Pairing: DDBAS2!Benjamin Pointdexter x neighbor!reader
WC/tags: 1776 | blood, p in v, light praising, cheating
A/N: I’ve never written for Dex so this was kinda fun! Been watching born again season 2 so he’s been on my mind @angsty-april
The copper is the first thing you smell.
It’s tangy, deeprooted like a penny at the bottom of a piggybank.
You’re familiar with its taste. It had filled your mouth enough times, had ballooned under your skin after particular punches, but you hadn’t seen this much of it, especially on your floor.
The shift had run late, and you may or may not have taken the longer route to get home. You weren’t in a rush to get back to your husband.
You had expected to come to a messy apartment, his beer bottles piled up. Maybe he’d be asleep on the couch, or in a rage the moment you passed the threshold. You hadn’t expected the broken glass and the blood, and you certainly hadn’t expected your neighbor to be standing in the middle of it, blonde hair soaked red.
He turns slowly, his boots squeaking in the blood and your fingers tighten around the carton of cigarettes.
“Tony,” you whisper, hoping you aren’t going to be sick. “What’re you doing?”
He looks perplexed for a moment, blonde brows furrowing but then he smiles, and you feel your veins thinning with fear under your skin.
“Tony, right,” he says, and shrugs a shoulder. “Forgot about that name change.”
“Name change?” You squeak, your eyes dropping to your husband. Your very dead husband.
“I’ve been trying it out,” he continues, like his shoes aren’t coated in blood, like he isn’t standing in your apartment. You still aren’t sure how he got in. “I thought Tony was better than Alfred.”
“So your name isn’t Tony.” You whisper, and what the fuck are you saying? You must be in shock. You have to be.
Not-Tony walks straight up to you, and sticks out his hand for you to shake but you step back, eyes widening.
“I’m Ben. Most call me Dex,” his smile turns a little sheepish. “You can call me Dex if you want.”
“What’re you doing in my house, Dex?” Your voice is so small you wonder if he heard you.
Dex motions to your husband, laying on his back with glazed eyes staring at the ceiling. “Oh. Right. Well I was doing you a favor.”
“A favor?”
“Your husband a cheater,” he explains. “And aside from that, I wasn’t a huge fan of how he hit you.” You pause, now completely thrown for a loop. Dex takes in your confused expression, his jaw twitching as he shakes his head. “The walls are thin. I could hear you. The yelling and-“
“So you killed him?” You cut in, hoping Dex hadn’t heard everything. Ever bicker, every fight. Every slap. You want it buried, gone. And it was. It had died with your husband.
Dex nods. “Yes. I did.”
You look from him to your husband and back again. “How did it feel?”
“To take his life?” Dex asks, and if he’s surprised by your question he doesn’t show it. “Good. Because he was a sack of shit.”
You laugh, unexpectedly and hollowly. The bruise on your ribs aches from the action. “That he was.”
Dex steps forward, and you consider stepping back, but he cocks his head and you pause.
“He needed to go.”
You nod. “Yes.”
Dex blinks slowly. “You wanted him to go.”
“Yes.” The truth is like battery acid on your tongue. You had wanted this, had prayed for this. For the pain to end and for him to experience just a little of what he had put you through, of what you had felt. The humiliation and fear to be put on him.
Dex reaches forward and with clumsy fingers grips your face between his thumb and middle finger. He turns your head to the left and then to the right, his eyes narrowing.
“You have it too,” he mutters. “That…need.”
“Need for what?”
He drops his hand. “For justice.”
Side stepping, Dex moves around you, walking past and out the front door. You don’t watch him leave, instead you wait for the click of the door, but it never comes.
“If you ever want to feel that again,” Dex murmurs, his voice smooth. “the rush of getting even, you know where to find me.”
The latch clicks and you release the breath you’d been holding. You glance at the closed door, at the half bloodied footprints he had left behind, and then your gaze finds its way back to the body.
It takes you nearly five hours to clean up the mess.
It takes you nearly six days to build up the courage to knock at Dex’s door.
You don’t know why you expected to be covered in blood like the last time you saw him, but when he opens the door and he’s clean it catches you off guard.
“Dex.”
“Howdy neighbor.”
He smiles and you can’t help but smile back. You’ve felt lighter than you have in years this past week. More at peace.
You had to file a missing persons report because others would notice your husband missing, but when the police came by you told them what you knew, which was basically nothing. They didn’t seem suspicious of you, cataloging you as a frail young wife, and you directed them back to his job. They had left without much fuss.
“The police came by.”
Dex raises a brow, his arms exposed in the skin tight wide beater he wears. He doesn’t speak, and you realize he’s waiting for you to continue. Your cheeks pinken.
“I filed a missing persons report.”
“Will he be found?” Dex asks, and you shift under his gaze.
“Don’t think so.”
“Will he be missed?”
You look up at him through your lashes, and he tilts his head before pushing open his door wider. You walk past, your shoulder brushing his chest and electricity bubbles under your skin.
“He won’t be missed,” you whisper, taking his immaculately tidy apartment before turning to look at him. “Not by me.”
Dex closes the door to the apartment, and the air shifts. You feel nervously euphoric, almost drunk at the way he’s looking at you, like you’re a goal he’s been working towards and finally obtained.
He takes a step forward.
You do the same.
“I’ve been thinking-“
He cuts you off with a look, those blue hazy eyes narrowing before he’s right in-front of you, backing you into the armrest of the couch. You sit on it, and he steps between your legs. One hand slides up your thigh, rough palm dragging your skirt higher, fingers brushing the damp fabric of your panties.
“I know. Too much thinking.” He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and raises a brow, waiting for you to nod. You bob your head quickly and he yanks them down, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hits your exposed slit, making you gasp, folds slick and puffy from the past few days of thinking of him.
He shimmies down his jeans to his knees, freeing his cock, thick and heavy, veins pulsing along the length. Your mouth waters, and you reach for him because it had been too long since you’d had Dex’s cock in your mouth, but he doesn’t let you fall to your knees. Instead, his spins you around, bending you on the armrest. He rubs his head along your slit and hums, his other hand braced on your hip.
“Been too long,” he mutters. “For me and for you, apparently, and yet you’re still so ready.”
He pushes in slowly, lets you acclimate. You sigh, fingers digging into the couch cushions, pushing back on him. Leaning up, you drag his head to yours, pressing your lips to his in a sloppy kiss, your skin heating at the fact that he tastes just like you remember.
The affair had started four months ago. A stolen moment between two neighbors who are more strangers than friends. You had smiled when you saw him, but the walls around you had been high—built to shield you from a home you couldn’t escape. One night, after the bruises on your ribs had been too dark to hide, you couldn’t pretend anymore. When Dex had seen the evidence, he had kissed you softly, tenderly, but the fire in his eyes had grown hotter.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Dex had whispered, his voice sharp in the dead of night. His eyes had meet yours with a promise in them, one you hadn’t dared to hope. “I’ll take care of your little problem.”
And he had.
“That’s good,” he mutters as you slowly push and pull back against his length. “Real good.”
His hands grip your hips harder, pulling you back as he thrusts forward, bottoming out with a grunt. The fullness has your eyes rolling, your pussy clenching greedily around him before he sets a steady rhythm. His breath fans your ear, cheek pressed to your hair and you moan, knuckles white.
His free hand dipped between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling with rough precision. “C’mon, I gotcha.”
It hits you like a wave, the orgasm crashing as your pussy spasmes around his length, and his hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, muffling your sound.
Wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear, after all, the walls are incredibly thin.
“Mhm, that’s it,” he rasps, burying himself to the hilt one last time. You feel the spurts of hot cum flood you, painting your walls deep in only a way he knows how to reach. Dex holds you there, still buried, his cock soaked in you before he slowly withdraws.
You stand on shaky legs, leaning into his chest and his arm comes around to hold your middle. You exhale hard, turning your head to look at him and he kisses you, lips warm before the spread into a grin.
“You really sold me,” you whisper. “When I walked in on the scene.”
“Well I had to,” he replies, pulling up his jeans as you straighten your skirt. “In case anyone heard or-“
“Or I pussied out.” You interrupt and he rolls his eyes before pinching the flesh of your ass.
“No, not pussied out. I meant more…if you changed your mind.”
“I wouldn’t change my mind,” you murmur, and tilt your face, watching as his eyes drop to your mouth. “Not about this. Not about us.”
He grins, a slow lazy expression and cups the back of your neck, dragging you closer to him.
“He needed to go.” Dex whispers, breath fanning over your face. You shut your eyes as his lips ghosting across yours as you repeat his words.
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Hello! This will be the third year of Angsty April and I sincerely hope that these prompts inspire people!
The guidelines for AA remain the same as previous years, though I do wish to specify that angst of any kind is allowed. Whether it is pure angst, hurt/comfort, or anything!
Tags for this year remain: #Angsty April #Angsty April 2026 or #aa26
Without any further rambling, here are the prompts!
Warnings/tags: dirty talk, PinV smut, oral (reader receiving) reader is insecure due to inexperience, praise, strangers to lovers(?), pet names
A/N: this one turned into a beast but I’m so happy with it. Literally wrote it throughout the work day so it’s barely edited oops @angsty-april
All things considered, you’d handled your first breakup incredibly well.
At 29, you should’ve already experienced all this. You should have known what you wanted in a man, you should’ve been well versed in dating and breakups and bad sex. But you aren’t. You haven’t dated, haven’t explored many options. Not that there were many avenues in the QZ. You don’t know what you like, if prefer being on top or bent over, but the one thing you do know you’ve experienced is bad sex.
You didn’t really blame your boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. He wasn’t well versed in the act either, and you both had been eachothers first when you fell into his bed three years ago.
He had tried…you think.
As you stuff your cunt full with your fingers, you realize you’re just as bad at trying as he was.
It’s hopeless and your fingers ache from all the different speeds and angles you had tried and with an irritated groan, you shove of your blankets from around your waist and ready yourself for the day.
You’re still aching, or you think you are, still swollen in your underwear, and you have to hold back frustrated groans as you walk back and forth, carrying the disease-ridden corpses to the large fire in the middle of the square.
When you break for lunch, you’re sweaty, pent and beyond irritated. Picking at your lunch tray, you press your chin into your palm, trying to ignore the way the brush of your denim sends jolts down your spine.
“All day.”
You pause, the unfamiliar voice catching you off guard and you look up, squinting in the summer sunlight at the figure that stands across the wooden table.
Joel is easily recognizable. You can’t say you know him but you know of him, a prominent worker and figure in the QZ. He’s broad, the fabric of his shirt spreading over his shoulders tight, the line of his mouth pressed even tighter.
“Huh?” You say after a moment when he doesn’t reply, just stares at you. Joel’s frown deepens.
“You got dumped,” he states, and you can see his fingers flex within his pockets. “What, nearly three weeks ago?”
“A-a month,” you whisper, bewildered as to why he’s talking to you and how he even knows that. “Why?”
“A month.” Joel hums, and sits down across from you. Beneath the wood, his knee brushes yours and you jolt, fingers tightening around your fork, and he pauses before templing his hands infront of his face.
“What?” You snap after several long seconds of silence, and Joel blinks, slow and contemplative.
“I have a good nose,” he says, dropping his hands. “Always have. And I’ve been smelling you all day.”
Your cheeks heat, and you subtly dip your nose to your arm. Joel laughs, the sound gravely and odd coming from a man like him. “I don’t mean like that.”
“What?” You say again and you feel stupid. Joel leans forward, a hand braced on the table as his eyes move up and down your frame.
“That stickiness between your thighs,” he murmurs, his voice now low so only you hear. “Been smellin’ it all day, darling. Guess you haven’t been properly fucked in a month.”
His words send you realing, your heart lodging into your throat and any type of response is lost to you. You stare at him, and he stares back, his jaw working as he drinks you in.
A smile spreads across his skin.
“Or maybe you haven’t been properly fucked, ever.”
You can feel the embarrassment crawl up your neck and you release your fork, folding your arms and shifting. You have to school your features not to display the buzz that jolts between your legs.
From his tan skin and seasoned eyes, you know Joel could, in his words, ‘properly fuck’. You aren’t sure why but you know this is a fact, you know his woman rarely leaves the bed unsatisfied and you’re suddenly too warm, too swollen under his gaze.
He raises an eyebrow. “Guess I’m right.”
“Could you do better?”
You aren’t sure where the boldness came from. You just know that you need to know the answer.
Joel doesn’t respond right away, but there’s a shimmer in his eyes as he rises to the bait. “Would you like to find out?”
You don’t give yourself a chance to think about your answer, about the consequences it could invoke. You nod, a singular movement of your head. He tilts his head, a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth and your skin is practically buzzing.
“Mine or yours?” You ask, if not just to make the silence not so thick.
His grin grows wider, a lazy expression that has your blood heating. “Yours. I’ll be there around eight.”
Joel stands up just as easy as he sat down, and when he tosses you a wink, your thighs clench.
-
True to his word, Joel is in your bedroom, his head tilted and hands in his pocket as he stares at you at 8:03.
You’re dressed in cotton shorts and a buttoned up flannel, and despite the night air, you’re sweating. He stares at you like you’re already bare, already naked for him, and you shift uncontrollably under his gaze.
“Honey,” Joel says and it’s the softest he’s ever spoken. “You don’t have to do this.”
You shake your head. “No I- want to. I just- um. Don’t know a lot.”
Joel exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes—but not at you. At himself. “Yeah, I figured,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. Then his voice drops lower, rough but careful. “We don't have to do shit you don't want.”
His hands stay in his pockets as he takes a step closer. He moves like it’s nothing, like this isn’t making your heart thud so loud you're sure he can hear it.
“Tell me what you know.” he says instead of touching you right away. His voice is gravel under boots, quiet but impossible to ignore.
You swallow hard against the dryness in your throat before answering: “...Not much.” It's honest if nothing else.
Joel hums again like this isn’t news either before nodding toward the bed behind him with a jerk of his chin, sit down. When your legs carry you there on autopilot, wooden steps until fabric meets bare thighs, Joel drags one knee onto the mattress beside yours and pauses just long enough for nerves or anticipation, you can't tell which, to coil tight in your gut.
“First rule.” His fingers catch under your jaw without warning,not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that flinching doesn’t free it from him either when warmth floods up beneath skin where callouses scrape against softness there instead; thumb pressing gently along pulse point beneath ear while dark eyes hold yours prisoner just as easily. “Don't lie about what feels good.”
The words settle heavy between breaths drawn too quick already because Christ alive even this simple touch burns hotter than anything else has ever had.
Exhaling through his nose, Joel raises his hand to your face, fingers brushing your lower jaw before settling onto your neck. He’s warm, the callouses on his hand rough on your skin as he angles your face to the side, eyes tracking up the column of your throat.
“Breathe.” he commands, and he dips his face, his nose brushing your neck. You shiver, your spine ramrod straight.
“I am.” Your voice is a squeak of a whisper, and you think you can feel him smile against your skin.
Joel hums, amused, like he knows you’re lying. His breath is warm against your neck as his thumb presses a little harder into your pulse point, making your breath hitch again.
“No, you ain’t.” He murmurs the words right against your skin before pulling back just enough to catch your eye again. His gaze is dark, unreadable except for the faintest glint of something that makes heat pool low in your stomach. “You’re holdin’ it all in like someone’s gonna hear.” His other hand comes up and drags a single fingertip down the side of your throat until it rests over the hollow at its base. “Breathe,” he repeats softly before adding with just enough roughness to make you tremble: “Or I'll make ya.”
And God help you if that doesn't send another jolt straight through you. You exhale fully, breathing out your mouth and he runs his thumb along your jaw in quiet praise.
“Aint gonna rush,” he mutters, and his teeth graze your skin. “Unless that’s what you like.”
“I don’t know what I like,” you whisper, and you feel the shame of inexperience coloring your cheeks. “Not really.”
Joel pauses at that, pulling back just enough to study your face. His fingers stay where they are—anchoring, rough in a way that shouldn’t be soothing but somehow is.
“Then we figure it out,” he says simply, like it’s that easy. Like he hasn’t just taken the weight of your uncertainty and shouldered it without blinking. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, testing, before his voice drops lower: “You tell me to stop anytime.”
The way he says it isn't a request or even really an order; more like a fact carved into stone between you both.
He waits until you nod before sliding his hand from your jaw to the back of your neck instead, firm but not unkind as he guides you forward into a first real kiss shared between basically strangers.
Joel tastes like coffee, his lips a little chapped but softer than you would’ve thought. He cradles your face, almost tenderly, and you open your jaw, licking at his tongue as he licks at yours and you feel the heat pooling in your belly, the need rising like a palpable thing on your skin. When he pulls back, his eyes are glassy and he stares at you. You blink back, uncertainty like an electric charge over you.
“I- sorry,” you whisper. “Was that bad?”
The edges of his lips kick up as he lets out a huff of a laugh, not unkindly. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, staring at you for a long moment, something in his eyes you can't quite decipher—then he shakes his head, a smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “You ain't got no idea just how pretty you look like this, do you?”
He runs his hand through your hair before cupping the side of your face again. “Don't go apologizing for nothing just yet.”
His hands move to your shoulders and he pushes you down until you’re on your back, skirting over your hips and squeezing. You watch him quietly, chewing at your lip as his thumb brushes the skin of your lower stomach.
Your breath hitches, and his eyes flick to yours.
He’s really handsome. Like you just realized that fact.
Joel’s palm slides under the fabric of your flannel, cupping your ribs just below your breast and you exhale with a shaky breath. He removes his hand, fingers dipping to the buttons of your shirt.
Joel works the buttons open with a kind of easy efficiency that you can only get with practice, and it hits you that this is something he probably *is* practiced in—that your inexperience isn't going to make him shy away. His eyes roam over you hungrily, like he's studying every inch of skin he reveals. He's silent, too. Silent and focused. His fingers work with single-minded precision, until your shirt hangs open and he slides his palms up your belly, warm and firm. His hands are rough and big—callouses scraping softly against your skin as he spreads them flat against your ribs.
He lets out a low whistle at your naked chest, and you hope you aren’t blushing.
“Knew you’d be pretty.” he murmurs, and you are barely able to digest his words before his head dips and he takes a nipple into his mouth.
His lips are soft as the suckle, releasing with a light pop before his tongue licks slow strips on the skin. You gasp, hands gripping the sheets by your sides and his eyes track the movement. He pauses before shaking his head.
“Nuh uh,” he hums, and grabs your hands, moving them to his hair. “Hold here.”
“Oh.” You whisper, because words are hard to gather when he kisses and licks your skin like that.
You grip his hair without being told twice, fingers tangling in the strands. Joel hums against your skin, his hands moving lower as he trails kisses down to your belly button. He circles it with his tongue, his fingers playing lightly across the soft expanse of skin at the edge of your shorts, before his gaze flicks to yours again: “Lift your hips.”
His voice is a little rougher this time, his dark eyes darkening even further as you do exactly as you're told.
Joel removes your shorts and panties in one clean tug, and you’re naked beneath him while he’s still fully dressed. “This doesn’t seem fair.”
He glances down at himself, a smile on his lips as he sits up and tugs off his shirt. You sit up, and are nearly on autopilot as you run a hand down his bare chest.
He’s tanned and scarred but beautiful.
Warm to the touch, there’s a healed cut from his shoulder to the top of his peck, and you run your fingers over it lightly. You’re so enthralled with touching him that you forget you’re bare, forget that he’s watching you and that he’s only the second person in your life to see you naked.
Joel's eyes follow your touch, an almost indulgent gleam in them as he watches you trace the map of his skin, tracing every mark and scar without judgement, only curiosity. He doesn't say anything, doesn't tease you like a man with his ego might, he just lets you look. Lets you touch.
But when your fingers brush the waistband of his jeans, his hand catches your wrist, stopping you. The gesture is gentle but firm, and he tilts his head to meet your gaze, his voice even but lower than before: “Not yet.”
“Oh,” you breath, feeling exposed under his gaze. “Okay.”
You lay back down, your eyes never leaving his and Joel releases a slow breath. One hand on either of your knees, he slowly separates your legs, exposing your center to the night air.
You flush red hot, arms instinctively coming up to hide some part of yourself, and his mouth quirks.
“Don't,” he says simply, and it's hard to argue with that gravelly voice of his when it dips into an order you find yourself wanting to follow. His hands tighten on your knees, just enough to keep your legs where they are. His eyes are fixed on you, watching every nuance in your expression. “Don't cover yourself.”
You let your head fall back, staring at the ceiling above as your chest rises and falls too quickly. Your heart is beating so fast you're sure he can see it through your skin.
His left hand skates down your inner thigh, pausing before his eyes flick to yours and you break.
“Joel?”
“Hm?”
“Talk to me.”
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest as his fingers trace idle patterns on your thigh—close enough to where you want him that it’s maddening, but not close enough yet.
“Talk to you?” His thumb brushes higher, teasing along the crease of your leg before dipping just barely inward, not quite touching where you need him, but close enough to make your breath hitch. “What d'you wanna hear? That you're goddamn pretty laid out like this? That I've been thinkin' about how you'd sound when I finally got my mouth on ya?”
His other hand slides up to grip your hip as he leans down slightly, still watching you.
“Or,” he murmurs against the inside of your knee before nipping lightly there and making heat spike straight through already-overheated skin below. “How bad I want ya shaking before we're done.”
A moan slips past your lips, quiet and shaken and you squeeze your eyes shut. You barely knew him, and yet he was face first in your most intimate place. You want to please him. You want him to want you.
“Is it good?”
Joel exhales against your skin, warm, damp, so close to where you need him, before answering in a voice rough enough to drag shivers down your spine: “Fuckin' perfect.”
His thumb presses firm just below where you ache most before dragging upward in one slow stroke that makes your hips jerk off the mattress. He clicks his tongue at the movement but doesn’t scold, just tightens his grip on your thigh with a low, “Easy.”
He leans down and licks a slow stripe up through slick heat like he’s savoring it. His groan vibrates straight into you as he does it again, slower this time before pausing to murmur against trembling skin: “Yeah. You taste good too. Think you don’t?”
You’re panting, and you look down at him between your thighs. His pupils are blown and he’s so handsome you wonder how you never noticed before.
“I-“ you swallow, not sure if you should share this because it’s too emotional. Joel is here for your body, not your feelings. You squeeze your eyes shut. “N-nothing.”
His attention flicks back up to your face, sharp and focused in a way that makes the air feel too heavy to breathe. “Bullshit,” He says flatly. “Look at me.”
You open your eyes, and Joel is staring at you, gaze steady and dark. He's watching you with a kind of intensity you can't remember a man ever giving you before. “You were about to say something.” His voice is even, but there's an edge to it now, a command. “Say it.”
He's got you spread wide open on the bed, knees pushed apart, completely exposed for his hungry gaze.
“He wouldn’t say things like that,” you whisper, and you hate having this conversation while his tongue is inches from your cunt. “He talked but not, not like you.”
Joel stills completely for a heartbeat before exhaling sharply through his nose. His grip on your thigh tightens just enough to make you aware of the strength in those calloused hands before he deliberately relaxes it again.
“What’d he say?”
Your cheeks burn and you exhale, rushing the words out. “wasn’t good enough. I was never good enough at things like this,” You don’t look at him, letting your head fall back and your thighs shake in his hold. “but you’re nothing like that.”
“Good.” The word is rough, almost guttural as he leans back in without breaking eye contact. “Ain't him here right now.” His mouth brushes against overheated skin, making your breath catch all over again before adding with a low hum. “And I ain't ever gonna half-ass this for ya.”
Then he does what his words promise, shuts you up thoroughly by dragging his tongue through slick heat slow enough that you feel every damn second of it, pausing only to murmur against wet flesh when your hips jerk helplessly upward: “Yeah... there ya go.”
Joel doesn’t rush to get you off. Hes slow, taking his sweet, filthy time with long, deliberate licks that catch every nerve ending.
You squirm beneath him, your lips parted and eyes tight as his large arm drapes over your waist, pinning you in place. Chin lifting he stares at your puffy slit, fingers spreading you open so he can see just how needy you are.
“Look at ya,” he murmurs, a southern drawl rearing its head. “Absolutely good enough.”
He plants a closed-mouthed kiss to your cunt before working up your frame, his beard scraping your chest and chin before his lips slide over yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue.
His hand cups your jaw as he deepens the kiss, his other sliding down between your bodies. His fingers are rough as they trace your folds again—testing, teasing, before circling tight over where you need him most.
“Joel…” Your voice cracks on his name when he rubs slow circles just right, pressure toeing the line between not enough and too much. Slow, lazy strokes. No rhythm that would finish you, just selfish enjoyment of how your body responds to his touch. He swallows every sound you make like it's something special.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your lips—but his fingers don't stop moving. “Use them pretty words.”
Your head is fuzzy.
You blink, try to string words together in a coherent fashion. “Inside.”
“Inside?” He hums, withdrawing his fingers and pressing his hips to yours. He’s hard in his pants, and you give a broken echo of a moan at the pressure before you nod.
Joel exhales sharply at the nod, something hot and primal flashing in his eyes as he leans back just enough to yank open his belt buckle with one hand, teeth gritted. The sound of leather sliding free is loud in the quiet room.
“Yeah,” he rumbles, eyes dropping when denim finally gives way, shoving fabric down just enough to free himself without breaking contact for longer than absolutely necessary before pressing close again: “Inside where, sweetheart?”
His palm drags up your thigh possessively while calloused fingers tip your chin up, forcing you to meet that dark stare even as heat floods deeper between already-slick thighs below from sheer tone alone. No room left for doubt now about what exactly kind of man has crawled into bed with you.
“Say it.”
“Me,” you whisper, and he grips his length, the head red in his fist. “Inside me.”
Joel groans, a ragged, gravelly sound that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, He's watching you like he's ready to eat you—will eat you, if he has his way—and the thought makes your skin tingle in all the best ways, and all the worst.
He adjusts positions, hand moving from your jaw to your neck, calloused thumb brushing over your throat as he leans down over you, lips just a breath away from yours.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, shifting closer until you can feel the heat of his skin against your inner thighs. “That what you want? Wanna feel me in you?”
The blunt head of his cock brushes over your clit and you jolt, mouth falling open and then he’s pushing in, your walls cradling him like a vice.
You choke on a gasp, feeling a stretch you hadn’t felt in weeks. It’s different than with your ex, and you feel warmer, tighter, brighter as Joel begins to move his hips. A hand braces by your head while the other paws at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers.
You have to look away, the intensity of his gaze, the look in his eyes—it's like he's trying to memorize every detail of how you look in that moment, searing the image into his mind—and it's like he's reaching right into your chest to grasp at something in you—the words escape against your will, “God, why are you so…?”
The hand at your breast moves to your chin, guiding it back to him, making you look at him. “No, don't hide from me.”
You scrunch up your nose because you don’t know him. He’s a neighbor, a passerby, a fellow survival. Someone you’d never considered all that deeply til now. Now he’s all you can feel; all you can want.
He kisses you and you close your eyes, bathing in the touch of his affections, your legs wrapping around his waist.
His mouth moves and he kisses and licks and bites everywhere he can reach, like he's trying to consume you through skin instead of food, desperate to get every scrap of everything he can from this. His hand slides down your body and you can feel callouses, rough and warm everywhere he touches. He pushes your leg higher, changing his angle so he can get deeper.
The kiss is more teeth than tongue, but you don't mind. It's everything you want, everything you didn’t know sex could be.
Theres a heat at the base of your spine, and your thigh twitches, your nails scraping lightly down his chest and he lowers himself, balancing on his elbow so he’s closer.
“Come on, sweet girl,” he murmurs into your hairline. “I know you’re close.”
You're shaking, hips twitching, begging in silence, but Joel just hums and keeps kissing you, completely lost in the filthy bliss of touching, stretching, and causation of making you this wet. This needy.
He's all coiled-up muscle, a coiled-up beast of a man, and you can feel how much he's trying to restrain himself, to not let it go too fast.
He nips and nibbles at your jaw and your throat, and his body is all heat and friction and power and weight, pressing you into the mattress. His hand finds its way back to your breast, his hand fitting over the curve of it as if it's made to be there and you snap.
Your legs tighten and back arches as waves and waves of pleasure explode over your skin. You’ve never felt an orgasm like this, not with your ex and certainly not with yourself. Water pricks at your eyes and you moan, loud and deep and Joel murmurs into your ear, praising you quietly as he fucks you though it.
Joel is murmuring things that barely register through your haze, telling you you're ‘so good’ and ‘so pretty’ and ‘can take it like such a good girl’, and you can feel yourself getting overwhelmed again, getting lost in him in a way you don't quite understand.
He kisses you again, and you can feel the change in his movements—from gentle to taking, his breath coming out a ragged rasp against your mouth, and you can't think about anything besides him, all his weight pressing on you, all you can feel is you’ve never felt this good.
“Thought I’d last longer, sweetheart,” Joel murmurs, and his thrusts become ragged. “Didn’t know you’d be so damn sweet.”
He groans, and your lashes flutter as you crane your neck, nipping at his lower lip. Pressing his face into your neck and braving one hand by your head, Joel pulls from you, his opposite hand fisting his cock until his spend shoots on your thigh.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing—heavy and uneven. Joel exhales roughly against your skin before lifting his head to look at you. His dark eyes are still glazed over, but there's something soft in them now too.
“Alright?” He murmurs as he drags a thumb through the mess on your thigh, almost absently, like he can't help touching you even now.
You nod dumbly because words still feel impossible when he's looking at you like that. Like he’s seeing something more than just skin-deep.
Joel hums approvingly before shifting off of you, but instead of getting up or rolling away completely, his arm tugs you into him until your back is pressed against his chest. His fingers trace idle patterns over the bare skin of your hip like this is normal—like falling asleep tangled together after sex isn’t entirely new territory for both of you.
It’s quiet for a beat, and your heart begins to slow, your temperature returning to normal as understanding begins to dawn on you.
You had just fucked an essential stranger.
And it had been the best sex of your life.
You squirm, his arm warm around you and Joel grunts. “What?”
“Nothing,” you whisper, too quickly, and you feel him pause. “I just- that was-“
Joel makes a low sound in his throat as his nose brushes behind your ear. “Good, huh?”
There's a smugness in his voice beneath a rough, rumbling quality. You can feel his chest rumble with what might be a silent laugh as you squirm, and his hand tightens on your hip.
“yes.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder as he says, “Just 'good’?”
It had been amazing.
“No, not just good,” you murmur, and you turn in his arms to face him. “But I think you know that.”
Joel grins, the expression stretching lazily over his features. You smile back before sitting up and tugging your flannel over your arms, button the first few to give yourself a little bit of decency.
“And…me?” You keep your tone quiet and your eyes down lest his disappointment be evident on his face.
Joel watches your fingers fumble with the buttons before catching your wrist, a grounding weight. His thumb strokes over your pulse point absently as he studies you.
“Better'n good,” he says simply, like that's all there is to it. But then his voice drops lower, rougher: “Didn't expect you to feel like that either.”
It's not flowery praise or sweet nothings—just honesty that lands somewhere deep in your chest anyway because Joel Miller doesn't seem like the kind of man who lies about things like this. His hand releases yours only to push back into his own hair with a tired sigh before falling back against the pillows behind him—but when you shift uncertainly beside him, half-wondering if this is where polite strangers say their goodbyes, one arm snakes out and drags you firmly against his side again without ceremony.
“Stay put,” he mutters into the dark. “Christ.”
You laugh lightly, and lay your cheek atop his shoulder. “You don’t um, have to stay. If you don’t want to. You don’t..owe me anything.”
Joel snorts, the sound rough with amusement, or maybe just exhaustion, as his arm tightens around you. “Ain't about owing.”
He shifts slightly beneath you, his free hand coming up to brush a thumb over your cheek in what might be an absent gesture if it weren’t so deliberate.
“I’ll stay," he mutters, quieter this time. Like it's that simple for him too.
Maybe it is.
The room settles into something quiet, the kind of silence that doesn’t demand filling as Joel’s breathing evens out next to you, warm against the back of your neck while calloused fingers trace idle shapes over the fabric of your flannel where it rides up at the waist.
Your eyelids grow heavy, and before you begin to drift, you feel his lips press a kiss to the slope of your neck, and you bite back a smile as you close your eyes.
Warnings/tags: internalized homophobia, wlw crush, yearning, coffee shop au
A/N: for @angsty-april one of my first Wanda works so let’s see how I did
Wanda walks in every morning like clockwork. The same routine, the same order, the same smile that makes your heart flutter. Every. Single. Time. She leans against the counter, that playful glint in her eyes, and says the same thing: “Wow, this is great!” Her voice is light, teasing, and it curls around you like a familiar song, even though you both know she’s had the same coffee the day before. It’s comforting, almost—this rhythm between you two. Something steady.
You tell yourself it’s just a crush, a fleeting thing, but it’s hard to ignore the way she lingers just a little longer than necessary, the way her eyes soften when they meet yours. She’s not just a customer, not just a flirt. There’s something more, something you can’t name but that pulls at you with each passing day.
You watch her, always. The way her hair falls messily around her face, the way her laughter rings out like music, the way her nose crinkles when she smiles, like she’s sharing a secret with you. It’s addicting. It makes your pulse race, and you can’t stop thinking about it. About her.
But today, something’s off. When she walks in, the usual spark is gone. There’s no teasing remark, no playful glint in her eye. Instead, she slumps into a chair by the window, her shoulders heavy, her eyes distant. The brightness around her is… dim. You’ve never seen her like this before, and it hits you harder than you expect.
You don’t want to let it slide, the worry creeping up your chest. Something feels wrong. You can’t ignore it.
“Hey, Wanda… are you alright?” The words slip out before you can stop them, and for a moment, she doesn’t even look up. But when she does, her eyes are… tired. And not the usual playful tiredness you’re used to. There’s something deeper there.
She sighs, a weary sound, and gives you a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, but it’s not convincing. It’s weak, distant.
You don’t buy it. Something’s wrong. You can feel it in your chest, the need to know more. “You sure? You seem… different today.”
She hesitates, and for a moment, you think she might brush you off. But then she shifts in her seat, her fingers tightening around her cup like it’s the only thing holding her together. “It’s… my boyfriend,” she murmurs, the words low, almost like she’s saying them more to herself than to you. “Things have been tough. I don’t know what to do anymore. We keep fighting… I feel like I’m losing myself.”
Your heart stops and your chest tightens, but you try to mask it, to push past the sting. “That sounds… rough,” you say quietly. “It’s hard when things aren’t right.”
Wanda runs a hand through her hair, a tired laugh escaping her lips. “Yeah. ‘Rough’ doesn’t even cover it.”
Her voice turns sharp then, defensive. “Why are you staring at me like that?” She looks at you, and her gaze is searching, like she wants to know what you’re thinking. But she pulls back just as quickly, the guard up again.
You panic. You quickly glance away, trying to cover the way her words have thrown you. “It’s nothing, really,” you say, your voice faltering just slightly. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone, that’s all.”
You turn to walk away, but then you feel her hand. Her fingers brush yours lightly, almost hesitant. “Wait,” she says, her voice softer now. “Tell me what’s going on with you. Why do you look like you’re about to say something?”
You freeze. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you feel the weight of her touch like it’s holding you in place. You shouldn’t say it. You know you shouldn’t. But the words slip out before you can stop them. “I… I kind of thought maybe… you might like me.”
The words hang in the air, the café noise around you dimming into silence. Wanda’s breath catches, just slightly, her fingers tightening around yours, but there’s something in her eyes. Something deeper. Something that makes your stomach flip.
“Wanda…” you whisper, already knowing what’s coming, already bracing for the rejection. But she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t let go.
“I do,” she says, the words soft, almost like a confession to herself. She looks up at you then, her eyes trembling with something she’s too afraid to show. “I do like you. That’s the problem.”
You can barely breathe. Her smile, once so light, now falters. “I like you too much,” she says, and there’s a sadness in her voice that cuts deeper than you ever expected. “And that makes everything… so unfair.”
You don’t know how to respond. Your chest feels hollow, like she’s taken something from you and you can’t get it back. “I’m… sorry,” you stammer, but the words feel useless. “I didn’t mean to—”
She stands abruptly, her movements quick and sharp. You watch as she gathers her things, her gaze avoiding yours. “It’s fine,” she says, her voice cold now, distant. “I need to go.”
And just like that, she’s gone. The door shuts behind her, and you’re left standing there, the space around you suddenly too quiet.
Later, Wanda sits in her apartment, the weight of what she’s done settling heavily in her chest. She can’t stop thinking about you, about the way you looked at her with those hopeful eyes, and how she destroyed it with just a few words. Her stomach twists in knots.
She hates herself for it. She hates herself for not being able to be honest with you, for denying what she’s known for so long. She does like you, more than she can admit. But she’s not ready to face that. She’s not ready to face her.
And now, as she lies in the darkness, she knows she’ll never be able to forget the hurt in your eyes when she walked away. The guilt is suffocating, pressing in on her, making it impossible to breathe.
She curls up tighter, wishing she could take it all back. Wishing she could be the person you needed. But she knows she’s too afraid. Too scared of what it would mean. And that thought make her hate herself a little more.
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A/N: whys this so soft lolll. Anyways, some farmer!bucky for @angsty-april
You’re elbow-deep in a clay pot, attempting to rehome a tulip bulb in the basin of your bathtub when Bucky gets home from work, hair sticking to his sweat-glistened skin.
“Hey baby.”
“Hi honey,” you call over your shoulder, eyes fixed on the bulb as you carefully work, not wanting to damage any root stems. “One sec.”
He peeks into the bathroom, grinning at the sight of you dirt covered and concentrated. “New one?”
“Nah, this one’s from the front yard,” you reply, and gingerly you release the plant into the new pot, hoping its fruits will enjoy its new home. “ hopefully it’ll stick.” You stand, brushing off your soil-covered fingers on your jeans. “You hungry?”
The sun from the setting day casts a warm glow through the window, illuminating the specks of dirt on your face, your hands, and the floor beneath you. He doesn’t mind. It’s part of you, part of this life you’ve built together—this quiet, simple life.
“I could eat,” he says, pushing off from the door and walking toward you. His boots clack on the tile floor, the sound grounding you in the moment as he closes the distance. His rough hands, calloused from the farm, gently tug you into his arms. The heat from his skin, still sticky with sweat from the day’s work, feels comforting.
“You look exhausted,” you murmur, feeling the tension in his muscles as you run your fingers along his shoulders. “How was the field today?”
“Same as always,” he replies, but his voice has a hint of something else in it. A weariness, maybe, or the weight of another long day spent tilling the earth, feeding the animals, working hard for what you both cherish. “But it’s worth it, coming home to this.”
You smile up at him, brushing a strand of hair from his face, his dark, sweat-dampened locks sticking to his forehead. “You’re the hardest-working man I know,” you say, your voice filled with a quiet reverence for him and the life he’s chosen.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Not as hard as you, garden queen,” he teases, and you can hear the affection in his words.
You both laugh softly, a shared, intimate sound that fills the space between you.
“Alright,” you say, stepping out of his embrace to grab a towel. “Let’s get dinner started. I think I’m in the mood for something simple tonight—maybe a stew?”
Bucky moves toward the kitchen, peeling off his muddy shirt and tossing it into the laundry basket. You watch him for a moment, taking in the way his muscles flex as he moves, the raw strength of him that makes your heart swell.
As you both fall into the rhythm of preparing dinner, chopping vegetables, stirring the pot, it feels easy. Quiet. No words are needed between you, just the soft sounds of the kitchen and the occasional hum of a song playing in the background. You move around one another with practiced ease, each movement comfortable, familiar. There’s a peacefulness in it that you treasure, a calm that comes with knowing you’ve found your person.
“Hey, Bucky?” you ask softly, handing him a bowl of chopped carrots.
“Yeah?” He looks over his shoulder, his blue eyes catching yours with that soft, tender gaze.
“I’m really happy,” you admit, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I’m just really happy with this. With you. This life.”
Bucky's eyes linger on you for a few moments after you speak, his gaze filled with a deep affection. He sets the vegetables aside, turning fully to face you.
“I’m happy too.”
His voice is quiet, but there's a note of sincerity that makes your heart flutter. He takes a step closer to you, his hands finding your hips, pulling you gently to him. The smell of sweat and dirt hangs in the air, an earthy, natural scent that reminds you of the hard work he does on the farm.
“You know, sweetheart…” His thumb brushes away a smudge of soil from your cheek, the roughness of his skin a stark contrast to the softness of yours. “Sometimes I look at you,” he says quietly, his voice a soft rumble. “And I just... I can't believe we get to have this. This gift.”
His gaze drifts around the room, taking in the cozy kitchen with its worn-in furniture, the pot simmering on the stove, the plants you've dotted throughout the house.
You smile at the softness in his voice, feeling a warmth spread through you at the sincerity in his words. His gaze lingers on the life you’ve built together, and you can see how much it means to him.
“You make it so easy,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all these little moments that make it so perfect.” You reach up, your hand cupping his rough cheek, feeling the slight stubble beneath your fingertips. “I never imagined life could feel this right… with you.”
Bucky leans in, his forehead brushing against yours, his eyes closing for a brief second as if savoring the moment. “I didn’t either.”
You can feel your heart swell with the simple truth of it all. The quiet moments, the subtle exchanges, they were everything you needed.
“Together, we’re building something perfect,” you whisper, your thumb tracing along his jaw, a quiet promise in your touch. “And I’m so grateful to be here, with you.”
His lips curve into a soft smile, his hand gently brushing through your hair as he pulls you in for a kiss, one that speaks louder than any words ever could. The kiss is slow, the kind that tastes like home. When he pulls back, his expression is so tender it makes your chest ache.
“Me too,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours again. His fingers trace idle patterns along your waist, calloused but impossibly gentle. “Every damn day.”
A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the bubbling of the stew on the stove and the distant chirp of crickets outside. After a moment, he presses another quick kiss to your lips before turning back to the counter with a small, content sigh. “Better finish this stew before we burn it,” he teases lightly, picking up the knife again.
You watch him for a second, the way his shoulders relax when he's happy, the quiet rhythm of his movements, before joining him, your side brushing against his as you reach for the spices.
“Oh god.” You whisper, your chest bubbling and Bucky looks at you, his brows raised.
“What?”
You smile, feeling breathless. “Nothing. I just- god I love you.”
He had been through so much. Too much. Sometimes when you think about it it makes you dizzy, knowing the pain he went through. The fear. But looking at him now, it makes your heart skip a beat.
Bucky smiles, full and bright, and when he reaches for you, he murmurs against your lips. “I love you too.”
Prompt: day 28 - “I was the one who stayed. Not you.”
Pairing: S5!Dean x partner!reader
WC/Tags: 1,196/ self deprecation, shouting, arguments, apologies, established relationships, S5
A/N: Dean pushing away those he loves? Nooo @angsty-april
The hunt went wrong. Dean feels the failure pressing down on him, heavier than normal because someone got hurt. Because of him, someone bled, and if it weren’t for Sam, they would’ve died. The mistake feels like suffocation.
The cold air bites at his skin, but it doesn’t numb the feeling settling in his chest. He walks a few steps ahead, head lowered, fists clenched at his sides. His usual confidence is gone, and you follow a few steps behind, your heart tight with worry. His silence is impenetrable, like a wall that’s built up between you. You want to reach out, to offer comfort, but tonight feels different. He’s not himself. There’s a simmering anger in him, barely contained.
“Dean,” you call softly, your voice the only sound in the otherwise silent night. You reach out, your hand brushing his arm, but he flinches, pulling away from your touch.
When he turns to face you, his eyes are stormy, dark with frustration. “I don’t need your pity,” he snaps, his voice sharp. “Why do you always—space, alright? I need space.”
His words hit you like a punch, stealing your breath. “I just wanted to help.”
“Well, don’t,” he fires back, bitterness dripping from every word. “I don’t need you to fix me. I don’t need anything from you.”
You stare at him. He glares back.
Dean turns away, walking into the dark, leaving you standing alone as the night wraps itself around you.
-
Days blur into weeks. You give him the space he demands, each step away from him feeling like you’re losing a part of yourself. You stop waiting for him after hunts. You stop texting him just to check in. You stop reaching out, and with each action, you feel yourself becoming more and more distant, like a ghost that haunts the edges of his life.
But Dean notices. He feels the absence in the room, in the way you sit on the opposite side of the couch, the distance between you growing wider with every passing day. He sees the way your laughter doesn’t reach your eyes anymore. Conversations feel empty, words hollow, silences strained. He watches you, but it’s like you’re no longer the same person to him.
When he fucks you, you turn away, pressing your face into the pillow as his hands grip your hips. He kisses you, or tries to, but your lips stay shut, cold, and your moans are more reflective than actual pleasure.
“This okay?” He mumbles against your neck, and you nod, closing your eyes. You want to savor this, the feeling of his skin on yours, before eventually this fragile thing breaks.
It’s nearly a month when he’s finally had enough of the unbearable silence. He watches you from across the room, your head bowed, fingers nervously working over a gun as you clean its metal. You seem smaller, like you’re collapsing in on yourself.
“I… I’ve been a jerk,” Dean says, his voice softer than you expect, hesitant.
You look up, surprise flashing across your face. “It’s fine,” you say, but your words sound empty, robotic.
“No, it’s not.” He steps closer, his frustration finally breaking through. “That hunt… I messed up. I let someone get hurt. I pushed you away when all you did was try to help. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”
You don’t answer right away, your gaze dropping to the floor. The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy with everything left unsaid. You feel the gap between you both, the distance that has only grown.
“I know that,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Maybe you’ve outgrown me.”
“No,” Dean says immediately. “Nuhuh, no. I could never, that- no.”
He’s breathing hard as you blink up at him, pain cracking across your face before you stand up, walking to the opposite side of the room and away from him. You need space to think, to digest.
Dean’s breath catches in his chest. The guilt, the realization of what he’s done, hits him like a freight train. “I miss you,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper. “I miss us.”
He walks up to you, pausing for a moment before his fingers brush against yours. “You’re…fading. Disappearing and I know that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
You don’t realize you’re crying until the tear falls to your chin. You swipe at it quickly before folding your arms across your abdomen. “I’m the one who stayed. Not you. I’m right here. I just wanted to be there for you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I wanted to help you. I didn’t realize I’d become such a burden.
“You were never a burden,” he says urgently, his hands running up your arms and you shiver. “It was, a lot and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have.”
Tears streak down your face, relentless, as if your soul is being cracked open with each drop. “Do you know what it’s like?” you whisper, voice trembling and barely above a breath, “To feel like you’re never enough? To give everything you have, and still be told you’re too much?” The words hang heavy between you, thick with a rawness that rips at your chest. “All I ever wanted was to love you.”
Dean’s breath hitches at your words, a crack of pain slicing through his chest. His grip on your hand tightens, desperate and aching. His voice is thick as he leans forward, and your back presses into the chipped drywall.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, the weight of his guilt crushing him. “I’m so damn sorry.”
The room is still, save for the sound of your breathing. He pulls you into his arms, and you don’t fight him, his chin slipping atop your head like it was made to.
“You were never too much,” he whispers, his voice soft against your hair, the weight of his words heavy with regret. “I’ll make it right. I swear, I will.”
You lift your eyes to his, your voice barely a breath. “I don’t know how to go back to what we had.”
His hand cups your face gently, his touch steady and warm, as though trying to ground you both in the midst of everything falling apart. “We’ll find a way,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours, filled with a quiet determination. “We’ll rebuild, piece by piece.”
Dean leans in, his forehead resting against yours, the once suffocating silence melting into something hopeful. When his lips meet yours, it’s slower. A tender press, a quick swipe of his tongue that sends a shiver to your spine.
He’s asking for forgiveness.
You wonder if you can give it.
“I need you,” he breathes when he pulls back, his voice like ground up chalk. “More than anything. Come back to me.”
Tears still cling to your lashes, but a small, trembling smile forms despite the ache in your chest. “We’ll be okay,” you whisper, your voice a quiet resolve. “It won’t be easy, but… I want to try.”
“Yeah?” His eyes have a gleam of hope that makes your stomach flutter. You nod, and encircle his waist once more.
A/N: for @angsty-april this became longer than I thought.
I don’t need your fucking help, Joel.
Ellie’s words echo in his mind, a constant reminder of the ways he’s let her down.
It’s a pattern that’s been his life—failure. First Sarah, then Tess. He swore he wouldn’t fail again, and yet, here he is. He’s sure he failed Tommy too, dragging him into a world of violence and loss. His attempts to protect them only turned his brother into the very thing he never wanted him to be.
Ellie has every right to treat him the way she does. Ever since they came back from the hospital, since he took away the one thing she had left, he’s been waiting for the consequences to hit him, for everything he’s done to catch up to him and leave him broken. He deserves far worse than Ellie’s coldness. He deserves the emptiness of being alone, the isolation.
Until you came into his life.
He can’t explain it, doesn’t understand how you slipped past his defenses with such ease, leaving a mark on him that’s impossible to erase. Your scent lingers in his home long after you’ve left. Your voice, clear as if you’re still in the room, haunts his dreams. You’re a blinding light in his otherwise dark world, filling every empty space with your brightness. He doesn’t know how to breathe without you in it anymore. You’ve become part of him, infected his every fiber, his blood, his lungs, his mind, and he can’t shake you. He feels like he’s losing his mind, and maybe he is.
It shouldn’t surprise him that you’re standing on his doorstep tonight, after everything that happened at the dance. Of course you’re here. You never leave, no matter how much he tries to push you away, no matter how many times he tells himself he’s not worth your time. He can’t escape the fact that you care, and it destroys him in ways he can’t even explain. You’d been so eager for tonight, your excitement infectious, and he had to step in—ruining everything. He ruined your night, just like Seth did. But this time, it feels worse. This time it’s his fault, and now you’re here, on his porch, standing in front of him with that soft look in your eyes that he doesn’t deserve, because you can’t stop caring. No matter how much he wishes you could. He’s terrified of the day he’ll fail you too, when you’ll finally realize that even you can’t save him from the wreck he’s become.
He knows he won’t survive it. He barely survives being in love with you.
“What do you want?”
“Just,” you exhale, a puff of your breath shimmering in the cool night air. “Need a drink, I didn’t have a chance to grab one at the dance. Figured you were my best bet?”
You smile, your fingers flexing within the pockets of your overcoat.
His heart burns when he sees you grin.
God, you look like an angel under the winter moonlight: pale skin, sleak hair, bright eyes glimmering in the darkness. You’re not even trying, the way you hold yourself, the gentle smile on your lips. Everything about you makes him ache.
He hates how weak he is, how easy you make it for him to cave. He hates how he just can’t say no to you.
He steps aside, wordless.
You brush past him, pulling your hands from your pockets to run a hand through your hair. Glancing around the space, his space, and you have to bite your lip, overwhelmed with the intensity of him.
“Whiskey?” Joel asks when he shuts the door. “S’all I have so.”
“Whiskeys good,” you hum, unwrapping your scarf. “Tommy says whiskey is a cure all.”
He lets out a low, gravelly chuckle, more breath than sound. Tommy.
“Tommy also thinks duct tape fixes carburetors,” he mutters, already moving toward the cabinet. The bottle clinks as it meets the glass. “Guy’s a walking contradiction.”
He pours you a drink, then pauses and pours himself half a glass as well.
You’re standing like you belong in his cluttered, dimly lit living room, your scarf in hand, your eyes soft in a way that makes his chest tighten painfully.
“You don’t have to stand,” he grumbles. “Sit or something. You’re makin’ the place feel… weirder just hovering there.”
But even as the words leave his mouth, part of him likes it—likes that you’re here, likes the way you disrupt the silence, like fire breathed into a room that’s been cold too long.
He just doesn’t know how to tell you, how to make you understand, without chipping off pieces of himself.
“Oh, r-right, sorry,” you stutter, embarrassed, and settle into one of the two armchairs sitting in front of the hearth. You tug at your boots, kicking them off, exposing your fuzzy grey socks and Joel sits besides you, holding out a glass. He watches you kick off your boots like you’ve done it a hundred times before, like you belong here.
And damn it, that’s the problem.
He hands you the glass, fingers brushing just a second too long. “You’re not sorry,” he murmurs, gravely around the edges. “You never are. Always showin’ up like this... actin’ like I’m not some bitter old man with nothing to offer.”
He leans back in his chair, but his eyes stay locked on you, tracing the way your socked feet curl into the rug, how you cradle the whiskey like it's something warm instead of just cheap poison.
“You’re gonna catch cold walkin’ in here half-dressed,” he grumbles, but there's no real bite to it. Not when it’s you. Not when your stupid fuzzy socks make him want to crack a smile, or worse, touch them.
“So what?” he asks after a beat. “Dance wasn't good enough for ya? Had to come babysit me instead?”
“N-no, Joel I,” you squeeze the glass, eyes darting from his face to the fire. “I just…wanted to make sure you were okay. That wasn’t….fair of Ellie. To yell like that.”
Of course that’s why you’re here. Not for whiskey, not for warmth. You came to check on him, like he matters. He looks away, jaw tightening as he stares into the fire. The flames flicker across his face, shadows deep in his eyes.
“Ellie's got every right,” he mutters without looking at you. “I stepped in where I didn’t belong. Again.”
But then you say her name like it hurts,and suddenly he feels it too: the heaviness of that moment at the dance, Ellie's face twisted with rage, his own hands clenched because all he wanted was to protect her, even if she never sees it that way.
He takes a slow sip of whiskey. Lets it burn, then he turns his head just enough to glance at you, the soft worry in your eyes catching him low in the chest.
“You shouldn't care so much,” he says quietly. “It ain't safe.”
But there’s no actual warning behind it, not anymore, because part of him is addicted to the way you’re looking at him, like you see him. And he hasn’t felt seen in a long time.
“Why not?” You shrug, tucking your hair behind your ear as you raise the glass to your mouth. “I care about my friends, always have.”
Taking a sip, your eyes pinch as it burns and you shake your head. He clenches his jaw and lets out a huff, the word sits heavy in his stomach, sour.
“You've got shitty taste in friends,” he mutters, watching you wince at the burn of whiskey, and a rough chuckle escapes his lips. “You can go easy on it,” he teases lightly. “Not gonna judge you for not bein' able to hold your liquor.”
You hesitate, your fingers tracing the rim of the glass, unsure of how to start. “I—uh, I like you, Joel.” You clear your throat, the words tumbling out a little too quickly. “I think you’re kind, and… and alone, and maybe a little scared. And that’s okay. But, I tend to like people easily, so… you’re no exception.” You swallow, feeling the heat rise in your face, and continue without giving yourself time to think. “You’ve been through a lot, I know, and I know everyone has their struggles, but… you deserve some kindness, and I don’t mind offering it. Besides, we’re neighbors, right? I can be neighborly, at the very least.”
It’s silent when you finally fall quiet, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you take a swig from your drink, the warmth spreading through you, and curl your feet beneath you, trying to make yourself small.
The fire crackles, its warmth filling the silence as Joel remains still, his breath uneven, out of place.
I like you.
Not you’re a good guy, not you’ve got a strong back—no hollow words or half-measures. You looked at him, the real, broken man beneath the blood, the regret, the decay, and said it plainly: I like you. As though he isn’t a wreck, beyond repair, as though he could still be worthy of something pure.
His throat tightens.
He wants to tell you that you’re wrong. Wants to push you away with the truth—that he’s not kind, that he’s selfish and cruel when it matters, that he would rather pull a trigger than try to make peace. That he’s taken lives without hesitation because the world molded him that way.
But then you call yourself his neighbor. You tuck your feet under you, as if this, this conversation, this space, could somehow be home. His home.
“Neighborly,” he repeats softly, his voice deeper than before, his gaze locked on the glass in front of him, as though it might offer an escape from the words that threaten to spill out. “…Don’t know many people who bring kindness to their neighbors’ doors in fuzzy socks and half-hearted excuses about whiskey.”
Finally he looks at you, and there’s something shifting in his eyes, something tender breaking apart, piece by piece.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, his voice low, heavy. “This ain’t just neighborly bullshit.”
You’re quiet for a few moments because what’re you supposed to say to that? His eyes are boring into you when you look into his face and it jolts you, making your grip on the glass tighten.
“If I’m bothering you you can say that,” you murmur after a few moments. “I never…that isn’t my intention.”
Joel's throat tightens at the soft, uncertain hitch in your voice. He can almost hear the unspoken words: Am I reading this wrong?
His free hand clenches, then unclenches, like it wants to reach for you, but he simply sits, fingers digging into the leather arm of the chair.
“You're not botherin' me,” he mutters finally, voice thick. A rough laugh escapes his chest. “Hell, I should be the one apologizing.” He lets out a sigh, staring at the glass. “I'm not good company.”
You let out a little laugh, the sound soft and airy. “You’re decent company.”
Decent.
The word shouldn't make him feel like a goddamn teenager, but it does. He hides a gruff laugh, half bitter, half incredulous, all rough edges, in the neck of his glass.
“That's a fancy way of sayin' not so bad,” he mutters. He glances your way and the hint of a lopsided grin crosses his face. “Not exactly a glowing endorsement.”
You take another large sip as your gather your courage. “And if I said you were great company? What would you do? Tighten up, tell me you don’t deserve it?”
Joel exhales with a quiet huff.
Most people would be irritated by your audacity, but not him. He drags a hand over his jaw, a rough sigh escaping his lips. He wants to tell you that he doesn’t deserve it, hell, he knows he doesn’t, but the stubborn part of him refuses to let you have the satisfaction of knowing that.
“And what if I did?” he asks, his gaze finally meeting yours, the challenge in his eyes steady but laced with something softer. “What then?”
Your mouth twists, hands thrumming on the glass. “Well, I’d tell you that I don’t care what you think. That I know you’re a good man, and having you in my life has made my days better. And I hope that, I-i do the same for you.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw and you smile, tight and nervous before taking another sip, letting the silence stretch. The words hit him in the chest harder than the whiskey.
He's got a sharp reply, something self-deprecating on his tongue. All the reasons why you're wrong, why he's not worth it. Why he's so goddamn broken he'll only end up hurting you.
But as the silence stretches, as he watches you watch him, that fire in his chest turns to an ache. It's been so long since someone looked at him like this. Seen him.
And he feels so goddamn seen.
He takes a long gulp of whiskey.
You shift, finishing your cup and placing it on the floor by your shoes. Running the back of your hand across the your mouth, you give a nervous laugh.
“I should- well I guess I’ll get going.” You say quietly, because you think you must be bothering. You’ve said too much, you’ve moved too close and you don’t want to scare him more.
Something tightens in Joel’s stomach as you shift to leave.
Part of him wants to tell you to stay, he wants to ask you to stay. To tell you how damn much he wants you here.
The other part? It's that stubborn, bitter side that doesn't trust good things to last. The part that reminds him he doesn't deserve good things, that he'll only ruin this if he lets it get too close.
He hesitates, jaw working to find words.
“You don't...have to go.”
You still, eyes flicking to his and you smile again, making that warmth bloom in his chest.
“Well I, don’t want to,” you sigh, rub at your neck. The whiskey has made you bold, but you’re still nervous. “Don’t wanna over stay my welcome.”
You hesitantly pull your boots back on, brushing at your jeans with your hands and avoiding his eyes.
That aching in his chest gets worse.
He can tell from the way you avoid his eyes, the way you pull your boots on like the thought of leaving hurts you too. The fire crackles. The seconds pass.
“You're not overstaying your welcome,” he says quietly, voice almost lost over the sound of the flames. “Stay.”
The word comes out too gruff, a rough command. But there's something beneath it. A silent plea.
You turn back to face him, a small smile melting into your features. “You sure Joel?”
His chest tightens. The way you say his name sends a thrill down his spine, and that damn smile of yours is all it takes, ripping through the last of his stubborn resistance.
He holds your gaze as he nods, fingers clenching into the armrests. You settle back down into your chair, elbows settled on the armrests as your fingers hang, empty and twitching while you observe him. Joel lifts the whiskey to his mouth, drinking slow as he stares back, and something rattles in your chest.
“I’m sure,” he murmurs. “I thought you’d stay. So Stay.”
