift hill. The click-click-click of the chain engaging was loud, rhythmic, and ominous. Bucky's hand found the safety bar, gripping tight, and he became immediately aware that you had done the same—your fingers strangling the metal, just inches from his own.
"I forgot how high this thing goes," you said, and there was a thread of nerves in your voice now.
As your car climbed, the boardwalk dropped away below you, the beach spreading out to your left, the ocean beyond it endless and blue. Higher. The wind picked up to carry the salt smell, making loose strands of your hair whip across Bucky's face.
"Just don't look down," he said, roughly.
"Easy for you to—oh my God."
You had reached the top.
The world went perfectly still. Bucky could see everything—the whole of Coney Island spread out like a postcard, the curve of the coastline, and the city skyline hazy in the distance. He could feel your body tense against his, could hear the sharp intake of your breath.
Then you dropped.
The scream that tore out of your throat was pure, undiluted terror. Your hand left the safety bar and found his arm instead, your fingers digging into his bicep hard enough to bruise. You plummeted down the first hill at a speed that made Bucky's stomach try to exit through his mouth, the world blurring into a smear of colour and sound.
The first turn threw you hard to the left. Your entire body pressed against his, your face buried against his shoulder, and Bucky's arm came around you automatically—protective, instinctive, his hand splaying across your ribs just below your breast.
Another drop, another turn, the wooden track still rattling and shaking beneath you. You were making sounds against his shirt—half-screams, half-laughs, breathless and wild. Your fingers were still clenched in his sleeve, your body plastered against his side, and Bucky couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except hold on and feel every curve of you pressed against him through the thin fabric of your clothes.
The ride was ninety seconds long.
It felt like both an eternity and no time at all.
When your car finally rolled back into the station, Bucky's heart was hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with the ride. You hadn't moved yet—were still pressed against him, your face buried in his shoulder, your breathing fast and shallow.
The safety bar released with a pneumatic hiss.
"Hey," Bucky said softly, and his voice came out hoarse. "We're stopped."
You lifted your head slowly, and the look on your face stole whatever breath he'd managed to recover. Your eyes were huge, and your cheeks flushed hot. Your hair had come loose from several of its pins, wild strands falling around your face. Your mouth was slightly open, lips parted as you gasped for air.
And you were still holding on to his arm. Still pressed against him.
Neither of you moved. Nothing existed but the small space of the car, the point where your bodies touched, and the way you were looking at him like you were seeing something new.
Then someone behind you shouted for you to move, and the spell broke.
"Oh." You exhaled. You let go of him, blushing from forehead to chin as you slipped out of the Cyclone car first. "Sorry!" you called to the attendant, still a bit flustered.
Bucky's legs were unsteady when he climbed out of the car.
Not from the ride—though the Cyclone had done its job, rattling his bones and temporarily relocating his internal organs—but from the ninety seconds of having you plastered against him, your fingers digging into his arm, your face buried in his shoulder, your entire body trusting him to keep you safe while the world turned into a blur of speed and terror.
The attendant was already waving the next group forward, completely indifferent to your apology. The kid had probably seen a thousand flustered riders today alone. But Bucky wasn't indifferent. He was cataloguing every detail of your current state with the single-minded focus of a man trying to memorize something he knew he'd replay in his mind for weeks.
Your blush had spread from your cheeks down your throat, disappearing beneath the collar of your green dress. Several more strands had escaped their pins during the ride, falling in chaotic waves around your face and shoulders. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, and when you pressed one hand to your sternum like you were trying to calm your racing heart, Bucky had to physically look away.
Because his hand had been there. Just there. Splayed across your ribs, feeling the rapid flutter of your heartbeat through the thin cotton, the soft give of your body under his palm.
He'd held girls before. Danced with them, walked them home, stolen kisses in dark doorways—stolen more than that, if he was being honest. But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like the weight of you against him, the desperate grip of your fingers, or the small sounds you'd made against his shirt.
"That was..." you started, then stopped. You were trying to smooth your hair back, tucking loose strands behind your ears with shaking hands. "That was intense."
"Yeah." Bucky's voice came out rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets because if he didn't, he might do something stupid like reach out and fix that one curl that was stubbornly refusing to stay put. "You okay?"
You nodded, but your colour was still high, and when you met his eyes, there was something there—something new and uncertain that made his pulse kick up all over again. Awareness, maybe. The same awareness that was currently lighting up every nerve ending in his body.
He was standing too close. The crowd was flowing around you—people exiting the ride, people waiting in line—but the two of you were caught in a small pocket of space, facing each other.
Your lips parted like you were about to say something. Bucky's gaze dropped to your mouth—he couldn't help it, couldn't stop himself from noticing that the lipstick was gone now, probably transferred to his shoulder during the ride, leaving your lips their natural rose colour.
"I..." you started.
"Hey, lovebirds!" The attendant's voice shattered the moment. "You gonna stand there all day or what? You're blocking the exit!"
The word lovebirds hit home. Your eyes went wide, your blush somehow deepening even further. You took a step back, then another, putting space between you that felt both necessary and fundamentally wrong.
"Right," you said quickly. "Sorry. We're moving!"
You turned and headed toward the exit gate, and Bucky followed, his brain still stuck on that word. Lovebirds. The attendant had looked at you and him, and seen a couple. Lovebirds. We looked like lovebirds.
Emerging into the bright sunlight, you immediately busied yourself with your bag, digging through it like you were searching for something vital. An excuse not to look at him, Bucky realized. You were flustered. Actually, genuinely flustered in a way he'd never seen you act before.
"You want some water?" he offered, latching onto the practical. "There's a stand right over—"
"—oh, yeah," you said, maybe a bit too quickly. "Yeah, thanks."
So you walked toward the refreshment stand. Bucky bought two paper cups of water from the vendor—cold enough that condensation immediately beaded on the outside. When he handed one to you, your fingers brushed, and you pulled back like you'd been shocked.
You had been shocked. He could see it in your eyes—that same startled awareness, that same confusion. Like something fundamental had shifted, and you didn't know what to do with it.
He didn't know, either.
Bucky drained half his water in one go, the cold doing nothing to settle the heat under his skin. When he lowered the cup, he found you staring at him. Not at his face—at his shoulder. At the damp patch on his shirt where you'd buried your face.
Your expression was unreadable.
"So," Bucky said, because the silence was killing him. "Beach? Or you wanna hit some more rides first?"
"Beach," you managed to say. "Definitely the beach, I think..."
Right. The beach was safe. The beach was open space and fresh air and had absolutely no confined seating that would require you to press your entire body against his while you screamed into his shoulder.
Bucky crushed his empty paper cup and tossed it in the nearest bin, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were still shaking slightly. "Yeah. Beach sounds good."
You walked down the wooden steps that led from the boardwalk to the sand, and immediately the world changed. The carnival chaos of the rides and arcades faded to background noise, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves and the ambient sound of beach life—children laughing, radios playing, and the occasional shriek when someone got splashed by a particularly aggressive wave.
The sand was hot under Bucky's shoes, already baked by the late-morning sun. He could feel it through the leather soles, radiating heat that promised blisters if you both stayed out here too long without finding shade.
You had stopped at the bottom of the steps, scanning the crowded beach for an open spot. The wind off the ocean caught your dress, plastering the green cotton against your body for a moment before releasing it. Bucky looked very deliberately at the horizon.
"There," you said, pointing toward a spot about thirty yards down, closer to the water where the sand was packed and damp. "How about between those umbrellas?"
Bucky followed your gesture and nodded. It was as good a spot as any—far enough from the nearest families that you wouldn't be dodging stray beach balls, close enough to the water that you'd get the breeze off the ocean.
Crossing the beach meant weaving between blankets and umbrellas and the sprawled bodies of sun-worshippers. A group of teenage boys were playing keep-away with a football. Two girls in modest bathing costumes giggled as they waded into the surf. An older couple sat in canvas chairs, reading newspapers and occasionally looking up to watch the waves.
Normal. Everything was completely normal.
Except Bucky was hyper-aware of you walking beside him—the way you had to lift your skirt slightly to keep it from dragging in the sand, exposing your calves and the tops of your stockings.
The two of you reached the spot you had indicated, and you immediately set down your canvas bag and started digging through it. Bucky stood there like an idiot, hands in his pockets, trying to figure out what the protocol was. Sit? Stand? Offer to spread out... what? You hadn't brought a blanket. Hadn't thought this through at all, apparently.
"I'm an idiot," you muttered, echoing his thoughts. You'd stopped digging and were staring into your bag like it had personally offended you. "I didn't even bring anything to sit on."
"That's okay," Bucky said quickly. "We can just—" He gestured vaguely at the sand. "—I don't mind."
You looked at the sand, then down at your green dress, and Bucky could see the calculation happening in real time. The dress would get sandy. Probably stained. And given that it was clearly one of your nicer day dresses, that mattered to you.
Before he could think better of it, Bucky shrugged out of his white button-down. The undershirt beneath was thin cotton and sleeveless, the kind he wore under his work clothes. Not exactly appropriate beach attire by polite standards, but it was hot as hell, and you needed something to sit on.
Spreading the shirt on the sand, he smoothed it flat. It wasn't much—barely enough for one person—but it was something.
When he looked up, you were staring at him.
Not at his face. At his arms.
Bucky became acutely aware of exactly what he'd just revealed—the full definition of shoulders and biceps earned from years of dock work, the visible muscle of his forearms, the scars that marked his knuckles, and the inside of his left wrist from a loading accident two years back.
He'd just stripped down to his undershirt in front of you.
Your gaze snapped back to his face, and the warmth in your face was back, unmistakable. "You didn't have to do that."
"It's just a shirt," Bucky insisted, his voice brooking no argument. "Sit, doll. Please."
You hesitated for another moment, then slowly lowered yourself onto the makeshift seat, tucking your legs to the side in that way women did to keep their skirts modest. The green fabric pooled around you, and Bucky tried not to think about the fact that you were sitting on his shirt, that the fabric touching your thighs had been against his skin just moments ago.
He dropped down onto the sand beside you—not on the shirt, just in the hot sand itself—and immediately felt the heat soak through his trousers. It was uncomfortable, but it gave him something to focus on besides the way you were very purposefully not looking at him.
The ocean stretched out before you both, endless and blue and dotted with little swimmers. The waves rolled in with hypnotic regularity, white foam hissing as it climbed the sand before retreating. A gull screamed overhead. The sun beat down, turning everything bright and sharp and almost painful in its clarity.
Bucky could feel sweat gathering at his temples, trickling down his spine. Could feel the burn starting on his forearms. Could feel every inch of space between his body and yours—eight inches, maybe nine?—and the way it felt both too close and not nearly close enough.
"This was a good idea," you said, finally. "The beach, I mean. It's nice. Cooler here."
It wasn't cooler, actually. It was brutally, oppressively hot. But Bucky nodded anyway like it was true. "Yeah. It's nice."
Silence settled between you two again. Bucky watched a wave climb the sand and then retreat, leaving dark, wet marks in its wake. He watched another, and another, trying to find some kind of rhythm, some kind of centre, something to anchor him besides the awareness of you sitting so close he could reach out and touch you if he just—
"Bucky," you started, and something in your tone made him turn his head.
You were looking at him now. Really looking, your eyes searching his face like you were trying to solve a puzzle. One hand had come up to that stubborn curl again, tucking it behind your ear, and your teeth caught your bottom lip for just a second.
"Yeah?" he managed.
"What..." you looked away, as if mustering the courage. Because you were. You exhaled and pressed your lips together. "Buck. What did you mean before, 'bout us not being little anymore?"
What did you mean?
Tell her, Steve's voice echoed in his skull. Just try.
She kept them in a glass until every single petal fell off. Pressed one in that book.
She doesn't perform for you. She's just herself.
Bucky tried to speak, but nothing came out except a rough exhale. "Buck?" you prompted, softer now. Almost uncertain. Like you were second-guessing whether you should have asked him at all.
That hesitation was what broke him. The idea that you might take it back, might decide you didn't want to know after all, might retreat back into safe territory where you could pretend Thursday night hadn't happened, and he hadn't said anything and everything could stay exactly the way it had always been... he couldn't let that happen. Couldn't let this moment slip away.
If he didn't say it now, he never would.
"I meant that when we were kids, it was different. Simple. You were Steve's little sister, and I was the neighbourhood kid who came around too much, and that was all it was. All it needed to be."
The words felt clumsy. Wrong. But they were coming now, unstoppable, like a flood he couldn't hold back.
"And then you weren't a kid anymore. You were thirteen, and you wore that green dress to the church dance, and I was fifteen, and I—"
—Bucky couldn't look at you. Couldn't bear to see your expression, whatever it was—confusion or pity or worse, that gentle kind of rejection that would try to soften the blow. So he stared at the ocean instead, at the endless blue, at the white foam of the waves.
"I couldn't stop looking at you," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "During the dance. After. Every time I came around after that. You'd be there doing something completely normal—mending Steve's shirt or reading on the stoop or making dinner—and I'd just... I couldn't look away."
Bucky's heart was hammering so hard now, that he thought it might actually burst through his ribs.
"It got worse," he continued, the words coming faster now, desperate. "Every year it got worse. You got your job at the dress shop, and you'd come home with fabric samples and you'd be so excited about them, and I'd sit there listening to you talk about stitching and patterns, and I didn't understand any of it, but I didn't care because it was you talking. And then—"
He had to force the next words out. "Then you started noticing other guys. Tommy Hargrove. That boy from the bakery whose name I can't even remember because I was too busy being relieved when you turned him down. And I'd—" He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "—I'd take other girls out because I thought maybe if I just tried hard enough with someone else, it would go away. What I felt. But it never did. It never went away."
He finally—finally—made himself look at you.
"I don't think of you like when we were little," Bucky added. "I haven't in a long time. I think about you all the time. At the docks. When I'm trying to sleep. The moment I wake up. You're the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing before I close my eyes at night."
He swallowed, hard, and finally just said it. "I'm in love with you. Have been. For years. And I know—I know you don't feel the same way, I know you think I'm just the guy who's always around, Steve's best friend, but I can't..." His voice broke completely. "I can't keep pretending anymore. Not after today. Not after having you against me on that ride and knowing what it feels like to hold you, and knowing I'll never—"
—his hands were shaking now. His whole body was shaking, actually. The sun beat down mercilessly, and Bucky felt stripped bare, every defence gone, every wall demolished. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. Told you everything.
And now, he had to wait. Had to sit here in the scorching sand and the salt air and wait for you to say something—anything—to either give him a sliver of hope, or destroy him completely.
But you did something he never expected.
You grabbed his shirt, hauled yourself closer, and pressed your lips to his.
Oh.
Oh, God.
Your lips were soft. Softer than he'd imagined in five years of forbidden thoughts, softer than anything had a right to be. They pressed against his with uncertain pressure, warm and slightly chapped from the salt air, and Bucky's entire nervous system short-circuited.
You were kissing him.
You were kissing him.
His brain struggled to process it. The reality of your mouth on his was jarring, a stark contrast to the lifetime of longing that had convinced him this would never, could never happen. Every synapse misfired. Every coherent thought dissolved into chaos.
But his body—his body knew exactly what to do.
His hand came up, trembling violently, and cupped your jaw. The touch was reverent, disbelieving, his calloused palm cradling the soft curve of your face like you were something precious and breakable. Your skin was hot from the sun and warm under his thumb, and when he registered that he was actually touching your face, that this was real, the last of his restraint gave way.
A sound escaped him—desperate, broken, caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan—and he kissed you back.
God, he kissed you back.
Five years of want poured into the press of his lips against yours. His other hand found your waist, fingers spreading across the green cotton, feeling the give of your soft body underneath, and he pulled you closer—needed you closer, needed to eliminate every inch of space between them.
You made a small sound against his mouth, and your lips parted slightly. The kiss deepened, becoming something more urgent. Your free hand came up to grip his shoulder, nails digging in through the thin cotton of his undershirt, and Bucky felt that touch like a spark.
You tasted like lemonade and salt and something indefinably you, and Bucky wanted to memorize it, wanted to catalogue every detail because his brain still couldn't quite believe this was happening, and any second he'd wake up in his narrow bed and realize this was just another dream.
But it wasn't a dream. Your hand was fisted in his shirt, real and solid and there, while your mouth moved against his with increasing confidence, learning the shape of him the way he was learning the shape of you. The warmth of your body yielded under his palm, and when he angled his head to kiss you deeper, you followed his lead with a small, breathy sound that made his blood sing.
Bucky pulled back—just far enough to breathe, just far enough to see your face—and immediately wished he hadn't because what he saw there left him reeling.
Your eyes were closed, your lashes brushing against your flushed cheeks. Your lips were parted and swollen from kissing—that hint of lipstick completely gone, now—and your breath came in short, sharp gasps that matched his own.
"Hey," he breathed, and his voice was completely wrecked. Hoarse and raw and barely recognizable. "I—"
—he, admittedly, didn't know how to finish that sentence. Your hand was still fisted in his shirt, keeping him close. Your other hand had slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. The touch made him shudder.
"Don't," you whispered, and your voice was just as wrecked as his. "Don't say anything."
You pulled him back down.
This kiss was different. Deeper, and far more certain. Your mouth opened under his without coaxing, and Bucky groaned, his hand tightening on your waist, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap, the green dress bunched between them. His other hand slid from your jaw to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.
The taste of you, the feel of you, the small, desperate sounds you were making against his mouth—it was everything. It was too much. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
When you finally broke apart—had to, because breathing was regrettably still necessary—Bucky rested his forehead against yours. Their breath mingled in the small space between them, both of them panting like they'd run a marathon. His pulse thundered in his ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the heaving of his chest.
"You kissed me," he said stupidly, because apparently his brain was still offline and his mouth was just saying things without permission.
He felt your laugh more than heard it—a small huff of air against his lips, a slight shake of your shoulders under his hands.
"Yeah," you whispered. "I did."
"Why?" The question came out desperate, confused, and shot through with disbelief.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your hand was still tangled in his hair, your other still gripping his shirt. Your eyes searched his face, tracing over his features like you were memorizing them.
"Because," you said, your voice shaking, "I think I've been wanting to for a while now. I just... I didn't know it until you said—until you told me—"
—you stopped and bit your lip. That same lip Bucky had just been kissing. The sight of your teeth catching the swollen flesh made a fierce possessiveness stir in his gut.
"I thought you didn't want me," you whispered. "I thought I was just Steve's little sister. The girl you had to be nice to because of him. And all those other girls—Kathleen and that blonde from the bakery—I thought..."
"No." The word broke from Bucky, sharp and desperate. "No, doll, no." His hands came up to frame your face, both of them now, cradling your jaw with a tenderness that contradicted the urgency in his voice.
"You're not Steve's little sister," he insisted, his thumb tracing your lip. "I mean—you are, but that's not—that's not how I see you. You're the girl who reads the same book five times because it makes you happy. Who hums while you're sewing. Who makes lemonade just a little too tart, because that's how your ma made it? Who kept those carnations I bought you until every petal fell off?"
He watched your eyes widen, and the flush spread across your cheeks.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Steve told me. About the flower you pressed in your book."
"I—" Your voice was barely audible. "How did you—"
"—because I notice everything about you, sweetheart," Bucky breathed. "I notice when you've had a bad day at the shop because you come home and immediately start mending something, even if nothing needs mending. I notice that you tug at your left earlobe when you're nervous and your right earlobe when you're thinking. I notice that you take your coffee with two sugars but your tea with none."
His thumb was still tracing your lip, and he watched, mesmerized, as your breath caught.
"I notice that you wore lipstick today," he continued, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Just a little. Like you weren't sure if you should. And I spent the entire train ride trying not to stare at your mouth and failed completely."
"Bucky..." A tear spilled over, tracing down your cheek. Bucky caught it with his thumb and wiped it away with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"Don't cry," he whispered. "Please don't cry, doll."
"I'm not sad," you managed, and your laugh was watery, shaky, and beautiful. "I'm just—I can't believe—"
—this time, he kissed you. It was slower. Deeper. Sweeter than the desperate first kiss, softer than the urgent second. This was a kiss of understanding, of years of want finally acknowledged, of two people finding each other after dancing around the truth for far too long.
Bucky's hand tightened in your hair. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you fully against him, and he poured everything he had into the kiss—every lonely night, every moment of longing, every time he'd watched you smile at someone else and wished it was for him.
When you broke apart this time, you were smiling. Actually smiling, your whole face lit up with it, your eyes bright and clear and filled with unmistakable joy.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips. "In case that wasn't clear. I love you too, you big, gigantic idiot."
Bucky's laugh was half sob, the sound punched out of him by the sheer relief of hearing those words. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You kissed him again, quick and light. "I think I have for a while. I just didn't let myself think about it because I thought—" You stopped. Shook your head. "—doesn't matter what I thought. I was wrong."
"We were both wrong," Bucky said. He couldn't stop touching you—his hands mapping the curve of your waist, the softness of your cheek, and the wild tangle of your hair. Like he needed to confirm you were real, that this was actually happening. "We wasted a lot of time being idiots."
"Then let's stop wasting time," you said, your lips pressing against his.
And Bucky Barnes, dockworker and fool in love, kissed you back on a crowded beach in Coney Island while the sun beat down and the waves crashed, and the whole world kept turning, completely indifferent to the fact that his entire universe had just realigned around the girl in his arms.
"Buck," you whispered against his mouth, then. "Any more kissing, and we're gonna cause a scandal."
With those words, reality crashed back in with jarring force.
Bucky became suddenly, acutely aware of exactly where they were and what they'd been doing. His hands were still on you—one tangled in your hair, the other splayed across your lower back—and you were practically in his lap, your body pressed against his in a way that was absolutely, categorically not appropriate for a public beach in broad daylight.
A flush rose in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun.
He pulled back—reluctantly, every fibre of his being screaming in protest—and risked a glance around them.
A middle-aged woman three blankets over was staring at them with undisguised disapproval, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Two teenage girls were giggling behind their hands, whispering to each other. An older gentleman had lowered his newspaper just enough to shoot them a look that clearly said get a room.
"Shit," Bucky breathed, and his hands snapped back from you. "Shit, you're right. I'm sorry, I—"
—but even as he said it, he couldn't quite make himself move away from you. Couldn't put the distance between them that propriety demanded. Because you were here, real and warm and looking at him like he hung the moon, and the idea of not touching you felt physically painful.
You were flushed—that full-body blush he'd seen before, spreading from your cheeks down your throat and disappearing beneath the collar of your green dress. Your hair was a complete disaster now, half the pins lost somewhere in the sand, loose strands falling around your face. Your lips were swollen and thoroughly kissed, and the sight of them made Bucky's stomach clench with want.
You looked absolutely debauched. And absolutely beautiful.
And like you were definitely causing a scene.
"We should—we should probably go somewhere. Less. Public," he said, roughly.
You raised an eyebrow, and immediately Bucky realized how that sounded. His eyes went wide. "Not like that! I mean—I just meant—somewhere we can talk without..." He gestured helplessly at the disapproving woman, at the giggling girls, at the entire crowded beach bearing witness to their complete loss of propriety.
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Back to the boardwalk?" he suggested. "We could walk. Or get something to drink. Or—" He stopped, looked at you, really looked at you. "—what do you want to do?"
Because that mattered. What you wanted. You'd just crossed some kind of monumental line, had changed everything between them in the span of a few devastating kisses, and Bucky had no idea what the protocol was for this. No script to follow. No precedent.
All he knew was that he was with you in the middle of Coney Island, and people were staring, and he should probably care more about that than he did. Should probably be worried about your reputation, about what people would say if they saw Steve Rogers' little sister necking with his best friend on a public beach.
And yet, you were smiling at him—that beautiful, lopsided smile that made your eyes crinkle—and Bucky found he couldn't quite bring himself to regret a single second of what had just happened.
Even if you had just scandalized half of Brooklyn.
"Somewhere private sounds great, Buck," you replied, gently.
He nodded—probably too quickly, likely looking like an overeager idiot—and rose to retrieve his shirt from the sand.
The white cotton was a disaster, covered in grit and wrinkled beyond salvation. He shook it out once, twice, sending sand flying, then gave up and just bundled it under his arm. His mother would have his hide for treating good fabric that way, but his mother wasn't here, and you were, and you had just said you wanted somewhere private, and Bucky's brain was having trouble processing anything beyond that.
He offered his free hand, and you took it immediately, your fingers threading through his like they belonged there. He squeezed your hand, and you squeezed back.
You walked.
You walked past the disapproving woman and the giggling girls and the newspaper-reading gentleman. Past families with their picnic lunches and young couples playing in the surf. Up the beach toward the boardwalk, their feet sinking into hot sand with each step.
Bucky was hyperaware of every point of contact you had with him—your palm against his, the occasional swing of your hip against his thigh. His undershirt was still plastered to his chest, probably indecent, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Couldn't think about anything except the fact that your hand was in his, and you'd said I love you too and that you were looking for somewhere to be alone together.
The boardwalk stretched above, casting long shadows across the sand. And underneath it...
Bucky's gaze caught on the shadowed space beneath the wooden planks. It was quieter there, cooler, the sun blocked by the boards overhead. A few other couples had claimed spots in the dimness, far enough apart to give each other privacy. The sound of the ocean was muffled, the carnival noise from above reduced to a distant hum.
Perfect.
"There." He tipped his chin toward the shadows, and you followed his gaze.
He felt your fingers tighten around his. "Yeah. Okay."
You descended into the shadows together.
The temperature dropped immediately—not cool, exactly, but a relief from the brutal sun. The sand was firmer here, packed and damp from the high tide. Light filtered through the gaps between the boards overhead, creating stripes of gold and shadow across the ground.
Bucky found a spot against one of the massive wooden support pylons, far enough from the other couples that you'd have privacy. He set his ruined shirt down, and turned to you.
You were already looking at him.
He could barely see you in the dimness—just the shape of your face, your loose hair, and the quick rise and fall of your chest. And the way you were looking at him—
—Bucky's hands came up to cup your face before he could think about it, his thumbs stroking across your cheeks. "Hi," he said stupidly.
Your laugh was breathless. "Hi."
Then you were kissing him again.
There was no audience here; no need to hold back. Your hands fisted in his undershirt, pulling him closer, and Bucky went willingly, desperately, backing you up against the pylon with his body. The wood was rough against his palms when he braced his hands on either side of your head, caging you in, and you made a small sound of approval that bypassed his brain entirely and went straight to his groin.
His mouth moved against yours with increasing urgency, and when your lips parted on a gasp, he deepened the kiss, tasting you fully. You tasted like salt and sunshine and something sweet, and Bucky wanted to memorize every single detail.
Your hands slid up his chest—he could feel the path of your palms through the thin cotton, feel the way his muscles jumped under your touch—and when your fingers found the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, Bucky groaned into your mouth.
You pulled him down harder, kissed him deeper, and Bucky's control started fraying at the edges. His hands dropped from the pylon to your waist, spanning the soft curve of it, and when he pulled your hips flush against the hardening length of him, you gasped.
The sound broke through the haze like a gunshot. Bucky pulled back—not far, just enough to breathe, just enough to see your face—and what he saw there made his chest ache.
Your eyes were dark and wide, the kind of look that made his brain short-circuit. Lips red and thoroughly kissed, hair a complete disaster. "We should..." He had to stop and clear his throat. "We should probably talk. About. Things."
Your laugh was shaky. "You want to talk?"
"No," Bucky admitted honestly. "I want to keep kissing you until neither of us can breathe. But we should—there are things we need to figure out. Like what this means. What we're doing. If you want—" He stopped. Started over. "What do you want? From this. From me."
Your hands were still in his hair, your body still pressed against his. "I... I want you," you whispered.
His hands tightened on your waist—too tight, probably, his fingers digging into the soft give of your body through the green cotton—and his forehead dropped to rest against yours, his eyes squeezing shut. He had to physically fight the urge to just take—to grind his hips against yours, to hike your skirt up right here in the shadows and find the friction he was starving for.
"You can't—you don't know what you're saying—"
"—I do." Your voice was steady despite the way your body was trembling against his. Your fingers tightened in his hair, keeping him close. "I know exactly what I'm saying, Buck. I want you."
A shudder ran through him, full-body and uncontrollable. His hips pressed harder against yours—automatic, instinctive—and when you gasped at the contact, at the undeniable evidence of exactly how much he wanted you, Bucky's last thread of coherent thought nearly snapped.
"You mean—" He had to stop. Had to breathe. Had to make sure he understood because if he was wrong about this, if he misread what you were saying— "What do you mean? You want to—to be together? Or—"
God, he couldn't even say it. Couldn't put into words the images currently scorching through his brain—you underneath him, your dress bunched around your waist, your hands on his bare skin, you making those small desperate sounds while he—
"—both," you whispered, and your eyes were huge and dark when he forced himself to look at you. "All of it. I want—I want to be yours, Bucky. Officially. I want everyone to know. And I want..." Your voice dropped lower, shakier. "I want you to touch me. Really touch me. I want to know what it feels like. With you."
The confession shattered him.
"Jesus Christ," Bucky breathed, and then his mouth was on yours again, desperate and claiming. His hands slid from your waist to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, and when you arched into him with a small moan, every rational thought fled.
He kissed you like he was drowning. Like you were oxygen and he'd been underwater for five years. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, trailing hot open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, and when he found that spot where your pulse was hammering, he couldn't help himself—he sucked gently, feeling you gasp, feeling your hands tighten in his hair.
His hands were shaking as they slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts through the fabric of your dress. You were so soft, so warm, and when you pressed into his touch with a needy sound, Bucky's control cracked ever further.
"I want to give you everything." The words scraped out of him, muffled against your throat. "Want to marry you. Want to wake up next to you every morning. Want to come home to you every night. Want—" His voice broke. "—God, I want you so badly it's killing me."
"Then take me," you whispered. "I'm yours."
The words nearly broke him. Bucky pulled back, his breathing ragged, his hands coming up to frame your face with desperate tenderness. "Not like this," he managed. "Not—you deserve better than under a boardwalk. You deserve everything right. Proper."
Even as he said it, his body screamed in protest. Even as he said it, his hands were still on you, his hips still pressed against yours.
"I don't care about proper," you said fiercely. "I care about you."
"I know. God, I know." Bucky's thumb traced your bottom lip, swollen and red. "But I do. I care. Because you're—you're everything. And I'm not going to—we're not going to do anything that could hurt you or your reputation or—"
—he stopped. Forced himself to take a breath. "We do this right." His voice was rough but certain. "Properly. I ask Steve for permission—"
"—Buck—"
"—No, I ask Steve," Bucky repeated, firmly, because he was not budging on this, no matter how much he wanted you. "He's your brother, and he deserves to know properly."
His forehead pressed against yours again. "But until then," Bucky continued, though it physically hurt to say it, "we keep this—" He gestured vaguely at your current position, at your bodies pressed together, in the shadows. "—to a minimum. Because if we don't, I'm going to lose what's left of my control, and I refuse to disrespect you like that."
You studied his face, your eyes tracing every line of it. Then your mouth curved—that beautiful, lopsided thing that made his chest ache.
"You're too good to me," you whispered.
"I'm really not." Bucky laughed, the sound strained. "I'm barely holding on here, doll. You have no idea how badly I want to—"
—bend you over this railing. Sink into you until we both forget where we are—
"—you deserve better than me losing my head under a boardwalk."
"And what if I want you to lose your head?" you asked innocently.
The question was pure, unadulterated temptation. Bucky groaned, his hands sliding to your waist and holding you there, creating just enough space that he could think.
Then you kissed him again, and Bucky gave in—kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his hands roaming your back and waist and hips with desperate reverence. Let himself feel the softness of your body, the heat of your skin, and the way you responded to his touch with small sounds of pleasure.
But when his hands started drifting higher, when his control started fraying dangerously, he made himself pull back again. "We should go." The words came out hoarser than he'd wanted. "Before I forget that I'm trying to be a gentleman."
You laughed, breathless and beautiful. "Go where?"
"Anywhere that's not here." Bucky pressed one more kiss to your forehead, gentle and reverent. "Somewhere I can hold your hand and walk beside you and not—" He gestured helplessly at your current state. "—y'know."
"Okay," you agreed softly. Then, with a slightly wicked gleam in your eye, you added, "but later? After you talk to Steve? After we do this proper?"
"After," Bucky promised, his voice dropping to something dark and heated, "I'm going to make up for every second of waiting. I swear."
"I'm holding you to that, Barnes." The look you gave him could have burned a hole through the boardwalk, and the promise in your eyes immediately filled his head with thoughts he should not be having—
—you in a bed, naked and flushed and gasping his name. No more barriers, no more holding back, just skin and sweat when he finally, finally buried himself inside you. He could almost feel the way you'd wrap around him, the way your body would fit against his—
"—you're thinking about it, aren't you?" you observed, and there was something deeply satisfied in your tone. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Like you enjoyed it.
"Yeah, doll," Bucky admitted roughly, because lying seemed pointless when his body was currently broadcasting exactly what he was thinking. "I'm thinking about it."
"Well, I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not," you teased, and then you ducked under his arm and stepped away, leaving him braced against the pylon like a man who'd just survived a hurricane. His hands were still shaking, his pulse still going haywire. And various parts of his anatomy were making their displeasure with this whole being a gentleman thing very clear.
You bent to retrieve your canvas bag from where it had fallen in the sand, and the movement made your dress pull tight across your backside. Bucky looked away immediately, his entire body strung tight, fingers pressing hard into his own thighs.
Think about something else. Anything else. Baseball. The docks. That time Steve got food poisoning and threw up for six hours straight—
"—you coming?" you asked, already several steps away, looking back at him over your shoulder with that same mischievous gleam.
You were going to be the death of him.
"Yeah," Bucky managed, pushing off from the pylon. He grabbed his ruined shirt, shook it out one more time in a futile attempt to make it presentable, and followed you out from under the boardwalk.
The sunlight slammed into him after the cool shadows, blinding and immediate. Bucky squinted against it, his free hand automatically finding yours as you emerged onto the beach proper. Your fingers threaded through his immediately, naturally, like you'd been doing this for years instead of mere minutes.
You walked back toward the boardwalk stairs, and Bucky was acutely aware of the stares you were attracting. His undershirt was still damp and clinging, probably indecent. Your hair was a disaster, with pins lost or hanging uselessly and loose strands falling around your shoulders. Your lips were swollen, and your dress was rumpled and sandy.
The two of you looked exactly like what you were; a couple of young adults who'd just tried to swallow each other's tongues.
A young mother with two children gave you both a scandalized look. An elderly couple shook their heads in disapproval. But there were also knowing smiles from some of the younger couples and sympathetic grins from men who clearly remembered what it was like to be young and in love and unable to keep their hands to themselves.
Bucky should probably care more about the disapproval. Should probably worry about your reputation, about what people would say if word got back to your neighbourhood.
But you were smiling, and you were holding his hand in broad daylight where anyone could see, and Bucky found he couldn't bring himself to regret a single thing.
Climbing the stairs to the boardwalk, the crowd swallowed you up immediately. The noise was overwhelming after the relative quiet of the beach—carnival barkers, children shrieking, the mechanical roar of rides, music bleeding from a dozen different sources.
"So," you said, raising your voice to be heard over the din. "What now?"
Now I take you somewhere private and finish what we started, Bucky's lizard brain supplied helpfully, ideally with a lot more clothes off. He mentally whacked himself with a newspaper. Gentleman. He was being gentlemanly with you.
"Now," he said, forcing his voice into something resembling normal, "we walk. Maybe get some ice cream. Act like normal people on a normal date."
"This is a date?" Your smile turned smug. "I thought this was just two friends going to Coney Island."
"Doll, after what just happened, we are way past friends."
Your laugh was bright and unrestrained, and the sound of it made Bucky's chest feel too full. He tugged you closer, your joined hands swinging between you two, and started walking with no particular destination in mind.
You passed the shooting gallery, the ring toss, and the strength tester, where some kid was trying and failing to ring the bell. The smell of popcorn and cotton candy hung thick in the air, mixing with salt and suntan oil and the metallic tang of the rides.
Finally, you spoke. "Buck?"
"Yeah?"
You stopped walking, pulling him to a halt. When he turned to look at you, you were biting your lip, your expression suddenly uncertain.
"When you talk to Steve," you said quietly, "do you really think he'll—I mean, he's protective, and you're his best friend, and what if he..."
"Don't worry about that. He already knows," Bucky interrupted gently. "Has known for years, actually. And he's been trying to get me to do something about it for just as long."
Your eyes went comically wide. "What?"
"Yeah." Bucky's laugh was slightly embarrassed. "Thursday night, after you went upstairs, he basically called me a coward and told me to stop pining and actually tell you how I felt." He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "Pretty sure he engineered this whole thing, actually. The convenient excuse not to come today? That was him playing matchmaker."
"That little..." You stopped, shook your head, but you were smiling. "I should've known. He's been weird all week. Looking at me funny. Making comments."
"He just wants you to be happy," Bucky said. "And for some insane reason, he thinks I'm the guy who can do that."
"You are," you said immediately, fiercely. "You absolutely are."
The conviction in your voice undid him completely. He pulled you close, right there in the middle of the crowded boardwalk, and kissed your forehead. "Come on," he said against your hair. "Let's get that ice cream. And then we should probably head back before Steve thinks I've kidnapped you."
"Or before we cause any more scandals," you added wryly.
"Yeah, doll. That too."
Finding an ice cream stand a few yards down, Bucky ordered two cones—vanilla for him, strawberry for you, because, of course, he knew your favourite flavour. He paid, handed you the cone, and watched as you took the first lick, your tongue curling around the pink cream to catch a drip. The sight hit him low in the gut.
He looked away immediately, biting the inside of his cheek.
Think about baseball. Cold showers. Steve's asthma attacks. Anything but that mouth and that tongue. Anything but how you'd look on your knees...
Somehow he kept it together. You walked and ate your ice cream, and slowly—very slowly—Bucky's body started to calm down. The desperate urgency faded into something warmer and steadier. Contentment, maybe. The simple pleasure of being beside you, holding your hand, knowing that you were his now, in a way you hadn't been this morning.
"So," you said eventually, licking the last of your cone. "When are you going to talk to Steve?"
"Tonight," Bucky said immediately. "Soon as we get back. I'm not waiting another day. Not after—" He gestured between you two. "—not after this."
"And then?"
"Then, I'm wooing you properly. Taking you to dinner. To the pictures. Walking you home and kissing you goodnight on your doorstep where the whole neighbourhood can see." His voice dropped. "And then, when the time's right, I'm going to ask you to marry me. And if you say yes—"
"—when I say yes," you corrected.
"When you say yes," Bucky amended, his smile going soft, "then we do this right. All of it. Everything I promised you under that boardwalk and more."
Your blush was back, fierce, and beautiful. "I'm going to hold you to that."
"I'm counting on it."
You walked back toward the train station as the afternoon heat built toward its peak, and the frantic wanting that had been clawing at Bucky all day finally went quiet. Not gone—just... resting. Content to wait.
He'd spent five years wanting you. Five years convinced he couldn't have you. Five years of torture disguised as friendship.
And now you were his.
Now he got to walk beside you, hold your hand, and kiss you whenever he wanted (within reason, anyway—propriety still mattered, even if his body was currently screaming at him to drag you into the nearest alley, hike your dress up, and take what you'd been offering him).
Now he gets to plan a future that included you, in every possible way.
He could wait a little longer for that.
The train back to Brooklyn was just as crowded as the one out had been, but this time when you pressed against him, Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist, held you close, and rested his chin on top of your head.
By the time you climbed the stairs to the Rogers apartment, the sun was starting its descent toward evening. Bucky's shirt was still ruined, his hair was a mess, and he probably looked like he'd been through a war.
He'd never been happier in his life.
Steve was sitting on the stoop when you two arrived, sketchpad on his knees, looking for all the world like he'd been waiting for your return. When he looked up and saw you—saw your wild hair and swollen lips, saw the way Bucky couldn't stop looking at you—his face split into the biggest grin Bucky had ever seen.
"About damn time," Steve said. And Bucky, still holding your hand, still feeling the ghost of your kisses on his lips, could only roll his eyes and agree.
Summary: You’re in the middle of a rant, and Joel Miller couldn’t care less. He’s calm, dismissive, and entirely too confident for a man who should probably be listening. But then he does something bold enough to stop you mid‑sentence—and suddenly the argument turns into a different kind of standoff. One you’re not sure you’re ready to lose—and he can see every crack forming.
Warnings: 18+, Smut, MDNI, slight fluff, sleazy!joel, fuck buddies, fat!joel, riding, pinv, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names, JOEL CALLS YOUR PUSSY HONEYPOT, daddy kink just once, Joel talks shit most of the time, orgasm control (?), one (1) spank, nipple play, biting also once, male masturbation, no outbreak
A/N: Guys, I can’t believe how beloved sleazy!Joel has become… 🤭 I hadn’t planned on it, but I ended up writing a little continuation to ‘Strawberry Creampie.’ It’s not as filthy as the first one, but it definitely has its own dirty energy and Joel’s nonstop, ridiculous yapping. Enjoy, pookies!! <3333
“Joel, this is disgusting. It’s stiff. It’s literally stiff with gasoline and whatever the hell you spilled on it. And you left it on my couch. My couch.”
The van feels like it’s melting. Heat clings to your skin, the air thick and heavy, carrying the usual mix of gasoline and old leather. (And cigarettes, though you’ve long since gotten used to those.) Under all of it, your nose still catches Joel’s cheap aftershave—the one he splashes on like holy water.
In your mouth, a lollipop.
He bought it for you while grabbing his cigarettes at the gas station, leaning over the display with that lazy, sleazy grin and saying, “C’mon, hon. Grab a color. You always look real cute when you’re workin’ on one of these.” Then, lower, just for you: “Get the biggest one they got, sweetheart. You always handle it just fine.”
And now, Joel is slouched in front of you, on the built‑in bench with sweat all over him. His shirt was tossed somewhere behind him, leaving the broad, heavy spread of his stomach bare to the thick summer air. Sweat beaded along the crease where his belly met his ribs, sliding down in slow, shining trails.
He’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear, another unlit one rolling between his fingers, and a beer sweating on the table besides him. He looks like he’s been here for hours, like he’s slowly melting into that furniture.
His eyes aren’t even on the shirt you’re holding in front of him. Instead, he sighs dramatically, like you’re the one inconveniencing him.
“Sweetheart, you’re talkin’ like I marched into your place with a whole god damn laundry basket and dumped it on your bed. It’s one shirt. One. And it ain’t even that bad. Smells like a hard day’s work, that’s all.” He shrugs.
You stop pacing just to stare at him.
“It smells like a gas station bathroom.”
“You’ve ever been in a gas station bathroom, baby?” He chuckles hazy. “‘Cause if you had, you’d be thankin’ me for bringin’ somethin’ in your house that smells better than that.”
You groan, rolling your eyes and toss the shirt at him. It lands across his stomach and he doesn’t even flinch. Just lets it sit there like a napkin he’s too lazy to move.
“And another thing,” you say, pointing at him. “Stop leaving your cigarettes in my apartment. They’re everywhere. On the counter. On the floor. In my plants. One was in my plants, Joel.”
He snorts. “They ain’t lit. They’re fine.”
You push the lollipop off to the side, letting it sit deep in the hollow of your cheek. Joel’s eyes flick to the way it bulges your cheek out, the stick tapping against your lip every time you speak.
“They’re dirty,” you snap. “They’re gross. And you leave them everywhere like some kind of—”
“Like some kinda man who ain’t got a trash can in his van,” he interrupts, gesturing around the cramped space. “Look at this place. You see a trash can? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It’s a damn good one.”
You throw your hands up. “You’re impossible.”
Joel leans back even further, belly rounding, thighs spread, looking like he’s settling in for a real long, and real comfortable argument. (His favourite thing to do).
“Impossible? Sweetheart, I’m a delight. You just dramatic as hell. You get all worked up over nothin’. A shirt here, a cigarette there—“
“And my leftovers,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t forget those.”
Joel pauses, squints, then nods slowly as he remembers shoving your leftovers into his mouth all at once the night before.
“Oh yeah. Those were good.” He licks his lips.
“They were mine.”
“They were sittin’ in my line of sight,” he counters. “And you know how I get when I’m hungry. You can’t just leave food around me like some kinda test. That’s entrapment.”
You stare at him, jaw dropped. “Entrapment?”
“Damn right. You left ’em right there on the counter, all innocent‑lookin’, like they weren’t beggin’ me to eat ’em. What was I supposed to do? Walk away? I ain’t no saint.”
You can’t believe what you’re hearing. How one person can lack even an ounce of responsibility or respect is beyond you. It feels like talking to a child who hasn’t learned the basics of common sense yet.
So, you pace again, muttering under your breath, waving your hands, ranting about boundaries and hygiene and how he’s slowly turning your apartment into a landfill, because apparently turning his own van wasn’t enough and he has to turn your—
“Keep goin’, baby. I like when you get all fired up. You start walkin’ around, talkin’ fast, wavin’ your arms…gets you all worked up.” His voice drops into that long, lazy drawl he uses when he wants to get under your skin.
You whip around. “Don’t.”
He grins wider.
“You never take anything seriously. Ever. Not the mess, not the cigarettes, not my space, not the fact that you treat my apartment like a damn storage unit—”
Joel exhales a long, dramatic sigh, head tipping back against the wall.
“And you know what? I’m done. I’m done letting you walk in, eat my food, leave your crap everywhere, and act like it’s all just—just—”
Joel lifts a hand, palm out, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “You’re wound up tighter than a damn banjo string. C’mon now. You know I don’t mean nothin’ by it. I just get comfortable. ’Cause you make it real easy to get comfortable.”
You stop pacing just long enough to glare at him.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so comfortable. Maybe we shouldn’t even be hooking up at my place anymore. Maybe you should just stay in your van and keep all your trash to yourself.”
You don’t even realize what you’ve just said until it’s out. It hangs in the air, heavy and sharp, your mouth gaping open. Joel also goes still for half a second—just long enough for you to notice—then he huffs a laugh, low and amused.
“There she goes,” he mutters. “Sayin’ things she don’t mean just ’cause she’s mad.”
You spin back towards him.
“Don’t—” you start, throwing your hands up. “Don’t do that thing where you act like you know everything. I’m not mad, I’m just— I’m just tired of you acting like you can do whatever you want in my house.”
So, you start pacing again, words spilling faster than you can even organize them.
“And you never listen, Joel. Ever. You just sit there with that face, like you’re above it all, like nothing I say matters, and I swear it drives me insane—”
The lollipop shifts in your mouth, knocking against your teeth. You pause mid‑sentence, annoyed at the sudden sweetness hitting your tongue again. You pull it to the other cheek with a sharp click.
“—and this stupid thing keeps getting in the way,” you mutter, waving the stick vaguely before you shove it back between your lips
“And—“
Your eye catches on something tiny.
Tiny and wet.
Sitting just below Joels belly. His hand is wrapped around it, covering the pulsing veins you know all too well, while it keeps releasing generously amount of white fluid from the tip.
Joel was jerking off. Without you noticing, he pulled the waistband of his down away—and then (somehow) sneakily pulled his cock out.
His posture shifts, his breathing grows heavier, his eyes darkening—fixated on you with a hunger that makes your stomach flip. His hard cock is free, tip smudging against the underside of his belly, leaving small, sticky droplets of pre-cum on his skin.
Fucking bold.
“What are you—are you fucking serious right now?” Your eyes look at him up and down.
He doesn’t even look guilty. Heck, not even surprised.
Because what else do you expect from a man who uses pussy as his fleshlight and laps around your folds like it’s his last meal on earth?
He tilts his head, eyes slowly dragging over your tank top, your chest, the lollipop you’re still absentmindedly chewing on.
“What?” he drawls, voice thick. “You’re walkin’ around in that tiny little shirt, no bra, nipples all perked up, suckin’ on that damn lollipop like you don’t know what you’re doin’. I’m only human, baby.”
“Joel,” you start. “You’re such a—”
“A pervert?” he offers, grinning. “Yeah, sweetheart. You knew that when you let me in.”
You’re too stunned to speak.
He keeps moving up and down lazily, while his eyes are half‑lidded and fixed on you with that slow, filthy amusement he always has when he knows he’s getting to you.
He doesn’t even pretend to care. He never does.
“Go on, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice thick and lazy. “Finish your little rant.”
You roll your eyes so hard it almost aches, but you keep talking anyway.
Or at least, you try to. Because with Joel, it’s always a power play. He watches you fight for your composure like it’s for his entertainment, taking in every twitch of irritation as if it’s something he needs for to stay alive. He lives for this—your stubborn attempts not to react, and the way you inevitably do.
Your words start to trip over each other the moment you hear his low groan. Not because you’re giving up, but because you know exactly where this goes. You’ve been down this road with him before. You know the slope, the heat, the way your body starts to anticipate him before your mind catches up.
He is still jerking off, slowly.
“You’re—you’re just so disgusting,” you say, but it comes out more frustrated than anything else. “You can’t just—Joel, seriously, I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Ain’t stoppin’ you,” he murmurs. “Keep talkin’.”
You look away, trying to pace again, trying to hold onto the thread of your irritation, but the heat in the van is crawling under your skin, and the only thing you start to hear is Joel’s breathing picking up. You try to not look at him—him and his leaking cock, rock hard, pulsing with each—
“Oh, you done?” he interrupts your thoughts.
You don’t answer. Because you can’t. He has you wrapped around his finger.
“…Thought so.”
You exhale, long and shaky, more frustrated with yourself than with him.
Then he says it.
“C’mere then.”
You stand there for a moment, jaw tight, fingers flexing at your sides, trying to pretend you’re still deciding.
And you can’t believe that Joel’s hunger—his shamelessness, his filth, all that god damned sleaze he wears like a second skin—always has an effect on you.
But let’s face it: you wouldn’t be in his van if you didn’t have the same messed‑up, dirty, feral thoughts running through your head just like he does.
“Sit.”
And that’s what does it for you.
The way he says it like he knows exactly that you’re going to.
You don’t even realize you’re moving until you’re already stepping towards him, tugging your pants down as you go. Your panties slipping with them, pooling at your feet by the time you reach him.
You lower yourself, holding into his shoulders while Joel grips the tip of his cock, lazily playing with your folds, nudging against your clit, and then—slowly inching his way into your cunt. You sink down on him, breath hitching as you feel your walls being stretched around him.
“Slow…slow…don’t let your attitude hurt my honeypot.” He murmurs, looking down.
You stop halfway to give him a scoff.
As you start to sink slowly again, cunt swallowing the last bits of his pulsing cock, you hear his voice again: “There she is,” smug. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”
He chuckles when you drop onto his lap, hard enough to make his belly move.
You shoot him a glare, shifting on his lap, trying to get used to the burning stretch. “Shut up,” you mutter—which only makes his smirk deepen.
“All bark, no bite.”
Joel’s eyes stay on you as he leans back, arms folding behind his neck while he settles comfortably on the bench. The smug look on his face tells you this was his plan all along—getting you on his lap just to watch you crumble for him.
But you’re not backing down. You know exactly how to make him crumble too.
You breathe out, hands stabilising on his shoulders as you lift yourself up and sink down again. You swallow, already feeling his tip nudging against that spongy spot inside you.
You can see Joel’s jaw tighten, like he’s fighting not to break that smug smirk on his face—but you know him. He’s crumbling inside.
“Mhmm, always thinking with your cunt, that’s how I know her.” He nods. “Thought you were gonna keep up that little tantrum all day. But nah, you see cock and balls and your mind goes blank.”
You lift, and settle down again. Harder this time.
“And you always use your cock and balls to get you out of every single argument and confrontation,” You rock your hips. “But yea, i’m the one that thinks with her cunt.”
Joel bites back a groan when your hips start to get used to a rhythm, riding him in a steady, controlled pace.
“You’re cute as hell, baby. Look at you, all worked up and pretendin’ you’re still mad.” He drawls lazily. “Go on, keep talkin’ your little talk—I’m lovin’ every second of it.”
You can hear it in his voice—the way he holds himself back from not gripping your hips, from not letting out a sound, from not pushing you against the table and fucking you until you forget your own name.
You smirk, lifting yourself up and sinking around him again, repeating the process, fueled by a sharp, reckless need to prove you’re not the one breaking first.
“Oh, now she’s hopping.” He smirks, fingers suddenly sliding up to curl under the hem of your shirt. He starts to tug it higher—and you smack his hand away like he’s lost his damn mind.
Joel’s eyebrow furrow.
“Lemme see my girls.” He mutters. “C’mon now…don’t leave me hangin’. I’m starvin’ over here.”
“I know. That’s the fun part.” You nod, smug.
“Hm. She thinks she’s real funny today.” He taps your thigh, amused. “Go on then. Let’s see how long this pussy can keep that up.”
He leans in, quieter. “Cause I already can feel her fluttering.”
You swallow, but continue to move your hips.
His chest starts to rise in heavy, uneven breaths, sweat glistening along his stomach as he tries to keep his hands where he put them—laced behind his head, knuckles white with restraint, trying, oh so hard, to ignore your cunt clenching down on him.
The long‑forgotten lollipop taps against your teeth as you smirk down at him, suddenly aware you can use it to tease. You pull it from your mouth, a thin strand of sweetness stretching before it snaps, and you drag the candy across his lips with deliberate slowness.
He exhales sharply, eyes narrowing up at you.
“You’re real funny,” he mutters, but he still parts his lips, letting you press the candy to his mouth.
His jaw works once, slow, like he’s tasting more than just sugar—eyes still locked into yours.
And while he sucks on the candy, another idea to break him sparks in your mind.
You lean in and bite into his neck, teeth sinking into skin—hard enough to leave a mark, sharp enough to make him jolt and make his cock switch.
The lollipop slips from his mouth, clattering onto the table as he lets out a rough sound he clearly didn’t mean to make. And you know, you got him this time.
“Hey,” you say, “I wasn’t done with that.”
“Ya know, most folks apologize after takin’ a chunk outta someone’s neck,” he says, clearly annoyed. “Not you. No, you’re sittin’ here mournin’ a piece of fuckin’ sugar.”
“You liked it. You groaned.” You say it quietly, a smile on your lips as you trace the grey stubbles along his neck.
“I like a lot of things, hon,” he murmurs, slowly melting at your lips against his neck. “What more I like is this pussy wrapped around me. Heck, ain’t even close yet. Keep goin’.”
Joel lands a sharp spank on your right ass cheek, forcing a sound from you that cuts straight through the calm front you were trying to hold. A moan.
He chuckles.
“There she goes,” he mutters. “Knew you’d crack.”
You set your jaw, brows pulling together as you start to pick up your pace, going up and down his cock with a sharper, more deliberate movement. You’re done playing around—and he can tell.
“That’s it, ride all that anger out.” He says but you see that the sudden intensity knocks a rough breath out of him, his head tipping back, hands twitching like he’s fighting the urge to grab you.
And then you slowly start to feel it—your slick dribbling down the sides of his cock, walls fluttering and spasming; every roll of your hips giving away a squelching sound and Joel can feel you holding back.
Your lips form into a straight line, eyebrows still pinched and your cunt can’t do nothing but soak into his lap, your body completely betraying you.
“Let me help you out, pretty girl. Looks like you’re startin’ to lose it.” He murmurs, before you feel the pad of his thumb going through your messy folds and then touching your aching, little clit, sitting just between the mess—switching.
You release a whine, stopping your movements on his length to take a deep breath so you don’t come on the spot. He doesn’t stop, his thumb keeps rubbing lazily over your nub, determined to make you more sensitive.
You try and swat at his hand again, stubborn as ever, but he just shakes his head with that slow, lazy little smirk that always gets under your skin.
“Nuh‑uh,” he drawls, voice low and maddeningly calm. “You wanted a challenge, didn’t you?”
You grit the words out through clenched teeth, “Fuck you.”
He just chuckles—like he’s been expecting that exact crack in your voice.
“Oh, I know,” he coos, eyes half‑lidded, savoring the moment you finally slipped.
His thumb on your clit speeds up, massaging tight, little circles around the nub and pushing that dry, cracked texture of his digit into your flesh, over and over again.
Your breath stumbles, trying to keep moving your hips.
And before you even expect it, Joel tugs at the hem of your shirt, flipping it upwards and releasing your tits to him. His hand immediately lashes onto one of your nipples; already sensitive and pebbled as he pinches the little nub between his fingers.
That, unfortunately, does it for you.
Your hips stutter, you stop your rhythm while your hands hold onto his chest, breathing through the stimulation and trying so hard not to come.
Joel smirks. His thumb slowing down, fingers leaving your nipple to slowly caress down your sides.
“Knew you’d burn yourself out tryin’ to beat me. You always do. Come on now…breathe. I got you. You did real good, pretty girl.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Let me take it from here.”
Your whole body goes slack, the last of your stubbornness draining out of you as his hand cups your cheek. You try to glare at him, you really do, but the warmth in his voice makes your breath hitch instead. “Don’t…” you mumble, cheeks hot, “don’t talk to me like that.” There’s no real bite behind it. You’re melting, and he knows it.
“Mm‑hmm…that’s what I thought,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your lips. “All that stubbornness and look at you now.”
His voice drops, warm and maddeningly sure of himself. “Breathin’ all shaky, tryin’ so hard to pretend you’ve still got some fire left.”
He tilts your chin up gently, eyes soft but smug.
“You don’t. Not with me. And that’s alright, baby. I got you.”
Something in you just…folds. Because he’s right, and you hate that he’s right, and you hate even more how gentle he sounds when he says it.
You feel your resistance slip, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to hold onto.
And you can’t ignore the tight coil in your stomach, pulled so taut it feels ready to snap. Your gummy walls clinging around his cock for dear life, while your clit throbs in anticipation.
You need him.
“Buckle up now, honeygirl… let me show you how this is really done.”
With that, Joel’s grip settles on your hips—solid—fingers digging into your flesh as he starts to pound into you, hard and rough. Your body moves on top of him, tits moving up and down, head lulling from side to side. You try to stabilise yourself on his shoulders, sudden moans and whines leaving your lips.
“Easy now…that’s it. Let me hear you.” He murmurs through gritted teeth. “Don’t hold back on me, darlin’. I want every sound you’ve been tryin’ to swallow.”
His hips snap harder from underneath, swollen cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot in you, making your head spin and shaky sounds slip past your lips. You tip your head back and catch Joel’s dark eyes on you, focused and intent, studying every little detail of your face.
“Joel—please,” you don’t know what you’re pleading for.
Joels hands grip you even rougher, knuckles white as he leans forward until the top of his head settles against your chest, his hair brushing your skin as he exhales roughly.
“I know,” He rasps against your skin. “Cunt is soft as warm honey now, baby. I can feel you letting go.”
He eases his head away from your chest, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek with surprising gentleness.
“Turning into butter in my hands, huh? Aren’t you, sugar?”
He pulls you in, brushing a gentle kiss against your lips like he’s trying to settle you.
“My sweet girl.”
That steals the breath right out of you. For a second you freeze, thrown off by the sudden softness—then everything in you loosens, warmth flooding through your chest as the words sink in.
Joel feels it; your walls clenching on him, flooding his lap with the same wetness he loves to lap on whenever he eats you out.
“Daddy’s honeypot is sucking me in so nicely.”
“Don’t call it honeypot…” you whine.
He lifts an eyebrow, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Oh, I’m callin’ it that,” he says, like it’s already settled. “Cause that’s what it is. Daddy’s honeypot.”
You moan out, louder than before and your head falls on his shoulder. His thrusts speed up once again, Joel pressing himself deeper, tighter as if he already knows that you’re on the verge of coming.
“Mmm… there it is. Sweet, messy thing,” he says. “I can feel you tremblin’. Come for me, sweetheart. I got you.”
You gasp, hiccuping his name as you nuzzle into him closer, sudden waves of your orgasm rushing through you. Your belly tightens, your body locks in and your fingertips curl into his skin.
Joels hip stutter, thrusts followed by squelching sounds of your come and while you try to ride your high out, you feel Joels cock throbbing rapidly—finally spurting his warm release into you.
“There we fuckin’ go…” he groans out. “This pussy is heaven.”
His thrusts slow down, grip softening on your hips as you breathe through the last waves of your release, nuzzling into his neck and placing a few kisses here and there.
Joel sinks back, dragging in a sharp breath, then another, his chest heaving as he tries to steady himself.
“I’ll be damned… we’re sweatin’ like whores in a church.”
You huff out a tired laugh against his neck, your forehead nudging into the warm skin there. Joel tilts his head just enough to brush his jaw against your hair, a small, worn‑out sound rumbling in his chest.
After a moment, he reaches blindly towards the table besides you, fingers closing around a cigarette pack. He shakes one out, sticks it between his lips, and lights it with a low groan.
He takes a long drag, exhales slow, then mutters around the smoke, “Lord…my damn back’s gonna kill me tomorrow. Ain’t twenty anymore, that’s for damn sure.”
Then, you start to push herself up, moving sluggishly, like your body hasn’t quite remembered how to work yet. But Joel has other plans. Before his cock is even halfway out your cunt, he pulls you back in, making you sink down around his softening cock again.
You gasp, eyebrows pinching, looking at his unbothered face.
“You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not ‘til I say so.” He murmurs besides the cigarette.
You tries to push at his shoulder, but it’s weak, more symbolic than anything. “You’re such a pain.”
And then you nuzzle right back into his neck. Your breathing evens out almost instantly, soft and steady, your whole body going slack as sleep pulls you under.
Joel shifts the cigarette at the corner of his mouth, glancing down at you with a tired huff.
“Figures,” he murmurs around the smoke, voice low and rough.
He leans back against the couch, sunlight catching in the curl of smoke drifting past his face, and just watches you sleep—peaceful, quiet, completely gone—wishing he could have this forever.
Want more of Sleazy!joel? Here are The Sleaze Files!
This is not really proofread so please ignore the mistakes yall🫣 anyways…i’m planning a little special valentines day fic for our @/coffeguitar babies hehe <333
summary: out of a job and with no place to go, you have no choice but to move back home. the house is the same, the town is the same, your dad is the same — familiarly absent. what has changed is the man who now lives in the guest bedroom. bucky barnes — your dad's best friend — is not familiar, nor is he absent.
warnings: MDNI! no use of y/n, established relationship, age gap (reader is abt mid 20s), HEAVY daddy kink, elements of age play, dom!bucky, sub!reader, masturbation, oral sex, piv, creampie, breeding kink, mentioned lactation kink, hints of daddy issues, bucky is a bit of a perv, one (1) mention of student loans, mentions of a broken home and neglectful father
reader: afab!reader, uses she/her pronouns, mentioned to be smaller than bucky, able bodied.
a/n: yeah idk what this is chat but i'm sure as shit not sorry! thank you @barnes-babydoll for proofreading and @sheriff-bodecker for letting me raid your pinterest board <3
wanna read on ao3? click here!
There was comfort in knowing your dad’s habits hadn’t changed after you left for college.
He still wakes up at the same, mind-numbing hour in the morning — if he comes home from the office at all — still takes his coffee black with one spoonful of Stevia, still insists on spending half the month away on business trips to places you can’t care to remember. It was familiar — the routine easy to slip back into after you moved back home, the loss of your job leaving you unable to afford your fancy apartment in the city.
When you were a kid, your aunt would stay with you. She’d take you to school, go to your recitals and cart you around to friends houses. She’d try to cook you dinner, and she’d even lie and say your dad called to say goodnight after you fell asleep, whenever he was away. Your dad’s absence was almost more familiar than his presence, his time devoted to his work instead of you.
Now, an adult with a retirement plan and student loans and a resume gathering dust, your aunt isn’t there to watch over you. But your room is the same as you left it, and there’s a collection of takeout boxes in the fridge from the nights your dad eats at home, same as always. Your aunt isn’t there to watch over you, though you aren’t alone. Bucky is there, living in the spare room down the hall from yours.
Bucky had never been a fixture in your life, growing up. You knew of him almost exclusively through pictures and the rare stories your dad told of his childhood. Almost. You do have one memory of Bucky — distant and hazy — of him drinking beer and laughing with your dad on a camping trip when you were ten. You remember a large hand ruffling your hair after he helped you spear a marshmallow on your stick. More than that, you remember that final fight your dad had with your mom, the one that cut the trip short, the one that sent her running for the hills without you.
While your dad had stayed in their hometown, Bucky hadn’t. He’d joined the military, where deployments and a subsequent injury that cost him his arm swallowed up the years. It’s not until his wife asks for a divorce that he comes back home.
And why wouldn’t he move back? Bucky had no kids to keep him there, no ties to sunny California. He’d wanted to come home for years, missed the changing colors of the leaves in the fall, missed Sundays spent with your dad eating cheap wings and watching football.
Bucky told you that late one night when sleep escaped you both. He tells you all about growing up with your dad, all the ways your little town has changed and all the ways it’s stubbornly stayed the same. You trade stories, a currency built on shared meals and empty houses. It’s easy to fall into a routine with him. He cooks; you clean the dishes. You buy the groceries; he puts them away. It’s almost domestic, dangerously so. It’s easy in a way you’ve never had. He becomes a constant in your life, so much so that your friends begin to joke that he’s your best friend these days — this man twice your age.
But could you really be blamed for growing closer to him? He was easy to like; you understand why your dad has kept in contact all these years. He’s funny. Kind. Never once has he questioned your decision to move back home. Your dad hadn’t done that. And Bucky cares. You’d never had anyone make dinner for you the way he does before. Your dad lived on takeout, and your aunt did the best with what she had.
Your world tilts when your friend makes a comment one night in the car.
It’s a Friday, and your friends insist on coming into the house when they come to pick you up. You wonder why they snicker to themselves, why they flash you incredulous looks whenever Bucky’s back is turned.
Bucky sends all of you off with a wave, a kind smile and a “be safe, ladies!” that brightens your entire night. It sends your friends into fits of giggles.
The car is silent until you leave the driveway. The moment your house is out of sight, Katie shoves you, a wicked grin painting her face. “You didn’t tell me he looked like that! He’s the hottest fucking man I’ve ever seen! I thought we were friends!” She teases.
“What do you mean?” You hope she doesn’t mean Bucky. Maybe she’s talking about someone else, someone other than the man who has wedged his way into your life.
Delusion fails to save you.
“He’s fucking hot, is what I mean! You said he’s divorced? I’ll ride him so hard his balls deflate. And his metal arm?” She breaks off into a groan, and your jaw clenches.
The rest of your friends laugh at Katie’s crass words; you play at disgust. “He’s my dad’s friend!” You protest.
You wonder why your words fail to convince you, wonder why the defensive strike in your chest tastes like jealousy, rather than fear that your friend will make things awkward between you and Bucky. You try to ignore that your first thought is that Bucky is yours. You refuse to reckon with the fact that the thought of coming downstairs one morning and seeing your friend at the kitchen counter, in one of his shirts, eating breakfast that he made her is enough to ruin your mood for the evening.
It festers, the possessive flare that took root early that night. You’re quick to dismiss Katie’s suggestion that she walks you to the door; the uncharitable thought that she only wants to get her claws into Bucky bounces around your skull. A woman who has only shown you genuine friendship should not incite such feelings in you, you tell yourself. And yet they’re there, as ever-present as Bucky is that night after you go in, handing you a glass of water and a bottle of Advil for the hangover you’re sure to experience in the morning.
It’s hard not to notice him in that way after that. You try not to. You really, really do. But it’s hard when he prances around the kitchen in shower-damp hair, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, the hem of his t-shirt rising with his arms every time he reaches to grab something. It’s rude, really. Offensive, when you couldn’t do anything about it.
It’s worse when you’re seated across from him, talking to him with his attention solely on you. It’s intoxicating — the weight of his eyes on yours as he hangs on your every word, the low rasp of his voice; it’s easy to get lost in him. And when he sends you to bed because “it’s late, and you need rest,” voice firm and unyielding, you can’t help the warm tendrils of arousal that curl through your stomach.
Eventually, you reason that looking won’t hurt. Looking never hurt anyone, nor did late-night fantasies when kept to oneself. It wasn’t wrong as long as you never touched him, as long as he didn’t know.
Looking begins to hurt one day after your shower.
You hadn’t bothered bringing your clothes with you, like you did when Bucky was home, and he wasn’t supposed to be home for a few hours yet. So when you step out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel, hair still wet and stuck to damp skin, Bucky catches you by surprise.
Maybe surprise is putting it lightly. You almost run straight into him, stumbling, floundering to keep from crashing into him without losing hold of your towel, and it’s Bucky who steadies you. Bucky, who grabs your shoulders with hands that engulf them. Bucky, whose hands sear, stuck to your damp skin, metal and flesh alike. All you can do is gape up at him, startled at his presence and off-kilter from your almost fall.
You grip the towel close to your chest, white knuckles preserving your dignity.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Bucky says, voice low. He flicks his gaze down to your chest before darting back up, not quite meeting your eyes, instead focusing on a point just above your head. His hands drop and his cheeks flush — it’d almost be adorable, if he wasn’t so visibly uncomfortable.
“I’ll just-“ Bucky steps back, and you don’t get to apologize before he’s rushing to his room down the hall.
You hurry to yours, kicking yourself the rest of the afternoon. You sulk through dinner too, where Bucky still can’t quite meet your eyes. You’d ruined things, made them uncomfortable, awkward, destroyed what fledgling friendship had been building between you two with one ill-timed shower.
Alone that night, all you can think about is the way his eyes had crept over you, up your legs still dripping with water all the way to your chest, your hands clenching the towel close. You thought about it as you crawled into bed that night and grabbed your vibrator from your nightstand.
You have shame, but apparently not enough to not get off to the memory of his hands on you.
—
Things don’t stay awkward, but they don’t go back to how they were, either. Bucky watches you now, and if the notion weren’t so far-fetched, you’d think he watches you in precisely the same way you watch him.
On the days he goes for a run, you sit on the front porch to read your book. If he just so happens to run shirtless, returning to the house chest heaving, skin shining with sweat, well then that’s your business. No one has to know you commit that image to memory, dredging it up later when you’re alone in bed, twisting it and distorting it until the image becomes him on top of you, chest heaving for an entirely different reason.
You think for a moment that his eyes trace your bare legs stretched in front of you, reclined on the lounger. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?
When he cooks, you park yourself at the counter under the guise of keeping him company. It has nothing to do with the way he effortlessly handles the skillet, metal hand clinking against the metal handle, or the way the veins on his hand twist as he grips the wooden spoon. A wooden spoon that looks minuscule in his hands, mind you. What does it matter if you later imagine those same hands crawling up your legs, prying you open and putting you on display for him?
You question yourself again when he hovers around you when you do the dishes after dinner. He doesn’t have to press so close to you when he deposits more dishes in the sink. He doesn’t have to sweep his hand across your lower back when he shuffles by you, but he does.
The tension boils over on a Saturday.
It’s another girl’s night, and rather than risk your friends piling into your house again to leer at Bucky, you’re ready early, intending to be waiting downstairs and half out the door when they arrive.
You know you made the right decision when you come downstairs and see Bucky lounging on the couch. He’s wearing those sweatpants again — the grey ones — and a t-shirt that stretches tight against his chest. You don’t think you can suffer through what would be downright vulgar comments in the car from your friends. At least, not without letting your jealousy get the better of you.
Bucky looks up when you walk into the living room, eyes darting down to your bare legs before drifting back up to the edge of your little skirt, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. You fidget under his scrutiny, smoothing down your skirt. Suddenly, you wish you’d picked something longer.
“It’s too much, I know,” you say. You never dress like… this. But the goal that night was to find a distraction. Someone to pull you out of the haze that was Bucky Barnes.
Standing in front of him, you don’t know why you ever thought that was possible.
“Not at all. You look good,” he says. The compliment does not help the restless buzz beneath your skin. He pushes up from the couch and in two long strides he’s standing in front of you. He reaches for your necklace, the charm twisted and backward.
It’s hard to keep your breath steady when his hand brushes against the bare skin of your chest. You try. Really, you do. Your breath hitches anyway: the slightest bit, barely — and you wonder if Bucky wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t moved so close to you, so close that you’re forced to tilt your head back to look him in the eye.
It’s hard to ignore the way your heart stutters when he towers over you like this. It’s only happened once before, when he pressed up behind you to grab a glass from the cabinet you couldn’t reach. This is different. You couldn’t move then, couldn’t avoid it. You can now. You could back away, put a respectful distance between you both.
You don’t.
Carefully, Bucky untwists your necklace where it’d wound around itself. He pauses, holding the charm between his fingers and inspecting it. It glints against the dark vibranium of his fingers, clinking faintly.
“Pretty,” he comments. It’s a dainty thing, a little gold star with your birthstone that dangles from a thin gold chain. He weaves it between his fingers, the gem catching the light. For a moment, you think his gaze has dipped, trained instead on your exposed cleavage, but that couldn’t be right.
“Dad got it for me when I graduated college.” A star for his little star, he’d said. He’d given it to you over dinner, at the restaurant in town you’d mentioned only once offhand.
“You mean his assistant picked it out,” Bucky scowls. Your brows flick up. You don’t know when, if ever, you’ve heard him take such a tone when talking about your dad. It’s almost critical, judgment apparent in the downturn of his mouth.
“I don’t- He’s busy. That’s all,” you say. You don’t know why you defend him this time, but you do. Your friends know you’re perhaps your dad’s worst critic. Maybe because the necklace is one of the few gifts he’d ever given you that wasn’t money stuffed in a card, or because the dinner the night he gave it to you was a rare moment where his attention was yours alone.
“Hm. He leaves you alone too much,” Bucky mutters, dismissive of your defense. He drops the charm but doesn’t back away. “Has it always been that way?”
You nod, thinking back to those years in high school, the times you bothered to come home in college. “It’s okay. Used to it,” you shrug. He’s still so close to you. You can see the wrinkles between his brow when he frowns at your answer, feel the deep breath he takes before moving to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, sending your heart fluttering.
“Shouldn’t be. Someone needs to take care of you.” Your face heats inexplicably. Maybe it’s the tone he says it, the low hum of his voice. Or maybe it’s the soft hand he runs down your arm, the ghost of a touch, barely perceptible before it’s gone.
“You take care of me.” The words are out before you can stop them. You don’t mean to say it. It’s stupid — he doesn’t take care of you. He’s just being polite, just being nice to the daughter of the man whose home he’s staying in for free-
“Yeah?” His voice comes out tight, and he leans back. His eyes flit down again to your bare legs, and he swallows hard. “You like when I take care of you?”
“I do,” your voice is thinner than you’d hoped, breathier than you’d wanted. His eyes snap to yours, darting down to your lips for the briefest moment.
“Then let me take care of you tonight. Don’t go out.” Your breath catches at the way his voice dips. It’s the type of thing you’ve heard him say before in your late-night fantasies but never thought to hear aloud. He doesn’t mean it that way. You must be reading it wrong, looking too far into his words.
Don’t go out. Your heart thunders, mouth suddenly dry. “Don’t go out?”
“No. Stay in with me. Don’t want you going out, not in that skirt.” His jaw clenches when he dares another peek down at your skirt, and your heart skips. Rather than meet your eyes, Bucky returns to fidgeting with your necklace, the smooth vibranium of his hand all but resting on your chest.
“Thought you said I looked good,” you say. You want to hear him say it again, need to hear him say it again. He still hasn’t moved, standing far closer than a friend would, let alone a friend of your dad’s. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne, heady and devastating.
“You do. That’s the problem. Don’t want those boys down at that bar sniffin’ around you.” His eyes shift upwards to yours. It’s hard to breathe when he’s affixing you with a stare like that, his jaw working, your necklace still in his hand keeping you firm in your spot. “That’s what you wanted, right? Heard you on the phone with Kathy.”
“Katie,” you correct. “And so what if it was? You’re not my dad,” you quip, because what are you supposed to say to that? You can’t be reading this wrong — the way he’s looking at you, the clench of his jaw when you confirm what he heard.
“Thank God for that.” He lets your necklace drop again and pinches the hem of your skirt between his fingers, and you fight to stay still, to control your breathing. “You don’t want those boys, not when you look at me the way you do.”
You blanch. “I don’t—”
“You do. On the porch when you’re pretending to read, in the kitchen when I’m cooking, you aren’t subtle, sweetheart.” He presses closer, and you step back. The wall meets your back, and still Bucky doesn’t stop. “Wanna know something? I like the way you look at me. Look at you the same way, you know. Really shouldn’t, but I do.”
“Bucky—“
His hands brace against the wall and cage you in. His breath brushes against your lips, and you can smell the mint from when he’d brushed his teeth after dinner. “Tell me I’m not reading this wrong.”
It’s not a question. He knows. You can see it in the way his eyes drop down to your lips, in the way his hand comes to cup your jaw, cool metal sharp against your flushed face. You don’t respond with words. Instead, you lean up into him and rest your palms on his chest, ghosting your lips over his, soft and feathery. His heart thunders under your palms, and just when you start to draw back, sliding your hands down his chest to withdraw them back to your side, Bucky catches your hands in his and kisses you back.
The way he kisses you is almost shy, his lips barely brushing against yours, careful and tentative like he’s expecting you to shove him away. It’s you who deepens it — you who frees your hands from his to grab his shirt and drag him closer. You sigh into him, letting him trace his tongue along your lips. He tastes like mint and something heady, something you can only name as Bucky that you already crave more of. You don’t care if you’re sloppy in the way you let your tongue meet his; you can’t think about anything aside from the slide of his lips against yours, the tangle of his fingers in your hair.
Your dad could walk in the door and you wouldn’t notice. Your world narrows down to the rasp of Bucky’s stubble against your skin, the weight of his metal hand falling to circle around your back. He gathers you closer and your stomach flips, a whimper breaking free that Bucky nips your lip in response to.
Panting, Bucky tears himself away. His tongue darts out to run along his lips, and he shakes his head. “You should tell me to stop.” Bucky lets you drag him back down, and when he kisses you this time, it’s frantic and wanting, his lips chasing after you like you’re seconds away from coming to your senses. His lips trail down your chin, traveling along your jaw to nip at your skin. “Fuck, this is wrong.”
“Don’t care. Don’t want you to stop,” you whine. “Want you.” Your hand slips into his belt to tug him closer, keeping him from moving away again.
Pupils blown wide, Bucky stares down at you like something holy. Something terrifying. You watch indecision dance across his face, the hesitance in his eyes that flees when you reach up to brush a stray piece of his hair out of his face.
“Text your friends. You’re not going anywhere,” Bucky says.
He watches as your hands fumble with your phone, fingers shaking when you lie and say you’re sick, can’t come out. You don’t know if they buy the excuse, if they’re mad at your last-minute cancellation or if they even care at all. Your phone falls by the wayside when Bucky gathers you in his arms and hurries you up the stairs.
When you wake up the next morning, bare beneath his sheets and tangled in his arms, you wonder how you could have called anything other than this love.
—
You feel anything but guilty.
Why would you, when Bucky treats you with more care than anyone has ever treated you? It’s easy to fall in love with him — to fall into a domestic routine that revolves around him. You no longer count the hours until your dad returns. Instead, you count the seconds until he leaves again, when you and Bucky no longer have to play the part of roommates. If it were up to you, you wouldn’t wait until he left again. You’d carry on as you did when he was gone.
It’s Bucky who refrains from touching you when your dad is home, Bucky who resolutely stays in his room — alone — until your dad is gone again. It doesn’t matter how much you beg and tease, he staunchly ignores the foot you run up his leg at dinner or the eyes you make at him over the rim of your wineglass. Bucky is stubborn — set in his ways and intent on shielding you from the consequences that would follow the revelation of your relationship.
Bucky feels the guilt that you don’t. Or, some of it at least. He’s told you he should feel worse for fucking his best friend’s daughter after he let him stay in his home for free out of the kindness of his heart. He’s told you how he feels guilty for not feeling more guilty, for not feeling guilty enough to stop, for not being even the slightest bit sorry.
Maybe it’s that not-enough-guilt that leads Bucky to break his own rule.
It’s late when it happens, past midnight, in the aftermath of a dinner so painful you would almost rather rip the band-aid off then and there, your dad’s feelings be damned. Your dad had come home early, a whole day early, and it was only luck that you and Bucky had just finished when he walked in the door with takeout for all three of you. You didn’t expect the fear of almost being caught to ignite something in Bucky, but it does. You can see it in the way he watches you all dinner, sitting next to your dad, drinking beer with him and reminiscing on their high school days all while Bucky’s cum pools in your panties. Every uncomfortable shift in your seat has Bucky’s grip tightening on his glass because he knows.
Bucky knows he fucked you bare — he has every time since that first night — both of you placing perhaps too much trust in your birth control. And he knows you didn’t have enough time to truly clean up when you were scrambling for your clothes. He knows that each time you squirm in your seat it’s because he’s leaking out of you, reminding you exactly who you belong to.
Halfway through dinner, he has to excuse himself; take a minute in the bathroom to try to will his erection to settle down. It doesn’t work, and he resorts to tucking it into the waistband of his pants — something he hasn’t had to do since fucking high school. He counts his lucky stars that it goes down, that he’s not still hard when your dad insists on sharing one last beer with him on the couch after dinner.
When you go upstairs before him, your dad still rambling on to Bucky, his eyes follow you like a sad dog. Your dad keeps him down there, talking about God knows what, and by the time you hear two sets of heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs you’ve showered and changed into underwear that doesn’t stick uncomfortably every time you shift.
It’s no surprise when thirty seconds after your dad’s door closes, Bucky creeps into your room as silent as a mouse. The door shuts softly behind him, the lock clicking with a dull snap. Bucky leans back against the door and watches you, taking in the way you’re sprawled across your bed in the t-shirt he left in your room that morning with dark eyes.
After a beat, he stalks across the room towards you, silent until he reaches you. He sounds almost disappointed when he lifts the shirt you’re wearing to find you wearing a new pair of underwear. “You changed,” he frowns.
“Was uncomfortable, you say. You sit up to meet him, gathering him closer to you. He leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet, and you almost forget that your dad is just down the hall. It’s just Bucky in your mind. Bucky, who’s standing between your legs, bent over you with your head firmly in his hands. Bucky, who kisses you in a way that belies the filthy way he fucks you. He kisses you like something fragile, like something he can’t fathom the existence of.
“That’s okay,” he whispers against your lips. He steps back and yanks your shirt up and over your head, crowding you backward up the bed, crawling over you until he’s all you can see. “Just have to fill you up again, get this pair all messy too.”
It’s not slow that night. It’s frantic, hurried and desperate in a way that reminds you of that first night. When he shoves in, stuffs you full of his dick that’s been half hard since dinner, you cry out. Sharp, too loud for the circumstances.
“Shh,” Bucky clamps his hand to your mouth, his thumb slipping in and pressing against your tongue. “Can’t be too loud, sweetheart. Your dad is just down the hall. Don’t want him to know I’m in here, do you? Don’t want him to know I’m fucking his little girl full. Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking tight, pretty pussy never wants me to leave, does she?”
He grinds deep, fingers moving from rubbing slow circles around your clit to pinching, working it between calloused fingers. What follows is a sequence of unfortunate errors: your walls convulse tight around him, his hand slides from your mouth as his hips stutter, and you cry out a word that damns you both.
“Daddy!”
You both freeze, his dick half buried in you as that word waltzes around the room. Bucky’s head snaps up to look down at you in wide-eyed disbelief, something wicked crawling along his face as he watches you wither in humiliation. You push at his shoulders, but he refuses to move, despite the oily shame seeping through your veins.
A door opens down the hall. You hear your dad’s shuffling footsteps before a knock echoes and your doorknob jiggles. “Sweetheart?” your dad calls. He knocks again. “You okay?”
Your shoves against his shoulder grow frantic, but Bucky ignores you. He gathers your wrists with ease and pins them above you with one hand, the metal one grasping your jaw. Bucky shallowly thrusts into you and has the audacity to smirk when you struggle to swallow your moan, as if discovery won’t lead to certain doom. “Answer him, sweetheart. Don’t want daddy to worry.”
It takes you a moment to steady your breathing enough to form words. There’s a moan caught in your throat, one that you’d have no explanation for, really. You swallow it down. “Y- yeah, I’m fine,” you manage to rasp out, shaky as Bucky slowly rocks into you again. “Bad- bad dream!”
Your dad mutters something before his steps disappear back down the hall, and Bucky waits until his door thuds closed to start pounding into you. The air disappears from your lungs again, your teeth dig into your bottom lip, trying to stifle moans that instead turn into shattered whimpers.
“Daddy, huh?” He keeps a firm grip on your jaw, frowning in disappointment when you try to wrest yourself free and hide your face. “No no no, baby. Stop that; don’t hide from daddy. Let me see my little girl’s pretty face. There you go.”
That night, when you come, it’s with cries of daddy that Bucky eagerly swallows down.
It all slips from there.
It should scare you, how easily the two of you fall into… whatever this is. It should send you running — the words he uses when you’re in bed, the way he so easily slots into the place of caretaker and lover.
It doesn’t.
If anything, you seek it out, chase after the thrill that has your heart stuttering, your head spinning hearing him call himself that.
“Give daddy a kiss,” when he comes home from running errands.
“Be a good girl for me,” when he asks you to do something as simple as drying the dishes.
“Don’t you wanna make daddy feel good?” when he has pinned against the wall, cock hard and teasing against your stomach.
You don’t think you’ll ever get used to that feeling — the swirling of your stomach, the clench in your womb that comes from hearing those words. It gets to Bucky too; you know. Your reaction, how sweet you sound begging your daddy to touch you, to make it feel better — he’s hard and leaking before the words even fully register.
You like having something that’s just yours, something about your relationship with Bucky that never has to see the light of day. Because you know you’ll have to come clean to your dad someday, tell him that you’re hopelessly in love with his best friend. But this? This you can keep close to your chest.
—
You start to suspect that your dad suspects there’s something going on between you and Bucky when he delays leaving for his next business trip. He’s never been good at picking up parts of your life without you telling him — often more than once before he remembers — but his next business trip was meant to be in his favorite city, a city that he loves almost more than you. He makes a habit of leaving almost a week early when this city is in question. But this time he lingers.
Did he know that the second he’s out those doors his best friend has his daughter bent over the counter and calling him a name once only reserved for him?
You weren’t about to find out if he knew — not when you and Bucky relied on him for housing. You had no plans to tell him until Bucky found an apartment of his own, somewhere you could take shelter from the fallout of what would surely be a nuclear bomb dropped right on the already fragile relationship you had with your dad. So you pulled back, reinstated Bucky’s abandoned rule, let your caution take the wheel no matter how many times Bucky slipped into your room after dark.
You’d hated those two weeks just as much as Bucky had. Your dad had waited to leave until Bucky left to look at apartments, something he’d initially planned for you to help him with. Instead, you’d stayed home to have lunch with your dad, who left an almost pointed thirty minutes after Bucky.
The moment your dad’s car disappears around the corner, you’re texting Bucky, asking when he’ll be home. To your despair, Bucky doesn’t reply.
Two weeks with nothing more than a quick kiss has left you restless and impatient to wait for Bucky’s return, which leaves you in your current predicament: straddled atop a pillow, barely satisfied and driven half mad.
The plush pillow wedged between your legs is a poor replacement for Bucky’s thigh, but it does the trick. You left your shorts and panties on — the friction of the fabric too delicious not to — soft sighs spilling as the fabric rubs your clit. You grind down harder and whine. It’s not enough. You swivel your hips, but nothing touches the ache. You need more.
You slump forward on the bed, shoving a hand beneath the pillow in a desperate bid to have something firmer to grind against. You gasp when it works, your hips canting forward against the pillow, the friction of your panties against your pussy a burn that drowns the desire. The high dances just out of reach and you chase it, humping the pillow greedily, moans spilling wantonly as your release barrels towards you faster and faster, a runaway train careening down a hill as your hips find just the right rhythm. The pressure mounts higher and higher until—
"Oh, baby," Bucky coos. The train screeches to a halt, metal screeching against metal.
You jump up, eyes snapping to him leaning in your doorway. He was supposed to be out. But there he is, standing in the doorway watching you, gaze dark and tracing up your figure from your legs clenched around the pillow to your nipples pebbling beneath your tank top. “You know better than to play without me,” he says.
You're frozen as he stalks towards you. He tugs the pillow from beneath you and sets it aside, guiding you to sit in front of him on the edge of the bed. “I- I’m sorry,” you say.
Bucky hushes you. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart. Tell daddy what happened.”
Your face heats, just like it always does when you hear him call himself that. “It was all tingly. It wouldn’t stop aching,” you say. You know what game he wants to play, and you’re never anything but an eager participant.
Stepping between your legs, Bucky leans over you. With a gentle shove to your shoulder, he leans you back until you’re lying on the bed. He runs his hands up your bare legs. The flesh one calloused, the metal smooth, you shiver as they both stop to toy with the hem of your cotton shorts. “Silly little girl wasn’t thinking right. Needed her daddy to come take care of her.”
You squirm under his attention, his hands fluttering back down to rest on your knees. You try to close your legs and hide the mess you know is there between your legs.
Bucky tuts and shakes his head. "Don't be shy, baby. Let me help you." Gently, he pries your legs back open. "Hm? You gonna let daddy see?"
You bite your lip and nod, shivering when Bucky glides his hands up to your hips and guides your shorts down leaving you in just your panties. Bucky groans, cursing low as he slips a finger under the gusset of your lace panties and tugs them aside. "Look at that, baby. Your princess parts are all wet for me."
The words hit you straight in the core, making your head spin. Hearing Bucky talk like that never fails to drive a deep, wanting burn deep in your core. Bucky knows it too, would tease you for it if it didn’t drive him just as crazy. Firm hands on your hip Bucky maneuvers you up the bed, settling between your legs, breath dusting along your thigh as he inspects you closer. “Just couldn’t wait for me, could you?” he says.
“Bucky, I-“ You can’t close your legs and hide — his shoulders keep them open, on display for hungry eyes that shamelessly take in your damp folds.
“Not my name, sweetheart, not in here." His tongue flicks against your inner thigh, turning his head to hover his mouth just over your center, breath hot against the damp fabric.
“Daddy,” you whine.
“There you go,” he praises. He licks up your slit, tongue rasping against the fabric of your panties. You whimper and Bucky hooks a finger into the waistband, slowly peeling them down and away. “You made a mess, baby,” he mutters. He starts to discard them on the floor when he pauses.
You really had made a mess; you can see your slick gathered and glistening on the fabric. Slowly, Bucky brings them to his face. He licks them, moaning and tracing his tongue along the lace that had only minutes ago been buried between your lower lips, dragging along your clit. Your breath stutters, watching him bury his face in your panties. His hips twitch down into the bed and you squirm.
Finally, Bucky tosses them aside and returns his attention to you. He brushes a finger along your opening, teasing up and down. You wriggle your hips impatiently and Bucky chuckles, swiping a finger through your wetness before moving to rub figure eights along your clit. “Such a good girl, letting daddy touch you here,” Bucky murmured.
You bite your lip and prop yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he toys with your cunt. Bucky grazes a finger along your opening, up and down. You wriggle your hips and he chuckles before finally dipping his finger into you, finger curling upwards before slowly dragging back out, stroking against your walls in a way that leaves you wanting instead of sating anything. The wet noises mingle with your breathy whines, his finger slowly pumping in and out.
“Poor thing,” Bucky pouts. “Needed me so bad. Just listen to that.” He rests his head against your thigh and adds another finger, playing with your wetness before sinking both back in.
“More,” you beg. You try and roll your hips down onto his fingers but he stops you, pinning your hips to the bed with one hand.
“More what, baby? Use your words.” His command is joined by his fingers finally curling against the spongy spot that always makes your vision blur.
You gasp, words lost to you and he knows it, judging by the lazy smirk stretching across his face. “C’mon sweetheart,” he encourages, just as his fingers curl upwards again, smirk widening to a smile when your walls clamp down.
“Your mouth!” You force out. You wind your fingers in his hair, trying to guide his mouth to your pussy but he resists. “Please, daddy!”
“And where do you want daddy’s mouth? Here?” Bucky kisses your inner thigh, his playful smile persistent and infuriating, eyes still trained upwards on you. You shake your head. “Show me.”
This time when you tug his hair, Bucky lets you guide him down to your slick folds. You expect him to tease you — Bucky loves to tease, loves to flick his tongue along your outer lips, tease his fingers up your slit — anything that drives you mad, leaves you whimpering and pleading, Bucky is a fan of.
Today he must be as desperate as you. Instead of teasing, Bucky flattens his tongue against you, taking his time in dragging it up, dipping into your slit and coming up to roll against your clit. It’s sudden, dominating. The aching shock of it should be too much but it’s not. It leaves you craving more. You try to roll your hips up into his mouth, thighs snapping closed around his head to trap him there, but Bucky won’t have that, can’t have that. Not when he’s waited two whole weeks for your dad to finally leave so he can have you how he really wants. His arms slide around your legs, prying them open and pinning them back, leaving you spread wide and at his mercy.
You sob, high and sharp, and you feel Bucky grin against you. He’s sloppy in the way he licks into you, tongue alternating between laving against your clit and dipping back down, curling into your wet heat. He delves his tongue in, massaging against your gummy walls as your moans grow filthy, the high you were chasing before he came home returning with a vengeance.
Your first orgasm ripples through you and you come with a strangled moan, clinging to Bucky’s hair like a lifeline.
Bucky looks up at you, the lower half of his face shiny with your slick. His metal arm retreats from its hold around your leg, which you let fall limp to the bed. Two fingers slip between your thighs, coming to rub gently on either side of your clit. Still reckoning with the aftershocks of your orgasm, you jolt, choking on a heaving inhale. “Daddy!”
“What is it, baby?” he asks, frowning in mock sympathy as his fingers spread wider, leaving your wet cunt, still twitching, on display.
“Need you in me,” you beg. You try to reach forward to drag him upwards, but he bats your hands away. “Need you to make it better.”
Bucky bends down and kisses your clit, his fingers pulling the hood back to expose it to the cool air. You whine, and Bucky coos in mock sympathy. “Mm. Not yet, princess. You got to play by yourself. It’s daddy’s turn,” he refuses.
He chooses then to suck your swollen clit into his mouth, quelling the pleading argument you were about to make. This time he lets your hips roll upwards. You all but ride his face as he moans into you, sucking greedily at your folds, your clit, anywhere that will keep you driving your soaking cunt against his mouth. His tongue buries deep again, nose nudging against your clit with every thrust of your hips.
The build-up is mind-numbingly fast, building on the remnants of the last orgasm with a ferocity that has you gushing against his mouth. Bucky groans filthily against you, hips rutting into the bed as he swallows down all you have to offer.
Bucky pulls back and away while you’re still shaking, limbs too loose to cling onto him. The lower half of his face is damp with your cum that he doesn’t bother to wipe away, hair disheveled from where you clung to him. Bucky leans down to kiss your shoulder and you can smell yourself on him, etched into his skin. Still pliant, you let Bucky slip your tank top up and over your head, finally baring you in entirety. Sitting up to kneel above you, Bucky rids himself of his own shirt.
You watch with panting breaths as reaches down to grip his cock, still trapped behind his jeans. He palms himself, rubbing his erection and letting his hips rock forward. It’s shameless, the way he fucks into his hand and watches you, eyes greedily roaming over your tits. You eye him in turn — the sight of him almost obscene. The broad plains of his chest, the scars that mark his story spanning across, you could spend hours tracing them with your tongue. You have — working him up to a point where he almost came in his boxers.
Reluctantly, Bucky moves his hand, his belt clinking as he removes it with a deft tug. The zipper of his pants whispers as he pulls it down before he finally reaches in and frees himself. Thick and swollen, his dick is flushed an angry red. The thick vein you love tracing with your tongue leads up to the head, dark and weeping at the slit. You sit up and watch as he strokes himself, smearing precum down along his shaft. You lean forward, close enough that the musky smell of him reaches you. It’s mouthwatering and leaves you craving the salty taste of him, yearning for weight of him on your tongue.
“Please, daddy? Wanna taste you,” you beg. Instead of waiting for his answer, you suck the head into your mouth. Eyes closed, Bucky continues to stroke himself as your tongue dips into the slit, circling around the head. He opens his eyes and drops his head forward to watch you as a hand wanders to tug at his balls, swollen and heavy in your palm.
“You look so pretty with daddy’s cock in your mouth,” Bucky says. A gentle hand pets through your hair before gathering a handful, tugging you off his dick. “But I’m not done playing with you. Don’t pout, baby. Next time. Promise.”
Gently, Bucky guides you back down. He sits back between your legs and guides his dick to rest on your folds. Hesitantly, Bucky rolls his hips, groaning as his dick slides along your lips. “Fuck, sweetheart. Your special place is all messy again.”
Bucky takes a hold of himself and drags the head through your slick, watching with a slack jaw as he dips the head just into your entry, playing in your wetness before coming up to circle around your clit. You try to shift your hips when he brings the head back down to poke at your entrance, try to sink down on his cock, but Bucky catches your hips with a heavy hand. Intent on toying with you, Bucky slides his cock against your folds again.
“Please,” you beg. You look up at him and pout. You hitch a leg over his hip, spreading yourself wider. This time when you roll your hips Bucky lets you, his hand sneaking down to press against his cock, grinding it down against your cunt. “Need you so bad, daddy.”
With a groan, Bucky drops his head to your chest before capturing your lips in a kiss. His metal hand rests on your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge as he licks into your mouth, nipping and sucking your bottom lip. He still tastes like you, tangy and potent. His other hand stays busy, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance, prodding in gently. “Yeah? Gonna let daddy fuck you, baby?”
You nod eagerly, hands sliding to rest on his shoulders. Bucky presses in, just enough to bury the tip in your wet heat. You clench around it and Bucky shudders. He tries to go slow, tries to make you feel every aching inch as he stretches you open. He wanted you to do the waiting this time, after you made him wait a whole two weeks to have you again. That plan goes to shit the moment he feels your nails dig into his shoulders, clinging to him with a breathy whine of “daddy” that just about makes him combust.
In one smooth thrust he buries himself deep, your sharp gasp joined by his broken moan as your cunt convulses around him. Even when it hasn’t been two weeks, the stretch burns, scratches an itch that no one else has ever been able to. You let your head loll back, swimming in the overwhelming relief of Bucky finally sliding home, filling you in a way you’ve craved since your dad came home.
Bucky hitches your leg higher around his hip and grinds down, trying to drive himself even deeper. You gasp, fingers sliding against his skin and leaving red welts in their wake. You decide then that you don’t care if your dad is suspicious, if he’s home for another two weeks, a month, it doesn’t matter. Your dad could come home, walk into the room and catch you just like this, and you don’t think you’d care. Bucky is what matters. Bucky, and the feel of his cock spearing you open.
Arms bracketed on either side of your head, Bucky allows himself a moment to catch his breath before he starts to rock into you, looking down to watch how your cunt swallows the thick length of him. Pulling out almost entirely, Bucky fucks back into you, grinning at the choked sound you can’t swallow back. “Look at that, pussy takin’ me so well. Can feel you squeezin’ me. Fuck. Do you like when daddy fucks you? My little girl loves being split open, huh?"
“Yes! Feels so good, needed you so bad,” you cry. Your world narrows to Bucky and the slick drag of his cock in and out, his balls slapping against you each time he drives home, broad chest blocking your view of everything but him. Your fingers curl tighter into his skin, grasping for purchase as you feel yourself falling further into him.
“Shh, daddy’s got you,” Bucky says. He grinds his cock deeper, bullying against the soft spongy spot again and again. His dog tags dangle tauntingly by your face, cold metal bumping your chin until you hook a finger around them, tugging down on them to try to catch his lips with yours. He ducks, instead dipping to leave wet kisses along your jaw, trailing down more to your neck to nip and suck at the sensitive skin. Red marks bloom in his wake, and Bucky runs his thumb over them appreciatively. “My good girl, yeah? Only mine.” Bucky sits back, metal arm slipping down to roll against your clit. You cry out, sharp and helpless, and Bucky curses low as you throb around him. “Only daddy gets to touch you here, right sweetheart? Only daddy gets to hear those pretty noises.”
“Only you, daddy,” you cry. Your hips twitch upwards, chasing the friction against your clit. Bucky presses harder and your stomach clenches, the dual assault on your clit and that aching spot inside you leaves your legs shaking, overwhelmed but still wanting more. “Harder! Need more. Please!”
“Yeah? My little girl wants more?” Bucky slips an arm down to catch one of your legs, stretching it up while his metal hand takes a firm hold of your other thigh, holding you steady as he fucks into you with abandon. The rhythm he strikes is relentless — toe curling, devastating. “This what you wanted?”
You nod, tears pooling and slipping down your cheeks. Each thrust shoves you that much further up the bed, the headboard steadily thumping against the wall. Your hands fall to the sheets, scrambling for purchase that you never find.
“You know what daddy wants?” Bucky rasps. You shake your head, breath catching on a moan. You think this might be your end; the fire burning through you threatens to consume. It’s all you can focus on — the slick glide of him in and out, the obscene squelching as he burrows himself deep again and again, his metal hand digging into your thigh, the ache in your hip from the leg he has draped over his shoulder — it leaves your head empty, your focus only on the fever building. “Wanna fill you up, cum deep inside you again and again until it takes.”
Your vision nearly whites. The electric arousal that sparks through you shouldn’t be such a surprise. He never uses a condom, not since that first night when you begged him not to pull out, to fill you up and leave you leaking. You’d expected tonight to be the same — he’d leave you messy, watch as his cum leaked out of you, trail his fingers through it until he worked himself up enough to fuck it back into you. But the thought of it taking? Your whine is pornographic, walls clenching around him, your hands flying to wind in his hair.
Like everything when it comes to you, Bucky takes note of your reaction to his words. Files it away, runs with it. “You like the sound of that? Dirty little girl. Want daddy to breed you? Pump you full of his cum?”
You can’t find your words, too lost in the way his pace has slowed to a filthy grind, forcing you to feel every inch as he slides out and sinks back into you. You arch up into him as Bucky leans over you, large hands spanning across your jaw, keeping your eyes on him. “Asked you a question, sweet girl.”
“Y-yes,” you choke out. Words freed, you can’t stop the debauched slew that spills forward. “Wanna be full of you, wanna feel it leak out of me. Love when you cum in me. Please, please daddy!” This time it’s Bucky who whines. His pace swiftly climbs back to frantic, the slap of skin obscene as he chases a high you’re both rapidly barreling towards.
"Shit, gonna get you pregnant, baby. Keep you stuffed full until it takes. Let everyone see who you fuckin’ belong to.” His hand slips down to paw at your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. "Watch as your pretty tits get all full and heavy. Gonna let me drink from them? Let daddy nurse from you?”
“Oh god!” Your head swims. You can’t focus on anything other than the building pleasure, the coil winding tighter around your stomach like a vice. “Need to cum, daddy please!”
“Don’t gotta beg me, baby,” Bucky says. He grinds his hips, a foamy ring of white gathering around his base. “Be a good girl, come with daddy.”
You come with a scream, cunt contracting around his cock as the searing wave of ecstasy finally overcomes you. The spasming of your swollen walls around him tears Bucky right over the edge with you. With a punched groan, he collapses, hips rocking softly against you as his cock pulses, spilling thick ropes of cum deep inside you with breathy moans. Cum leaks out around him as his hips maintain a lazy rhythm, the aftershocks of your shared release lingering, refusing to ebb.
When his hips finally still, Bucky rolls over, dragging you with him until you rest on his chest. Bucky doesn’t pull out — he meant what he said about keeping you full. He stays buried deep with a leg hooked over you, keeping you firmly in place on top of him.
It’s Bucky who speaks first, words whispered as he traces lazy shapes on your back. “Sweetheart?”
You hum, still too hazy for real words. The sweat has started to dry, leaving your skin sticky and stuck to his, but you’re too numb to move, limbs still limp and molten.
“I’m not waiting two whole weeks next time.” Bucky pulls out, and you wince as his cum trickles out of you. Predictably, his hand sneaks between your thighs. His fingers swipe up the mess, trailing their way back up to shove back into your swollen pussy.
Breathless, you hide your face in his neck. “Then you’d better find us a place.”
Bucky rolls you back over, cock already hardening again, insistent against your thigh. “One step ahead of you sweetheart.”
Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.
Word Count: 7.4k
Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky
Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡
Part Two
Masterlist
You are bleeding.
The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.
The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.
Your breath is shallow.
The bleeding won’t stop.
With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.
You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.
A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.
Bucky is still in his bedroom.
Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.
That’s how it’s always been.
He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.
He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.
But you still keep running. Every time.
The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.
You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.
You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.
But fuck, it hurts.
You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.
You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.
The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.
Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.
And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.
Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.
You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.
You press your hands to the cool porcelain.
One more breath.
Then another.
Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.
Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.
It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.
Bucky is always nice.
You were friends first, after all.
Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.
Things had been easy, light, and simple.
You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.
Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.
It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.
You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.
You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.
Because there was no stopping from then on.
You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.
But you keep coming back when he calls.
He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.
But today was different.
He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.
He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.
His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.
Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.
There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.
His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.
He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.
He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.
He fucked you like it’s you he craved.
He fucked you like it was making him blind.
It did.
Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.
His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.
He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.
Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.
But it wasn’t today.
Because the pain only grew.
The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.
You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.
Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.
You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.
You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.
It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.
You know you should have said something.
You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.
But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.
So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.
And you let him.
Because you didn’t want to ruin this.
Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?
So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.
You still don’t stop bleeding.
It’s not your period.
You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.
But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.
But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.
There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.
So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.
And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.
God, you hate this.
Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.
But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.
You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.
You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.
A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.
“Hey, you alright in there?”
Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.
You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.
“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.
“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.
You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.
Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.
But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.
Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”
Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”
There is a beat of silence.
The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.
“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”
It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.
“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”
It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.
And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.
His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.
“Are you hurt?”
Your breath stays caught in your throat.
“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.
“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”
You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.
You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.
“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”
The door handle rattles.
“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”
You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.
“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.
The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”
You don’t move. Your knees are weak.
“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.
You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.
But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”
You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.
“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”
The door handle tugs again.
“I need to see you.”
You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.
“Bucky-”
“Please.”
That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.
“Buck, I need a second, okay?”
You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.
Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.
“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.
You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.
The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.
“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.
You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.
Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.
You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.
On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.
His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”
“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.
Bucky’s breath shudders out.
You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.
Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.
“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”
Your legs give out.
It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.
The impact rattles the whole thing.
A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.
“Alright, I'm coming in.”
Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.
The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.
Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.
His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.
His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.
“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”
You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.
Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.
“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”
You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.
But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.
He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.
His eyes are on you.
And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.
His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.
He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.
The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.
You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.
Bucky’s jaw is tight.
You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.
Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.
“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.
His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.
Then he stills.
His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.
His gaze drops.
The storm behind his eyes turns feral.
You know what he is seeing.
You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.
The blood.
A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.
For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.
“Jesus Christ.”
His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.
You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.
But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.
Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.
“Bucky-”
“Hush.”
It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.
“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”
You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”
“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”
His grip on you is firm, but not rough.
His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.
Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.
His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.
He is shaking.
A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.
It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.
“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.
You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.
Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.
“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.
His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?
But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.
You don’t want him to see you like this.
It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.
Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.
He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.
With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.
You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.
And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.
You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.
You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.
But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.
None of it seems to matter.
Only you.
He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.
Then he takes off.
You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.
And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.
But the thing is, he is already making this worse.
Not in the way he thinks.
Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.
Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.
He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.
And this hurts so much more.
It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.
But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.
He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.
His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.
His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.
His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.
Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.
Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.
His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.
It feels like he is bleeding grief.
And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.
Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.
But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.
This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.
And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.
His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.
And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.
He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.
His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.
“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”
You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.
Bucky waits.
And again, that makes it worse.
Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.
He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.
You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.
His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”
You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”
Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.
A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.
His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.
He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.
He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.
“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”
You can’t look at him.
You want to. But you can’t.
Because he is too much.
Because he is everything.
Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.
There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.
Bucky moves instantly.
He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.
His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.
“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.
His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”
His thumb catches a tear.
His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.
“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.
His forehead almost touches yours.
“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.
He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.
“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”
You choke on your next breath.
Your mind blanks.
He shakes his head, like he hates himself.
“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”
You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.
Words are lost on you.
Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.
His voice lowers. Softens.
“But I can’t do this anymore.”
His fingers tighten.
“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”
His voice splinters.
You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.
Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.
“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.
Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.
“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”
Bucky’s eyes go wide.
He looks broken.
His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.
You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.
Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.
“You thought I wanted you to leave?”
The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.
“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.
“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”
His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.
“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”
You feel everything crack open inside you.
Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.
“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.
Bucky’s face contorts in pain.
“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”
Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.
You had it all wrong.
And so did he.
You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.
You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.
“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.
Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.
With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.
His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.
“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.
You shake your head, but he won’t have it.
“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”
His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.
“You’re stayin’ right here.”
You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.
And Bucky melts.
Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.
He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.
His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.
“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.
Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.
You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.
Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.
His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.
“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.
Bucky gives you a warning look.
“It only hurts a little.”
Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.
“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”
His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.
He is looking at you like you are everything.
“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”
“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”
You sigh.
“Bucky-”
“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”
Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.
Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”
He doesn’t even let you finish.
He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.
And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.
His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.
You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.
“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.
But you try to.
Because you want to.
“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”
warnings: bucky is really mean in this one im sorry :( , angst, no comfort, shouting, crying, bucky is just a stressed out overworked old man 💔
bucky barnes masterlist
part two
you sigh, pushing open the door to bucky’s office. “baby?” you make sure to keep your voice as quiet as possible because you know he’s stressed with all the pressure he’s been under recently. but you just want to make sure your husband is okay. he’s been cooped up in his office all day and now that it’s late, you’ll love it if he came to bed with you.
even though you’re now in his office, he doesn’t look up from the many papers that are spread out on his desk.
“baby? are you going to come to bed now?” you mumble, twirling your fingers together nervously. you’re not scared of your husband. not at all, especially when he’s treated you with nothing but soft touches and sweet words but his silence, him not acknowledging your presence is unnerving.
“m’busy.” he grunts, flipping through the papers on his desk.
“but we always go to sleep together no matter how busy you are. you always say it can wait till morning and im really tired—”
you flinch when he suddenly slams his hands on his desk, saying your name with a snarl. “if you’re so goddamn tired then go to bed. i told you that im busy.”
“b-but—” you flinch even harder this time when he stands up, his lips lifting in a snarl.
“are you fucking deaf? why can’t you listen to a single word i say? i am working! so do me a favour and get out of my office.” you nod, your eyes stinging with tears. just as you go to run out of your husbands office you hear him let out another bark. “and next time make sure you knock before you come in uninvited.” you swallow, quickly opening the door and leaving without looking back.
as soon as you’re in the comfort of your bedroom that’s when you finally let your tears overtake you. you dig yourself under the covers, in a tight ball, your shoulders shaking with your sobs. why was he so mean to you? he’s never spoken to you like that before and he always told you that you never had to knock when you go into his office because you’re his wife. your tears start to fall harder when you realise that you’ve never been afraid of your husband until today. is this the scary mob boss that all his men talk about because now you understand.
you’ve truly seen the ruthless man that he tries to cover up by being your sweet and loving husband. and you hate it. and you hate how you still want to be comforted by him even though he’s the reason for your pain.
the last thing you remember as your eyes close from exhaustion is the sound of your bedroom door opening.
fin.
a/n - ugh he’s so damn mean, but dw he makes up for it in the next part. i will make him grovel!
warnings: pervy old man!joel, huge (legal) age gap, panty stealing, panty huffing, peeping tom behavior mentioned, joel being a desperate, dirty old man and feeling a little bad, jealousy, tw bad date with a basic ass guy, oblivious reader, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv sex, daddy kink, messy sex, creampie, breeding kink, mentioned aftercare, MDNI
wc: 6.2k
an: finally done with pervy neighbor joel. as always shoutout to my queen @eth3lroy for proofing
The glare you’re currently giving your sink would kill a grown man.
This really isn’t what you needed today. All you wanted to do was make some pasta and try to relax, but of course your sink decided it was just gonna…stop working. No water for you, but only in your kitchen!
“Fuck.” You hiss, turning the knob on and off again just in case. Nothing. “Piece of shit.”
Your mind immediately jumps to the one person you know can fix the sink - Joel. The single, grumpy man in his sixties that lives in the house next door.
Joel’s been a strange but constant presence since you first moved into this shithole of a house your grandpa left you - ever since he first helped you change a flat tire on your car, he’s found just about every excuse to come over and fix things around the house. He bitches and complains, but he’s always there when you need him.
That simple fact is the reason why you shrug on a jacket, jam your feet in your crocs, and head out the door over to Joel’s. It’s chilly outside, and other than your zip-up, your shorts and t-shirt are doing nothing to keep you warm. His truck is parked out front, but he’s not out on his porch like he usually is.
You trudge up the stairs and knock on the door. There’s a long stretch of silence before the lock turns and the door creaks open to reveal Joel’s handsome scowl.
“Somethin’ the matter?” You watch as his eyes dart behind you, assessing both your yard and his before returning to your face. You could’ve sworn he gave you an up and down, but you’re pretty sure you were imagining it.
“Nothin’ serious, my sink is just being weird.” You shrug, an aggravated huff lacing your words. “Can you come look at it? Please?”
Joel heaves out a sigh so great you’d think you asked him to remodel your whole kitchen in one night.
“Fine.” He grumbles, jerking his chin towards your house. “Get on back over there ‘fore ya catch a cold. I’ll be there in a minute.”
You turn and scurry back to your house, quick to shut the door against the chilly breeze while you wait for Joel. You toss your hoodie on the back of your couch and shuffle into the kitchen to glower at your sink. Your empty pot and box of dry noodles sit abandoned on the counter.
It’s not long before you hear the telltale sign of your neighbor’s arrival - two heavy knocks on the door, followed by a gruff ‘It’s Joel’. You open the door.
“Really? Thought is was the fuckin’ easter bunny.”
“Smartass.” Joel lumbers past you, toolbox in hand. “You want me ta fix yer sink or not?”
“I’m just playing.” You huff, hopping up on the counter. “You don’t have to be such a grump.”
Joel mumbles something under his breath but doesn’t say anything to you in return. He groans real loud when he gets down on his creaky knees to poke around under the sink; you barely fight the urge to make a senior citizen comment.
“What was the problem?” He’s shining a light under the sink now, looking at the pipes.
“The water’s not working. And yes, before you fucking say it, I did check the main. It’s on, and I have water everywhere else.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of Joel’s lips before he ducks under the sink. You idly watch his back as he messes around in the cabinet, jumping a little when he suddenly pops a hand out behind him and makes a grabby motion.
“Hand me that wrench there, wouldja?”
“Which one?” You slide off the counter and look in his toolbox. There are like….five different wrenches. Joel backs up enough to give you an incredulous look, like he can’t believe you don’t know exactly which wrench to choose.
“The pipe wrench, darlin’. What else?”
“What the fuck is a pipe wrench?”
“Christ.” Joel reaches over and snatches up what is apparently the pipe wrench, shaking his head. “It’s this one here, kid.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” You gripe, returning to your perch on the counter. “What the hell do I look like, a tool guru?”
“…smartass mouth.” Joel is grumbling to himself again as he once again dives beneath the sink. You roll your eyes - what a grouch. Joel spends about twenty minutes fussing with your pipes before he emerges again.
“M’gunna use yer bathroom.” He manages to heave himself up to his feet with a grunt. “Don’t break anything else.”
“You’re acting like I did this on purpose!” You scoff at him as he disappears down the hall. God, somehow he always manages to get under your skin. You pull out your phone to scroll on tiktok while you wait.
And wait.
And wait.
After what feels like fucking forever, Joel finally comes lumbering back in.
“Jesus, did you fall in or something?” You ask, looking up from your phone as he gets back on the floor with a grunt. “Get lost in the hall? Dementia finally setting in?”
“Shut yer goddamn mouth.” Joel’s head vanishes from your view under the sink again. His tone is clipped, sharper than before. You shift, falling silent. “‘N let me work on the sink.”
Joel avoids your eyes for the rest of the night. You wonder why long after he goes back to his house.
————————
Joel Miller is a sick, sick man. At least, that’s what he tells himself every time he catches his eyes lingering on you for too long.
Or when he sneaks into your bathroom, steals whatever pair of used panties are sitting on the top of your hamper, and jerks off with his face buried in them before shoving them in his pocket. Like he just did.
Joel feels filthy when he’s fixing your sink. He curses himself to hell when he tells you goodnight and trudges back over to his house.
But he still ends up with his nose in your panties and a hand fisting his cock.
Joel’s not sure when his problem started. He’s not sure when he stopped ignoring the way your music thumped the windows of your car and started trying to catch just a glimpse of you changing through your window when he was up early watering his plants. When he started making any excuse to come over and fix stuff just to hear you laugh, see you smile, or get a peek at whatever panties you wore the day before in your hamper.
He feels like a fucking hormonal college kid with the thoughts he has about you. He sees you getting your mail in those ratty old sweats, he’s thinking about the way they would look bunched around your knees as he bends you over the front porch railing. Every time you look up at him with that annoyed pout he’s imagining those same lips wrapped around his cock. You let out a satisfied little groan when you stretched once and Joel was immediately struck by the thought of wringing little noises like that out of you with his mouth on your pussy.
Joel doesn’t know what’s worse - the fact that he’s acting like this at his grown ass age of sixty, or the fact that you’re so fucking oblivious to it. Joel doesn’t know why you keep him around. He’s a fucking creep.
But he can’t bring himself to be the bigger man and stay away.
Which is why, the day after he stayed up tossing and turning and guilty over taking another pair of your panties, Joel finds himself back in your kitchen. This time he’s fixing the light over your kitchen table, since you apparently can’t be bothered to replace two burned out bulbs.
“I hate this fucking house.” He gripes, scowling as the bulb refuses to screw in for the fifth time. “Every time I come over some more shit’s not workin’.”
“I didn’t even ask you to fix that!” You’re huffy, throwing him a look over your shoulder as you pour two mugs of coffee. “You just showed up and started bitching!”
Joel huffs out something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh as he fiddles with the bulb. You’ve been in a mood since he invited himself over; he can’t imagine why, since it’s Saturday and he knows you have nothing better to do than entertain him.
“‘M bitchin’ because yer in here livin’ in shambles.” Joel scoffs. He finally manages to get the bulb screwed in, watching in satisfaction as it blinks on. “Seriously, darlin’, ya see how easy this was?”
“Yeah, it was soooo easy that you’ve been doing nothing but bitching since you started.” Joel looks over as you pour that overly sweet creamer in your mug. He can’t help the way his eyes fall down to your ass. “And it was just like, two lights. I was gonna fix them eventually.”
God, you gotta stop wearing those little sleep shorts. Joel is nearly drooling as he stares at the way your asscheeks are framed by the thin material. Jesus H. Christ, what he wouldn’t do to have his face buried there, lapping mercilessly at your cunt and feeling the soft press of your ass on his face while you choke on his dick-
“Hey, gramps, are you even listening?”
Oh, fuck. You’re still talking to him, your lips turned down in that little pout that always makes his cock twitch. He clears his throat.
“Nah, ya musta been yakkin’ in my bad ear.” He grins when you smack his arm, unamused. “Gotta speak up, sweetheart. Hearin’ ain’t what it used to be.”
“You’re annoying.” Joel loves the way your voice gets a little whiney when you’re annoyed. He wonders if you get the same way before you cum. “I said your coffee’s ready.”
“Thank ya kindly, darlin’.” He takes the mug from you and takes a sip. Black, hot, and bitter - just how he likes it. You always make it perfect. He gestures towards your cabinet with the mug. “That door’s still squeakin’ when ya open it. I can get my screwdriver and tighten them hinges.”
“Do you have, like, nothing better to do with your weekend?” You snort, looking at him over the rim of your cup. “Like, I don’t know…bingo? Knitting circle? Bird watching?”
“Very funny.” Joel’s tone is dry, and the look he gives you even drier. “And no, I don’t. Nothin’ on my schedule but botherin’ you.”
You mumble something about him being a ‘fucking asshole’ and he smiles.
Then your phone pings on the counter.
Joel glances down just in time to see the notification icon - a white flame against a pink background. Something sharp and hot twists through his chest.
“Didn’t know you were on them, uh, datin’ sites.” He doesn’t like how eager you are to snatch up your phone. Likes it even less when a little smile lights up your face.
“How the hell do you know what Tinder is?” You raise an eyebrow and look up from the screen to give him a look. “You gettin’ some action I don’t know about or something?”
The only action Joel’s been getting is his hand and your panties, but he’s not about to tell you that. Instead, he rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his coffee.
“Shut the hell up.” He gripes. His eyes stay on the dark liquid for all of two seconds before they lock right back onto your face as you type out a message. “Who’re ya even textin’? One of them pretty boy types?”
“No.” Maybe Joel’s just delusional, but he swears you sound a little defensive. “Just a nice guy. Been talking to him for a few days, he wants to take me out this week.”
“Oh.” Joel ignores the way something bitter squirms in his stomach. “Well, be safe. Make sure he gets the door for ya, and don’t you pay fer nothin’-“
“I think I know how to go on a date, Joel.” That whine is back in your voice again. “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.”
“Right.” Joel grumbles into his coffee. “Of course.”
He fixes the cabinet hinge even though you tell him not to. Then he fixes your loose shower knob just for the hell of it.
He hates the way that bitter feeling sits heavy in his gut all day, even after he goes home.
————————-
You have to leave for your date in twenty minutes, and you have no clue what to wear.
You’re not even sure how nice you need to dress. All you know is you’re getting Italian, with no indication on the level of fancy required. Matt is sweet, but you wish he’d been a little more descriptive. Your anxiety is through the roof right now. And to make it worse, you can’t find your favorite pair of panties.
“This is so fucking stupid.” You’ve got your bad bitch music playing, Megan Thee Stallion bumping from your Alexa as you rifle through your closet. “Fucking…fuck. I’ve got nothing to wear!”
Okay, maybe you’re being a bit dramatic. You’ve got plenty to wear - you just don’t know what. And now you have about 12 minutes left to choose.
You eventually settle on a cute little sweater and skirt with white tights and chunky pumps. Nothing crazy, right? Casual enough for a family restaurant, nice enough in case it’s somewhere nicer. You keep your makeup classy; can’t go wrong with the tried and true combination of lipgloss, mascara, and eyeliner. And you’re only wearing cute panties because you want to. No other reason.
Joel’s truck is gone when you get in your car to leave. You wonder where he’s gone. He’s usually playing guitar on his porch around lunchtime. Oh well. Maybe he’s visiting his brother.
You’re relieved when you pull up to the restaurant. It’s nothing fancy, just a nice local spot. You see Matt standing on the curb outside, dressed…well, like he closed his eyes and picked his clothes.
“Hey, hi.” You get a noseful of Axe body spray when he goes in for a hug. “You uh, you’re awfully dressed up.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t think it was too dressy.” You cave to one self conscious glance down at your outfit before reminding yourself that you are not about to let a man wearing blue basketball shorts, a stained hoodie, and slides make you feel bad about your outfit. “Nice enough just in case, y’know?”
“Right. Sure, man.” Matt jerks his head towards the door. “You ready to sit down? I’m starving.”
“Yeah, uh-“ You’re cut off when Matt swings the door open and walks in, leaving it to almost swing into you. You jump slightly, catching it just before it hits your shoulder. “-oh, um, this place looks…good.”
Well, this is off to a terrible start. You’re holding onto the hope that things will improve after you sit down and start talking.
They don’t. In fact, they get worse.
Your thighs have barely touched the booth when Matt opens his mouth and starts talking. He goes on and on about himself - which is totally fine, except he doesn’t let you get a single word in. He just talks and talks and talks.
As soon as he starts talking about NFTs, you zone out. Your spaghetti and garlic knots become the most interesting thing in the world, and you’re glad the food is at least good as you sit and listen to Matt drone on.
Joel would listen to you talk.
The thought pops up unbidden, mid bite of spaghetti. You’re not sure why Joel of all people is on your mind right now. You chalk it up to spending too much time with the old man. You see him more than your friends.
“Everything okay?” You’re brought back into the moment by the arrival of the waitress. “Can I get you two anything else?”
“Oh, no, we’re good.” Matt’s talking before you can open your mouth, again. You frown, but stay quiet; you kind of wanted a cannoli, but whatever. “Can we get the check?”
“Of course.” The waitress grabs the empty plates. “Together or separate?”
“Separate.”
Joel would’ve paid for you both.
The thought lingers as you pay the bill and finish your soda. You’re just ready to go home; all the excitement over this date is gone, leaving you with that weighty feeling of disappointment.
“You wanna go to my car?” Matt sounds far too smug for a guy who just absolutely bombed a date. “I can take you back to my place.”
“I’ll have to pass this time, sorry.” You’re not sorry at all, but you try to at least look apologetic when you give him a half-assed smile. “Forgot I have to, uh, help my neighbor out today. He’s elderly, y’know?”
“Oh.” The obvious disappointment in his tone makes your skin crawl. “Are you sure he can’t like…wait? You don’t have to stay overnight.”
“No, he can’t.” Annoyance is quick to creep into your tone as you cross your arms against the cold. “I really gotta get going. Thanks for today, it was, uh…fun.”
“Right, well uh…I’ll text you.”
You really hope he doesn’t.
Your bad bitch playlist feels a little mocking as you drive home. You turn it up loud enough to rattle your windows in an attempt to make yourself feel better, but you’re still annoyed when you pull up to your house. A cute outfit, a cute face, your whole day wasted on some prick who didn’t even have the decency to hold the door.
“Un-fucking-believable.” You grumble, slamming your car door shut. You stalk up the porch stairs, your chunky pumps thumping loudly on the old wood, keys jingling as you unlock your door with more force than necessary. Your keys and purse get abandoned on the side table by your door as you trudge into your kitchen.
You’re half tempted to bust out your bottle of vodka to get drunk and watch edits on tiktok or take some cute pictures to help yourself feel better after that dogshit date, but you don’t get the chance to make a decision.
Knock knock! “It’s Joel.”
Of course it is. You’d been so wrapped up in sulking that you didn’t notice his truck back out front. You go to the door to open it; Joel’s dressed like he always is, jeans and a flannel button up that makes him look too broad to be fair.
“Were you just waiting for me to get home so you could bug me?” You ask, leaving the door open for Joel to find his way in. “You gotta get a hobby, man. Golf or something.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Oh great, he’s grumpy too. “Heard yer damn music ‘fore ya even turned down the street. Figured I’d come check on ya, see how yer, uh, date went.”
“My date fucking sucked, Joel.” You announce with a huff, digging in your cabinets for a shot glass. “It sucked, he was a douche, and I wasted my time.”
“Did he hurt ya?” It’s hard to miss the prickly concern in Joel’s voice. “Put his hands on ya?”
“No, no, he didn’t touch me.” You finally find your little pink heart playboy shot glasses. “You want a shot?”
“Hell no.” Shrugging, you pull out a single glass for yourself and your cheap vodka. More for you.
“Anyways, my date was ass.” You’re not sure why you’re ranting to Joel of all people as you pour yourself a shot, but here you are. “He was rude and boring and could not give less of a fuck about me.”
You feel Joel’s eyes on you as you knock back the shot. It burns all the way down and settles heavily in your stomach. You take a second to blink the sting out of your eyes before you continue to talk.
“It’s just - it’s so frustrating, you know? The dating pool fucking sucks. None of these guys know how to act or make you feel special.” You sigh, turning your shot glass over in your hand and staring dejectedly at the bunny head logo on the glass before mumbling, “Can’t believe I wasted a cute outfit on that jackass. Should’ve known better.”
Silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. You’re debating on taking another shot when Joel finally speaks up.
“‘S a real shame. Boys your age don’t know how ta treat a lady.” There’s something charged in his eyes when you look up at him. Something dangerous. “Ain’t fair to a pretty little thing like yerself, kiddo. Ya deserve to be spoiled and taken care of.”
“Yeah?” You let out a little laugh. Your stomach feels a little fluttery at his tone and you’re not sure why, so you hop up to sit on your counter to distract yourself. “And how exactly would you do it, huh? Enlighten me, old man.”
You’re not expecting him to indulge you. You wait for him to scoff, roll his eyes, grumble about you being a smartass and try to find something in your house to fiddle with.
Instead, he takes a step closer.
“First I’d take ya out somewhere nice.” His boots land slow and heavy on your kitchen floor, each step closer sending your heart rate up. “Whatever kinda food ya want. Let ya order the whole damn menu if it makes ya happy. Don’t matter anyways, since I’d be payin’.”
Even sitting on the counter you have to look up at him when he draws closer. His brown eyes are dark, but not in a way that makes you nervous. It only takes you a second to clock the feeling roiling around in your tummy - excitement.
“That sounds nice.”
“Oh you have no idea, sweetheart.”
He comes to a stop right in front of you, his thighs brushing your knees. You feel the weight of his gaze traveling over your body like a tangible, living thing. It makes your thighs squeeze together.
Joel notices.
“Then I’d take ya home.” He rumbles, ducking his head to catch your gaze and hold it. “Mine or yours, whichever ya wanted. Make sure yer comfortable, make ya laugh on the way there, maybe make ya a drink when we get in.”
The snarky comment you’re about to make about million year old whiskey dies on your tongue when his hands, big and rough, land gently on your thighs.
“Then I’d sit ya down and take off yer heels, just like this.”
You watch, stunned into silence, as Joel lowers himself to his knees right there on your kitchen floor. He settles with a groan, his hands sliding down your legs with a sort of reverence you’ve never experienced. His callouses catch on your tights as he drags his hands down, his palms warm when they settle on your ankles.
And God, the eye contact.
He holds your gaze as he unbuckles your pumps, sliding them off your feet one at a time and setting them neatly aside. Your heart is racing.
“Then…I’d take your tights off reeeeaaal slow-like.” His hands creep back up your legs, this time slipping under the hem of your skirt. “Lift your hips for me, babygirl. There we go, just like that.”
You feel like you’re in a trance as you lift your hips, letting Joel hook his fingers into the waistband of your tights and tug them down. The material rolls itself up as he eases it down your legs and pulls the tights off your feet. He sets the little bundle on top of your pumps.
“Next, I’d take a second to just look atcha.” Joel rocks back on his heels and does just that, his eyes searing as they travel over your body. Joel groans low in his throat. “‘Cuz Christ, sweetheart, you are a sight to behold.”
Oh fuck.
That goes straight to your pussy. Your breath hitches, cheeks flushing as you feel your panties getting damp.
“W-What would you do next?” Your voice is breathless and barely audible in the quiet of the room. The ghost of a smile tugs at Joel’s lips.
“Probably something like this.” You nearly pass out when his lips touch your skin. You have to remind yourself to breathe as he kisses his way up from your ankles, alternating between legs with every kiss. You don’t put up much of a fight as he nudges your thighs apart.
“God almighty.” Joel literally shudders when he presses his lips to your inner thigh. You watch, transfixed, as he nuzzles against your skin. “Yer a fuckin’ angel, baby. Too damn perfect.”
“Joel-“ You cut yourself off with a sharp inhale when he suddenly pulls you forward, pressing his face against your clothed cunt. He draws in a deep breath and then moans against you.
“Been dreamin’ about this cunt for months.” The confession is muffled by your panties, but you hear it all the same. “Fuck. Huffin’ yer old panties don’t even come close to the real thing.”
“What?” It comes out more like a squeak when you feel his tongue drag across the gusset of your panties. “Joel, what are you - what are you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer you right away. He’s too busy mouthing at your pussy like he’s starving, his breaths coming quick and uneven. You gasp when he sucks on your clit through the thin fabric.
“Mmmm…I’ve been a bad man, babygirl.” He pulls back just far enough to look up at you. “Stealin’ yer pretty panties before ya wash ‘em. Lookin’ atcha when ya change by the window. Cummin’ in my boxers like a damn teenager just from thinkin’ aboutcha.”
You should be disgusted. You should shove him away and tell him to get the fuck out of your house.
Instead, you moan. Loudly.
And Joel smirks like he just won the damn lottery.
“Oh, you liked that.” He coos, his fingers hooking in the waistband of your panties now. “You love havin’ this old man wrapped around yer pretty little finger, dontcha sweetpea?”
He all but rips your panties down your legs. The countertop is cool on your bare skin, a shocking contrast to the heat overtaking your body. Joel holds up your panties, admiring them.
“Ain’t seen this pair before.” He says, quirking an eyebrow at you as he balls them up and stuffs them in the breast pocket of his flannel. “They’re real purty, babygirl.”
“They’re, uh, they’re new.” You manage, the words catching in your throat. “I got them a couple w-weeks ago.”
Joel hums, dragging his face back up the inside of your thigh. His beard tickles your skin. “‘M gonna hang onto ‘em for a little bit, darlin’.”
Then his mouth is on your cunt. Your hand flies down to his hair, gripping those salt and pepper curls like a lifeline as he starts to devour you. His tongue drags through your soaked folds before plunging inside of you, his nose bumping your clit.
“Oh, fuck.” Your head falls back against the cabinet with a dull thud as you grind against Joel’s face. “Fucking god, oh-“
“Name’s Joel, honey.” Comes the smartass rumble from between your legs. “Say it with me now, ‘s not that hard.”
He shoves two thick fingers inside of you in one go, making you jolt with a squeal.
“Joel!”
“Theeeeeere we go.” He curls his fingers just right, bringing his mouth back down. “Atta girl.”
His lips wrap back around your clit. The sound of Joel slurping between your legs is obscene; the filthiness of it all has your toes curling and your pussy fluttering around his fingers.
“Knew you’d taste good.” Joel’s muttering and gasping between breaths, but you can barely pay attention to what he’s saying. “Prettiest pussy I ever saw. Knew she’d be sweet f’me.”
God, you’re already so close. His thick fingers are stretching you open, massaging your g-spot while he sucks on your clit. You’re a whining, moaning mess.
“Joel, please-“ The words come out as strangled gasp, your hips squirming against the counter. “I wanna, I’m so - please?”
Instead of answering you, Joel just doubles down. His fingers and mouth work together to bring you closer and closer to that edge until you’re cumming with a whimper, your cunt squeezing and gushing around his fingers. Joel licks up every drop and moans while he does it.
“Good girl, jesus.” Joel groans, pulling his fingers from you and sucking them clean. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cum for yer old man.”
Your thighs are shaking as Joel gets up off the floor, grunting when his knees crack. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then leans in and kisses you hard. You moan into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips as he slips his tongue past your own.
“Please let me fuck you, babydoll.” Joel pleads between kisses, his voice desperate in a way you’ve never heard. “Please. I need ta feel her milkin’ me, sweatpea. Need to be buried inside yer pretty cunt.”
Joel could ask you for anything right now and you think you’d give it to him. You’re nodding before he even finishes his sentence, your hands fisted in his shirt.
“Please fuck me, daddy.” Joel swears under his breath as soon as the pet name falls from your lips. “Show me what you’ve been thinking about.”
Joel steps back and yanks at his belt. The buckle clanks against itself as he opens it, popping the button on his jeans and shoving them and his boxers down in one rough motion. You pussy clenches around nothing wantonly at the sight of his cock - he’s big and thick, his cock framed by his soft tummy and greying pubic hair. His tip is leaking a ridiculous amount of precum.
“Oh, I’ll show ya, sweetheart.” He rests one hand on your hip, the other spreading his pre over his length as he draws closer. “Damn near came just from eatin’ ya. Can’t believe yer lettin’ this dirty old man ruin this pretty pussy.”
You moan when he rubs the head of his cock up and down your slit, slow and teasing. He taps his heavy cock on your clit once, twice, a third time just to watch the way your hips jerk.
“Shit.” His eyes are glued to the way your cunt flutters as he slides his cock over it, around it, dipping just the tip in before pulling it back out and repeating the entire process. “Lookit her blowin’ me kisses, honey. She wants her daddy somethin’ awful, don’t she?”
The way he’s talking is just making you even wetter, if that’s even possible. You just want him to put it in already but right now he seems keen on making your pussy a slick mess.
“Daddy.” You huff, pouting up at him. You feel like you’re gonna cry if he doesn’t stuff you full with his cock. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit. “Stop teasing me.”
“M’sorry, sweetpea.” Joel doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Just wanna take m’time with ya. Wanna savor this.”
He lets out a shuddering breath as he lines up his head with your entrance.
“Alright babygirl.” Joel cuts his eyes up to yours. “Take a nice, deep breath f’me.”
You take a slow, deep breath just like he asks. As soon as you start on the exhale, Joel pushes in.
Your nails dig into his biceps.
“That’s it, biiiiig stretch.” You choke on something between a sob and a moan when he bottoms out. An ache settles deep in your guts, your pussy stretching around him. You don’t even realize you’re starting to hyperventilate a little until Joel starts thumbing your clit.
“Hey, sh-sh-shhhhh. Slow breaths, sweet thing.” It’s hard, but you try to focus on his voice and relax. “There’s my girl. I know honey, daddy’s big, ain’t he? You’ll be okay. Yer a big girl, remember?”
You don’t get a chance to answer him, since he pushes his thumb in your mouth a second later. You drag your tongue over the pad and suck; Joel’s cock throbs inside of you.
“Fuck, what a good girl.” He pulls his hips back slowly, head dropping to watch the way he glides out of you. He takes his time pushing back inside just to watch you squirm. “Takin’ yer old man’s cock like you were made for it, honey.”
You can’t do much but drool and moan around his thumb when his thrusts start to pick up force and speed. The head of his cock nails your cervix with each movement, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so goddamn full. It doesn’t help that Joel won’t stop running his filthy mouth.
“A boy yer age could never take care of ya like I can.” Joel pants, fucking into you harder like that might chase the thought away. “Lemme take care of ya, babydoll. You’ll keep this old man around, won’tcha? Let ‘im be yer daddy?”
“Yes, daddy, please.” You pop off his thumb with a gasp, blinking up at him with big, watery eyes as he fucks you towards another orgasm. “Pleasepleaseplease - I’ll be a good girl-“
“Oh I know you will, darlin’. Yer daddy’s perfect girl already.”
Joel thinks he died and went to heaven. Never in a million years did he think he’d be here, fucking you stupid on your kitchen counter. If he had a heart attack right now and died with his cock buried inside your perfect little cunt he’d die a happy man.
He’d rather not though. He wants to do this again.
Joel’s over the moon to know that his imagination was correct; you do get that whine in your voice when you’re close. He can hear it right now as you beg and babble nonsense at him. If only he knew you were as filthy as he is from the jump. He would’ve done this a lot sooner.
“Fuck, baby, listen.” The wet sound of his cock plunging in and out of you would make a pornstar flush. “This sweet little pussy’s givin’ her daddy kisses.”
He feels you clench around him and grins. Joel’s glad you like hearing him talk as much as he likes saying filthy things to you. He brings his hand down and starts rubbing tight little circles on your clit, the spit you left on his thumb adding to the mess.
“C’mon, kiddo.” He coos, his voice a little strained as he fights off his own release. What kind of gentleman would he be if he blew his load without making you cum again first? “I know yer close, babygirl. Give it t’me, c’mon. Make a mess on this cock. Give daddy something to clean up with those cute little panties.”
That does you in. Joel thinks you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world when you cum, your face scrunching up and those little ‘oh, oh, oh’s catching in your throat. As soon as you cum, Joel’s right behind you.
“Christ.” He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking in helpless little thrusts as he pumps you full of his cum. “Might just have ta make ya a cute little mama, make sure ya really stay with me.”
The little noise you make when he says that has Joel’s over sensitive cock throbbing inside of you. He can already feel his cum dripping out of you and making a mess on your counter. Oh well.
“Oh my god.” You’re panting, eyes dazed as you come down from your orgasm. Joel’s lips tilt up in a little smirk.
“I told ya already kiddo, it’s Joel.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Joel chuckles when you smack his shoulder. The effectiveness of your glare is severely diminished by the fact that your pussy is still fluttering and leaking around him. God, you’re too cute.
“That’s no way to talk to yer daddy, sweetheart.”
“My daddy can go fuck himself.” You suck in a breath through your teeth when he pulls out. Joel takes a second to admire the wreck he made of your cunt before pulling your panties out of his pocket.
“Joel!” There’s that bratty little huff he loves so much. You watch in disbelief as he starts mopping up your combined fluids with your panties. “What the fuck?”
“Just need a little somethin’ to keep me company later.” He’s shameless with it just to watch the way your cheeks flush. “When I’m thinkin’ aboutcha.”
“You’re disgusting.” You can try all you like, but you can’t hide the little smile on your face when Joel helps you down off the counter. He stuffs the soaked panties back in his flannel with a wink as you straighten out your sweater and skirt.
“Yeah, I am.” He smacks your ass when you wobble past him, grinning when you squeak. He bends over to grab your heels and tights with a groan. “But’cha love it, right babygirl?”
“Whatever.” He can hear the eyeroll in your tone as he follows you to the bathroom. “Do you want dinner or not?”
After dinner, Joel decides, as he starts running you a bath, he’s gonna put you through the mattress.
