#but maybe you were closer than you thought

[buckyseternaldoll]

on command.

this is the first story from my 707 followers' milestone event 💖

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Medic!Reader (female)

Summary: It started with a question you didn’t realize sounded filthy: “Can you come on command?” Bucky thought you were teasing. But you were just too clinical to know better. And now? He’s going to show you exactly what happens when curiosity goes too far.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, oral sex (f receiving & m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, blowjob, face-fucking themes, size kink (mild), orgasm denial, soft dom!bucky, light power play, praise kink, slight dub-con vibes via misunderstanding, medical/clinical kink themes, slow build to climax, cockwarming (implied), cum on thighs, aftercare

Word Count: 7.1k

The med-bay smelled like antiseptic and fresh laundry—too clean for a room that had known so much blood. It was a Sunday evening, quiet and uneventful, the kind of shift where silence hummed against your ears and your thoughts wandered deeper than you intended. The kind of boredom that stretched into your ribs.

Until you heard the heavy thud of combat boots echo down the hallway.

You looked up from your tablet. He walked in with a presence that made the sterile air feel charged.

James Buchanan Barnes

Unit: Thunderbolts

Registry: Alpha-01

Notes: Vibranium prosthesis (left arm). Serum-enhanced physiology. Prior Hydra experimentation flagged in psychological history.

His combat shirt hung from one shoulder, blood soaked into the seams. His torso was bare—bruised, sweating, smeared with dried streaks of red. Deep brown hair fell in damp strands against his temples, jaw tight, body moving like something made to endure.

“Didn’t know we had new faces,” he said, voice gravel-rough as he eased himself down onto the med-bed. “Nice change.”

You nodded once and pulled on gloves. “Yes. I started this week.”

He dropped the shirt beside him, settling in like the cot was his personal recliner. The tone in his voice had suggested ease, maybe even a joke, but you didn’t react. You weren’t always sure when people were being sarcastic.

Especially not him.

You retrieved gauze, saline, antiseptic. You were focused on the wound low across his abdomen—a shallow blade graze, already clotting along the edge. As you cleaned around it, you recalled a conversation from earlier that week. Your first night shift had been filled with stories, warnings, casual gossip from the senior medics. They spoke about the team like they were walking myths. And Bucky Barnes, in particular, had been the centerpiece of several of those stories.

He can do anything if you tell him to, someone had said. Hydra programming, you know? Sit, kneel, come—just say it.

You hadn’t laughed. You’d written it down. Because you didn’t know it was a joke.

Now, he sat bare-chested in front of you, quiet, unmoving, skin warm beneath your gloved hands as you pressed sterile pads to the wound.

The question formed itself before you realized it was inappropriate.

You spoke plainly, genuinely. “I was wondering—can you get hard and ejaculate on command?”

The silence that followed was total. Not a pause. Not surprise.

It was a shift.

You didn’t notice it right away, too focused on folding gauze precisely, until the weight of his gaze pulled you back to the moment.

When you looked up, his entire body had stilled.

His eyes were on you. Unmoving. Brow low, mouth parted just slightly, as if he were still computing the words. The faint line between his brows deepened.

“Come again?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t casual. It wasn’t flirtatious either. It was something closer to caution.

You met his stare. “I asked if you’re able to achieve erection and reach orgasm on command. Based on what the other officers implied regarding your conditioning.”

He blinked once. Very slowly.

Your tone hadn’t faltered. You weren’t embarrassed. You were just curious—curious the same way you’d asked someone last week if the Hulk’s resting heart rate really was thirty-five BPM.

Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes scanning you like he was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, his jaw worked, muscle flexing once under stubble.

Then he stood.

Not abruptly. But with enough weight behind the motion that you instinctively stepped back. The tray clinked behind you.

He stepped closer, enough that you felt the heat coming off his skin. Still watching you. Still trying to process.

“You’re seriously asking me that?” he said, quieter now. “Like, you’re not messing with me.”

“No,” you answered plainly. “I just wanted to understand the scope of the conditioning. Neurological control of physiological functions isn’t unheard of.”

He dragged a hand down his face. Let out a long breath through his nose. You saw the flicker in his expression—somewhere between disbelief and… something else.

“You really don’t realize how that sounded, do you.”

You tilted your head. “Should I?”

He huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, almost under his breath.

Then he moved forward again—closer. Close enough that your hip bumped the counter edge.

“Are you asking because you want to know,” he said slowly, gaze dragging down your face, “or because you want to see?”

You stared back at him, unflinching. The intensity in his eyes didn’t register as threatening to you—just confusing. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, still gloved. Still sterile. Still in the mindset of diagnostics and assessments, not flirtation. You weren’t sure what he meant by see, but the phrasing seemed to demand clarity.

So you gave it.

“I want to know,” you said plainly, meeting his eyes. “But if visual confirmation is possible, then yes—seeing would be helpful.”

His face didn’t move at first.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Then his eyebrows lifted just a fraction—just enough to break the tension—but his mouth stayed parted like he’d lost his words somewhere between inhale and exhale.

You watched him, calm as ever. Not realizing that what you just said, to him, sounded like you were practically asking to watch him jerk off in the middle of med-bay.

His eyes narrowed slightly, still scanning you for a punchline. When there was none, something shifted. Not in you. In him.

Because that’s when it hit him—hard.

You weren’t fucking around.

You weren’t teasing. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t setting him up for some kind of HR trap. You were genuinely trying to understand the technical boundaries of Hydra’s physiological conditioning, like you were running through a checklist for your own notes.

He exhaled once through his nose and ran his palm over his jaw.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself. His gaze flicked to the side, like he needed to look anywhere but directly at you for a moment.

You could see it happening—the calculation behind his eyes. He was deciding whether or not to walk away. Whether to laugh. Whether to report this. But then something else moved through him, too—curiosity. You recognized the signs: pupils shifting slightly, breath shallower. He wasn’t sure either.

“I mean,” he said at last, voice rough, uncertain. “I’ve never… actually tried that. Not like—deliberately.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Would you be open to attempting it?”

His mouth parted again, like he wanted to respond but couldn’t decide which direction to take it. You sensed hesitation and tried to reassure him in the only way you knew how: by defaulting to protocol.

“If you’d prefer this be off-record,” you added, “we can skip the video documentation. I’ll log it manually.”

That did it.

His jaw dropped just a fraction further as he let out a breathless, incredulous noise. It wasn’t quite a laugh—it was something between disbelief and amusement, and it landed heavy in the air between you.

He looked back at you like you were some rare, alien creature. And maybe you were.

You hadn’t moved. You weren’t flustered. You weren’t seducing him. You were just… waiting. Like this was any other medical procedure.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, clearly still processing. Then his eyes returned to yours.

“You really wanna see if I can do that,” he said. It wasn’t a question. More like a final check. Like he needed to hear it in your voice one last time before he crossed the line.

“Yes,” you said simply. “For observation purposes.”

There was a long, still beat.

Then his stance shifted.

Something subtle in the way his feet planted, in the slow curl of his fingers at his side, in the way his shoulders rolled back with quiet intent. He wasn’t leaning anymore—he was centered now. Present. Watching you as something darker flickered behind his expression. Something curious. Something charged.

He nodded once. Low. Controlled.

“All right,” he said roughly, voice dipping just a bit lower than before. “Try me.”

—

You gave a short nod, already reaching back toward the tablet on the metal tray behind you, fingertips hovering to wake the screen. The chance to collect a new data point—something none of the other medics had dared ask for—was unexpectedly thrilling.

But the rustle of fabric behind you pulled your focus.

Bucky had stepped away from you again, his heavy boots padding quietly as he moved back toward the med-bed. Except this time, his fingers were already at his waistband.

You froze halfway between the tray and your chair.

He turned slightly toward you, eyes locked onto yours as his thumb worked open the button of his tactical pants. The zipper followed with a quiet rasp, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t speaking. Just watching.

And only then, only then, did your brain finally process the image forming in front of you.

His pants loosened around his hips, hung low now—unzipped and open just enough for you to see the black band of his briefs and the defined lines of his lower abdomen. The cut you’d just cleaned stretched faintly when he moved, muscles flexing subtly under the skin. His cock was still covered, but the shape of it—resting heavy against the fabric, shifting slightly as he adjusted—was impossible to miss. Still soft. Still untouched. But undeniably there. And Bucky wasn’t breaking eye contact.

Something shifted in your chest—an odd tightness you weren’t familiar with. A spike in heart rate. Not fear. Just sudden, confusing awareness. Your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fell away from the tablet screen.

Bucky let out a quiet breath. Not a laugh, not quite. A huff, amused and something darker beneath it.

“You’re realizing how bad everything looks now, huh?” he said, and his tone was different—still low, still calm, but tinged with heat. A crooked smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “Starting to piece it together?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not yet.

Because the tension in the air had shifted again. The weight of it wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was physical. Heavy. Warm. Centered on the space between you and the man now standing with his pants undone, cock barely covered, staring at you like this was still part of your little experiment.

You swallowed. Just once.

“I can stop,” he added, arching a brow. “But if you’re gonna ask me to do this… I need you to say it.”

“Say it?” you echoed.

He nodded, the line of his jaw tight, like something about this had challenged him in a way he wasn’t used to. “Yeah. The command. Give it. Let’s see if it works.”

You blinked, heartbeat tapping quick in your throat. Your gloves felt suddenly too tight.

It was for science.

Wasn’t it?

Except… now you were staring at the shape of a man’s cock through his briefs. At the subtle way it shifted behind fabric. At how he just stood there, open like a test subject, waiting for you to initiate the next step.

And suddenly, your carefully ordered brain started… glitching.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to look. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—warm skin, eye contact, unspoken tension stretching tight across the space between you like a surgical suture about to snap.

You tried to stay focused. Tried to categorize what was happening as neuromuscular stimulus, externally initiated. That’s all. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could repackage them more… appropriately.

“What kind of command should I say?”

Bucky’s brow arched. He shrugged one shoulder, still loose, still watching you like you were the show now. “Anything,” he said, voice smooth but quiet. “Try whatever comes naturally.”

Your brain immediately clicked into gear, cataloging possibilities, filtering for language precision. He’d said command. Singular. Direct.

“Get hard,” you said.

Bucky blinked once, slowly. “You might need to be more specific,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There’s a lotta things in here that can get hard. Floors. Plastics. Steel.”

You paused. Blinked again. Fair. Logical.

Your eyes dropped to the bulge at his front, the soft outline of his cock resting slightly to the left beneath dark cotton.

So you recalibrated. Clarified.

Your voice was steady when you said it:

“I command the cock of Bucky Barnes to get hard.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was crackling. Electric.

And then—it worked.

You watched, frozen, as the shape beneath his briefs shifted. Thickened. From a resting weight to something firmer. Fuller. The fabric tightened around him as the shaft pressed upward and outward, no longer soft, no longer passive. He twitched once—just enough to catch your eye—and then kept swelling.

Your lips parted. You didn’t move.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

It couldn’t happen.

But it had.

And Bucky… Bucky exhaled something between a scoff and a groan, and tipped his head slightly back like he couldn’t believe it either. When he looked at you again, his pupils had darkened, narrowed, and the curve of his lips had turned into something far less amused and far more interested.

“You’re kidding me,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You actually meant that.”

You nodded once, slowly, as your eyes locked onto the now very-obvious bulge straining his briefs.

He smirked, but there was a heat beneath it now—a flicker of something dangerous. His voice dropped a notch deeper.

“More.”

“What?”

“Give me another command,” he said. “Anything. Let’s test your theory.”

You hesitated. A beat too long. Then your eyes dropped again, tracking the shape beneath the black fabric. Your breath hitched—quiet, but noticeable to both of you. Your gloved hand curled reflexively at your side.

You bit your lip.

And then, softly, clinically—

“Twitch for me.”

And it did.

Just slightly. A small, visible movement under fabric. But enough.

A pulse. A response. An involuntary contraction of arousal-based musculature.

Your throat went dry.

A chill spidered down your spine, despite the warmth flooding your neck. Your mind scrambled to reframe this—to maintain control—but this no longer felt like controlled scientific inquiry. This was crossing into something else. Something biological. Something reproductive.

This wasn’t a training module anymore.

This was a live demonstration.

And you were the sole witness.

—

Bucky’s fingers curled under the waistband of his briefs.

He held your stare for a moment—something unspoken hanging in the air between you—and then he pulled them down.

Not rushed. Not coy. Just practical. Like it was necessary for the demonstration.

“You wanna learn properly, right?” he said. His voice was smooth, but edged. “Gotta see it bare if you want the full data.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because your breath caught the moment it came into view.

You choked—literally—on your own saliva.

Half-hard, and already thick. Heavy. You could see the potential of it, the way the veins curved beneath flushed skin, the slight upward tilt even in its semi state. It looked obscene without even being fully erect yet, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from tracing it, from measuring it mentally like you were still running diagnostics.

But you weren’t anymore. You knew that now.

Bucky saw your stare, the way your eyes had locked there like you forgot how to blink. His voice dropped, barely audible over the thick hum of your pulse.

“Give me another command.”

Something in your body responded before your brain did. Your feet shifted—one step forward. Then another. And another. Four in total. Just enough to bring you closer. Close enough that you didn’t have to squint to see the twitch of him. The weight of it.

Your gaze finally broke from his cock and lifted—slow, dazed—until you met his eyes again. There was something in them now. Not confusion. Not amusement.

Permission.

“Stroke it for me,” you said, voice quieter than before. Not clinical. Not innocent. Just… real.

And that was the moment the game changed.

Bucky’s breath stuttered once in his throat, just the smallest hitch. Because now, you weren’t analyzing—you were participating.

And he liked that. He liked it a lot.

He wrapped his flesh hand around the base, slow and deliberate, his thumb swiping just under the tip as he started to stroke upward in long, lazy pulls. His cock twitched again in his palm, growing harder with every pass. No sounds left his mouth. His jaw clenched. His brows pulled tight. But he didn’t moan.

He was waiting for you to tell him to.

You shifted in place, thighs pressing together with a sudden, instinctive squeeze. Your breathing went uneven, and the pressure building between your legs was no longer something you could rationalize away. Wetness pooled at the center of your panties. Your skin was hot. Your thoughts a blur of static and want.

Your eyes dropped again. His cock had grown—thicker, longer, flushed deep at the head. Veins thickened along the shaft. The slide of his hand was smooth, practiced. Deliberate.

Your mouth opened again.

“Stroke faster.”

He obeyed instantly.

The rhythm changed, tightened, faster now—fingers gliding up the length, thumb brushing the tip each time in a way that made the muscles in his stomach twitch. His breathing picked up, but still no sound. Still waiting.

You stared.

Hard. Thick. Veined. It should’ve been obscene, but you couldn’t look away. The way his cock reacted to your voice felt like an experiment gone wrong—or maybe perfectly right. And you were the one holding the data, holding the power.

Your pulse beat between your legs.

And then—a glint.

Your eyes caught it before you could process it.

A bead of pre-cum had leaked from the tip, catching the light under the bright med-bay fluorescents. It clung there, glistening.

You groaned.

Not intentionally. Not performatively.

It was raw, low, a breathy little sound dragged straight from your chest before you could clamp it down.

And when you realized what you’d done, your hand flew to your mouth.

Bucky’s fist slowed for just a moment.

Then he smirked—eyes dark, blown wide, a faint sheen of sweat forming across his collarbone.

“That wasn’t very professional,” he murmured.

—

Bucky’s fist moved faster now—stroking with a pace that was no longer lazy or exploratory. It was urgent. Determined. Testing both your commands and his own control.

His eyes flicked up to you again, and this time his voice had a rasp to it. Thicker. Needier.

“Come on,” he said lowly, just above a whisper. “What’s next, huh? Moans? Touch? You’re running the experiment, right? Gotta get all your data points.”

The words coiled low in your abdomen like a tightening wire. He was pushing you now—not resisting, not breaking the role—but tempting you to go further. Daring you.

And fuck, you were already too far gone to backpedal.

You watched the way his cock jerked in his hand, the head flushed and leaking. The pace was obscene—wet, rhythmic, fast.

“Stop,” you said, breathless but firm.

His hand froze instantly, mid-stroke.

You stepped closer, chest rising with shallow breaths.

“Now grip it tight. At the base. Like a cock ring.”

His jaw clenched. But he obeyed.

Fingers slid down, wrapped tight at the base. The moment he squeezed, his hips jolted just slightly—a tiny thrust he didn’t mean to give. The muscles in his stomach twitched. His lips parted.

A whimper escaped him. Soft. Strained. Like it had been forced through grit teeth. Not a moan. But close.

Your own breath caught.

Something about that sound—his frustration, his restraint, the way he held himself back on your order—sent a hot wave crashing through your core.

Your nipples peaked, the fabric of your bra suddenly too tight, too abrasive, like even the fibers couldn’t stand not touching you directly. Heat spread low in your belly, soaking between your thighs. You didn’t dare look down at yourself. You didn’t need to.

You already felt how soaked you were.

Your eyes didn’t leave his cock.

It twitched slightly in his grip.

Alive.

Waiting.

You swallowed, and then—

“Moan for me.”

He did.

Not a pornographic moan. Not some overdone, fake gasp. It was real.

It started low in his chest, almost like a growl — rough, full of restraint snapping open. It vibrated in his throat before it left his mouth, his jaw slackening as he let out a slow, masculine moan that sounded like it had been pent up for hours.

“F-fuck—” he gasped, voice catching. “That what you wanted?”

It was full of yearning. Of weight. Like he’d been aching to be heard, and now your voice was the only one he’d obey.

Your thighs squeezed again, tighter this time. You shifted on instinct, trying to ease the pressure building deep inside you. But it was no use.

He saw it.

Saw you squirm, saw your chest rise like you couldn’t catch your breath, saw the tremble in your fingers now clenched around the edge of the tray behind you.

And he smiled.

But this one… wasn’t mocking.

It was sharp. Almost feral.

His hand still gripped the base of his cock, skin tight and flushed. But he didn’t move. He just looked at you, pupils blown wide.

Then—his voice dropped to something darker. More commanding.

“Your turn.”

You blinked.

“What?”

His smirk widened just slightly, voice gravel-smooth, no longer soft or playful.

“Take the gloves off,” he said. “Then touch me. And let’s stop pretending this is still about Hydra.”

—

For a moment, you hesitated.

Just a breath.

Then you peeled off your gloves—one hand, then the other—fingers flexing slightly in the cool med-bay air. The sterile barrier was gone now. There was no pretending this was still clinical. This wasn’t about notes. This wasn’t about data.

This was about him. And you.

Your footsteps were slow, measured, as you stepped the last bit of distance between you and Bucky. He stood in front of the med-bed, body bare from the waist down, cock flushed and leaking, his chest rising just a little faster now.

You reached out.

Your fingers wrapped around him—replacing his own grip at the base. He let go immediately, lifting his hand away to let you take over, the breath in his throat catching as your skin made contact.

He was hot. Heavy. Alive in your palm, twitching slightly as your hand encircled the base. The skin was soft where it needed to be, velvet over steel, and the tip was slick and pulsing.

You looked up at him.

Your gaze met his, and his eyes were dark, narrowed—hungry.

His lips parted just slightly, voice rough and short.

“Stroke me. Then blow me.”

The order made your thighs clench.

You obeyed without speaking.

Your hand began to move, slow at first, adjusting to the shape and heat of him, your grip gentle, exploratory. You watched the way his stomach flexed with each pass, the subtle twitch of muscle when you passed your thumb over the tip, smearing the pre-cum slowly down the shaft.

You leaned in.

Just slightly at first, tilting your head forward, your breath skating warm over the flushed head. Bucky’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then your tongue slipped out—just a taste.

One slow lick, right over the tip.

He groaned. Low. Guttural. His head tipped back for a split second, throat flexing.

You licked again, bolder this time, then wrapped your lips around the head of his cock and drew him in—slowly. You hollowed your cheeks slightly, using just enough pressure to feel him respond, the weight of him dragging your mouth open more as you took him deeper.

Your hand didn’t stop moving.

You stroked while you sucked—your fist gliding up and down the base in sync with your lips pulling wetly around the top. The angle made it easy, almost natural, to slide into a steady rhythm. Before long, your knees found the cold tile beneath you, and you dropped fully down.

On your knees for him.

Bucky’s hand reached for you.

His fingers threaded through your hair—not yanking, not controlling, but guiding. His palm cradled the back of your head, gentle but firm, keeping you steady, helping you move with him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Jesus—you feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

You felt it—every twitch, every surge. You could taste him. Hear the sound of your mouth working over him—slick, lewd, hot. His cock throbbed under your tongue, and your hand was slick with saliva and pre-cum now, sliding faster, keeping pace.

Your thighs were soaked. You didn’t dare check.

This was no longer about commands.

This was about the way he moaned when your lips sank lower.

About how his hips gave a slow, helpless jerk when your tongue curled underneath.

About how your name—or maybe a prayer—slipped from his lips like he was giving in.

—

Bucky’s moans were getting ragged—too close. You could feel it in the way his hand tightened at the back of your head, the subtle twitch in his hips, the tremble riding down the backs of his thighs. He was losing control.

But then—he stopped.

His cock slid from your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva still clinging as he stepped back, and his hand released your hair with a gentleness that contrasted the tension still buzzing in the air.

You blinked up at him, breathless. Lips swollen, jaw slack.

Confused.

He leaned down suddenly, close, the blunt edge of his nose brushing your cheek, his mouth ghosting against your ear.

“I gotta stop,” he said, voice thick and wrecked. “If I keep going, I’m gonna come—and that’s not how I want this to end.”

Before you could speak, he inhaled sharply, slow and deliberate—right near your neck, your shoulder.

“I can smell you,” he whispered, so close you could feel his breath. “So sweet… fuck, you smell good. Like heat. Like need. It’s all I can fucking think about.”

Your throat tightened. Your thighs instinctively pressed together, but it was no use. Your panties were soaked through. You could feel it now—sticky against your skin, the telltale ache of need building deep and low.

He pulled back, eyes locking with yours.

“Get on the bed.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You climbed onto the med-bed, hands shaking as you laid flat, the sterile paper beneath your back crinkling under you. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your heart was hammering.

Bucky stepped up beside you, fingers moving straight to the controls along the side panel. You watched him adjust the platform—angling it upward, shifting it higher, higher—until your hips were raised perfectly at the edge, aligned with the height of the rolling med-chair he pulled in behind him.

Then his hands went to your waist.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your uniform pants—flicking the button open, tugging down the zipper slowly.

His eyes stayed on yours the whole time.

The fabric slid down your hips, over your thighs, exposing your underwear—already ruined.

His gaze finally dropped, and the sound he made was primal. A low, breathless groan punched straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at that.”

Your panties were dark with arousal, wet from center to seam, clinging to your folds. His thumb grazed the soaked cotton, dragging it along the sticky heat there.

“You’re this wet for me?” he murmured. “Just from watching me stroke my cock?”

You swallowed but didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your hips tilted slightly into his touch, searching for more.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband and peeled your panties down, slow. As he pulled them off your legs, he paused—his eyes lingering for a heartbeat too long on the soaked gusset—and groaned again under his breath.

If he brought them to his nose, you didn’t see it. You were too busy trying not to tremble as he settled between your thighs.

He grabbed the chair, dragged it forward with one hand, and sat—his eyes level with your cunt now, bare and glistening, exposed completely on the edge of the bed.

“You ever had someone eat you out?” he asked, voice deep and low.

You shook your head. Small. Honest.

A flicker of something passed over his face—dark and pleased. His pupils blew wide, tongue wetting his bottom lip.

“Good,” he said, breath ghosting hot against your inner thighs. “I want to be the first.”

Then he leaned in—and licked you.

The first pass of his tongue was slow, wide, and devastating. A drag from your entrance up to your clit in one long, shivering stroke.

You gasped, back arching. “Oh—!”

He moaned into your cunt, low and deep.

Again.

He licked you slower now, more deliberately, the slurp audible. He nosed into you, spread you with two fingers of his flesh hand and devoured you like it was the only thing he was built to do. His tongue circled, then flattened. Then flicked—messy, wet, perfect.

Your hips twitched. Your hand flew to the bed rail, fingers clenching tight.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice trembling.

He grunted into you—sound vibrating straight through your clit.

Then you felt it.

Cold.

His vibranium fingers slid between your folds.

One pressed at your entrance—gentle, firm. A slow stretch as he slipped it in, knuckle by knuckle, filling you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out. Your thighs jerked.

The coldness of metal inside your hot, fluttering walls was overwhelming. You clenched around it instinctively, hips rocking into the sensation.

“Shit—yeah,” Bucky rasped, pulling back enough to speak. “Clenching already? Fuck, you feel good.”

His mouth returned to your clit, tongue circling, then sucking, lips closing around it just right.

At the same time, that finger started to move. A slow, deliberate rhythm. In and out, curling just slightly.

You whimpered. Your eyes squeezed shut. The heat building between your legs was unbearable.

“More—” you gasped. “I want—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t have to.

Because your body had already betrayed you—back arching, hips bucking, slick dripping down to his palm.

His mouth sucked harder, tongue flicking faster, finger fucking you deeper—and you felt yourself start to unravel.

His breath hit your cunt when he spoke again.

“You want more?” His voice was rough, dark. “Say it. Tell me what you need.”

—

Your back arched as the first vibranium finger curled inside you, drawing another soft whimper from your lips. You needed more. The pressure was good—but not enough. Not yet.

Your hips rocked forward instinctively, searching, rolling toward his mouth, his hand, anything he’d give.

“Please,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Another…”

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

Another cool, sleek finger joined the first, easing in slowly with a delicious stretch that made your thighs jerk open wider. He groaned against your cunt as he watched your body react.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing against your inner thigh. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your hips rolled, desperate for more friction. The pressure was growing deeper, stronger—but it still wasn’t enough. Your moans grew softer, more frequent, broken by panting breaths. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t ask.

But he knew.

Without needing permission, he slid a third vibranium finger inside you, and that made you cry out.

“F-fuck—” you gasped, legs shaking.

The stretch was intense—your walls clenching tight around the cool metal, fluttering with every slow curl of his fingers. You didn’t know you could feel this full from just fingers. But the pressure was perfect. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough at the same time.

Bucky groaned, his own voice ragged now.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, voice thick and reverent. “Clenching around me like you’re starving for it.”

He set a faster rhythm, fingers pumping into you with slick, wet sounds that filled the space between your own needy moans. His thumb slid up, circling your clit while his tongue flicked beneath it, and it was too much—your thighs shaking, your breath coming in shallow, desperate bursts.

Your hands gripped the rail above your head. Your body was so close, teetering, right there—

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

You whimpered, a broken sob of air as your hips bucked forward, trying to chase the friction he just took away.

“No—” you gasped.

He didn’t answer. He just sat back slightly, eyes hooded with heat, breath heavy, fingers soaked in your arousal.

He raised his hand to his mouth.

Licked the wet off one finger.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You taste so sweet. Addictive.”

Then, to your surprise, he brought those same fingers to your lips.

You parted them without thinking.

The taste of yourself hit your tongue—salty, musky, warm. It made you moan softly, eyes fluttering closed.

Bucky’s hand dropped, and he leaned over you, one arm curling around your waist as he pulled you upright from the bed in one swift, effortless move. Your legs wrapped around him loosely, chest pressed to his, your soaked cunt still throbbing.

He kissed you.

And it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was claiming.

Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that spoke everything his mouth couldn’t say. Tongue sliding against yours, hands anchoring you close, his cock thick and hard between your bodies.

You broke the kiss first, breath catching in your throat. A soft moan escaped you as you leaned into the crook of his neck, lips brushing his jaw, your breath hot against his ear.

“I need your cock,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Inside. Now.”

He jolted. Just slightly—but you felt it. The way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his cock twitched hard against your stomach.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough. “We don’t have to go that far. I can just—keep going. Oral only. Or I can stop.”

But you weren’t having that.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

Your voice steady now. Low. Commanding.

“It’s a command. Fuck me. Use your cock.”

Something in him broke.

His expression shifted instantly—lips parting, pupils dilating, breath punching out of him like you’d knocked the air from his lungs. And then his hands were on your hips, dragging you down the bed, adjusting your angle.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed.

—

Bucky stepped in close, hands firm on your thighs as he aligned his cock at your entrance. You were still clinging to him from the kiss—legs locked around his waist, hips tilted forward—and the tip of him slid through your slick folds, gliding right up to your clit.

You gasped. Your arms tightened around his shoulders.

He let his forehead rest against yours, breath hot between your lips.

“Gonna split you open real slow, doll,” he whispered, voice dark and low. “Wanna make sure you feel me for days. Wanna make you think of my cock when you’re sittin’ at that medic desk, squirming in that chair…”

You whimpered, breath catching hard in your throat.

He shifted his hips slightly, the fat head of his cock nudging right at your entrance. There. Warm. Heavy.

“Still okay?” he asked, eyes scanning your face.

You nodded quickly—too fast.

But Bucky didn’t move yet.

He was patient. His flesh hand slid to your lower back, supporting you. His vibranium arm cradled under your thighs. You were secure. Held. Open.

He pushed in slowly.

The stretch was immediate.

Your breath hitched. Your brows pinched tight.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t discomfort.

It was just—a lot.

So thick. So full. Your walls struggled to accommodate the girth of him, every inch pressing into you with that impossible, deliberate pressure.

Your fingers clawed slightly at his back, seeking grounding. Your lips parted around a breathy, trembling moan.

He stilled halfway.

“Talk to me,” he whispered. “Need me to stop?”

You shook your head. “Just—need a second. You’re…”

“I know,” he muttered, placing a soft kiss against your temple. “You’re taking it so well.”

His cock twitched inside you, and the sensation made your core flutter around him again.

You adjusted your hips subtly, trying to find that sweet angle, and he caught your eyes—dark, hungry, but still gentle.

You gave him a tiny nod.

“Okay.”

He eased forward again, the rest of him slowly sheathing inside—inch by thick inch—until his hips met yours and you were completely full.

You both paused.

You gasped softly, still trying to breathe through the stretch. He stayed still, letting you feel everything: his length, his weight, the way he filled every space inside you like he was made for it.

Then—he began to move.

His hips rolled forward, slow and deep. A drag of thick cock against tight, soaked walls. You moaned quietly into his neck, your arms around his shoulders as he rocked into you with careful, steady rhythm.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt. Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Your body wrapped around him like instinct, taking everything he gave, hips jerking slightly with each push forward.

The pace stayed tender, but every thrust got a little deeper.

He lifted you slightly with each one, your thighs trembling around his waist.

But after a while, he slowed again—kissed your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Then his voice dropped.

“Turn around for me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What?”

“Wanna see you bend over that bed,” he said, voice rough. “Wanna fuck you from behind. Real slow. Let you feel every inch while you arch that back for me.”

You moaned.

He slowly pulled out—slick and thick and aching—then gently set you down on the mattress.

The bed hissed slightly as he adjusted the height down, just enough to allow your knees to hit the floor if needed. You leaned forward, hands braced on the mattress, spine arching as he guided you into place.

Your cunt throbbed—open and wet, dripping for him.

“That’s it,” he muttered behind you. “Just like that.”

Then he slid back in.

Your mouth dropped open with a gasp as his cock filled you again from behind—this time deeper, the angle hitting something different, something devastating.

He kept his hands firm on your hips, pulling you back gently as he rocked forward. The rhythm wasn’t hard—but deliberate. Controlled. Every stroke sank to the hilt, then withdrew just enough to let you feel the drag before he shoved back in.

You whimpered, braced against the bed, flushed from the neck down.

And he just kept going.

“Still good, baby?” he murmured, thumb brushing over the curve of your lower back.

You nodded, nearly trembling. “S-so good…”

But the words were starting to fall apart.

So was your mind.

And neither of you had even come yet.

—

Bucky’s thrusts deepened, hips rolling into yours at a steady, dragging pace. Each stroke hit just right, and you were keening for him—barely holding yourself upright, knuckles white as you clutched the edge of the med-bed beneath you.

But then his rhythm slowed.

You gasped when he slipped out, your empty cunt fluttering at the sudden loss. Before you could speak, his hands were already guiding your hips—flipping you over with a gentleness that made your heart twist.

You landed on your back.

He hovered over you for just a beat, gaze sweeping your face.

Then he leaned down and kissed you—slow and tender. Like a thank you. Like a promise.

“Lie back,” he murmured against your lips. “Wanna see your face when you come.”

Your cheeks burned. But you obeyed.

You slid further onto the mattress until you were lying flat, arms at your sides, heart pounding in your ears. He followed—climbed onto the narrow bed, the space barely enough for him, but he made it work.

He settled between your thighs again, and without a word, lined himself up.

Then—he pushed back in.

Your body stretched around him once more, the delicious fullness making you gasp. He groaned softly above you, head dropping to your shoulder.

And then he started to move.

Still gentle—but faster now.

Deeper. The strokes came in a rhythm designed to wreck you, his hips driving into yours, the mattress squeaking faintly beneath the both of you. His mouth hovered over yours, your foreheads touching, breath shared.

You looked up at him—really looked—and something in your chest cracked open.

He was flushed. Focused. Eyes trained on every expression you made. Every gasp. Every tremble.

“You’re so close, huh?” he whispered, voice rough. “Can feel you squeezing me.”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat. Your hands gripped his shoulders now, fingers digging into his back.

“Bucky—” you choked. “I’m— I’m coming—”

His mouth found yours as you shattered beneath him.

Your entire body clenched around his cock, heat surging through you like a wave breaking. Your walls pulsed tight around him, spasming with every beat of your climax. Your legs shook. Your fingers trembled. Your voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.

And he kept going—just enough to help you ride it out, hips rocking in slow, shallow thrusts as your body twitched and trembled beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that. You did so fucking good…”

When your spasms started to ease—when your cunt stopped fluttering and your hips finally slumped against the mattress—he pulled out, slick and twitching.

His hand wrapped around his cock, stroking hard and fast.

You could barely watch, breathless and dazed, but the sight of him, flushed and towering above you, fucking his fist with your arousal still shining on him—it was filthy in the best way.

A few strokes later, he came.

Hot ropes spilled across your lower belly, streaking your thighs in thick, warm pulses. He grunted low, teeth clenched, brows furrowed as his release overtook him.

You lay there, wrecked. Chest heaving. Skin slick with sweat.

Bucky? He panted for a moment—but that Super Soldier thing had him steadying fast. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, just above the mess he’d made.

Then he reached for the tissue box by the tray.

You flinched when the cool wipe hit your thigh, but he was gentle—careful as he cleaned the sticky remnants off your skin. His touch wasn’t sexual anymore. It was care. Quiet. Wordless.

He helped you sit up, tugging your pants back into place like it was second nature. Buttoned them for you. His fingers lingered at the waistband.

Neither of you spoke right away.

You didn’t need to.

There was no awkwardness. No guilt. Just… this unspoken truth between you.

This would happen again.

You both knew it.

Bucky looked around the room once everything was cleaned—bed straightened, gloves tossed, no trace left.

Then he turned to you, mouth tugging at one corner in a crooked grin.

“Maybe next time,” he said, voice low, “we try sex on command, too?”

You laughed softly, breath still shaky.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “For documentation purposes.”

💌: @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc significant other.

Imagine you knew that loving Sylus meant walking a fine line between devotion and danger. You knew that his world was carved in shadows and half truths wrapped in kisses. A voice that could make you forget your doubts.

Imagine you always told yourself it was just the nature of his work, the late nights, the missed calls, the way he always seemed to have somewhere else to be. You love him. Because while you never had his mornings. You always had his midnights.

Imagine the way he would often disappear for days and return with eyes darker than usual and in some rare nights, he would come home with bruises blooming just beneath his skin but when he looked at you, his eyes soften. Like being with you was enough.

Imagine the world you've built in the cracks he left open slowly and carefully. A world where danger lived just outside your window but with love, his love, was kept in your heart every time he whispered your name like a confession. He let you believe you were his only truth.

Imagine at first, it was just the silence. The kind that didn't feel like peace but absence. The kind of pause before a lie, the dead space where love should live. Sylus had always been a guarded man. The kind who touched you like you were fragile but spoke like his words were bullets.

but Imagine, that was just part of his charm. The mystery and quiet restraint behind his smirks. Not until she started showing up. MC. At first, she was just a ghost in his schedule, an excuse.

"Work" He say, turning away from you in bed, phone lighting up his face. "Can't talk about it." You nod, moving closer to him in. You did not push the topic because that's what trust looked like, right?

Imagine then came the little things. A strand of hair on his coat. Perfume that wasn't yours. A coffee order on his receipt you had never seen him drink. The subtle way his tone changed when he was tired softer, more honest, but only when talking to someone else.

Imagine you did not bring it up. You didn't want to be paranoid. You didn’t want to be that person. The kind who checks phones or asks too many questions. But the truth has a way of bleeding through, no matter how hard you cover it.

Imagine that night, after a few weeks of not seeing each other. You cooked him dinner. You even wore the clothes he liked. You thought maybe, just maybe, he'd finally open up. Instead, he walked in distracted, checking his phone. He did not even look at you.

Imagine the way you asked him who he was texting. One that was meant to sound casual, but your voice cracked halfway through. He paused. Just for a second. That second told you everything. "It's MC."

"Don't." He said, eyes flickering up to yours. "It's not what you think." That was the first time he didn't lie smoothly. The first time he looked like the villain everyone said he was. Not because of the crime, the guns or the secrets. But because he looked at you with guilt.

Imagine you knew why he stayed the night. It was not out of love but because he doesn't know how to leave you gently. So you lay beside him awake until dawn, breathing in a man who loved someone else in front of you. And when the morning come, you did not say goodbye. You just lay there and felt him when he left.

Imagine that's how you learned the painful truth. You weren't his secret weapon. You were just his secret shame. And all the danger in the world doesn't compare to the pain of being loved second.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: the other au doesn't really cound as the main non-mc so. So here's one for him. IM SORRY DON’T COME AFTER ME- BYE

[ninisdollie]

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧

Jay’s hands…

you don’t remember exactly when the obsession started. maybe it was the first time you saw him play guitar, veins along his forearms flexing, his long, elegant fingers pressing against the strings with such confident ease. they were veiny, just the right amount of rough, and the way his knuckles flexed as he changed chords had you swallowing hard. he was wearing silver rings that day—your favorite—and your eyes kept darting to them every time they glinted under the soft lamp light.

“they’re so pretty…” you whispered with soft, dreamy voice.

he stopped playing and looked at you, one eyebrow raised. “my hands?”

“they’re just so perfect, Jay. is not fair.” you traced a finger down his wrist, trailing over the veins with a soft gasp. “do you even know what you do to me?”

his jaw tightened the smugness faltering as your touch lingered.

“you like them that much, princess?” he teased, but there was heat behind it now. he set the guitar aside, tilting your chin up. “should i show you what else they can do?”

or maybe it was when he first touched you.

because Jay doesn’t just touch, he handles. gently. like you’re precious. like if he pressed just a little harder, you’d bruise, and he’d never forgive himself. his hands always find you. on your thigh when he’s driving, thumb lazily brushing your skin like he needs to remind you that you’re his. on your waist at parties, when someone else’s gaze lingers too long and his grip subtly tightens, never rough, but enough. enough for you to feel it. enough for him to make a point. under tables at dinner with the guys, his fingers resting on your bare skin while he talks like nothing’s happening, all casual and composed while you try not to shift too obviously in your seat.

you’re the one who asked, shy and breathless, for his fingers in your mouth one night, unable to stop staring. he hesitated at first, always afraid of crossing a line, of hurting you, but he gave in when you begged. and fuck, he groaned, low and quiet, letting you pull two of his fingers past your lips.

now you always do it.

your mouth is so warm, your tongue swirling around them immediately, like you’ve been waiting for this all day. you suck slow, messy, eyes fluttering shut as you moan softly around them. and Jay is mesmerized, watching you absolutely fall apart from something so simple. he tightens his arm around your waist, other hand twitching at his side. “you’re really doing this just from my fingers, huh?” he murmurs, voice lower now, strained. “you’re such a dirty little thing.”

you whimper around him, drool starting to slip from the corners of your mouth as you bob your head slightly, like you need more. he watches the spit string between your lips and his knuckles, and it drives him crazy.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, tugging you closer, voice rough in your ear. “my messy girl.”

then came the night you asked for more.

“put your hand around my throat?”

he’d blinked, startled, like you’d just spoken another language. you felt his breath catch before he even answered.

“you’re serious?”

and when you nodded, flushed, needy, voice small, he listened. his fingers came up slow, wrapped so carefully around your neck like he thought you might break. the pressure wasn’t hard. just present. your body’s response was immediate. back arching, thighs tightening, eyes fluttering.

and that’s when he changed.

“fuck,” he groaned, voice low and ruined, “you like this. you—you really like this.”

and now? he can’t stop. it’s never too much. never careless. just perfect. like everything he does to you.

like the way he curls his fingers when they’re inside you, hitting just the right spot, soft and slow and purposeful like he’s more focused on making you fall apart than getting off himself. he always knows what you need, when to tease, when to press deeper, when to go still and just hold you.

in quiet moments, he takes your hand. always. never just grabbing it, no, he locks fingers. pulls it close. holds it tight. sometimes he lifts them to compare, palm to palm, brow furrowed like he can’t get over the size difference. “look at this,” he’ll whisper, tracing your fingers with his. “mine cover yours completely.”

he lives for it.

because you were obsessed with his hands from the start. but nothing compares to the way he looks at yours, like they belong in his. like the only place you should ever be is right next to him, hand in hand, thigh under his palm, jaw in his touch, body under his control.

he’s so soft and gentle with you, and you are completely sure that his hands were made just for you.

[heavenlybodies333]

No Body, No Crime -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You weren't spoiled. You were just… strategic.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

Because if your dad—Aaron Hotchner, SSA and reigning king of emotional repression—was going to bury himself in work and try to parent you like you were one of his agents, then he didn’t get to be surprised when you played the game better than he did. You didn’t ask for much. Just little things.

Like getting to “shadow” him at the BAU during your gap semester. Like choosing Quantico over Georgetown for undergrad because it kept you closer. Like getting him to increase your credit card limit when you maxed out the card. Or convincing him to overlook the tiny infraction of “borrowing” his SUV for a weekend road trip with friends.

You knew exactly how to tilt your head, how to time a tear, how to nudge just enough guilt into your smile that your dad would cave—every time. You weren’t evil. You weren’t even selfish. You were just surviving. Managing the rules of your world. And it wasn’t your fault he adored you too much to see the game for what it was.

But the one person who never seemed to fall for your act?

Dr. Spencer fucking Reid.

He always saw right through you, sharp eyes flicking up from some obscure case file or book you couldn’t pronounce, narrowed in suspicion like he was mentally cataloging your every sin. Which, knowing him, he probably was.

You noticed it the first time you visited the BAU after college started—your dad had you shadowing agents over the summer like it was some kind of behavioral bootcamp, as if watching grown men argue over blood spatter was going to build your character.

You tossed him a saccharine smile. “Hi, Spencie.”

His eyes narrowed at the nickname. “What do you want?”

“Relax.” You took a slow sip of your coffee. “Can’t I just come say hi to my dad?”

“Sure,” Spencer muttered, turning back to his paperwork. “After you manipulate him into giving you whatever you want.”

You blinked, still smiling—but your jaw tensed beneath it. There it was. You stepped closer, heels clicking deliberately against the floor. “Excuse me?”

"Shouldn’t you be at Georgetown?" he said, deadpan. "Or did you drop out to ruin your father's life full-time now?"

"Oh, Spence," you said sweetly. “Love the hostility. You been working on that in therapy?”

He exhaled slowly, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t let himself. “I just don’t get what you’re doing here.”

“I’m taking Dad to lunch,” you said innocently, ignoring how his jaw flexed. “Thought I’d cheer him up. He’s been tense lately.”

Spencer’s eyes were sharp. "Tense because he's dealing with cartel-level stress and also trying to keep you from wrecking yourself."

You stepped closer, tilting your head, faux-thoughtful. “You always get this mean when you’re jealous?”

“You know,” he said, folding his hands on the desk like he was about to read you your psychological profile, “most narcissists hide their manipulation better. But I guess you wouldn’t need to when your dad’s too busy trying to keep you from falling apart.”

He pushed. Of course he did. He had to. It was how he coped—with rules, with logic, with little glass jabs that he didn’t even know were personal until you cracked him wide open with a look.

“Maybe if you stopped playing the victim in your own fantasy,” he snapped, “you’d actually see that you’re hurting him.”

That one stung.

So you stepped closer, toe to toe, until your perfume hit his senses and he realized too late you weren’t backing down. Your voice dropped. “And maybe if you pulled your head out of your Harvard-educated ass, you’d realize not everyone had a dad to hero worship growing up. Some of us had to learn to survive by being clever.”

His breath hitched. You were so close.

“Now if you’re done psychoanalyzing me for sport,” you whispered, “I have files to copy. And a lunch to guilt out of my father. So kindly, fuck off.”

But Spencer didn’t fuck off. Not ever.

You turned on your heel, hips swinging with righteous satisfaction, fully expecting Spencer to do what he always did: grit his teeth, stew in silence, and pretend he wasn’t dying to argue with you.

But not today. Spencer followed you—faster than expected, footfalls hot behind you—and grabbed your arm just as you stepped into the copier room. The door clicked shut behind you like it had been waiting for a showdown.

You spun, voice sharp. “Touch me again like that and I’ll scream HR.”

He scoffed. “That’d be rich, considering you’ve probably got them all under your spell too.”

“Oh, right,” you snapped. “God forbid someone actually likes me.”

Spencer’s eyes were wild now—glinting, furious. “This isn’t about being liked. This is about watching you twist the knife every time your dad tries to connect with you.”

You folded your arms. “Is that what this is? Some weird Freudian thing where you can’t stand me because I have the relationship with him you always wanted?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smiled like it didn’t sting. “Don’t project, Spencie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” You leaned in close, almost smug. “You hate it?”

You were standing close enough to Spencer that you could see the gold flecks in his eyes, close enough that your voice was barely above a whisper when you hissed:

"You know what your problem is, Spencer? You're so desperate to be the smartest person in the room that you can't stand when someone else plays the game better than you. So why don't you take your three degrees and your superiority complex and shove them up your—"

"What's going on in here?" Your blood turned to ice. That voice. That tone. The one your dad used when he walked into interrogation rooms and needed immediate answers.

You spun around, and there he was. Aaron Hotchner, standing in the doorway with case files in his hand and an expression that made your stomach drop to your shoes. His eyes moved between you and Spencer—taking in the proximity, the tension, the way Spencer looked like he'd been slapped.

"Dad—" you started, but he held up one hand.

"I asked what's going on." His voice was deadly quiet. "And I'd like an answer."

Spencer cleared his throat. "We were just—"

"I wasn't talking to you, Reid." Hotch's gaze never left your face. "I was talking to my daughter, who I'm hoping can explain why she just told a federal agent to shove his degrees up his ass."

Your cheeks burned. "You didn't hear the whole—"

"What did you just say?"

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish. "I didn't—that's not—"

"You didn't what?" Hotch stepped into the small room, and suddenly the space felt suffocating. "You didn't just curse at Dr. Reid? You didn't just tell him to shove his education somewhere anatomically impossible?"

Spencer had pressed himself against the copier, looking like he wanted to disappear into the machine itself.

"Dad, you don't understand," you said, hating how young you sounded. "He was being—"

"I don't care what he was being." Hotch's expression was stone-cold professional now, the same look he gave suspects who tried to lie their way out of evidence. "What I care about is the language that just came out of my daughter's mouth."

You tried a different approach, the one that usually worked. Eyes wide, voice small. "Daddy, it wasn't what it sounded like—"

"Don't." The single word cut through the air like a blade. "Don't you dare try that with me right now."

Your stomach dropped. He'd never spoken to you like that before. Never looked at you like that—like he was seeing a stranger wearing his daughter's face.

"Apologize," he said quietly. "Right now."

"But he—"

"Right. Now."

The authority in his voice made you flinch. This wasn't your dad who let you get away with borrowed cars and extended curfews. This was SSA Aaron Hotchner, and he was not playing games.

You turned to Spencer, who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. "Spencer, I—" Your voice caught. "I'm sorry. What I said was... it was uncalled for and rude. And you didn't deserve it."

Spencer nodded quickly, clearly uncomfortable. "It's fine—"

"No," Hotch interrupted, his voice still that terrible, unfamiliar cold. "It's not fine." He looked at you, and the disappointment in his eyes made your chest ache. "I have never—not once—seen this kind of behavior from you. The language, the disrespect, the complete lack of professionalism."

Your eyes were starting to burn. "Dad—"

"I'm talking." He stepped closer, and you automatically stepped back until you hit the wall. "I don't know who that was, but it wasn't my daughter. My daughter doesn't speak to people like that. My daughter was raised better than that."

The words hit like physical blows. You could feel tears threatening, but his expression told you they wouldn't help. Not this time.

"I hope," he continued, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "that I never see that person again. Because if I do, we're going to have a very different conversation about respect and consequences."

You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice.

He walked out without another word, leaving the door open behind him and a silence so thick it felt like the air had turned solid. Spencer didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. The copier let out a mechanical sigh, like it too had been holding tension.

You wiped your face before the tears could fully form, dragging your palm across your cheek and hating yourself for letting any of this get under your skin.

Spencer shifted.

You turned on him before he could speak. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

He held up his hands like he was surrendering, but his eyes didn’t lose that look—half apology, half the same sharp scrutiny that started this whole mess.

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” he said quietly.

You laughed, short and bitter. “Oh, congratulations then. Mission unaccomplished.”

You were still smoothing down your skirt when your phone buzzed with a message from your dad.

Dad: “Reid needs your help pulling Rhode Island cold case files from storage. Top floor file room is incomplete. Check sublevel 3. Serial code #R-0449 through #R-0510.”

You stared at it for a second. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Spencer peered over your shoulder. His lips twitched. “Cold case hell. Sublevel three.”

You groaned. “That’s like ten miles of asbestos and dust.”

Spencer shrugged, already buttoning his shirt. “Hope you wore comfortable shoes.”

Cold case hell lived up to its name.

You followed Spencer down a staircase with cracked linoleum and flickering fluorescent lights, the walls narrowing like they were intentionally trying to squeeze all the joy from the room. It was ice-cold, the hum of neglected air systems echoing like ghosts. Filing cabinets lined the walls like a maze of bureaucratic tombstones.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Is this where joy goes to die?”

Spencer, already scanning labels, didn’t respond. You took that as a challenge.

The first few shelves were just wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, which was—of course—why you didn’t wait your turn. Every time Spencer found a section he wanted to comb through, you slid in behind him, brushing close, your chest grazing his back or your ass brushing low and deliberate against him as you squeezed by.

The third time you did it, you felt it. He was getting hard.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling, eyes gleaming with delight as you bent to “check” a lower shelf, ass pushed back just slightly more than necessary.

Spencer hissed softly behind you. “Could you maybe not—”

“What?” You looked back over your shoulder with mock-innocence. “You’re in the way.”

“It’s a single-person aisle,” he said through gritted teeth. “You could wait.”

“But waiting’s so boring,” you whispered, brushing past him again—and this time you pressed. Hard enough to make him swear under his breath.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, voice wrecked. His hands were gripping a cabinet drawer like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You paused beside him, lips parted like you were about to apologize—but your eyes were anything but sorry. You stepped in closer, chest brushing against his arm, and leaned down low, voice a feather-light whisper against his ear.

“I know.”

He turned to face you, jaw tight, eyes scanning you like he was trying to build an FBI profile just to survive the next five minutes.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

You smiled slowly. “Doing what?”

He exhaled through his nose. Controlled. Like he was counting prime numbers in his head. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Why would I pretend, Spencie? You’re clearly enjoying it.”

His eyes dropped—traitorously—to your lips, then lower, to where your shirt had ridden up just enough to flash skin. Then he clenched his jaw and looked away again.

You brushed past him again, this time even slower, your hip grazing the front of his slacks—and there it was: a low, stuttered inhale. You bit your lip to keep from moaning just at the sound of it.

You turned back around with mock concern, fingers lacing behind your back. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, just opened another drawer. His hands were shaking a little.

You let the silence build as you stepped into another tight aisle. Then, just as he turned to join you, you stopped right in front of him, pretending to scan the file tabs with exaggerated care.

He had to halt, nearly colliding into you—and there it was again: the perfect excuse.

You bent forward painfully slow, ass grinding deliberately against the hard line you could feel pressed into the front of his pants.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

You pretended not to hear. But when you straightened up again, you didn’t move. You stood there, flush against him, your back pressed to his chest, swaying slightly like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.

And his hands—God, his hands—hovered just shy of your hips like he was one second away from giving in.

“You gonna move?” he asked, voice strained.

You turned your head slightly, letting your breath ghost against his cheek. “Are you gonna ask me to?”

“Don’t push me,” he said, barely audible.

You reached back—just enough to brush your fingers over the bulge in his pants like it was an accident.

He flinched.

You turned around slowly, chest pressed to his now, face smug. “Sorry. Didn’t realize you were so uncomfortable down here.”

“I swear to God,” he whispered, “you’re fucking playing with me.”

You tilted your head. “You haven’t stopped me.”

You reached for a box just above his head, your body stretching, back arching—fully pressing against him as you rose on tiptoe.

His hands snapped to your waist. Tight. Finally. “Enough.”

You barely had time to gasp before he had you pressed against the shelving unit, cold metal biting into your back as his hands roamed lower, greedy and impatient.

“You really want to do this here?” he rasped against your neck. “Where anyone could walk in?”

“Only if you stop talking.”

He hiked your leg around his hip and you felt the sharp edge of him through his slacks, all that brainpower suddenly laser-focused on ruining you.

“God,” he muttered, “you are so fucking infuriating.”

“And you’re still hard,” you whispered.

His laugh was low and wrecked, right against the shell of your ear. “Of course I am. You’ve been torturing me for the past twenty minutes.”

You grinned, lips grazing his jaw. “You make it too easy.”

Spencer’s grip tightened on your thigh as he rocked his hips forward, letting you feel exactly how not sorry he was.

He kissed you then—finally—mouth crashing against yours in a way that made you forget your own name. His hands tangled in your hair, his body caging yours against the shelf, and God, he kissed so well. All that precision and focus he used at work? It translated perfectly. His tongue was slow, deliberate, coaxing rather than demanding—like he was tasting you, cataloging you, memorizing every reaction.

You whimpered into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until your head spun.

He pulled his hand away just long enough to unbuckle his belt and shove his slacks down. The second he was free, you reached between you both, fingers curling around him with a sinful smile.

“You always this hard when someone calls you Spencie?” you teased, stroking once—slow.

He bit your shoulder in retaliation, and you moaned at the sting. His hand found its way down your panties as his fingers softly teased you before sliding one through your slick. You moaned as he added a second finger.

“Shh,” he whispered, mouth at your throat, “unless you want your dad to hear.”

That shut you up fast. He curled his fingers inside you like he knew exactly what he was doing—because he did. Years of behavioral profiling, pattern recognition, hyper-observance… all of it was focused on you now. On every stuttered breath, every tremble of your thighs, every twitch of muscle.

“Say please again.”

You whimpered. “Spencer—”

“Say it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please.”

He pulled his fingers out and you didn’t get a chance to look—just feel as he slid in, slow and devastating, one hand braced against the wall above your head, the other gripping your hip like an anchor.

“Oh fuck—” You tried to stay quiet. Failed.

His hand slipped around to cover your mouth as the sound of skin on skin echoed in the hallway.

“If you get us caught,” he whispered into your ear, “I swear I’ll finish and leave you dripping.”

You bit his palm. He fucked you harder pulling your leg higher, adjusting the angle until he hit that perfect spot, and you gasped so sharply he had to press his hand harder to your mouth to muffle it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he gritted out, sweat dotting his temple as he drove into you. “So goddamn tight—been teasing me like this for weeks. Thought you were so clever.”

You moaned into his palm, squeezing around him at the praise and the venom twisted into it.

Spencer chuckled darkly, breathless. “Oh, you like that? That I’m pissed off and still this deep inside you?”

You nodded frantically, thighs trembling as he hit that spot again and again. You came—hard and fast, clenching around him with a choked cry into his palm. Spencer groaned, buried deep, and followed with a stuttering curse, hips jerking once, twice more before stilling completely.

For a long, breathless second, neither of you moved.

Then Spencer let his hand fall from your mouth and pressed a kiss to your temple—soft, unexpectedly sweet.

“I still hate the nickname,” he muttered.

You snorted, breath catching on the tail end. “Sure, Spencie. Whatever you say.”

Then, slowly, carefully, he withdrew—gently fixing you up, tugging your skirt down with more care than you'd expected from someone who’d just railed you in an FBI basement.

You leaned back against the cabinet, trying to catch your breath, your pulse still skittering wildly.

“So,” you said finally, voice wrecked. “Still think I’m a narcissist?”

Spencer gave you a look that was somewhere between exhausted and exasperated.

“I hate you,” he mutters, zipping his pants with shaky hands and avoiding your victorious smirk.

“You came,” you counter sweetly, hopping off the BAU filing cabinet you’d just been railed against. “Twice, technically. So who really won?”

He gives you a glare that says this is not over —but you’re already smoothing your hair, grabbing the manila folder that started this entire mess.

You hand it to him with a grin. “C’mon, Doctor. Let’s go give Daddy the files.”

His entire body goes rigid. “Don’t say it like that.”

You’re halfway to the stairs when he groans, voice sharp with dread. “You have a hickey.”

You glance over your shoulder, wicked. “You gave it to me.”

And before he can argue, you’re already opening the conference room door.

Hotch doesn’t look up from his paperwork. “You two took a while,” he says flatly, holding out his hand for the file.

You drop it into his palm, unbothered. “We were being thorough.”

Spencer chokes beside you. Hotch flips open the folder. Doesn’t even blink. “I expect better time management in the future.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer says, voice hoarse. He sounds like he’s about to vomit.

You turn to leave and catch your reflection in the glass wall—lipstick smeared, collar wrinkled, pupils still dilated. You wink at Spencer just as the door shuts behind you.

And that’s when Hotch glances up. “Reid.”

Spencer freezes mid-step. “Sir?”

“You missed a button.”

Spencer swears under his breath. You keep walking.

You weren’t spoiled. You were just… strategic. And damn, it worked every time.

a/n: anytime anywhere baby

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[nylqnder]

TRYING NOT TO, JACK HUGHES

summary: the day before quinn and emmeline's wedding, you are sent on a last-minute road trip to fix a major emergency with quinn's infuriating younger brother, jack. what starts as a tension filled drive turns into something far more complicated as old grudges, misunderstandings, and an unexpected moment forces you to confront the past. with wedding chaos unfolding around you, you are forced to figure out whether your connection is just fleeting or something worth holding onto.

warnings: enemies to lovers, jack being a bit of a dick but so is the reader? fake fiancée/wife for quinn, a couple of uses of curse words, one or two mentions of alcohol

wc: 14.4k

notes: call me patrick swayze the way i'm coming back kids! holy shit genuinely the longest thing i've ever written but i really love it. i also love the fake character i've created in emmeline. she's perfect for quinn. hope y'all enjoy love you!!

The scent of freshly cut grass hung in the warm summer air, clinging to the polished marble floors and driftwood beams of the yacht club’s grand lobby. You stood in the centre—clipboards, binders, and last-minute instructions spilling from your arms—as a flurry of staff moved around you, wrapping garlands of faux flowers around railings, and helping the last flow of guests get checked into their rooms. Outside, the water glittered under the late afternoon sun, serene and still—the exact opposite of your current mental state.

Tomorrow was the big day. Emmeline’s big day.

The thought alone made your heart clench—not in the way some girls felt about weddings, but because Emmeline was your person. Cousins by blood, but closer than sisters. You were both only children, raised more like twins than distant relatives. You knew the way she chewed her thumbnail when she was nervous, the breathy laugh she let out when she was trying not to cry, and how deeply—stubbornly—she loved Quinn Hughes, the man she was about to marry.

You were her maid of honor, and you would make this perfect. Even if it meant re-tying bows, wrangling both the flower girl and ring bearer who were both under the age of 6, and micromanaging every floral arrangement down to the angle of the damn tulips.

“These need to face outward,” you said, approaching the tall centrepiece being adjusted at the welcome table. “We want the blooms to greet people, not glare at the ceiling.”

You took over the flower-adjusting, angling the blooms towards the entryway. 

And that’s when you heard it—the low hum of a luxury engine. The kind that didn’t sputter or whine, but purred like it belonged.

You turned toward the wide front windows just in time to see a sleek black Range Rover pull up to the curved drive. Its glossy body caught the sunlight like a mirror. The back door swung open before the SUV had fully stopped, and out stepped Quinn—tall, lanky, dark; the total opposite of Emmeline, but maybe that’s what made them work so well.

You smiled instinctively. He was good for her. Kind in the quiet, steady way. The kind of man who held doors and remembered anniversaries without needing reminders. Emmeline was lucky.

But then another door opened.

And your heart dropped.

Out came Jack.

His suit bag was slung over one shoulder, dark blond curls windblown, sunglasses perched like a crown of arrogance atop his head. He looked taller than you remembered. Broader too.

The smile brought on by your cousins' fiancé quickly vanished at the sight of his brother.

Jack spotted you quickly, too, as the groomsmen climbed the marble entry steps. His eyes flicked over you with quick precision—clipboard, binder, pencil behind your ear, the purposeful way you stood like you owned the lobby. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the sight. Of course, you’d overtaken the planning. Of course, you were micromanaging every last detail. He was surprised, frankly, that you hadn’t demanded Quinn and his groomsmen be at the wedding venue at the same time as you were, instead of letting them spend the week at the family lakehouse as they had. 

You ignored the presence of the middle Hughes sibling, smiling at Quinn as he entered the lobby. “Hey groom,” you smiled, stepping forward. “Nervous yet, or just pretending not to be?”

Quinn grinned and walked in for a hug. “Only excited,” he said, pulling you in. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

When you pulled back, Jack was there too, lingering just behind him, sunglasses now hanging from the collar of his t-shirt. His eyes locked with yours. A smirk that nearly curled into a sneer tugged on his lips.

“Ma’am,” he said, mock saluting you.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Quinn gave his brother a warning glance, but Jack simply let out a breathy laugh through his nose as he stepped past you. Jack’s shoulder just barely grazed yours, but it was enough to make your spine stiffen. He knew exactly what he was doing—calculated, casual, just irritating enough to make it seem accidental. You turned slightly, watching him saunter toward the welcome table and delicately graze one of the tulips you’d just adjusted, tipping the bloom back towards the ceiling. 

“Please,” you said coolly, “try not to mess anything up in the five minutes you’re here.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder with a crooked smile. “Jesus Christ, y/n, it’s the bride that’s supposed to be controlling, not the maid of honor.” 

You felt your teeth grind against one another, a slurry of evil words bubbling to the surface, before Quinn spoke up. “Guys, please,” he started, shifting uncomfortably beside you. “Can you not go at it all weekend?”

“I’m not ‘going at’ anything,” you said through gritted teeth, never taking your eyes off Jack. “I’m just asking him to stay out of the way.”

“Gonna be hard for the best man to stay out of the way.” Jack snorted. “Y’know you’re kind of taking the fun out of the whole weekend for me?”

You took a step forward, pointing the clipboard at Jack. “This weekend isn’t about you having fun, Jack. It’s about your brother and Emmeline. Try and remember that.”

His smile flickered just enough for you to catch it. “Trust me,” he said, voice dropping slightly, “no one’s forgetting who’s running the show.”

Quinn cleared his throat. “Okay. Great reunion, everyone. Can we maybe not start the weekend with a fight?”

Neither of you said anything, but the look Jack gave you was enough. It was a challenge—one he’d clearly enjoy stretching out over the next forty-eight hours. You could already picture it: sly comments during the rehearsal dinner, backhanded compliments during speeches, finding little ways to push your buttons every chance he got.

“Fine,” you said, stepping back and motioning toward the grand staircase. “Groomsmen are in the west wing, second floor. Your rooms are labeled. Try not to switch them around for fun.”

Jack winked. “You wound me.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned on your heel and walked away, jaw tight, footsteps sharp against the marble floor.

The wedding hadn’t even started, and already Jack was under your skin like a splinter, exactly where he wanted to be.

If you could have it your way, you would never have to see Jack this weekend. You would never see him for as long as you lived. 

It’s hard to believe there was a time when you couldn’t wait to meet Jack. 

That summer, two years ago now, felt like a dream. Emmeline had just hit the one-year mark of living with Quinn in Vancouver, and everything was suddenly moving fast. She was blissed out and in love, and when she invited you to join her at the Hughes’ lakehouse for a week in July, you said yes before she even finished asking. A week's vacation at a nice-ass lakehouse, doing nothing but lounging on the lake in the summer sun? There was no reason to say no.

You’d only ever seen Quinn’s brothers in tagged Instagram photos or in quick NHL highlights that Emmeline made you watch when she was tipsy and bragging. But still, you were curious. And nervous. You wanted to make a good impression. These were the people Emmeline was beginning to think of as family—and by extension, people who might one day be yours too.

The first day at the lakehouse was golden hour from beginning to end—long stretches of dockside lounging, frozen margaritas, casual games of spikeball that turned surprisingly competitive. And then Jack arrived.

He walked onto the deck barefoot, wearing swim trunks and a backward cap, his tan lines sharp, his grin easy. You remember exactly how your stomach flipped, the unbidden flutter. He had that kind of charisma that wasn’t loud but insistent, magnetic even when it didn’t try to be. And the worst part? He knew it.

Still, he was polite. Friendly, even. He offered to help carry your bag upstairs after dinner and held open the screen door without a word. There was something about the way he looked at you, too—assessing, a little smug, but interested. You caught him watching you during breakfast the next morning, the way his head tilted slightly when you laughed too hard at something Emmeline said. You thought, maybe. Maybe there was something there.

But then that afternoon, something changed.

You had just finished changing into the bikini you’d splurged on just for this trip, heading down to the dock to hopefully add to the nice tan you’d begun to develop. You froze at the door to the screened porch when you heard Quinn ask his brothers what they thought about Emmeline. They had glowing reviews. Of course they did, who wouldn’t absolutely love her? Then you heard Jack’s voice come through.

“Yeah, no, Emmeline’s great,” he said. “She’s chill. Fun. And she doesn’t make you feel like you’re five minutes late to a meeting she scheduled in her head.”

A pause. Someone snorted—probably Luke.

“I mean, her cousin’s cool too,” Jack added, like it was an afterthought. “Just... very on top of things. Like, I blink wrong and I feel like I’m getting silently judged for not folding my towel right.”

Another laugh. Jack spoke again.

“Don’t get me wrong, she’s pretty. Smart, too. But I don’t know, man—she’s just trying too hard or something; trying too hard to prove herself. It’s a lake week, not a job interview.”

Quinn had muttered something you couldn’t hear—hopefully a weak defense—but Jack kept going.

“I mean, it’s not a shock she’s single. I couldn’t imagine dating something like that and lasting more than a week.”

Your stomach twisted before the words even finished leaving Jack’s mouth.

You stood frozen on the threshold of the porch, the screen door creaking slightly under your grip, but none of them noticed. They couldn’t see you—thank god. You weren’t sure what your face looked like in that moment, but it definitely wasn’t something you wanted them to witness.

The heat you’d been chasing for your tan rushed to your cheeks instead, a flush of embarrassment so sharp it made your skin prickle. Trying too hard? Your chest tightened like someone had cinched a belt around it, breath caught somewhere halfway between a gasp and a scoff. You’d spent the whole morning organizing breakfast cleanup because no one else seemed inclined to lift a finger. You’d brought extra sunscreen, made a shared playlist, and reminded Luke twice about reapplying after he had started turning a light shade of pink yesterday. You weren’t trying to prove yourself, at least, not consciously. You were just being helpful. Friendly. Yourself. But to Jack, it all came off as performative. Forced.

It stung. God, it burned. Not because it was the worst thing someone could say, but because it came from him—the one who’d made you laugh by the fire last night, who’d teased you about your marshmallow-toasting technique, who you’d maybe, maybe been starting to like. Just a little.

Now all you could feel was the sting of humiliation—and a rising, quiet fury behind it. You stepped back from the porch, as silently as you’d come. Let them sit there and laugh. Let Jack think whatever he wanted.

You didn’t confront him. You didn’t cry. You just stopped trying.

The rest of the week, you kept your distance. Jack seemed to notice the change, but if he cared, he didn’t say anything. The few times you did interact, it was cold. Cordial on the surface but laced with sarcasm. He’d ask if you were “running the guest itinerary” or if he needed to check in for breakfast. You’d fire back with biting commentary about him showing up late to dinners and vanishing before clean-up.

By the end of the trip, the two of you were locked in a kind of mutual disdain that no one else quite understood. Emmeline didn’t push it—she figured you’d both just gotten off on the wrong foot. Quinn mostly tried to pretend it didn’t exist.

But it never really went away. And now, two years later, you were standing in the middle of a wedding you were trying to keep perfect, while Jack Hughes was doing his best to derail your sanity one smug smirk at a time.

It would have been easier if he were just an asshole. But Jack wasn’t heartless—he was good with his brothers, made Emmeline laugh, and was now helping your aunt, Emmeline’s mom, carry her suitcase up the stairs to her room. 

That’s what made it worse.

Because somewhere beneath the friction and insults and eye rolls was the memory of a boy you almost liked.

And the gut-deep irritation of knowing he could have liked you too.

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

Emmy

FIZZBOMB!!!!!!

When the text appeared on your phone screen, you raced out of the reception hall and towards the bridal suite. Fizzbomb was the code word invented by you and Emmeline when you were 10 and 11. It was meant to signify that one of you needed help; when you were 16 and at your first party, you texted fizzbomb to Emmeline because you had gotten too drunk to have one of your parents pick you up, so she came to get you. When Quinn was taking Emmeline out for an evening, and she was convinced that he was proposing, she texted you fizzbomb to help her get ready so she looked perfect in the proposal photos. 

You gave the door to the bridal suite a short knock, but realized that to be futile, considering the noise you could hear coming from within. When you walked into the suite, your jaw practically dropped. 

The room looked like a tornado had touched down somewhere between the vanity and the velvet chaise lounge. Dresses hung crooked on hangers. Makeup brushes littered the counter like fallen soldiers. And in the center of it all stood Emmeline—usually the picture of poise and Pinterest-worthy perfection—frantically digging through one of her matching polka dot suitcases.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, yanking out a matching lace lingerie set that was no doubt meant for the wedding night. The rollers in her hair had begun to come loose, her blonde hair just barely holding them in place. “No, no, no, no—this can’t be happening.”

You stood frozen in the doorway for a second too long before stepping into the chaos. “Hey… what’s going on?”

Emmeline’s head snapped up at the sound of your voice, her eyes wide with panic.

“The rings!” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I can’t find the rings!”

Your stomach dropped. “Wait—what?”

“The wedding bands,” she clarified, as if you’d somehow misunderstood. She stumbled to her feet, stepping in front of you and placing her hands on your shoulders. “They’re not in the box. They’re not with the jewelry. I checked my bag, the dress bag, the bathroom—they’re not here.”

You blinked at her. “Okay. Okay, let’s just slow down for a second.” But she was already pacing, muttering under her breath, and clutching her wedding notebook that had every checklist, every to-do list, everything about the wedding handwritten in Emmeline’s perfect, loopy handwriting. “Where were they last? Where do you remember them being?”

“They were in the velvet box—Quinn’s grandma’s box—the one I put in the top drawer of my nightstand at the lake house so I wouldn’t forget them,” she said in a rush. “But then I packed everything, and I thought I brought them, but they’re not in my jewelry bag, they’re not in my makeup case, and I just tore apart my suitcases, but—” she flung out her arms helplessly “—they’re not here.”

You tried to stay calm for both of you. “Okay. Okay. So… maybe Quinn has them?”

Emmeline’s eyes lit up for a second. “Maybe! Maybe I gave them to him and just forgot, or—or he grabbed them before he left!”

Emmeline practically sprinted out of the room, with you hot on her heels. You dodged a floral arrangement, startling Quinn’s teammate and his girlfriend as you raced down the corridor to the grooms’ suite. Emmeline didn’t even knock—she burst through the door, breathless and wearing a worried look.

Quinn sat at the table, poker chips and cards scattered in front of him, surrounded by the rest of his groomsmen. His wide grin vanished when he spotted his fiancée in the doorway, crazy-haired and red-faced. 

Quinn dropped his hand of cards, standing and stepping over to Emmeline. “Emmy? Are you—”

“Do you have the rings?” she asked, voice tight with panic.

Quinn blinked. “Do I have the— No, I don’t have the rings, I thought you had them.”

Emmeline let out a strangled sound. “No, I thought I had them, but they’re not in any of my bags, and they’re not in my purse, and now I’m thinking… Quinn, I think I left them at the lake house.”

A few members of the bridal party—you not included as you genuinely felt like you couldn’t spend a week in the same house as Jack without murdering him—spent the week leading up to the wedding weekend at the Hughes family lake house for some R&R. Emmeline left a couple days early so she could get settled before the wedding and give her body time to relax.

He frowned. “You left a few days before me. I thought you grabbed them then?”

“I thought you grabbed them after me!”

“No, babe, you told me you were bringing them because you didn’t trust me not to lose them.”

You and Quinn locked eyes for a beat. He looked pale.

“They’re still at the lake house then,” he said flatly. “Three hours away.”

A thick silence settled over the room as the full weight of the situation landed on everyone. Then Emmeline let out a squeak of horror and dropped into the nearest armchair like a marionette who’d had her strings cut. Her wide green eyes began to well with tears. Quinn was at her side in seconds, taking her into her arms and offering her words of comfort. 

You looked between them—Emmeline curled into Quinn’s chest, trembling and teary-eyed, and Quinn rubbing her back with one hand while gripping his phone in the other.

Emmeline had planned this wedding down to a T, making sure every detail was perfect and in her control. She’d been dreaming of this day since she was a little girl. You’d seen the Pinterest board she made when she was sixteen—an elaborate collection of lace gowns, waterfront venues, color palettes in butter yellow and ivory, long banquet tables beneath canopies of string lights. Back then, it had seemed like a fantasy—a collage of someday. And now, somehow, it had all come to life. Every last inch of it.

This was her dream unfolding in real time. You weren’t about to let something like this ruin it.

“How far is the lake house from here?” you asked.

Quinn glanced up at you. “Three hours or so?” 

“Two hours and fifty-one minutes… with no traffic.” Jack supplied.

You turned and shot him a glare you hoped conveyed the exact amount of annoyance you felt. “Thank you, Google Maps.”

He just shrugged.

You turned back to Quinn and Emmeline. You thought for a second, then nodded. “I’ll go. I’ll drive to the lakehouse and get the rings.”

Emmeline jerked her head up, mascara already smudging under her eyes. “What?” she asked, sniffling. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. It’s just a few hours. I know what the box looks like, you know you trust only me to go get them… And if I leave now, I’ll be back before the rehearsal dinner even starts,” you said it as calmly and confidently as you could, already pulling your phone from your pocket to check traffic.

Emmeline stood up from the chair and stepped in front of you, her laminated brows creasing together. “You are not driving six hours round-trip by yourself. That’s insane.”

“Emmy, I just flew to Detroit on my own three days ago,” you argued. “This is literally nothing compared to that. You don’t need to worry.”

“Honey, she’ll be fine,” Quinn interjected.

Emmeline shook her head, hands still fluttering like she couldn’t decide what to do with them. “That’s different. That was planned. This is—this is a panic trip,” she argued, sitting forward now. “You’ve barely slept, and I don’t want you white-knuckling it on some back road while I’m here trying not to throw up.”

You softened a little at her distress. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stop for coffee, I’ll blast your stupid pilates playlist that pumps you up, I’ll—”

“Take Jack,” she interrupted, as if it were obvious.

Your body went stiff. “Absolutely not.” 

“Why not?” she asked, blinking at your sudden tone.

“Because—” you struggled, flailing for a reason that didn’t sound as childish as it felt. “Because I can just go! I don’t need a babysitter.”

She narrowed her eyes, all bridezilla panic momentarily replaced by sisterly suspicion. “He’s the one who drove everyone down. He has the car. You don’t.”

That brought you up short. Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Still. There’s gotta be—”

“She’s right,” Quinn said reluctantly from Emmeline’s side, stroking her shoulder. “Jack’s the only one with a car that’s not rented or part of the shuttle fleet.”

“You’re all forgetting I can Uber to the lake house if I have to,” you said weakly.

Emmeline crossed her arms. “And you’re forgetting that I know you. You’ll pretend you’re fine but spend the entire time trying not to cry because you hate being alone in confined spaces with people you don’t know.”

You wanted to protest, but she was right. Of course, she was right. She was the one person who knew you inside out, back to front. Emmeline sat up straighter as you hesitated, a plan now forming in her head. “He’ll drive. You’ll ride. You can even nap if you want. I don’t care how it happens, I just care that someone brings the rings back before I walk down that aisle without them.”

Both you and Jack spoke at the same time:

“I’m not going with him.”

“I don’t wanna go with her.”

You blinked at each other. Jack looked like he wanted to vanish. You were pretty sure you wanted to as well.

Your eyes snapped towards Emmeline. Because, for the first time during her perfectly planned and executed wedding week, she yelled.

 “Oh, for the love of God! Can the two of you give up this stupid hatred you have for one another for one fucking second and do this for me!”

The room fell into a stunned silence. You stared at Emmeline, momentarily stunned into silence. She never yelled. Not like that. Not when her boss took credit for the proposal she’d spent three months perfecting. Not when she moved in with Quinn and they dropped her grandmother's piano down five steps. Not even when their neighbor's dog ran through their screen door for the fourth time and broke a vase that was a family heirloom. 

Jack shifted uncomfortably beside you, clearly just as rattled. His mouth opened like he was going to argue back, but then he caught the look on Emmeline’s face—pleading, furious, and one exhale away from breaking completely.

You took a breath and looked at her, really looked at her. Her shoulders were tense, her lower lip trembling, and her hands were clenched tight around the arms of the chair like it was the only thing anchoring her to the floor. This wedding wasn’t just a party. It was the culmination of months of planning, color-coded spreadsheets, sleepless nights, and calls to vendors that always seemed to go to voicemail. It was her dream, carefully and lovingly constructed—her one shot at a perfect memory—and it was slipping.

And the rings? They weren’t just any rings. They were symbols. A legacy from Quinn’s grandmother. Heirlooms that had been handled with care and reverence. Leaving them behind had to feel like a betrayal of everything she’d worked for.

You exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping in surrender. “Fine,” you said. “I’ll go with Jack.”

Jack held up his hands. “I still haven’t agreed to this.”

You looked pointedly at him. “We’re going.”

Jack muttered something under his breath, but when you went to retort, you caught him watching Emmeline too, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

“Come on,” you said, brushing past him.

But before you made it two steps, Emmeline was on you, wrapping her arms tightly around your shoulders, burying her face in your neck. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice raw. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

You hugged her back, tighter than you intended. “It’s okay. You only yelled a little.”

“She definitely yelled a lot,” Jack said unhelpfully from the side.

You pulled away from Emmeline to glare at him. He held up his hands in surrender, but there was a flicker of a smirk at the corners of his mouth that made your stomach turn in the way it always did when he smiled.

Emmeline pulled you back to her. Her eyes were lined with tears, but looked slightly steadier than they had moments ago. You gently brushed away the tears that slipped down her cheek with your fingers. “We’ll be back. With the rings. I promise.”

She nodded, eyes still glinting with tears, but steadier now. “Drive safe. Don’t kill each other. And… thank you. Again.”

You nodded and turned to leave, Jack following a few steps behind.

As you walked down the hallway toward the exit, your steps echoing against the walls, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, taut and tense. Outside, the sun beat down on the parking lot like it had no idea the world was falling apart. Jack hit the unlock button, both of you moving toward the car in sync, climbing in with synchronized sighs.

The doors shut with a loud, heavy thud.

Jack started the engine and pulled out of the lot. “So…” he said, glancing sideways at you. “This is gonna be a blast.”

You slumped in your seat, arms crossed. “Just drive.”

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

And drive Jack did—at mach fucking ten. “Jesus Christ, Jack, slow down!” you snapped, gripping the door handle like it might detach and fly off.

“I’m not even going ten over,” he said without looking at you, his knuckles white on the wheel.

“You took that last curve like we were in a Fast and Furious reboot.”

“We’re on a schedule,” Jack said pointedly. “In case you forgot, someone left the goddamn wedding rings three hours away.”

“That someone is about to be your sister-in-law,” you reminded him, shooting him a look. “And she’s also practically my sister, so you can shut the hell up about it.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Not blaming her. I’m just saying if we want to make it back before the rehearsal, maybe don’t bark at me every time I tap the gas.”

You muttered something under your breath that definitely wasn’t polite.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you lied.

A tense silence settled in the car again. The highway stretched in front of you like a never-ending punishment. The new Laney Wilson song came to an end on the radio, seamlessly transitioning into “Last Night” by Morgan Wallen. You groaned, reaching over to the touchscreen on the dashboard and switching the channel. 

“Woah, go back, I like that song,” Jack said, switching the channel back. 

“God, of course you do. That song literally makes my ears bleed,” you complained, switching the channel back again.

“It’s catchy,” Jack said, flicking it back on again.

“Jack, I swear to God—”

He raised his voice to drown you out. “I know that last night, we let the liquor talk—”

“Oh my God, you sound like a drunk raccoon,” you said, smacking the power button so hard the whole console beeped in protest. Silence filled the car again, save for your aggravated breathing.

Jack’s jaw ticked. “You always do this.”

“Do what? Have taste?”

He huffed, shaking his head. “No—this thing where everything I like suddenly sucks.”

“You like Last Night by Morgan Wallen. That’s not a personality trait, Jack.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry we can’t all be elevated enough to only listen to indie folk sung by sad men with acoustic guitars.”

“At least they write lyrics that aren’t pulled from a rhyming dictionary and a six-pack of Busch Light.”

Jack gripped the wheel tightly. “You know what? Fine. Let’s just sit here in silence, like two fuckin’ zombies, because that’s so much more fun.”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, turning to stare out the window.

A beat passed. Then another.

Jack reached for the console again.

You didn’t even look. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were. I can feel it.”

Jack let out a slow, theatrical sigh. “You are the most stubborn human being I’ve ever met.”

“Better than being tone-deaf with garbage taste.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “I hope they put your name on the wedding program next to ‘Honorary Music Snob’ so everyone’s prepared for the shit music the DJ’s gonna be forced to play.”

“I hope you trip walking down the aisle.”

“Well,” Jack said with a sharp smile, “you’ll be walking with me, so when I fall, I’m dragging you down with me.”

Thick silence fills the car, only broken by the surrounding sounds of traffic and rubber tires crunching on the asphalt. Jack didn’t dare touch the screen again out of fear of hearing your nagging voice jumping on his back about his music taste. Despite your mutual disdain for silence, you didn’t want to back down from the stance you’d taken, so you let the radio stay muted.

As if summoned by the bitter tension in the car, the GPS chirped with a sudden change in tone—a cheery, far-too-optimistic “Rerouting to avoid delay. Estimated arrival time: 2:37 PM.”

You frowned and leaned forward. “What now?”

Jack glanced at the screen and groaned. “There’s a wreck up ahead. Looks like it’s taking us off the main highway.”

You sighed, adjusting your seatbelt. “Great.”

“Relax, Debbie Downer, it’s only adding like, ten minutes to our time,” Jack said, motioning to the dash. “We’ll be back with time to spare.”

The new route snaked through what could only be described as the forgotten veins of America: cracked blacktop roads, lined with skeletal trees and rusted-out mailboxes. The scenery turned more rural by the second, old barns sagging in open fields, tractors parked like relics in yards, and roadside signs that hadn’t been updated since the Bush administration.

“Jesus, are we being lured to a second location?” you muttered.

Jack scoffed. “Calm down. GPS knows what it’s doing.”

You eyed the pothole he narrowly missed. “Does it? Because this looks like a place where horror movies start.”

He didn’t respond—probably because the next bump hit hard enough to rattle your teeth. You gripped the armrest, casting a sidelong glance at him.

“Maybe slow down, Lewis Hamilton. This car is not built for off-roading.”

“I’m going thirty,” he snapped, but eased off the gas anyway. A silence stretched between you again, frayed and worn thin.

Then came the sound you never want to hear on a deserted back road: a loud popping noise, followed by rattling and the sound of rubber dragging across the pavement.

Jack cursed under his breath, pulling over to the gravel shoulder in front of the only landmark for miles—a faded, crooked sign that read “Ace’s Diner” in chipping red paint. 

Jack killed the engine and stepped out with a grunt. You followed, shielding your eyes from the late-afternoon sun. Sure enough, the front left tire was completely absolved from air.

“God fucking dammit.” Jack cursed, tugging a hand through his dark blond curls.

“Please tell me you know how to change a tire?” you said hopefully.

“Oh, I can change a tire,” Jack said. Your brows raised in hope, posture straightening as you realized you might not be screwed. “But I don’t have a spare.”

Your hopes immediately deflated, a deep groan escaping your lips as you looked up at the blue Michigan sky. 

“I’ll call Triple-A.” Jack sighed, pulling his phone out of his pocket and strolling down the shoulder.

You reached into the rolled-down window, grabbing your sunglasses from the cupholder. The mid-July sun beat down on your exposed shoulders, sweat immediately beginning to seep out of your skin. 

Jack came back a few minutes later, shoving his phone into his shorts pocket, the set of his jaw doing all the talking.

“They said it’ll be at least an hour,” he said grimly. “Maybe longer if the guy has to come from the next town over.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “An hour? In this heat?”

Jack shrugged, wiping the back of his wrist against his damp brow. You shifted your weight onto one hip, arms crossed. “I can’t stand in the sun for an hour, Jack. I’ll melt.”

Jack snorted, one eyebrow climbing. “Oh, come on. You can’t stand in the sun for an hour? You? The same girl who laid out on the dock at the lakehouse for eight hours straight with Emmy, looking like you were auditioning to be a rotisserie chicken?”

“That was different,” you said defensively. “That was controlled sun. Lakehouse sun. With SPF and an umbrella and a Yeti cup full of ice water.”

“This is sun,” Jack said, arms spread toward the wide, blinding expanse of sky. “It’s literally the same sun.”

“No. This is hellfire, death-ray sun,” you argued, pointing to the shimmering heat rising off the road like something out of a cartoon. “And we’re in the middle of nowhere without an ounce of breeze, a speck of shade, or even a goddamn iced coffee to our names.”

You spun on your heel, fanning yourself with your hands. The rundown diner came into your eyeline. The place looked like it hadn’t seen a health inspection since the early ’90s, but it was standing—and hopefully air-conditioned.

You turned back to Jack. “Let’s go in.”

Jack made a face like you’d suggested swimming in a septic tank. “What? No. That place looks like it serves food that’ll give us tetanus.”

“Then don’t eat,” you said, already walking backwards toward the door. “You can roast out here with your flat tire and heat stroke while I sit in air-conditioning and order greasy diner food. Your call.”

Jack looked from the car to you, eyes narrowing like he was weighing whether stubbornness was worth dehydration. You could practically hear the gears grinding.

You pulled the sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, looking at him over the top. “Coming?”

With a long-suffering sigh and a muttered curse, Jack slammed the car door shut and trudged toward you.

A little brass bell jingled as you stepped inside, immediately hit with the blessed wave of cold air. You nearly moaned.

“Thank God,” you whispered, pausing under the vent like a plant soaking up rain.

Jack stood beside you, arms crossed, squinting around at the outdated booths and laminated menus resting on sticky tables. “You realize this place is 100% haunted,” he muttered.

You ignored him, heading toward the bar top and perching on one of the cracked vinyl stools. The seat let out a dramatic creak under your weight. Jack reluctantly took the one next to you, eyeing it like it might collapse.

“If a ghost wants to serve me fries and a Diet Coke, I say let him,” you said, grabbing a menu that was wedged between two ketchup bottles.

A woman in her forties shoved through the swinging kitchen doors wearing a waitress uniform that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 50s, her nametag reading Tanya. She looked you both up and down like you were intruders in her soap opera rerun.

“Is that your fancy black car out there with the flat?” she asked.

Jack nodded.

“Well, you’ve probably got an hour or two before AAA gets out here if you called ‘em,” Tanya said knowingly. “Y’all ordering or is it just ice water and complaints?”

You grinned. “No, we’ll order, just give us a sec.”

Tanya shuffled off, back into the kitchen. “If I die from eating a burger in this place, I’m haunting you,” Jack said as soon as she was out of earshot.

You nudged his shin with your sandal under the counter. “Perfect. Then I can blame the ghost every time someone plays Morgan Wallen.”

Jack groaned, resting his elbows on the countertop and bowing his head in his hands. “You’re insufferable.”

You smirked. “And yet, you followed me inside.”

He tilted his head towards you. “Only because you’re slightly less unbearable than a heatstroke.”

“Aw,” you said, fluttering your lashes. “You always know how to make a girl feel special.”

Jack just shook his head, but there was the faintest curve of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jack was quiet for a minute, pretending to read the laminated menu like it held the secrets of the universe. You let the silence linger, amused by the fact that it was the first time in hours it didn’t feel tense—just tired, maybe. A little heat stroked. But not tense.

“So,” he said, voice casual in a way that meant it wasn’t casual at all, “no date to the wedding?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“The wedding,” he repeated, like you were slow. “Emmy and Q’s. You flying solo, or did you finally cave and bring someone to shut your mom up?”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back. “Why do you care?”

Jack shrugged, mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “Morbid curiosity.”

“No date,” you said after a pause, fiddling with the edge of your straw wrapper. “I was seeing this guy, but turns out he was cheating on me with one of his coworkers.”

Jack winced. “That fucking sucks.”

“Yeah…” you sighed. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he said, eyes still glued to the menu.

“You here alone? Or is there a secret girlfriend stashed away somewhere?”

Jack gave a low chuckle, finally looking towards you. “No secret girlfriend.”

You tilted your head. “Really? Mr. Big Shot Hockey Prodigy can’t find a date for a wedding?”

Jack shrugged again, and this time, it wasn’t deflection—it was something closer to resignation. “Hockey’s kind of… all-consuming. There’s always something. Practice, travel, games, off-season training. Even when I’m not on the ice, I’m thinking about being back on it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So you’re saying hockey’s the reason you’re single.”

He looked at you evenly. “It’s the truth.”

You hummed. “I don’t know. That feels like a cop-out. Like yeah, you’re busy, but you could make it work if you actually wanted to.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you said. “There are surgeons with soulmates. Firefighters with families. Astronauts who FaceTime their wives from space. You can’t tell me a guy with a bus schedule and meal prep can’t send a text back or plan a date.”

He looked at you for a long moment, the weight of the conversation hanging somewhere between sarcastic banter and something heavier, unspoken.

“That’s fair,” he said eventually, his voice quieter.

You blinked. “Wait—did Jack Hughes just admit I was right about something?”

“I said it was fair,” he clarified, lips twitching. “Let’s not get carried away.”

Tanya returned with two glasses of water and a pen tucked behind her ear. “Y’all ready?”

You both glanced at each other. Jack gestured for you to go first, and you ordered your burger and fries. He ordered the same, begrudgingly.

Tanya shuffled off again, disappearing behind the swinging kitchen doors with a tired sigh. In the meantime, you and Jack filled the silence with light conversation—mostly about how the Yankees' season was going, the weird decor of the diner, and the fact that the ketchup in front of the two of you was nearly empty. It wasn’t anything deep, but it passed the time. A couple of minutes later, Tanya reappeared, balancing two steaming plates on her arms and wearing a faint smile as she slid your burgers in front of you with a practiced motion, plates clinking softly against the bar.

You barely waited for Tanya to step away before picking up your burger, the smell alone making your stomach twist in anticipation. The first bite was everything—greasy, savory, perfectly charred—and you practically melted into the booth as you chewed. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, hand already reaching for another bite. “I haven’t eaten since like… eight this morning. This is the best decision I’ve made all week.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of his own. For a second, he looked like he was ready to make a joke, but then his expression shifted. He chewed slowly, then nodded, a little surprised. “Okay… okay, I judged too fast. This is actually a really good burger.”

You gave him a smug look, mouth still full. “Told you.”

You both fell into a quiet rhythm again, focused on your food. The diner buzzed faintly around you—Tanya clattering dishes behind the counter, a weathered radio playing old country tunes, the hum of a fan in the corner barely cutting the heat.

Jack made quick work of his burger, leaving behind nothing but a smear of ketchup and a few lonely pickles. He picked at his fries next, choosing only the crispest ones to eat with a level of scrutiny that bordered on obsessive.

You were halfway through your own plate when he finally spoke again, dragging the words out like he was picking them carefully.

“So,” he said slowly, “how’s maid of honour world domination going?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave an exaggerated shrug, but you could see the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth again. “Just saying… Emmy’s color-coded itinerary didn’t exactly scream laid-back vibes. I figured it had your fingerprints all over it. Or your iron grip.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning. “Okay, first of all, that itinerary was a joint effort. And second, yes—I am organized. It’s called being helpful.”

“Sure,” Jack said, drawing out the word like he was humoring you. “Helpful. Some might say a little type A. Maybe even… controlling?”

“Alright, I am type A. I like schedules. I make lists. I have opinions about font hierarchy. But at least I’m not emotionally stunted and allergic to the words ‘let’s communicate.’”

Jack blinked, caught between a snort and a look of offense. “Ouch.”

But you weren’t laughing now. Because the word—controlling—had hit something, knocked a memory loose. And suddenly you were back at the lakehouse, standing just out of sight in the hallway. 

Now, you shifted on your stool and stared at the condensation sliding down your own water glass. “You know,” you said quietly, “you’ve actually called me that before.”

Jack tilted his head, eyebrows pinching slightly. “What?”

“Controlling. Intense.” You met his eyes. “That’s what you said the first time we met—at the lake house. The second morning, you were on the porch with Luke and Quinn. You made jokes about me being controlling. Then you said you thought I was trying too hard, and it was no wonder I was single—because you couldn’t imagine being with something like me for more than a week.”

He was quiet for a beat. The lightness from earlier seemed to vanish from his face like someone had flicked off a switch as the memory of his words flooded back into his head. “Wait—what? I—hold on.” He set his glass down a little too hard. “You heard that?”

You nodded, keeping your expression steady even though your chest felt like it was slowly folding in on itself.

Jack ran a hand through his hair and sat back. “Shit. I didn’t… I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I swear.”

“But you said it.”

“I—yeah. I did. And I was being an asshole.” He paused. “Honestly, I don’t even remember the context. But I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was probably just—” He exhaled. “Trying to seem clever. Or funny. Or… I don’t know. Cool, maybe?”

You arched a brow. “By casually trashing me?”

He winced. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.” He looked at you again, earnest now, no trace of the smirking, water-sipping version of him from five minutes ago. “You being the way you are? That’s not a flaw. That itinerary? It was kind of genius, if I’m being honest. Emmy would’ve had a panic attack without it.”

You stared at him for a second, unsure of what to say. The memory of that night had haunted you more than you’d let on. You weren’t even sure why it had mattered so much. But now that it was out, it felt… strange. Lighter, maybe.

“You really don’t remember saying it?” you asked, voice softer this time.

“I remember being a coward about things,” Jack said. “And saying dumb stuff because I didn’t know how to deal with the fact that you—” He stopped himself. His jaw flexed, like he was debating how much to give away. “You threw me off,” he finished, quieter.

Your heart did that annoying fluttery thing you’ve been trying to ignore since you’d met the green-eyed boy in front of you.

You looked at him for a long moment, the edges of your hurt softening into something quieter, more complicated. Maybe it was the way he wasn’t meeting your eyes now, or how his voice had lost all that practiced charm. Or maybe it was just the fact that he’d actually said sorry, which you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from him before.

Still, you swallowed, the next words catching in your throat before you forced them out.

“I guess I should apologize, too.”

Jack blinked. “For what?”

“For the way I acted. After I heard what you said. I could’ve talked to you. I could’ve… I don’t know, given you a chance to explain. But instead, I went full scorched-earth. Cold shoulder. Eye-rolls. Passive aggression.” You gave a weak, self-deprecating smile. “I took the hostile route because it felt easier than admitting I was hurt.”

His expression shifted—some mix of understanding and regret. “You had every right to be hurt.”

“Maybe. But I didn’t exactly take the high road either.”

A quiet beat passed between you, thick with the strange, tentative weight of two people trying to untangle a knot that had been there too long.

Jack shifted on his stool, his knee brushing yours briefly as he leaned a little closer. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad we’re not just pretending we don’t know each other anymore.”

You gave a tiny nod, then dropped your gaze to your glass. The condensation had pooled into a perfect ring on the bar top beneath it. Your hand, still resting near the glass, felt strangely aware of the few inches that now separated it from his.

“Me too,” you said.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The noise from the kitchen filtered in—clattering pans, muffled laughter—but it all felt far away. You looked over at him again and found him already watching you. There was nothing smug in it. Just quiet, steady warmth.

“You still think I’m trying too hard?” you asked, voice light but curious.

Jack’s mouth tilted into a lopsided smile. “No,” he said. “I think you care. About things. About people. And sometimes that looks like trying hard. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing anymore.”

Your chest tightened at that, in the good way. The scary way. You hadn’t even realized you’d leaned in slightly, drawn by the low, honest rhythm of his voice. Neither of you pulled back.

A long pause, and then:

“You still think I’m emotionally stunted?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You gave him a look. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

A beat of laughter lingers between you, softer this time—real. The kind that crinkles the corners of your eyes and tugs something loose in your chest. You're both still leaning in slightly, like neither of you noticed how close you've gotten until now. His knee brushes yours again, deliberately this time, and your breath catches—not because of the touch itself, but because he doesn’t pull away.

You look at him. Really look. His green eyes, usually so guarded or teasing, are uncharacteristically open, searching yours with something uncertain but sincere. There's no smirk. No deflection. Just Jack, raw in a way you’re not used to seeing him.

And then, without thinking, or maybe because you've both been thinking about it for far too long, you kiss him. Or Jack kissed you. Either way, your lips met halfway, soft and hesitant.

It’s tentative at first, like both of you are breaking a rule and you’re scared you’re about to be caught. But he answers with the way his hand lightly brushes your cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw. The kiss deepens for just a breath, soft, sweet, startling in its gentleness.

When you pull back, your heart is doing that fluttery, annoying thing again, wild against your ribs like it’s trying to make sure you can’t ignore it this time. For a beat, you both just stared at each other, wide-eyed and wordless.

Your mind scrambled to process the moment—what had just happened, what it meant. Your mouth opened, then closed again. Jack blinked, color rising fast into his cheeks as he suddenly stood, too fast, knocking his stool back a few inches.

“I’m, uh—I’m gonna check on AAA. See how far they are,” he says quickly, already halfway toward the door like physical distance might buffer the emotional whiplash.

Before you could respond, he was out the door, the bell overhead jangling in his wake.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

You sat there, staring at the door for a long moment. Your fingers brushed your lips, still warm. What the hell just happened?

You leaned forward, elbows planting on the countertop, as if your middle fingers massaging your temples were going to help you organize your thoughts. You weren’t supposed to feel this way. You’d spent years hating Jack, despising him. But now…

Your heart fluttered in your chest.

You glanced out the window. Jack was standing a few feet from the car, pacing in small circles, phone to his ear. Even from here, you could see how flustered he was. His free hand kept running through his hair, and he looked like he was thinking too hard.

You didn’t speak when he came back inside, and he didn’t either. The air was tight, stretched thin with everything unsaid. But your eyes met for a second—just one—and it was enough to make your stomach flip. You didn’t speak when Tanya left the bill in front of you, or when Jack wordlessly gave her his card and covered both your meals. 

The AAA guy arrived less than ten minutes later, equipped with a spare tire. Jack stood silently beside the car, hands shoved in his pockets, posture tight with something he didn’t want to name. You hung back near the diner door, arms crossed, fingers grazing your lips now and then as if trying to erase—or remember—the feel of his mouth on yours.

Neither of you said anything as the tire was changed. The mechanic made a few comments about the summer heat bearing down on the day. The air smelled faintly of rubber and asphalt as the AAA guy gave a final tug on the new tire. Jack nodded, muttered a thank you, and barely waited for the man to pack up before sliding into the driver's seat again. You followed without a word, tugging your seatbelt across your chest with fingers that still felt a little too aware, a little too shaky.

He started the car. The engine roared softly to life. Neither of you said anything.

Outside, the sky was dipped in late afternoon gold, the edges of the clouds glowing orange where the sun caught them. Jack kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, but you noticed the tension in his jaw. The way his thumb tapped an erratic beat against the steering wheel. The way he blinked just a little too long at stop signs. Like he was stuck in his own head.

You weren’t doing much better. You watched the trees blur past your window and tried to breathe normally, tried to ignore the phantom sensation of his lips on yours.

You didn’t know what the kiss meant. You didn’t know what he thought it meant. Maybe it had been a moment—a blip. A mistake. Or maybe…

The lakehouse came into view faster than you expected. Familiar and quiet, nestled between tall trees and wrapped in a fading light that made the windows glow. Jack pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. Your seatbelt was already coming off before the doors were unlocked.

“I’ll grab the rings. I won’t be long.”

Jack nodded once, still not looking at you. You opened the door and stepped out, sandals crunching on gravel, the door thudding closed behind you.

As soon as you were gone, Jack let out a slow breath, dropping his head back against the headrest. The sound echoed faintly in the quiet of the car, the only accompaniment the ticking of the engine cooling down and the occasional rustle of wind through pine.

He closed his eyes.

“What the hell did I just do…” he muttered aloud, voice barely above a whisper.

His fingers scrubbed over his face. The kiss hadn’t been planned—it had just… happened. Or maybe it hadn’t just happened. Maybe it had been building for a long time, and neither of you had wanted to admit it.

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Smooth move, asshole.”

Because now he didn’t know what was worse: the kiss itself or the uncertainty in your eyes afterward. He’d thought you kissed him back. Thought. But what if he misread it? What if it had been hesitation, not reciprocation? What if the heat in your eyes hadn’t been longing, but confusion?

Or worse—pity.

He cursed under his breath, palms flattening against the steering wheel like he could squeeze the truth out of it. “God, did I screw this up already? We were just starting to not hate each other.”

He could still feel it, though—your lips soft against his, your breath catching just a little. That startled sound you made, not pulling away. Your fingers twitching, like maybe you’d wanted to touch him and didn’t.

He sat there, trapped in that overthinking spiral, the memory of the kiss looping in his brain like a song stuck on repeat. He could still taste the moment, the gentleness of it. The way his heart had slammed against his ribs like he was back on the ice for his first game.

And now, everything felt unsteady. Not just between you, but inside him. Because this wasn’t some casual crush. It hadn’t felt light or meaningless. It had felt real. And that terrified him more than he wanted to admit.

Jack’s spiral of thoughts was snapped when the car door swung open, and you hopped in. He spotted the small white bag containing the ring boxes in your hand. Jack sat up straighter automatically, trying to school his expression into something neutral.

He failed.

You didn’t say anything right away, just slipped back into the seat beside him and clipped your seatbelt. But your gaze drifted to him, lingering on his profile.

Jack caught it, eyes flicking over. For a second, it felt like you might say something. Ask. Acknowledge. Clarify.

But you didn’t.

And neither did he.

Instead, he started the engine again. The soft purr filled the space between you, and the silence settled in once more.

The drive back to the wedding venue was quieter than any you’d shared before—and that was saying something, considering how often you two fell into mutual, petty silence after an argument. But this wasn’t angry silence. It was… something else. Heavy and tense, full of sharp edges and delicate threads, you were both too afraid to touch.

The radio played on, and when another Morgan Wallen song came on, you didn’t even reach to change it. Jack didn’t tease you for your exaggerated sigh the way he normally would. He didn’t even glance your way. He just stared straight ahead, one hand gripping the wheel, the other limp in his lap, fingers twitching now and then like he was thinking of saying something and couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

You stared out the window, watching as the trees blurred into a green smear. Your hands were folded in your lap, nails digging into your own skin. You hated silence like this—not angry, not cold, just... uncertain.

You could still feel the kiss. Not just the press of lips, but the weight of it. The intent. The way Jack’s thumb had grazed the edge of your jaw, featherlight, reverent.

Your heart did that annoying flutter again just thinking about it. You clenched your jaw, forced yourself to exhale slowly through your nose. You’d spent years hating Jack. And now this?

By the time you pulled into the venue’s gravel lot, the sun had sunk low enough to cast long shadows across the property. The rehearsal dinner had already begun; you could hear music and laughter drifting through the open doors. String lights glowed like fireflies overhead, and the scent of roasted vegetables and grilled steak lingered faintly on the warm air.

Jack cut the engine, but neither of you moved right away. The silence remained, thick and taut, stretching like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

You opened the door first. The sound startled both of you slightly—proof of how deep in your own heads you’d been. Jack followed suit, and you stepped out together, though the space between you felt far wider than the physical few feet.

Emmeline and Quinn were already standing near the back doors of the venue, Emmeline shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, Quinn lifting a hand in a half-wave. Relief crossed Emmeline’s face when she spotted you both.

“There you are!” she called out, walking toward you. “God, Q and I were so worried.”

“We had a flat,” you offered, holding up the small white bag with the ring boxes tucked safely inside. “All good now.”

Quinn nodded, walking up behind Emmeline. “Damn. You guys okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice low and even. He didn't meet their eyes.

You passed the bag to Emmeline, whose smile faltered just slightly as her eyes darted between the two of you. Her brow knitted ever so subtly. You could see the question forming behind her eyes—What happened?

But she didn’t ask. Maybe she could tell it wasn’t something either of you was ready to say aloud.

Instead, she simply said, “Glad you made it,” and squeezed your hand once before stepping back.

Quinn clapped Jack on the back. “Dinner’s basically done, but the bar’s still open. Both of you look like you could use a drink.”

You nodded numbly and followed them up the steps into the venue, Jack a pace behind. You and Jack split off the moment you walked in. Not obviously, but instinctively—like two magnets flipped the wrong way. You busied yourself with the wedding coordinator, nodding along as she listed off timing and music cues. Jack drifted to the groomsmen, feigning engagement in some joke Josh was telling.

Once or twice, your eyes met across the space. You spotted him across the room, talking to your parents, likely meeting them for the first time, when his gaze flicked to you. In a heartbeat, everything that had happened in the diner came rushing back like a flash flood.

You looked away first.

You finally got hold of Emmeline, stealing a quiet moment together while the chaos of the wedding loomed just beyond. You sat at an empty table, sipping a gin & tonic, listening to her fuss over the final seating chart.

“I swear, if Aunt Delia asks to be moved one more time, I’m putting her at the kids’ table.”

You laughed softly, but your eyes drifted again to Jack, who was leaning against one of the deck railings, talking with Quinn. He laughed at something Quinn said, the curve of his smile familiar and so Jack it hurt.

But it was different now. You felt different now. The kiss had carved something open between you, and now every glance, every breath felt like a balancing act on a wire you didn’t remember agreeing to walk.

Emmeline’s gaze followed yours and, again, you saw that flicker of understanding in her eyes. But she didn’t press. Instead, she leaned closer and murmured, “What the hell happened between you and Jack?”

You blinked, then nodded too quickly. “Nothing, nothing. Just a long day.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go, looping her arm through yours. “Come with me. We’re doing a shot for the bride.”

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

The bright early morning sun seeped through the sheer curtains, casting a peaceful glow on the hotel room. You groaned as you sat upright, stretching out the soreness that settled deep in your bones.

You hadn't slept much. Maybe a couple of hours, tops. And not for lack of trying. You tried to listen to music and white noise. But the moment your head would get quiet, he would come back. Jack. The kiss.

It played on loop in your mind—soft lighting, heart beating loud in your chest, his hand on your cheek, the surprised look in his eyes when it was over. Then that awful silence in the car. The Morgan Wallen song. The one you hate. And how you didn’t even complain.

But this morning? This morning is… beautiful. Unfairly so. The kind of morning that feels like it’s been curated just for a wedding: sun filtering through gauzy curtains, birds chirping obnoxiously in the trees outside your window, the breeze lifting your hair when you crack the glass open. It smells like lilacs and cut grass.

You glance at your phone. 7:13 a.m. You’re needed in the lobby by eight to help with last-minute decorations, and Emmeline has already texted twice with a bubbly sort of nervousness that makes you smile despite yourself.

The moment your feet hit the floor, though, something settles inside you—a steadiness. This isn’t your wedding. It’s Emmeline’s. She deserves your best today. Whatever happened between you and Jack last night…it can wait. You can compartmentalize. You’re excellent at compartmentalizing.

You don’t even bother to change out of the satin pyjama set that Emmeline had bought for all the bridesmaids, heading down to the lobby, where a quiet hum of activity already buzzes. String lights are being tested, chairs straightened, and a staff member consults a clipboard like it’s the Bible.

The scent hits you first—sweet, heady, unmistakable. Roses, eucalyptus, and something else more potent, weaving through the air.

You turn just as the florist breezes through the lobby doors, arms full of bouquets wrapped in tissue and satin ribbon. She’s balancing a second tray on her hip, trying not to jostle the carefully arranged blooms.

“Hi!” she calls with a polite smile, breathless but bright-eyed. “Delivery for Emmeline Scott—bride and bridesmaids' bouquets?”

“That’s me—well, not the bride, obviously.” You offer a sheepish smile as you step forward to help, brushing your hair behind one ear. “I can take some of those.”

The florist starts to hand off the top bouquet when—

“Wait! Don’t touch those!”

You freeze, arm midair.

The shout echoes too loudly across the pristine lobby, startling both you and the florist. Heads turn. Your heart stutters as you spin toward the sound of it.

Jack is coming down the staircase two steps at a time, hair still wet from a shower, shirt rumpled like he threw it on without looking. There’s a small, frantic crease between his brows, and he’s got that look—somewhere between alarmed and furious.

You blink, momentarily stunned by his urgency—and, okay, the fact that he looks like a walking disaster in the most distracting way.

“You can’t touch those,” he says again, voice lower now as he reaches you, a little out of breath. “They’ve got lilies in them.”

You frown, confused. “What—?”

He gestures to the bouquet still hovering in the florist’s arms. “Right there—see?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, just steps forward and lightly turns the arrangement so the offending flowers are front and center. “You’re allergic. Seriously allergic.”

It takes a beat for that to register, because you are. It’s a mild reaction for most, but for you, even the scent can trigger a chain reaction that could land you in the hospital. Your throat tightens at the realization, not from the allergy, but from the thought: he remembered.

You’re about to say something when Jack rounds on the delivery driver with an edge to his voice. “You were told no lilies. Someone could’ve died.”

The poor driver stammers, clearly taken aback. “I—I just picked up the order—”

“It’s not your fault,” you cut in quickly, reaching for Jack’s arm. “Hey. Seriously. It’s okay. I didn’t touch them.”

But Jack doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw’s tight, the muscle there ticking. “You could’ve, though.”

You gently tug his arm, grounding him. “I didn’t.”

That does it. He exhales, finally turning to look at you. There’s something intense in his expression, something you don’t know what to do with—like he’s still coming down from the idea of you in an ambulance instead of here, in pyjamas and bare feet, in the middle of a sunlit lobby.

He rubs a hand over his face. “I’ll get it sorted. Give me five minutes.”

Before you can argue, he’s already pulling out his phone and walking away, dialing as he goes.

You try not to stare at him. It’s hard not to. You’re still trying to get used to this version of Jack. The one who kissed you. The one who looks at you a second too long. The one who, apparently, now knows the ingredients in a bouquet well enough to spot allergens from across a lobby. You didn’t even know he knew about your allergy.

You glance back at the florist, who mouths a silent sorry, and you wave it off with a grateful half-smile. “Don’t worry. Crisis averted.”

A few minutes later, Jack reappears, phone still in hand, hair wind-tousled from stepping out into the breeze.

“They’re sending replacements,” he says, a little gruff. “No lilies. They’ll be here in forty-five minutes.”

You blink. “You convinced them to redo everything?”

“Yeah,” he huffed, barely looking at you. “I mean, we wouldn’t want you to go into anaphylactic shock mid-aisle.”

Then, without giving you a second to respond, he turns on his heel and walks off.

You stare after him, heart annoyingly out of rhythm again.

Not because of the lilies.

But because he remembered.

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

The air in the bridal suite was filled with Emmeline’s favourite songs and hairspray, the chatter between bridesmaids and stylists filling the space. The floor was a flurry of fabric and half-sipped mimosas, with Emmeline perched in an armchair, wrapped in a white robe embroidered with bride in cursive across the back. Her smile was tight with nerves, hands clasped in her lap as one of the makeup artists prepped her skin.

You were seated nearby, sipping orange juice through a glass straw, your robe slightly slipping off one shoulder. A gentle buzz of anticipation vibrated in your bones—wedding mornings had a strange kind of magic, and this one, Emmeline’s, felt especially charmed.

Then came the knock. A quiet, polite tap against the wooden door, followed by the sound of it creaking open.

Jack’s head appeared in the gap, tousled hair and a sheepish grin giving him away immediately. Your pulse spiked at the sight of him—part nerves, part something else that you hadn’t quite named yet. His eyes scanned the room, and when they landed on you and your hair wrapped up in large rollers. 

“Hey,” he said, voice low so as not to disrupt the calm. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

You stood instinctively, brows pulling together. “Is everything okay?”

Emmeline’s eyes widened in the mirror. “Wait—why? Is something wrong?”

Jack stepped fully into the room, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “No, no. Sorry. I didn’t mean to freak anyone out.” He looked at Emmeline. “I just need her help with the flower girl real quick. Nerves or shoes or… something.”

Emmeline blinked at Jack through the reflection. “Okay, just uh—you’re supposed to be next to get your makeup done,” she said to you.

You turned to Emmeline, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Your mom can start getting her makeup done now—I'll be back before it’s your turn.”

Emmeline blinked. “Okay. But if anything is wrong—”

“It’s not,” Jack promised, already backing into the hallway. “Scout’s honor.”

You slipped out with him, tugging the sash of your robe tighter as the door closed behind you. The corridor was quieter than you expected, the kind of hush reserved for churches and very big moments. You glanced at Jack. His pace quickened.

“She’s not having a meltdown over flower petals, is she?”

He blew out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s no flower girl issue. That was a lie.”

You stopped. “Jack.”

“I panicked,” he muttered. “It was the first thing that came to mind. But it’s Quinn. He’s freaking out. Like… real bad.”

“Why?”

Jack looked over, his brows drawing together. “He lost his vows.”

You stared at him. “His vows?”

“The handwritten ones. Only copy. He wrote them in a little notebook because he said typing felt ‘insincere,’ and now he can’t find them.”

“Oh my god.”

“Exactly.”

You both picked up your pace.

By the time you reached the groomsmen’s suite, the energy was starkly different from the bridal calm—music was off, ties were untied, and Quinn was pacing like he was trying to wear a hole through the floor. His hair wasn’t done, and he was muttering to himself, half-dressed in a white button-down and socks.

“Hey,” Jack said gently. “I brought reinforcements.”

Quinn turned, eyes wide. “I checked everywhere. I had them last night. I remember practicing. I had this whole thing about the lake—about how we met—and now I can’t even remember what I wrote. I feel sick.”

You crossed to him, putting a hand on his arm. “We’ll find them. Okay? Let’s retrace your steps. Where were you when you last saw them?”

He swallowed. “I was in Jack’s room… then he went to bed, so I left. Then I think I took them to the kitchen at some point, cause I was starving and the chefs said they had leftovers from dinner. Then I went to Luke’s, but he said I was muttering too much and made me leave—”

“Luke’s room,” you and Jack said in unison.

Without another word, the three of you moved down the hall. Luke’s door was ajar—of course it was—and the faint smell of cologne hit you the moment you stepped in.

Jack headed to the desk while you beelined for the armchair, where a dress shirt was hanging half-on, half-off. Quinn hovered in the doorway, silent and nervous.

You dropped to your knees, checking beneath the bed and side tables. Nothing.

Then Jack made a sound—a triumphant half-laugh, half-gasp.

He held up a small, black faux-leather notebook. “Found them.”

Quinn exhaled like someone had just lifted a mountain off his chest. He moved forward quickly, grabbing them from Jack’s hand, eyes skimming the pages like he couldn’t believe they were real.

“I owe you both so much.”

“You owe me a drink,” Jack said. “And a thank-you in your vows.”

Quinn turned to you. “Seriously. Thank you.”

You gave him a soft smile. “You’re going to marry the love of your life in less than two hours. You’ve got this.”

Jack nudged you gently. “Come on. Let’s get you back before Emmeline thinks I kidnapped you.”

You followed him into the hallway again, pulse finally starting to level. But as Jack glanced sideways at you, his voice low, something else fluttered in your chest.

“You’re good in a crisis,” he said.

You looked up at him. “I work well under pressure.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

And though the crisis was over, the buzz in your chest didn’t fade.

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

The ceremony unfolds like something from a dream—light streaming through stained glass, the delicate rustle of fabric, and the steady hum of love filling every pew. You’re barely holding it together as the vows are exchanged. Words so personal and full of promise that your heart aches a little, as though some small part of you longs to be seen like that, held like that, chosen like that.

You cry—not dramatically, but quietly, the kind of tears that gather slowly and fall before you can even think to wipe them away.

When they kiss—sealed now in every legal, emotional, and spiritual way—the room erupts in cheers. You’re clapping and cheering like everyone else, watching through damp lashes as the couple walks back down the aisle, glowing, triumphant, wildly in love.

The recessional begins, and Jack offers his arm, as planned. You hesitate only a second before slipping your hand through, and together you walk down the aisle. The room blurs a little with the soft focus of flowers and applause and music, and yet Jack beside you is the one thing that feels sharply, unmistakably real.

When you reach the grand, vaulted lobby with its marble floors and floral arrangements taller than you, he turns to you. There’s a small smile on his face, something gentler than you’ve seen in hours. Maybe days.

Jack had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head since the early morning. And yet, now that he was standing in front of you, flushed and radiant in the soft post-ceremony glow, hand still tucked in the crook of his arm, he felt completely unprepared.

God, you were beautiful.

It had hit him like a sucker punch when he first saw you this morning in the lobby, barefoot and bleary-eyed in those satin pyjamas, hair wild and cheeks flushed from sleep. You were half-asleep and entirely unaware of how close you’d come to disaster with the lilies, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to wrap his arms around you. Not just to keep you safe, but because it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Then in the bridal suite, with your hair up in massive rollers and your robe slipping off one shoulder, laughing softly. Then your steady presence as you attempted to calm Quinn, as if it were the easiest thing. He’d felt something settle heavy in his chest. You were chaos and calm all at once. A contradiction he couldn’t stop watching.

But now?

Now he could barely breathe.

There was something about this version of you that wrecked him—composed, poised, glowing in the aftermath of vows and violins and a room full of love. Your dress shimmered under the chandelier light, catching reflections of the roses behind you. Your eyes were still damp from tears, lashes clumped just slightly, and you were chewing the inside of your cheek in that way you did when you were trying not to feel too much.

And all Jack could think was Wow.

He remembered the exact second he’d seen you walk into the church, bouquet clutched tight and face tilted upward like you were catching light with your skin. His breath had caught somewhere in his throat, and he’d had to look away, not because he wanted to, but because the look on your face had felt too intimate to witness.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even know where the line was anymore.

Not after last night. Not after the kiss. Not after the way you’d touched his arm in the lobby like it meant something. Not after the way you had looked at him just now, cheeks warm from crying, smile slipping onto your face.

He wants to tell you. God, he wants to tell you.

You look stunning. That you’ve been knocking the wind out of him since seven this morning. That he keeps replaying the kiss in the car like it’s his personal version of slow torture. That you’re the only thing he’s seen clearly all day, despite the chaos and ceremony and flowers and vows.

But just as he opens his mouth, just as the words begin to gather in his throat—

“There you two are!”

A burst of voices and movement breaks the moment like a stone through glass. The bridal party floods the lobby behind you, laughter and congratulations spilling into the space like champagne overflowing a glass.

Someone claps Jack on the shoulder. A photographer pulls you to the side for a photo of the bridesmaids.

And just like that, the moment vanishes.

˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

After the photos, you all make your way into the reception hall.

It’s breathtaking. Truly. The kind of beauty that makes you pause in the doorway.

Golden light spills from chandeliers strung with crystals, mingling with the glow of hundreds of delicate string lights wound through the rafters like fallen stars. The tables gleam with polished glassware and candlelight, and soft jazz plays in the background, blending with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and footsteps on polished floors.

Everything is perfect.

You try—really, truly try—to focus on Emmeline and Quinn. On their joy, on the way Quinn can’t stop stealing glances at his wife like he still can’t believe it’s real. On Emmeline’s bright smile as she and Quinn spin and twirl to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”.

But it’s hard. Because no matter how hard you try, your gaze constantly drifts to Jack. You try not to watch him, but you do. Of course you do. How could you not? He looks good. Sharp suit, tie hanging loose around his neck, his hair now curling a little at the ends from the humidity. 

And every time your eyes are pulled to Jack, you find his green ones already on you. 

Not just glancing. Not just noticing. Watching.

It makes your stomach do this slow, nauseating flip. Not unpleasant, just… overwhelming. 

You busy yourself with anything—laughing too hard at Emmeline’s father’s toast, fussing with your napkin, trying not to spill champagne when someone proposes yet another toast—but Jack is there. Always just at the edge of your vision. Sometimes talking to Quinn or one of the groomsmen, sometimes nodding along to someone else’s story, but his attention always strays.

You’re standing near the edge of the dance floor when you finally crack.

The laughter and clinking glasses, the swirling dresses and shimmering lights—it all starts to feel a little too loud, too much. You step away quietly, unnoticed. It’s not dramatic. You just… need a breath.

The venue opens onto a terrace that overlooks the lake. Beyond it, the water stretches out dark and glassy, the sky above littered with stars. 

The air is cooler than you expect, the kind of gentle, refreshing chill that only comes after a day of heat. You wrap your arms around yourself out of habit rather than cold, your heels clicking softly against the stone path as you make your way toward the water. The canopy of string lights above glows like fireflies frozen mid-flight, casting your shadow in a hundred directions.

The noise from the reception drifts in on the breeze—bass from the speakers, laughter echoing across the lawn, the occasional clink of glass. But out here, it feels quieter. Calmer. Like the entire world has decided to hold its breath.

You settle near the railing, arms resting on the cool metal, looking out at the water as it glitters faintly under moonlight. The silence is almost enough.

Then, you hear the footsteps, the clacking of dress shoes against pavement. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

His presence announces itself before he says a word. That quiet, deliberate energy of his. A stillness wrapped in intensity. You hear him pause a few feet behind you. A beat. Two.

“Running away?” he asks quietly.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, hair a little messier now, curls looser around his forehead. The tie is completely gone. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar.

“Just needed air,” you reply, your voice low. “Too many people. Too many feelings.”

He steps closer, his shoes crunching faintly on the gravel. “Yeah. It’s a lot.”

You turn to face him more fully now, leaning one hip against the railing. “I thought maybe if I slipped out, I’d get a minute to think.”

Jack’s eyes search yours, serious now. The teasing is gone.

“Did it help?” he asks.

You swallow. “No.”

A beat. Just long enough for the breeze to rise and fall again.

Jack shifts, jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words. Then he breathes out and just says it:

“About the kiss.”

You feel it instantly—that jolt in your chest, like someone pulling a thread too tight. You glance down at your hands, fingers curling around the metal railing. “I figured we’d pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Is that what you want?”

You don’t answer immediately. The silence between you stretches.

Then, softly: “I don’t know what I want.”

Jack exhales a quiet laugh—one that’s more self-conscious than amused. He closes the space between you until you’re nearly shoulder to shoulder, his voice quieter now.

“I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. The kiss. The car. You.”

He pauses. “And I know it was messy. I know we were yelling, and we hated each other…literally yesterday, and the whole thing feels like some kind of fever dream…”

You glance at him.

“…but I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he admits, his voice raw around the edges now. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. “Jack…”

“I know we weren’t supposed to like each other. That was kind of the deal, right? Keep it civil for our Quinn and Emmy’s sake, tolerate each other long enough to make it through this wedding weekend without bloodshed.”

You laugh softly, the sound almost startled.

He goes on, eyes flicking to your face. “But then you started showing up in all the spaces in my head where you weren’t supposed to be. Laughing in the bridal suite. Crying during the ceremony. Standing barefoot in that fucking hotel lobby in satin pajamas.”

You look down, a smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself.

“And I know it’s fast,” he says. “I know we’ve gone from sworn enemies to whatever this is in the span of just barely twenty-four hours. But if you feel even a fraction of what I feel…”

Your heart is pounding.

“…then maybe we should stop pretending this isn’t happening.”

Your throat is tight. “It is confusing,” you whisper. “We were supposed to hate each other.”

“I still think you’re insufferable,” Jack says, grinning now, but his eyes are too soft for it to land like a joke. “But God help me, I don’t think I can go back to not caring about you.”

You inhale slowly. The words settle in your chest like something sacred.

Then you say, quietly, “I haven’t stopped thinking about it either. The kiss. You. All of it.”

Jack’s expression shifts—relief, warmth, maybe even a little fear. “So… what do we do?”

You glance up at the string lights above you. The world feels smaller here, wrapped in twinkle and quiet.

“I think we should stop pretending,” you say.

And that’s all it takes.

He steps in closer, one hand coming up to rest against your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. You lean into the touch without thinking, your own hands finding his chest, the fabric of his dress-shirt soft beneath your fingertips.

There’s a heartbeat between you—a pause, one last breath before everything changes.

Then he kisses you.

And this time, it’s not rushed or stolen or unsure. It’s deliberate. Full. The kind of kiss that unfurls heat low in your stomach and steals the ground from under your feet. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying against the yellow satin fabric as he draws you in, close enough to steal your breath all over again. Your hands slide up, threading into the back of his hair.

You kiss him like you’ve been waiting all night. Like maybe you’ve been waiting longer.

When you finally part, your lips still tingling, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath shallow. The kiss lingers between you, slow and certain this time—not impulsive, not confused. Just real. 

Jack exhales, leaning back slightly to look into your eyes. “So…what now?”

You smile, small and tentative. “I guess we go back in before someone sends a search party.”

He chuckles. “Right. But…after that? What about after the wedding?”

You hesitate, because it’s a good question. After the wedding, everything scatters. Guests go home. Real life starts back up. The weekend magic evaporates.

But then you look at him—this boy you thought you couldn’t stand, who ended up holding lily bouquets away from you like he was shielding you from poison, who kept glancing your way during the entire reception like you were the only one in the room.

You reach for his hand. “After the wedding… we figure it out.”

He squeezes your hand. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You walk back together, not talking much, but your fingers stay laced. And this time, when you re-enter the reception, people notice. Emmeline catches your eye from across the dance floor, her gaze examining the sight before her before widening. You watch as her manicured hands grip her new husband's arm tightly and she urgently whispers something to him. Quinn’s eyes flick towards you, a matching shocked look coming across his face.

Later, when the party is dying down and the stars are starting to peek through the canopy of lights, Jack asks you to dance. There’s no more tension, no more rivalry—just a slow song, a full heart, and a whole new beginning unfolding between you.

[orellazalonia]

Hey!! I would like to request a Bucky Barnes x reader fic where their daughter shows up from the future. Bucky and Reader aren’t dating or really even know each other that well yet (maybe they share mutual friends on the team or are friends but just dancing around each other a bit??), so this could be a surprise to them. You could have it that she keeps saying she can’t share information about the future but then accidentally drops information like they have a pet cat named alpine and she has three siblings (Bucky deserves a big loving family) without even totally realizing it. Idk if this is even a great idea, but I like your writing and thought this could be a fun request. Thank you for sharing your writings with us!! <3

Hello there, dear! This was such a cute request, thank you for it! I do admit it was a challenge figuring out how to seamlessly combine each element. So, I hope I did well and that you enjoy! Happy reading!!! ♡

Out of Time, Into Our Lives

Summary: A teen girl suddenly appears at the Avengers compound claiming to be from the future. While she tries to avoid revealing too much, she accidentally and subtly drops hints about her life, her siblings, and the deep bond she shares with you and Bucky Barnes both. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.7k+

Main Masterlist

It started like any other morning at the Avengers compound. Quiet, a little too quiet. You were nursing your first real cup of coffee, leaning against the counter in the common room kitchen while chatting lazily with Wanda about her latest attempt at baking banana bread.

Bucky entered halfway through your sentence, nodding politely at you before making a beeline for the fridge. You and he had been doing this little dance for a while now. Friendly, respectful, always a step or two away from crossing into something more. You liked his dry humor, the way his voice softened when he asked how your day was. But neither of you had made a move. Not yet.

Just as you took a sip, FRIDAY’s calm, robotic voice interrupted:

“Alert. Temporal breach detected. Unauthorized presence in the compound.”

You and Bucky both straightened at the same time.

“Temporal breach?” He muttered, already halfway to the hall. You followed.

It wasn’t often something genuinely strange happened anymore, but what you found in the hallway outside one of the research wings made your breath catch in your throat.

A girl stood there, around seventeen. Messy hair pulled into a loose braid. Her clothes didn’t look particularly futuristic, but there was something… off. Like she didn’t belong. She wasn’t panicking, wasn’t aggressive. She was just staring at a portrait of the original Avengers lining the corridor wall, head tilted slightly.

When she noticed you, her eyes widened but it wasn’t fear that passed over her face. It was recognition.

Her gaze locked onto Bucky first. Then shifted to you. And something in her face softened.

“Oh,” She breathed. “It’s earlier than I thought.”

You frowned. “Do we know you?”

“I’m… not supposed to say anything,” She said quickly, straightening. “I mean, I can’t. It would mess with… everything. I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I didn’t mean to come through. The rift just kind of… swallowed me.”

“Rift?” Bucky echoed, stepping closer.

The girl put her hands up, showing no threat. “I know how this sounds. But I swear, I’m not dangerous. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need help getting back.”

You gave her a once-over; she didn’t seem injured, but she looked like she hadn’t slept in a while. Underneath the brave exterior, she seemed a little lost.

“Okay,” You said gently. “We believe you. Let’s just take this slow. What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” She insisted. “If I tell you who I am, it could screw up the timeline. I mean, it already is screwed up if I’m standing here. But I really can’t afford to make it worse.”

Wanda appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “She’s not lying,” She said quietly. “She’s scared. But not of us.”

The girl nodded quickly. “Thank you. I’m just… trying to wait it out. The breach will reverse itself. Probably. Eventually.”

You crossed your arms. “So what are we supposed to call you?”

“Uh. I don’t know. You can give me a fake name?” She offered with a shrug. “That feels safer.”

There was a long pause, awkward. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but she beat you to it:

“Is Alpine here?”

You blinked. “Alpine?”

Bucky looked up sharply. “How do you know about Alpine?”

The girl’s face went pale. “I mean. I—uh—I read about her? In the files. Maybe. Probably.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

She let out a tiny groan and rubbed her face. “I told myself not to say anything specific. Ugh. Okay. Look. I’m just going to sit in a corner, be very quiet, and not ruin anything else, okay?”

You sat beside her, slowly, noting how carefully she avoided looking at Bucky too long. Not out of fear, but something heavier.

She tugged her sleeves down over her hands. “This was easier when you were already married.” The words slipped out of her mouth like a quiet sigh, too casual for how much they weighed.

You and Bucky both stiffened.

He stared at her. You weren’t sure he was even breathing. “What did you just say?”

She blinked, realizing. “Oh. I mean, I didn’t mean it like that. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please ignore that.”

You frowned. “Wait… what do you mean, already married?”

“I’m not answering that.” Her voice sharpened slightly now, trying to backtrack. “Sorry. I really can’t say anything else. Like, actually can’t. This isn’t just me being dramatic, it's literally against every single future protocol. I’ve already said too much.”

Bucky stepped forward slowly, his tone low but steady. “You said you came through a rift. Do you know how that happened?”

She looked grateful for the change in subject, nodding. “I was working with someone back there, on uh, stabilizing temporal energy. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the live field, but things got weird. And loud. And then everything just… cracked.”

“Cracked?” You asked.

“Yeah.” She hugged her arms around herself. “Like a window splintering. I fell through. And now I’m here. Too early. Way too early.”

You tilted your head. “Too early for what?”

She looked at you, then at Bucky, and something softened in her expression. Like she knew the two of you better than you knew yourselves. Like there was something unspoken that pained her to keep secret.

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she whispered, “I shouldn’t even be talking to you yet.”

FRIDAY’s voice interrupted gently. “Should I notify Director Fury?”

“No,” Bucky said sharply. Too quickly. Then he glanced at you. “…Not yet.”

The girl looked surprised. “You’re not sending me to a cell?”

You offered a faint smile. “We’re not monsters.”

“And you’re not dangerous,” Bucky added, quieter now. “At least not yet.”

She snorted. “Wow. Thanks, I guess.”

Wanda stepped closer, watching her closely. “You’re scared,” She murmured. “But you’re also… relieved. Why?”

The girl didn’t answer right away. She just looked back at the wall, where a photo of the original team hung in a dusty frame. After a long silence, she whispered, “Because I missed this. Seeing it again. Seeing you all… before everything changes.”

Her voice cracked on that last word. You saw it, just barely: the tension in her jaw, the sheen in her eyes she was trying to blink away.

“I can’t stay long,” She said, turning her face away like she didn’t want either of you to see the emotion creeping in. “So just… let me be here until the breach resets. Then I’ll be gone, and this’ll be nothing more than a strange footnote in someone’s mission report.”

You looked over at Bucky. His brow was furrowed, mouth slightly open like he had a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue but no idea how to ask any of them.

She noticed, smiled a little, sadly. “You always look like that when you’re overwhelmed.”

His lips parted, but she cut in quickly, raising a hand. “Nope. Not answering anything. I’m very good at not answering.”

A long silence settled between the three of you.

Then she yawned. A real one. Unfiltered. She rubbed her eyes like a kid, her exhaustion finally catching up.

“Can I… take a nap somewhere not surrounded by broken lab equipment?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”

Bucky’s voice was low. “You hungry?”

She paused, like she hadn’t considered that. “Kinda. Do you still make those-“ She caught herself. Froze. “…Never mind.”

But the warmth in her eyes didn’t fade. She didn’t say it. But it was already there, written in every look she gave the two of you:

She knew you. And she loved you both.

Even if she couldn’t say it.

-

The girl slept for twelve hours straight. You'd offered her the spare room near the east wing, technically meant for visiting guests, but it had soft blankets and a window view, which she seemed to appreciate.

You sat outside her door for most of the first hour, just in case she tried to run or vanished the way she arrived. But she didn’t.

Bucky checked in at least three times too, though he pretended he was just “walking by.”

When she finally emerged the next morning, hair sticking out in wild directions and wearing one of your old sweatshirts you’d left folded on the chair, she looked younger. More like a kid playing dress-up than a displaced anomaly from the future.

She padded into the kitchen barefoot and blinked at you, rubbing her eyes. “You’re making eggs.”

“Good morning to you too,” You said with a grin. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” She yawned and flopped down at the counter like she’d done it a hundred times.

Bucky entered a moment later, nodding to you both. “Morning.”

She perked up when she saw him, then quickly forced her face back into something neutral, like she’d caught herself.

You passed her a plate. “Toast, scrambled eggs, hash browns.”

She dug in immediately. “Thank you. Food here’s just as good as I remember- I mean, as I hoped it’d be.”

You bit back a smile. “Smooth.”

She glanced at Bucky nervously, but he didn’t press. He just poured himself coffee and sat across from her, watching her with quiet curiosity.

“So,” you said lightly, “What should we call you?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Call me…” She looked around the room, clearly stalling. “Jules?”

You tilted your head. “Is that your real name?”

“Nope.” She smiled a little too innocently. “Which makes it perfect.”

Bucky took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving her. “Alright, Jules. Mind if we ask a few things?”

“As long as it’s not timeline-altering, catastrophic, or classified by future standards, maybe.”

You exchanged a glance with Bucky. “Okay,” You said slowly. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” She answered, mid-bite. “Chronologically. Time-wise… eh. Don’t ask.”

Bucky leaned forward slightly. “Do you have a family? In your… original timeline?”

Her chewing slowed just a little. Her expression flickered. Then she nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Silence fell again. After a moment, she added, “It’s… a big family. Messy. Loud. Someone’s always yelling, someone’s always drawing on the walls, and someone’s always pretending they didn’t start it.”

You smiled softly. “Siblings?”

She paused, eyes widening like she just realized what she said. “I didn’t—wait. That wasn’t—I mean—”

Bucky raised a brow. “You have siblings?”

She groaned and put her face in her hands. “Dang it.”

“How many?” You asked, voice careful.

She peeked through her fingers. “Three.” Then flopped back dramatically in her seat. “Ugh. I knew I’d slip up. You two are too nice. It’s disarming.”

Bucky chuckled quietly. “You don’t have to tell us anything else.”

“No, it’s fine,” she mumbled. “At this rate I’ll blurt out the entire family tree before lunch.”

“Do you like them?” You asked, curious.

A slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah. I love them. They're chaos. But the kind you miss when it's quiet.”

Bucky studied her like she was a riddle. “Are they older than you?”

She looked down at her plate. “Some. Some younger.”

And that was it. She shut down after that, turning her attention fully back to her breakfast. You let her. The moment felt like something private, like she’d tugged back a curtain for just a second and now needed it closed again.

But later, when she wandered into the rec room to find Alpine curled in a sunbeam, she sank to the floor and whispered something to the cat that made Bucky freeze in the doorway.

You didn’t catch the words. But you caught the tone: nostalgic, fond, like she’d said it a thousand times before.

And when Alpine, notoriously selective, climbed into her lap without hesitation, she just stroked her fur like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she belonged.

-

The days that followed were strangely easy.

She, Jules, settled in like a half-remembered song. Not quite a stranger, not quite someone you knew, but comfortable. Familiar. You found her sitting on the kitchen counter in the mornings, legs swinging as she ate cereal straight from the box. You caught her once talking softly to FRIDAY, as if the AI were an old friend she’d grown up with.

Bucky never said much. But he was there. Quietly hovering, checking if she was eating enough, if she was sleeping okay. They started watching movies in the common room, not speaking much, but it was something. The space between them had stopped feeling like distance. It was anticipation now. Recognition.

And then there was the night Bucky found her on the roof.

You followed the scent of cold air and firewood up the metal stairs and found them sitting side by side, backs against the railing, stars overhead. Jules was hugging her knees, wearing one of Bucky’s jackets now. It was too big for her, sleeves past her fingertips. But she looked warm. Safe.

You stayed back, watching quietly from the door. Listening.

“I didn’t think I’d meet you like this,” She admitted softly. “This early. I wasn’t ready.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. Just nodded once, slow and heavy.

“You remind me of her,” She glanced up at the stars. “Not just the way you look at people, but the way you don’t. The way you… hold back. Like you’re always waiting for someone to decide you’re worth staying for.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “And did they?”

She looked at him. “Mmm, maybe.”

He turned toward her. “Did I?”

There was a heartbeat’s pause before she whispered, “You never left.”

Then she flinched, realizing again what she’d said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

But Bucky didn’t press. He didn’t need to.

The silence that followed was full of things neither of them could say.

You all started tiptoeing around the inevitable after that. Jules hadn’t poofed back yet, but every hour felt borrowed. She stopped sleeping as much. Kept checking corners for changes in the air. Listening for that hum she said she’d felt right before the breach opened.

On the fourth day, it happened.

You were in the kitchen, scrambling eggs again, same as the first day. She was mid-laugh, telling you something vague and harmless about a prank her “friend’s little brother” pulled once involving holograms and Steve’s shield. You didn’t even notice the shimmer at first.

Then Bucky’s face changed.

You turned and saw it. A distortion in the center of the room. Like heat rising off pavement, but colder. The air around it began to swirl. And her smile fell away.

“It’s happening,” She said quietly. Not surprised. Just… resigned.

“No.” You stepped forward. “Wait! We didn’t get to-“

“It’s okay,” She said, standing quickly. “It’s time. I knew I couldn’t stay long.”

Bucky took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. “You said it would reset eventually. You didn’t say it would be this fast.”

She smiled at him, eyes glassy. “You never like goodbyes.”

You were about to speak, to say something, anything, but the light started pulling at her edges. Dust and static flickering around her limbs.

She looked at you both, eyes shining now.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just… I wanted to see you. Before everything.”

“Before what?” You asked, your voice trembling. “What changes?”

But she only gave a tiny, knowing smile. And this time, she didn’t say anything else.

She just looked at Bucky one last time and softly said, “Don’t wait too long.”

And then she was gone. No flash, no thunder, just a breath pulled from the room. One second she was there. The next, empty air.

You stood frozen in place.

The bowl she’d left still sat on the table, cereal soggy in milk. Her mug still half full of cocoa. One of Alpine’s toys, she’d apparently been hoarding them in her pockets, sat on the floor near the couch, a little mouse with a frayed string tail.

Bucky picked it up slowly, didn’t say a word. You looked over at him and could see it in his face now, what she saw in him. The cracks. The strength beneath them.

Later that night, you and Bucky hadn’t said much since she vanished. There wasn’t much that needed saying. But the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of what came next. Neither of you quite knew what the future held. But now, you both knew who it held. And someday sooner, maybe, than either of you thought, you’d meet her again; for the first time.

[imtaashu]

The Curl Theory

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Your hair mysteriously starts curling overnight. At first, it’s just weird. But everyone’s convinced it’s the infamous “hair theory”—that your hair changes when you’re falling in love. You deny it… until Bucky shows up with coffee and a sleepy smile.

Genre: Fluff | Friends to Lovers | Domestic Softness | Hair Theory Inspired

Word Count: ~2k

💌 Author’s Note:

hi! i wrote this little story based on the internet’s “hair theory” — the idea that your hair changes (especially curling!) when you’re falling in love. i thought it’d be cute to spin it into something soft for bucky & reader 🫶

You wake up, stretch, and blink into the soft golden light pouring through your apartment window. It’s Saturday. No missions, no chaos, no alarms. Just quiet.

And for once, you actually slept.

You roll out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, ready to splash your face with cold water. But the moment you look in the mirror— “What the hell?”

Your hair.

Your usually straight hair.

It’s curled.

Not soft, wavy curls. No. These are curls.

Springy, bouncy, absolutely not normal.

You frown and poke at them like they might bounce off your scalp if you’re aggressive enough. You haven’t used heat in days. There’s been no humidity. No new products. No pillowcase change. No logical explanation.

Except, of course…

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes wide. “No. No no no—”

The hair theory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You remember hearing it from Nat a few weeks ago, when she was scrolling through TikTok with her feet on your coffee table.

“Apparently,” she said, “when you start falling in love, your hair literally changes. Like… more volume, shine, texture. Especially curls. Love makes your hair curl.”

You’d laughed. Loudly. Science doesn’t work that way, Romanoff.

But now?

Now you’re staring at your reflection, jaw slack, and your hair looks like it belongs in a commercial.

And you have a terrifying suspicion as to why.

Or rather… who.

————————————————————————————

Because Bucky Barnes moved in across the hall six months ago. And you swore it meant nothing.

Just an ex-assassin-turned-soft-heart who brought you bagels after bad missions, made you tea without asking, and sat on your couch like he belonged there.

Just a guy who looked at you like you were something steady in his whirlwind life.

Just your friend.

Right?

Wrong.

Because now your hair is curling and your brain is spiraling. You step back from the mirror, staring at your own reflection like it just exposed your deepest secret.

No. No, you’re just imagining things. Hair doesn’t magically curl because your heart decided to do gymnastics over your best friend’s stupid smile. It’s probably just… new conditioner.

Definitely not love.

Right????

You’re still battling with your hair (and your thoughts) when there’s a knock on the door. A familiar, gentle three-tap knock.

You freeze. Because of course it’s him.

You tug your hoodie over your head (ignoring the way your hair poofs out around your face) and open the door. And there he is. James Buchanan Barnes.

Sweatpants.

Messy hair.

Two coffees in his hands.

Sleepy eyes.

Stupidly pretty.

“Morning,” he says, offering you one cup. “You look like you just got struck by lightning. Cute lightning, though.”

Your face heats. “Thanks. I think.”

He walks past you like he lives here. Which, to be fair, he kind of does. His hoodie is draped over the back of your chair. His charger lives in your wall. He knows your Netflix password. You’ve stopped pretending there are real boundaries anymore.

You plop beside him on the couch, hair frizzing even more as you tuck your knees under yourself.

Bucky watches you sip your drink and frowns.

“Wait. Your hair.”

Your heart drops.

“I—it’s nothing.” He leans in closer. “It’s… curly. Like, way curlier than usual.” You hide behind your mug. “It’s the weather.” “It’s 67 and dry.”

“Okay, maybe it’s new shampoo.”

“You’ve been using the same brand since February.”

You glare. “Why do you know that?”

He shrugs, smug. “Because I notice things about you.”

Your heart does an Olympic somersault. He grins, completely unaware he’s causing your internal organs to combust.

You clear your throat and change the subject. “Anyway. Hair stuff. Not important.” But Bucky, being Bucky, doesn’t drop it.

“Y/N,” he says softly, nudging your knee with his. “You ever hear of that TikTok thing? That theory about your hair curling when you’re in love?”

You nearly choke. He laughs. “Steve told me about it last week. Apparently Sam’s girlfriend’s hair went all curly and now he’s convinced it’s real.” You stare at your knees. “Yeah, well… good for Sam.”

Bucky looks at you for a long moment. Like he’s waiting.

“…You think it’s real?”

You shrug. “I mean, not really. But…”

“But?”

You finally look at him.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not about the science. Maybe it’s just the way love makes you softer. Happier. Makes you take better care of yourself without realizing. So your hair changes. Your eyes glow. Your laugh’s louder.”

Bucky watches you. Then, voice low:

“Do you think that’s happening to you?” You freeze.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smirk. Just asks.

You open your mouth—

and close it again. Because it is. And it’s because of HIM.

The late night talks. The half-asleep cuddles. The way he holds your hand during scary movies like it’s second nature. The way he knows your favorite mug, your 3AM fears, your dreams.

You fell in love somewhere between the quiet and the chaos. And now your hair is curling like it’s announcing it to the damn world.

You swallow hard. “I… I don’t know.” He nods. Slowly. “Okay.” The moment stretches.

And then—

“Because,” Bucky says carefully, “mine’s doing the same.” You blink. “What?”

He ruffles his hair sheepishly. “I woke up and it was all wavy. Steve teased me for a full ten minutes. Said I looked like I walked out of a rom-com.”

Your eyes widen. “But… your hair only waves when—” He smiles, nervous. “When I’m happy. Yeah.”

Your throat goes dry.

“I didn’t want to assume,” he adds, “but if this theory means anything… I think we’ve both got some explaining to do.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And then you laugh.

Because this is ridiculous. And sweet. And painfully obvious. You whisper, “So… you’re saying your hair is in love with me?” He smirks. “I’m saying I’m in love with you.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s better. You whisper, “Me too.”

And before either of you can overthink it—

he leans in. And kisses you like he’s been waiting forever. Like the curls in your hair were just love letters in disguise. Like every soft strand said, I want you.

Like love was always growing, quietly, at the root.

————————————————————————————

Later, curled up in his lap while reruns play on mute, Bucky runs his fingers through your curls and smiles. “I like the theory,” he murmurs. You grin, sleepy. “You would.”

“It means I didn’t imagine it. The shift. The way your laugh changed. The way your eyes looked at me.”

You nuzzle into his chest. “Guess it’s real, then.” He kisses the top of your head.

“Definitely real.”

~end

[vividseoultales]

Me or You? ( Haewon x Male Reader )

tags : fluff smut

"You can't be serious," you said, trying to hold back a chuckle. Haewon looked at you with a mix of frustration and hope. She had been hinting at this for a while now, but you had never thought she'd bring it up so directly.

"I am," she replied, her voice firm yet slightly trembling. "I just want us to explore new things, to spice up our relationship."

Her eyes searched yours for a hint of understanding, but all you could do was shake your head. The thought of her as a dominant in the bedroom was amusing, almost comical, given her usual gentle and caring nature. But you could see this was something she was genuinely interested in, something that meant a lot to her. You didn't want to dismiss her feelings, so you took a deep breath and tried to approach the subject more seriously.

"Okay baby" you began, "I'm willing to listen. But why do you want to do this?"

Her cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink as she fiddled with her fingers. "I've read about it, and…I think it could bring us closer, or at least add some excitement."

You nodded, stroking her hair to comfort her. "Alright, tell me more."

"Well," Haewon started, her voice growing a bit steadier, "I've always been the one who's more passive in the relationship. I want to feel in charge for a change, to see you vulnerable and open to me in a way you've never been before."

You could feel the tension in the room as she spoke. This was a side of her you hadn't seen before, but you were willing to give it a shot. "What does being a sub entail?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.

"Well, it's about submission, letting go of control," she explained, her eyes meeting yours with a newfound determination. "You'd have to do as I say, follow my commands, and trust me completely."

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "So, you want to boss me around in bed?" You couldn't help but tease her, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I'm not joking," she said with a playful glare, though a hint of a smile played on her lips. "But yes, I want to see how it feels to take control."

You leaned back on the couch, considering the idea. "Okay, so let's say we do this. What exactly do you have in mind? Will I have to wear a collar and call you mistress?"

Her cheeks grew redder, but she held your gaze. "No, nothing so…extreme. Just simple commands and gestures. I'd like to tie you up, maybe blindfold you, and explore your body without you knowing what's coming next."

You studied her for a moment, trying to gauge if she was okay with this or if it was just something she felt she had to do to satisfy a curiosity. "Baby," you said gently, "you want this for me or for you?"

Her eyes searched yours, and she bit her lip, a gesture that was usually reserved for when she was more aroused than usual. This time, however, it seemed like she was more aroused at the idea of being the sub. It was a revelation that made your heart race.

"You know what, baby?" You leaned in closer, your voice a low murmur. "I think you're the one who's more curious about this than you're letting on." You reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Do you actually want me to do all of that to you?"

Haewon's eyes widened, and she tried to hide her arousal, but the way she swallowed hard and her pupils dilated was a dead giveaway. She took a deep breath before finally admitting, "Yes, I do. I want to feel…dominated."

You couldn't resist the urge to roll your eyes, a smirk playing on your lips. "Why the whole charade, baby?" you teased. "You could've just told me you wanted me to take control."

She pouted at you, her full bottom lip pushing out in a way that was so cute, it was almost comical. But it also had a hint of that sweet, innocent vulnerability that you found utterly irresistible. "Because," she mumbled, "I didn't know how to say it."

You leaned closer to her, your breath warm against her cheek. "Say it," you whispered, your voice a soft command. "Tell me what you really want."

Her eyes searched yours for a brief moment before she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "I…I want you to fuck me, baby. I want you to take control, to do whatever you want to me."

You couldn't help the smirk that curled up your lips. "Say it again," you told her, your voice low and commanding. "But this time, on your knees."

With a look of surprise and a hint of excitement, Haewon slid off the couch and onto her knees before you, her eyes never leaving yours. The sight was unexpectedly hot, and you felt a stirring in your lower regions that you hadn't anticipated.

"I…I want you to fuck me," she repeated, her voice a bit shaky, but the words came out with more conviction this time. You could see the desire in her eyes, a raw hunger that was new and thrilling. It was clear that the idea of you being in control was turning her on more than you had ever seen before.

Without saying another word, you stood up and took a step back. "Good girl," you said, your voice a soft purr. "Now, I want you to make me hard, but you're not allowed to touch my cock with your hands."

Her eyes widened, and she looked up at you, clearly surprised by your sudden dominance. But the excitement on her face was undeniable. She took a deep breath and leaned forward, her hands resting on her thighs. You could see her mind racing, trying to figure out how to proceed.

"Use your mouth, your nose, your cheeks," you instructed, your voice firm and commanding. "Rub your face all over me until I'm hard as a rock."

Her pupils dilated, and she swallowed hard before tentatively leaning forward. You watched as she brought her face closer to your crotch, her breath hot against the fabric of your pants. The anticipation was killing you, but you remained stoic, allowing her to take the lead.

With a shaky start, Haewon began to rub her cheek against your growing erection, the roughness of your jeans a stark contrast to the softness of her skin. Her breathing grew heavier, and she closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of your cock growing harder with every pass of her face. You could feel her warm breath through the fabric, making you throb with desire.

"Good," you praised, the single word sending a shiver down her spine. "Now, take it out. But remember, no hands."

Her eyes sparkled with challenge as she leaned in closer, her mouth mere inches from the zipper of your pants. With a coy smile, she nuzzled against the bulge, her nose tracing the outline of your cock. You could feel her breath hot and wet through the fabric, and you had to clench your fists to keep from reaching out to touch her.

With a soft moan, Haewon began to nibble at the zipper, her teeth grazing the metal. You felt the zipper slowly give way, the sound of it descending echoing in the quiet room. She looked up at you, her eyes half-lidded with desire, and you nodded in approval. She had taken the hint, understanding the game you were playing.

Her hands remained firmly on her thighs as she leaned in closer, her tongue flicking out to trace the path her teeth had made. The anticipation was exhilarating, watching her explore this newfound boldness. As she reached the top of your jeans, she paused, her breath hot against your skin.

"How do you expect me to do that without hands?" she asked, a playful lilt in her voice. You smirked, enjoying the challenge she presented.

"Use your teeth," you ordered, your voice firm and commanding.

Her eyes lit up with a mischievous glint as she took the challenge, her teeth delicately gripping the fabric of your underwear. With a gentle tug, she managed to free your cock from its confines. You watched, entranced, as she licked her lips, her eyes never leaving yours. The power dynamic was shifting, and it was surprisingly intoxicating.

"Now, suck," you commanded, the words coming out more forcefully than you had intended. But the look of excitement in Haewon's eyes told you she liked it. She leaned in, her tongue tracing a line from the base of your shaft to the tip. You felt a jolt of pleasure at her touch, and you had to remind yourself to stay in control.

Her eyes remained locked on yours as she took the head of your cock into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing out as she began to suck. It was clear she was enjoying herself, her movements eager and hungry. You couldn't help but let out a groan of pleasure, the sound echoing through the room.

"Harder," you instructed, your voice a gruff whisper. Haewon complied, taking you deeper, her teeth lightly scraping against the sensitive skin. Your hands found their way into her hair, gripping it tightly as she bobbed her head. The sensation was exquisite, a mix of pleasure and pain that sent shivers down your spine.

You could feel yourself losing control, but you held onto it by a thread, reminding yourself that this was her moment to shine. You watched her, her eyes closed in concentration, her cheeks flushed with excitement. It was clear she was enjoying herself, her body moving with an enthusiasm that was both surprising and incredibly arousing.

But as much as you wanted to let her continue, you knew you needed to assert your dominance, to show her what it truly meant to submit. So, with a firm grip on her hair, you gently pulled her head back, her mouth popping off your cock with a wet sound that filled the room. Her eyes snapped open, looking up at you with a mix of confusion and excitement.

"Beg for it," you said, your voice a low growl. Haewon's eyes widened, but she didn't hesitate. "Please," she whispered, her voice thick with need.

You smirked and took your cock in your hand, pulling it away from her face. It glistened with her saliva, and the sight of it made your heart race. You brought it closer to her, letting it hover just out of reach. "Beg louder," you instructed, your grip tightening.

Her eyes searched yours, and you could see the struggle within her - the part that wanted to protest and the part that wanted to submit. Finally, she opened her mouth, and the words came out in a rush. "Please, baby," she moaned, "please let me suck you off."

But you had other plans. You moved your cock closer to her eager lips, watching the desperation in her eyes as she leaned in. Just as she was about to take it into her mouth, you stopped her, pulling it away and smearing the saliva across her cheeks and nose instead. Haewon's eyes widened in surprise, and she gasped, her breathing becoming shallower as you painted her face with your desire.

"Not yet," you murmured, enjoying the power play. "First, I want to see how well you can follow orders."

With a smirk, you grabbed the base of your cock and held it firmly, pressing the tip against her cheek. Haewon's eyes went wide with excitement and a touch of fear, but she didn't protest. You began to rub her face against your shaft, feeling the wetness from her mouth smeared along the length of it. Her breath was hot and ragged, and you could see the way she was trying to keep her hands still, her fingers twitching with the need to touch you.

"Good girl," you praised, watching her carefully. "You're doing so well." The more you rubbed, the redder her cheeks grew, and you knew she was feeling both humiliated and incredibly turned on by the sensation. It was a heady mix of emotions that was driving her wild, and you couldn't help but feel a thrill of dominance at the sight of her submission.

You could see the struggle in her eyes, the part of her that was fighting against the urge to touch you, to take control. But she remained still, her breath coming in shallow gasps as you continued to smear your precum across her face. "Look at me," you said, your voice a low command.

Her eyes snapped back to yours, and you watched as she tried to focus, the pleasure and submission fighting for dominance. "That's it," you whispered, your hand still guiding her face against your shaft. "Keep looking at me."

The sensation was unlike anything she had ever felt before. Haewon's eyes were practically rolled back in her head as she moaned, the sound muffled against your cock. Her body trembled with anticipation, and you could feel her breath hitch as you continued to rub her face against your length. The smear of your precum on her cheeks and nose was a stark reminder of her submissive role, and she found it strangely erotic.

"Now," you murmured, your grip on her hair tightening, "make me cum, but only with your face."

Her eyes widened, but she didn't argue. Instead, she leaned in closer, her cheeks already wet with your desire. She began to rub her face against your cock more vigorously, her breath hitching as she took in the scent of your arousal. You watched her, the power in the moment making your chest tighten with excitement.

Her movements grew more desperate, her moans louder. You could see the desperation in her eyes, the hunger that was consuming her. This was a side of Haewon you had never seen before, and it was more intoxicating than you could have imagined. The way she submitted to you was like watching a beautiful creature being unleashed, all inhibitions forgotten in the pursuit of pleasure.

As she rubbed her face harder and faster against your cock, you could feel your orgasm building. The way she moved, the sounds she made, the absolute surrender in her eyes—it was all too much. You had to clench your fists to keep from grabbing her and fucking her mouth like you wanted to. But this was her moment, her chance to explore her newfound submissiveness.

With a few more firm strokes of her face, you felt the tension in your body coil tighter. Your hips jerked slightly, and you warned her, "I'm going to cum, baby." Her eyes widened even more, and she leaned in closer, eager for it. The anticipation was unbearable, your cock throbbing with the need to release.

The moment came, and you couldn't hold back any longer. You let out a roar as hot ropes of cum shot out, coating her cheeks, nose, and even reaching her forehead. Haewon's eyes closed instinctively, but she remained still, allowing you to paint her face with your seed. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of relief and power that had you seeing stars.

As the last drops fell from your cock, you pulled away from her. She remained kneeling, her face a mess of your desire, and you could see her tongue darting out, trying to catch any lingering traces of your cum. But before she could swipe a taste, you gripped her chin firmly, forcing her to look up at you.

"Not yet," you said, a wicked smile playing on your lips. "You don't get to decide when or if you get to taste it." Her eyes widened in surprise and a flicker of something that could only be described as excitement. The power exchange was thrilling, and she was clearly eager to see where this new dynamic would take them.

With a gentle yet firm grip, you lifted her chin, making her look up at you. Her eyes were glazed over with lust, and the sight was enough to make you even harder. "Ask nicely," you whispered, enjoying the way she squirmed under your control.

"Please," Haewon whimpered, her voice small and needy. "Please, may I taste your cum?"

You couldn't help but smirk at her begging. It was a side of her you hadn't seen before, and it was incredibly hot. "Beg like you mean it," you ordered, your grip on her chin tightening.

Her eyes searched yours, the desire in them burning like a wildfire. "Please," she gasped, her voice trembling. "Please, let me taste your cum."

With a smirk, you released her chin, watching as she leaned in, her tongue darting out to catch the first drops that had fallen on her cheek. The sight of her eagerly lapping up your cum was more than you could handle. "Good girl," you murmured, watching her every move. "Now, don't waste any of it."

Haewon's eyes never left yours as she began to clean her face, her tongue swirling around to capture every last bit of your essence. She took her time, savoring the taste, her cheeks hollowing with each swipe. It was a sight that made your cock throb with the need to be back in her mouth, but you held back, enjoying the moment of power.

"Good girl," you murmured, your voice thick with lust. You reached down and gently stroked her face, feeling the stickiness of your cum on her skin. "Look at you, so eager to please me."

Her eyes never left yours as she continued to clean herself off, her tongue moving with a hunger that was palpable. You couldn't help but notice that she was quite literally dripping wet, her juices leaving a small pool on the floor beneath her knees. The sight sent a jolt of desire through you, making your cock throb with renewed vigor.

"What's that?" you asked, pointing to the growing wet spot on the floor. Haewon's cheeks reddened even further, and she remained silent, her eyes darting down to the floor and back up to yours. You knew she was embarrassed, but you couldn't help the smirk that spread across your face.

"Looks like you're enjoying yourself," you said, your voice filled with amusement. "You're so fucking wet, you're practically pissing out vagina fluid."

The crudeness of your words made her blush even more, but she didn't protest. Instead, she licked her lips, her eyes never leaving yours. You knew she was desperate for you to take her, to show her what it truly meant to be a sub. But you weren't done playing yet.

"Clean it up," you smirked, pointing to the floor. She looked up at you with a mix of surprise and excitement, her pupils dilating even further. It was clear that the idea of being ordered around was pushing all the right buttons for her.

Without a word, Haewon leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick at the sticky wetness that had pooled on the floor. The sight of her, so eager to follow your command, had your cock pulsing with need. You couldn't help but stroke yourself, watching her every move as she lapped up the evidence of her arousal. Her movements were slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours as she cleaned the floor with her tongue.

The sight was more than you could bear, and you felt your own orgasm building again. You whispered to yourself that you could cum just from watching her, but you held back, savoring the moment. You wanted to prolong this newfound power, to enjoy the way she looked up at you with such submission.

"What do you want, baby?" you asked her, your voice a low rumble of desire. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."

Her eyes searched yours, the desire in them so intense it was almost painful. "I want you to fuck me," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Hard. I want to feel you take me, like you own me."

A shiver of excitement ran down your spine at her words. The power you held over her was intoxicating, and the way she begged for your touch was like nothing you had ever experienced before. You stepped closer, your cock now fully erect again, and placed your hand on the back of her neck, pushing her face closer to your crotch.

"Get up," you ordered, your voice low and commanding.

Her eyes widened, but she didn't hesitate. Haewon slowly rose to her feet, her knees wobbling slightly from being in the submissive pose for so long. She kept her eyes on the floor, a blush spreading across her cheeks that was almost painfully adorable. You could see the excitement in her body language, the way she held her breath as she awaited your next move.

"Take off your clothes," you tell her, your voice a soft growl. She nodded, her hands shaking as she reached for the hem of her shirt. She lifted it up, revealing her lacy black bra and the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. With trembling fingers, she unclipped the clasp, letting the fabric fall away to expose her perfect breasts. They bounced slightly as she let the shirt drop to the floor, and you couldn't help but admire the way the light played across her nipples, which were already hard with arousal.

"Good girl," you praised, watching her intently as she reached for her pants. She slid them down, her panties following, leaving her naked before you. You took a step closer, taking in the sight of her. Haewon's body was a work of art, and the way she looked at you—like you were the only person in the world who mattered—was intoxicating.

"Now, bend over the couch," you instructed, your voice still firm but with a hint of excitement. She complied without hesitation, her ass in the air, her cheeks red with both arousal and embarrassment. You stepped behind her, taking a moment to admire the way her back arched and her breasts pressed against the cool leather of the couch.

You leaned down, your breath hot against her skin as you whispered, "Spread your legs wider." Haewon's body responded instantly, her legs parting to give you a full view of her glistening pussy. The sight of her wetness was almost too much to handle, and you had to fight the urge to bury your cock in her right then and there.

Instead, you positioned yourself behind her, the head of your erection teasing at the entrance to her core. You watched as she squirmed, her body begging for you to fill her. But you weren't ready to give in just yet. You pulled back slightly, dragging your wet tip through her folds, collecting her arousal like a brush painting a canvas. She moaned, her hips pushing back in a silent plea for more contact.

With a smirk, you pushed forward, feeling the resistance of her tight pussy as it stretched to accommodate you. Haewon let out a sharp squeal, her body tensing up as you entered her with a single, firm thrust. Her wetness made the initial penetration easier, but the grip of her inner muscles was still surprisingly tight. You could feel her tremble beneath you, the sudden intrusion a mix of pain and pleasure that was written all over her face.

But before she could adjust fully to your size, you reached back and slapped her ass—hard. The sound echoed through the room, and Haewon's body jerked in response, her pussy clamping down around you like a vice. The shock of the impact sent a bolt of pleasure through her, and she came immediately, her body convulsing as a wave of orgasm crashed over her.

You had never seen her like this before. In all the times you've been together, in all the moments of shared passion, this was something new. Her eyes squeezed shut tightly, her mouth a silent 'O' of surprise and pleasure. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she moaned in a way that was almost animalistic. Her whole body was shaking, and you felt her muscles tighten around you as she came.

But you didn't give her time to recover. Your desire was too great, the power exchange too thrilling to stop now. With a firm grip on her hips, you started to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into her. She gasped, her eyes flying open to look back at you over her shoulder, a mix of shock and excitement on her face.

"Is this what you want?" you growled, driving into her again and again. "To be used by me?"

Her response was a whimper, her body still trembling from the force of her orgasm. "Yes," she managed to choke out, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, baby, use me."

That was all the encouragement you needed. You began to fuck her in earnest, your hips slamming into her ass with a ferocity that left her breathless. Each thrust was punctuated by a slap against her skin, the sound of skin on skin music to your ears. Haewon's moans grew louder, her body moving in time with yours as you claimed her in a way that was both brutal and beautiful.

Her pussy was soaking wet, making it easier for you to slide in and out of her with every pump of your hips. You reached around to her clit, feeling it pulse beneath your fingers as you began to rub it in rhythm with your thrusts. She was so close, her body begging for release, but you weren't ready to give it to her just yet.

"Beg for it," you demanded, your voice gruff with desire.

Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip, trying to hold back the moan that was threatening to spill out. "Please," she whimpered, her voice cracking with need. "Please, let me come."

You smirked, enjoying the way her body responded to your control. "Not yet," you said, your voice low and firm. "You'll come when I say so."

Her eyes pleaded with you, and you knew she was close. The muscles in her pussy clenched around your cock, and she was panting heavily, her entire body trembling with need. You felt a thrill at the power you held over her, the way she was willing to submit to your every whim. It was a heady sensation that made you want to push her even further.

You reached up and grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back as you drove into her even deeper. "Who do you belong to?" you demanded, your voice a low growl.

"I belong to you," she gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head. The pain from your grip only added to the pleasure, and she knew you could see it on her face.

Your pace grew even more frenzied, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room along with Haewon's cries of pleasure. Her pussy was clamping down around your cock, trying to milk you dry, but you were in control. You knew exactly when to ease off and when to push harder, when to rub her clit in just the right way to send her over the edge.

"Now," you finally ordered, your hand moving away from her hair to give her neck a gentle squeeze. "Come for me, baby. Show me how much you like being my little slut."

Her eyes rolled back, and with a scream of pleasure, Haewon's body convulsed as another powerful orgasm ripped through her. Her pussy spasmed around your cock, her juices flooding out to mix with the sweat on her thighs. You watched her, the sight of her total submission sending another jolt of lust through your body.

Your grip on her hips tightened as you felt your own release approaching. Each slap of your skin against her ass grew wetter, and the sound grew more pronounced. You could feel the tension building in your balls, and with one final, deep thrust, you emptied yourself inside her, filling her up with your cum. The feeling was indescribable, the heat of your release mixing with her own, creating a symphony of pleasure that had you groaning with satisfaction.

For a moment, you remained there, buried deep inside her, your chest heaving with exertion. Then, you slowly pulled out, watching as your cum trickled down her legs, mixing with the wetness of her pussy. Haewon's body was still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at the effect you had on her.

With a gentle tug, you helped her up, her legs wobbly as she leaned into you. You both stumbled over to the couch, collapsing onto it with a laugh. She snuggled into you, her head on your chest, and you wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight. Her breathing was still ragged, her heart racing from the intense experience you'd just shared.

For a few moments, you just enjoyed the quiet, feeling the warmth of her body pressed against yours. Then she looked up at you with a shy smile. "That was… intense," she murmured, her voice still thick with lust. You couldn't help but chuckle at her understatement.

"You liked it?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, but she nodded. "I liked it more than I thought I would," she admitted, her voice small but earnest. You felt a surge of satisfaction at her response. You had never seen Haewon this way—so raw and vulnerable—and it was incredibly arousing.

"Do you want to switch next time?" you asked her, your voice a low murmur as you stroked her hair. Haewon's smile grew wider, but she shook her head. "No, I like this" she whispered, her eyes never leaving yours. "I want to be yours, to do whatever you want."

You leaned down and kissed her, feeling her melt into your embrace. Her submission was like a drug, and you were already craving more. But for now, you were content to hold her close, the warmth of her body seeping into yours as you both came down from the intense high.

[foxviant]

Warm morning.

Summary: On a rare peaceful morning, Joel Miller clings to you in bed, finding comfort and refusing to let go for anything, not even coffee. Pairing: Joel miller x Reader. Word count: 1k Warning: Nothing, just fluff.

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The first thing you feel is warmth.

Not just from the sunlight spilling through the threadbare curtains, but from the heavy weight of Joel’s arm draped across your waist. He’s still asleep, breathing slow and steady, face buried somewhere in your shoulder like he’s trying to disappear into the blankets and you.

You try not to move. You’d rather stay here forever, tucked beneath the covers with the world shut out and Joel pressed against your back, solid and warm and so completely at peace that it makes your chest ache.

He doesn’t sleep much. Not really. So when he does, like this, you do everything you can not to break the moment.

Still, you can’t help the quiet smile tugging at your lips.

You shift slightly to glance at him, and that’s all it takes his arm tightens around you, pulling you even closer until your back is snug against his chest.

“Mm,” Joel grumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Where d’you think you’re goin’?”

“Didn’t say I was going anywhere,” you whisper, smiling into the pillow.

“Thought about it, though.” His voice is hoarse, slow, affectionate in that gruff, unmistakably Joel way. “Could feel it.”

You let out a soft laugh, hand reaching down to lace your fingers with his. “I was just trying to look at you. Thought you were still asleep.”

“Might’ve been,” he mumbles. “But then you moved.”

“You’re like a bear. One twitch and you wake up.”

“I ain’t that bad.”

You turn just enough to see him now his hair mussed from sleep, scruff rough along his jaw, eyes still half-lidded but warm and soft in a way he’d never admit to. You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair.

“You’re exactly that bad,” you tease gently. “But you’re cute when you’re sleepy, so I’ll allow it.”

Joel groans and presses his face into your shoulder again. “Don’t say shit like that. It’s too early.”

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the smile against your skin.

The two of you stay like that for a long while, tangled in sheets, limbs knotted together like neither of you ever wants to move again. Outside, birds chirp faintly, and you hear someone shouting down the street, maybe traders setting up early. But none of it touches you here.

Here, in this bed, it’s just you and Joel. Eventually, you murmur, “You wanna get up? I could make coffee.”

He tightens his grip, pulling you impossibly closer. “Nope.”

“Joel—”

“Not movin’. Got you where I want you. Not givin’ that up for shitty instant coffee.”

You snort. “So you’re kidnapping me now?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

You shift to face him fully, your legs tangling with his, your hands resting on his chest. He lets you, watching you quietly, one hand drifting up to brush your cheek.

“Y’know,” he says after a moment, voice softer now, “never thought I’d get this again.”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“This. A bed. A quiet morning. Someone who makes me feel like…” He trails off, brow furrowing like the words are too big to say. “Like I ain’t just a survivor.”

You lean in and press a gentle kiss to his lips. It’s slow, warm, and easy the kind of kiss that says I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

“You’re allowed to have good things, Joel.”

He blinks at you, then lets out a soft breath and kisses you again, this time a little deeper. His hands slide into your hair, and when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re the best thing I’ve had in a long time,” he murmurs.

Your heart swells, but you try to keep your voice light. “You saying I’m better than coffee?”

“Hell yes, you are.”

You both laugh quietly, and the world outside fades a little more. He pulls you back into his chest, and this time you don’t resist. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent warm, earthy, familiar.

“Five more minutes,” you whisper.

“Take all the time you need.”

And in Joel’s arms, you do.

[earlysunshines]

flower girl

danielle marsh x fem!florist!reader

synopsis: you never expect much from your job at the flower shop but then the most beautiful girl you’ve ever laid your eyes on stumbles in

warnings: litcherslly none i don’t think anything rly ; very fluffy ; reader is awkward and loser and dorky ; danielle’s gorgeous and bubbly and cutesy and dorky too ; two dorky idiots that want each other i fear ; anything else not mentioned ; not proofread

a/n: my writing is so much worse now it’s actually so bad and this is bc i haven’t written in a bit but also haven’t been reading like anthrjng (other than textbooks for class)… ooh.. ALSO heavily based off this song!!!

most people would assume that working at the towns flower shop is all sunshine’s and rainbows—the atmosphere is littered with beautiful arrangements, vibrant colors, and the gorgeous interior always has light seeping in through the windows just right. 

working at the flower shop would be perfect if it weren’t for the fact that you were single. maybe if a lovely girl was waiting for you to clock out, ready to give you a soft kiss to the lips you’d enjoy your shifts more—but no. 

today isn’t different from the others. when is it ever? 

“babe, babeeee~” a girl whines in an uncomfortably high pitched voice that it makes you cringe a bit. your brows scrunch in a bit when you hear her, “pumpkin stop— haha— th-that tickles!” 

pumpkin? gosh, you might throw up into the flowers you’re fixing up. 

the couple that had walked in wasted no time getting all touchy and displaying the pda that no one asked for. 

(“no one” being you and only you because your manager is taking orders in the comfort of her office while you suffer out in the main area) 

the boyfriend pulls her closer, his chest pressing against her back as he peppers kisses on her neck, giggling like an idiot. you have to redirect your attention completely to block them from your peripheral, trying to endure only the sound now. 

“love bug, i can’t help it.” he tries to say quietly, but you’re the only people in the shop, making it increasingly difficult to put up with this. 

you sigh. the only way to get them to stop sooner is to go up to them, put on your customer service voice, flash a friendly smile, and hope for the best.

“hi! did you guys need any help with anything?” he’s still holding on to her when he looks over at you and nods. 

“yeah, yeah. just wanted to buy my girl some flowers. which ones are the prettiest? she likes pink.”

this job tests you everyday.

why would you buy flowers with her here? is it not usually a surprise? why are you using half of your singular braincell to think of a choice for your lover?

you criticize him knowing that he doesn’t really care what you give him, and judging by his tone—plus his ignorance and lack of interest for the vast options surrounding him—you could probably hand him polyester flowers and he wouldn’t think twice about the fact that they wouldn’t deteriorate at all in the next few years.

instead of giving in to your thoughts, your smile grows again. “right. well, a popular selection of pink flowers would be the classic rose bouquet, but we can also do a smaller bouquet of three.” you explain before poining across the shop to another arrangement. “and those are our tulips—another popular choice. as you can see, there’s a variety of colors, but depending on how many you need i’m able to provide a bouquet of pink.”

“okay, cool, cool.” he says, looking around. without thinking twice, he shrugs, then points to the roses. “i’ll take like, five? i don’t know how you do it. just pop ‘em in those little things so we can hold it and that should be it. it’s date night—need something nice for my girl.”

“oh stop it pumpkin… you’re so sweet.” the girl gushes, moving over to peck his lips.

your purse your lips into a forced smile, nodding at them. “right, i can hand you a bouquet of five. give me a few minutes.” 

they nod and offer a “thank you,” before going back to being all loving and everything that manages to make you throw up in your mouth. a groan leaves your lips as you get to work.

once you’re done, you hand the man the bouquet. “these are pretty fresh, so i’d say they’ll last a week if you care for them nicely. make sure the vase you store them in has clean water and whatnot.”

he nods and offers a friendly smile before giving the flowers to his girlfriend. she kisses him on the cheek and says thank you to him like this is the best gift in the world, but you beg to differ. you also don’t get paid enough to judge boyfriends doing the bare minimum, so you simply wave at them and say, “thank you for purchasing!”

once they leave, the comforting hum of your jazz playlist fills the silence. you’re left relieved. 

you sort out a few more flowers, pick up petals that fell on the ground, and clean up other messes from the day before the bell above the door rings.

a “welcome in!” leaves your mouth before you turn around to see who’s decided to stop by. you assume it’s a couple, or maybe the rare occasion that it’s someone elderly or the rarer occasion: a group of teenagers browsing around.

after fixing your hair, you turn around and are immediately met with pretty brown eyes that land right on your gaze.

a girl, the very pretty girl, looks around your age—probably a student like you. she lets the door close behind her and a small flush of wind brushes her hair across her face perfectly.

there’s a shiver that runs down your whole body. the way her lashes flutter when she blinks is like some sort of mind-blowing cinematic movie scene. she smiles, waving at you and tucking a strand of hair behind her ears which somehow renders you speechless.

“hi! how are you?” she greets. her voice is bright and cheery.

you’re already impressed considering no customer has asked how you were today—or at all this week.

(it’s only wednesday, but it still means something to you.)

you smile easily, not a forced one, a genuine smile.

“i’m doing well, and you?” 

“great now that i’m here,” she says, her eyes wandering around the mildly cluttered area. “it’s beautiful inside. must be nice working here, i bet.”

“it is.” you respond, “i never get tired of the scenery.”

“who would?” she says sweetly, her eyes molding into crescents as she smiles again. “i can’t believe i haven’t stopped by… i walk pass this place almost everyday.”

“is that so?”

“mhm,” she nods, “it’s on the way to my work.”

“well, feel free to stop by anytime—even if you’re not purchasing.” you assure, “can i help you with anything?”

she nods again. “i wanted to surprise my friend with flowers, but i wanted it to be special. i needed some expert opinions.”

dusting off your apron, you chuckle quietly, “i can help you with that. is there anything you have in mind?”

she shifts her gaze, the expression on her face that signature “i’m thinking” look—like in the movies but somehow more dorky. 

“my friend has a strong personality… something bright and vibrant would be good. it matches her.” she begins, then walks over to the marigolds and brushes her finger over a petal, “her birthday is in october, so i looked into her birth flowers too.”

“marigold,” you almost whisper, “you did your research?”

“she’s one of my good friends.” the girl shrugs. “i want to get her something meaningful.”

a warmth spreads through your body, maybe from relief and surprise since this is the first time anyone has put any thought into what they’ve asked you to arrange.

“that’s cute.” you smile, giggling lightly, “your friend is lucky to have you.”

she smiles back—you're unsure if the smile ever left but now she’s smiling at you like that and you could really care less—and you make your way over to some marigolds and cosmos. 

“i think, in my opinion, some fall colored flowers and her birth flowers would be good.”

“i trust you, miss…” she trails off, looking at your nametag, squinting at your handwriting, and meeting your eyes again. “miss y/n.” 

your name, from that voice of hers and that dorky grin, sends another shiver down your spine. 

“i’m glad you have that much faith in me.” you joke.

the girl walks around the shop while you fix up her bouquet. the shop isn’t too big, but enough to fit a wide variety of flowers, excluding the special exceptions that decorate the shop outside. occasionally you’ll glance over at her and she’ll be immersed in observing the flowers. she takes pictures, brushes her fingers over the petals, and appreciates them for the same amount of time until she’s decided to stop at the area where you arrange the gift for her friend.

she simply watches. there’s a curiosity that you catch in her eyes, they seem to add a slight sparkle. she watches until you’re finished with the bouquet, eyes on your nimble fingers fixing each petal and adjusting the position to be just right.

“there we go,” you mumble to yourself. you’re too busy eyeing the flowers from each angle to notice the smile of admiration on the girls lips.

you hand her the bouquet, dusting your apron off and fixing your rolled-up sleeves. she holds the bouquet without saying a word, just staring at you for a few seconds before she stops studying every feature on your face like it’s the last time she’ll see you.

“thank you so much. they’re so beautiful.” she says, sniffing the flowers lightly. “you’re so talented!”

“thank you.” you chuckle, “i’m just doing my job, really. i hope your friend likes them.”

you tap at the screen of the register in front of you, calculating the price of the bouquet and feeling yourself shrink in your spot at the feeling of her gaze. you can’t remember the last time someone made you this nervous—warm in the cheeks, fidgety with your fingers, and an idiot fighting back any awkward rambling. this girl manages to do it without trying and it’s awfully humiliating, but also embarrassingly exciting.

before you can tell her the total of her bouquet, she rids of any professionalism you have with one single comment.

“you smell really good.” she says, earning a raised brow from you. “i hope it’s not weird.” she laughs lightly and it works at easing the tension in your shoulders. you feel yourself relax as she continues, “you smell like… well considering you work here i guess flowers would make sense, but you smell like pear and something refreshing. it’s strong, but not too strong. it’s noticeable—but it’s nice! very nice. sorry.”

“i–” how do you even respond to that? your heart is in your throat because she’s flashing an awkward smile—maybe because she’s realized what she’s said or maybe because it’s just the two of you and the room squeezing in—you mirror her expression and bite the inside of your lip before responding, “it’s jo malone. thank you. i, i um, it was a gift from someone. i really like the way it smells. it pairs well with the jasmine.“

what were you even saying? you want to disappear right then and there right after you say it, but you don’t. you don’t because she’s giggling and pulling out her credit card that’s on her phone screen.

you gulp and add, “oh, yeah— um, your total is twenty-five dollars and seventy cents.”

“jo malone… expensive.” she says as she scans her card. “thank you for everything, by the way. they’re beautiful. i have to stop by again.”

“well, i’ll look forward to it.” the ounce of confidence you have in your body seems to spill from your lips and reach your eyes from the way you’re looking at her. your eyes narrowed just barely while simultaneously softening up just for her. “come by anytime.”

“thank you—” she glances at your nametag once more, then puts her hand on your forearm. you feel like you’re in a simulation and being toyed with, or worse: a romance movie and you’re the desperate fool who’s been chosen as the main character. “---y/n.”

she waves and you wave back, then leaves, making the doorbell ring and even that sounds like something from a movie. the bell has never rung that cheerfully.

—

on your way back home, and for the rest of the week, you think about the girl. you’re an idiot for not asking for her name, so you’ve resulted to calling her “flower girl” for the time being.

your friends are also on to you, catching you smiling to yourself out of nowhere. you tell them you were thinking about the events of the multiple corny couples stumbling into your work, the utter embarrassment you feel from witnessing their pda making you smile, but they never believe it.

if you ever told them about “flower girl,” they’d shred you to pieces—verbally, of course—and poke fun at you for at least a week or two. 

what makes it worse is that you’ve been smiling more and thinking more and hoping she’d come back into work, but she doesn’t. a week passes and she still doesn’t, but two days after your one week anniversary of meeting (your friends would seriously tease you to death for what you call it), she shows up again.

the bell rings differently than normal. your ears twitch and you turn your head to see her. your eyes meet hers and so does your smile.

“y/n!” she beams, “happy friday!”

“hi.” you try to sound calm, composed—anything to play cool and hide how delusional you are. “it’s nice to see you again. happy friday.” you greet, continuing on when the silence stretches on for a mere two seconds, “need another bouquet?”

“no, just wanted to browse.” she shrugs.

and so she does, walking around and even crouching to match her level with a few of the shorter flowers. you pretend to go back to work, tending to the flowers and whatnot, really anything to keep yourself from staring at her. 

“how have you been?” she asks out of nowhere, catching you by surprise as you water some dandelions. 

“oh, i’ve been uh, i’ve been good. and you?”

“great. my friend really liked the flowers, by the way.”

“i’m glad. i was really fond of that arrangement. i thought about it the whole week.” and her, you’ve been thinking about more than just that gorgeous arrangement you completely forgot to get a picture of. 

“really? wow, i’m so happy that you liked it as much as i did! gosh, it was so pretty and everyone we met up with was amazed by the vibrant colors and everything. i referred them to you.”

you laugh, fully facing her now after setting down the water can. “thanks for helping out the business. my boss will be thrilled.”

“i hope your boss knows they have the best on their team!”

you laugh again, stepping a little closer to the flowers in front of you. “i’ll let her know, i hope it’ll convince her if it comes from me.” you joke.

she giggles and asks you about the flowers next to her. they’re chrysanthemums, a beautiful shade of yellow. you tell her a brief summary of the meaning, how popular they are, and that there’s a shipment for a different shade. the girl focuses on you the whole time, you catch her eyes scanning each feature of your face unless you specifically point to the flower. you never thought your job would come with the stress of meeting a pretty girl at your workplace who’s oddly eager to talk to you.

“yeah, i really like chrysanthemums, my mom does too. they’re a nice flower, pretty popular.” you shrug, lightly brushing your pointer over the edges of a few petals.

“what are your favorites then?” the girl questions, tilting her head ever so slightly to display her curiosity.

“oh, um.” you think to yourself, then glance around the room. 

there’s way too many to count and so many that you admire—which is why you decided to take this part-time job. 

you respond with the first two flowers that come to your mind. “lilies and daisies, probably.” you nod.

the girl looks over at the lilies in the room, grinning as she says, “i see why. gosh, the one’s you have here are so pretty.”

“yeah, i take care of them extra nicely.” you admit.

“is that so? i might have to invest in some eventually.”

“i’ll make sure they’re well-kept then.”

“hopefully they’ll be as pretty as the person handling them.” 

you blink. a blush blooms over your cheeks and your heartbeat picks up. 

before you can respond, she brushes over her compliment and continues, “i really like sunflowers. they’re so pretty, and they’re a classic.” she looks over to the sunflowers near the window. “my friends always compare me to them too.”

“i’m not surprised.” you mutter, and she catches it. her brows raise ever so slightly as if she’s waiting for an explanation. you catch her eyes with yours again while nervously adding, “you’re bright and… nice to look at.”

you swallow shallowly in the next five seconds that pass by without any response from her. you’re hoping she doesn’t notice how you tense your jaw while you try to hold up the composed act, but it’s really hard to keep it up when her lips curl into an even wider smile of amusement.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

the door rings suddenly, though not in the cheery tune that follows after your “flower girl” walks in. a couple, one that’s showing way too much affection for your liking, stumbles in and looks around curiously. 

a soft sigh leaves your mouth and “flower girl” giggles. she places her hand on your forearm—light and brief, but you’re thinking about it real hard in the two seconds that it happens—then presses her lips together to suppress how giddy she is.

“i have to get going, and i believe you have more company?”

“yeah,” you nearly groan, “excuse me, i have to um, assist them.”

“alright.” she studies the subtle shift of your expression and nods. “i’ll see you again, y/n.”

“yeah, see you.” you respond, watching her brush past the couple and toward the door.

before you make your way to the couple, you pinch your eyes shut and bite the inside of your lip; you forgot to get her name again. 

—-

you catch a few of your friends for lunch after a particularly draining shift. there were multiple people that needed help with picking flowers, which wouldn’t have been odd if it weren’t for the fact that most of them were for birthdays.

(it just had to be everyone’s birthday that day—or week.)

sohee, one of your closest friends, sits in front of you and pretends to look innocent after stealing one of your fries. chaewon and soobin giggle at the playful punch you throw at his shoulder, which makes him groan with the stolen fry still in his mouth.

“ask nicely next time.” you warn.

“you’re such a hypocrite! you took the fruit gummies from my apartment literally last—”

“okay? are you saying you want me to be malnourished? wow…”

“but—

“no.” you quickly shut him down while simultaneously trying to fight back a laugh. “you’re a man, you can’t be doing all that.”

chaewon rolls her eyes at your antics, then steals a fry without a complaint coming from you. soobin chuckles and sohee looks at all of you defeatedly.

throughout the rest of lunch you all catch-up with what’s been going on through the week. sohee’s been trying to convince his roommate to invest in a mini-fridge and chaewon groans as she explains how she’s been considering taking an extra class the next semester.

and while soobin goes over his chaotic month, you start smiling to yourself as you accidentally tune out his voice. your thoughts shift over to your encounter with “flower girl” two days ago. 

it’s incredibly odd how you’re eager to clock in to work now. it’s not that you hated your job, you truly loved it, but the customers were always iffy. now, you have something to look forward to, someone to keep yourself going when it’s slow or dreadful on certain days. 

chaewon flicks your forehead, snapping you out of a replay of her hand on your forearm.

“what the hell are you smiling about?” she asks, “did you hear what soobin just said?”

“uh,” absolutely nothing had processed in the past minute. “sorry.”

soobin nudges your shoulder. “damn… so you hate me.”

“well, yes.” you joke. “sorry, ‘binnie, i was just… thinking about work.”

“i thought you hated your job…?” he responds.

sohee joins in, “yeah, you were just complaining to the group chat about a couple that forgot to stop making out when you came back with their bouquet.”

“oh my god, i forgot about that, ugh… and that was literally a month ago.” the memory makes you cringe. “and no i do not hate my job! i love it.”

“something is up then.” sohee says, pointing at you dramatically. “what’s up with work? did something happen? is this why you’ve been so… giddy?”

“giddy?” you try to laugh off his accusation. “it’s not— i– it’s nothing!”

“she stuttered,” chaewon points out.

“that doesn’t mean shit!” you groan, “i’ve just… okay, works been better. look, there’s this new regular. she’s kind of a regular.”

“oh my god, this girl must be cute then.” soobin chuckles, raising his brows at you. “what, you’ve got yourself some type of flower girl?”

you’re baffled that he somehow read your mind and matched frequencies enough to know that you also call her flower girl. you want to scold him for jumping to the conclusion that you’re happier at work because of a pretty girl—but he’s quite on point, so you can’t really defend yourself.

“oh my god she’s blushing,” sohee mumbles, laughing with chaewon.

“oh shut up i hate you guys.” you groan, “she’s just nice and actually talks to me. i mean yeah she’s gorgeous but that’s not even the point. she’s different than usual customers and… i guess it’s a nice change.”

“so you want her,” soobin says before sipping on his tea. “pretty girl vs. y/n and she’s already losing.”

“i—”

okay maybe he’s right, but you’d never admit that. 

the rest of lunch consists of you getting teased until the topic switches into chaewon talking about kazuha and sakura, who have apparently been way too loud when playing video games late at night. soobin, however, manages to throw in one more teasing comment before you all depart, which earns a few more remarks from chaewon throughout the car ride home.

“everything used to soil your mood,” soobin’s words replayed in your mind over and over, “seems like this ‘flower girl’ is making you bloom.” 

his words were corny mainly because it was him saying it, but he wasn’t wrong. and it doesn’t help that chaewon keeps telling you that she supports whatever you have going on, saying that you’re “not as cranky” and “smiling like an idiot all the time.”

you blush the whole way home thinking about her and it’s ridiculous. this girl that’s shown up twice has you malfunctioning even outside of work.

—

“y/n, could you grab the shipments from the back? i unloaded them, they just need to be restocked. it’s a few boxes, nothing much.” your boss asks. 

“yeah, sure.” you respond, immediately heading to the back and looking around for the boxes she mentioned.

you have exactly one hour until work ends and the only thing on your mind is a nice big lunch since you only had time to eat a banana for breakfast. you feel the energy leaving your body as you carry the boxes, guessing they’re mainly seeds and supplies for the bouquets. the boxes shfit and a subtle sound hints that there’s some pots for people who end up buying something to display their flowers.

with a light thud, you place the boxes on the counter in the front and find the box cutter nearby. just as you suspected—there are a few packets of seeds, tools, and pots inside that you pull out and start restocking.

but in the corner of your eye you catch two people conversing outside. you’d brush it off if it weren’t for the fact that one of them was flower girl, who’s talking to your boss while pointing at the tulips.

your heart beats faster in your chest and a surge of urgency to finish restocking.

you jump at the feeling of a hand on your shoulder not too long later. turning your head, you catch your manager grinning at you.

“hey, i’ve got the rest. there’s a customer that you should help.” she tells you, but the look in her eyes screams something mischievous.

you nod, setting the pot in your hand back into the box before turning to meet the same big brown eyes that never fail to light up your day.

“y/n!”

“flower girl,” you mutter, though very quietly, just under your breath. “hi,” you greet, clear and professionally.

“how are you?” she asks, and it flows like last time; conversation with her is light and easy to ease into.

you tell her it’s a little slower today considering it’s tuesday, and you even drop a little “i’m glad you’re here to keep some brief company,” which earns a smile and a “i find stopping by the highlight of my week, it’s nothing.”

now you’re both trying not to blush and it’s impossible. it’s impossible because you notice that shade of blush she has on matches the carnations that you had to fix up yesterday. and on her end, she can’t help but notice that your hair is a little messier than usual, which adds to how cute she thinks you are.

you two converse in between her questions about flowers. she finds your anecdotes about each and every one interesting, interesting enough that she asks,

“hey, what are you doing later today?”

the question catches you off guard. “oh, um. probably nothing… maybe i’ll go on a walk or visit a friend… i don’t know… why do you ask?”

you can’t curb the blush that heats your face, so you pray it’s not noticeable.

“well, i’m off today and my schedule is pretty empty… i was hoping you’d let me pencil you in?”

you giggle at her response, hoping your manager doesn’t hear any of it because she’s also one to tease you like crazy.

“i’d… yeah, i’d like that.” you sound like an idiot. your mind runs in circles and your heart beats faster than it usually does—even faster than the time she (you’d hope) flirted with you. “i um, i get off in less than an hour… i hope you don’t mind waiting.”

she bites the inside of her lip and it feels like it’s just the two of you in the shop, with daisies sprouting around (metaphorically speaking, of course) to feed the fire that burns in your chest. 

“that’s perfect. do you like sandwiches?”

“i love them.”

“perfect. there’s a place not too far that i love—”

“down the block near the park?”

“yes! how did you—?”

“i go there all the time.” wow, this is perfect, you think to yourself. “we could grab lunch… maybe walk around…?”

she laughs and your whole body relaxes. 

“you’re really cute, you know?”

“i think you’re cuter.” you say without thinking. “and i feel unbelievably stupid that i’ve been calling the cute girl that stops by every week ‘flower girl.’ my friends keep teasing me because i never got your name.”

“you talk to me about your friends?’ she questions with a growing smirk.

“i— maybe.” 

“well, i’m glad i’m not the only one.”she breaks eye contact to look at the ground bashfully. “my friends have been… trying to help me build up the courage to ask you out.”

“really?”

“mhm.” she nods.

“well, i’d love to tell my friends more about you…” you trail off, remembering that you don’t even know her name.

“if i give you my name… would you give me your number?” she asks cheekily.

you chuckle. “i’ll consider it.”

her hand brushes the petal of a flower nearby—a pink hibiscus—before saying, “my name is danielle.”

“danielle,” her name trickles off your tongue with curiosity and wonder. her name isn’t uncommon, but it’s beautiful and a perfect fit for someone bright like her.

her smile grows along with yours.

“i guess i should give you my number then, danielle.” you test the way her name sounds coming from you and are just as content the second time around. it’s better than flower girl, but that’s not stopping you from calling her that again and again in the future.

“i’d need your number just in case i want to see you again,” she says with a light-hearted, teasing tone. “just in case you charm me well enough.”

“i’ll do my best then, flower girl.”

[yuwritesstuff]

You thought you'd hidden your romantasy books well enough.

They were neatly stacked on the bottom shelf of your bookcase, spines turned inward, behind a few academic-looking hardcovers. But somehow, Satoru had sniffed them out like a bloodhound with too much time and curiosity.

He was sprawled out on your bed now, flipping dramatically through one of it, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

“His stormy eyes burned into her soul as he whispered promises of forever—” he read aloud in a deep, fake-sultry voice, then looked up at you, eyes glinting. “Wow. You really read this stuff?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Satoru—”

He sat up. “No, no, I’m not judging! I’m just… deeply fascinated. Do these men always clench their jaws when they’re feeling things? Is that a requirement?”

“You’re impossible.”

“But am I at least as hot as this sword-wielding prince of shadows?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows as he held up the cover of the book. “Be honest.”

You shot him a half-hearted glare, but couldn’t hide the smile pulling at your lips. “Well… These are just silly, comforting books. Before I met you, I really thought those guys were the only kind of love I’d ever get.”

Satoru blinked. For a moment, he was confused by the sincerity of your confession and the vulnerability in your words.

Oh sweet thing, you just wanted to be loved so much. You were so romantic and cute, he wanted to give you everything.

When he looked at you, the cocky smile was still there, but something softer glowed beneath it. A flush touched his cheeks, almost shy if it weren’t for how boldly he asked:

“Hm… which one’s your favorite scene?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, setting the book down and walking toward you with a lazy stride, “I’m wondering which one we should recreate.”

Your breath hitched.

He stopped in front of you, tall and glittering with mischief, his voice dropped lower.

“I mean, surely you’ve imagined one or two with someone better than a fictional prince?” He leaned closer. “Say, someone oh so tall, white-haired, and devastatingly charming!”

In fact, you forgot about these books when you started dating Satoru. Everything you could imagine was now connected to him and his bright personality.

You laughed nervously, your cheeks fully flushed now. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “Ridiculously perfect, maybe?”

His hand brushed yours — lightly, testing the waters — and he held your gaze. To see your happy, blushing face and big eyes full of excitement.

“So,” he said again, gentle this time, “tell me, princess. What should our lovemaking chapter look like?”

[stellewriites]

butch price x reader

cw: smut, pussy eating, fingering, bush huffing, mean price, mechanic price, freak reader, inferred as inexperienced reader (as a treat!)

thank u as always to the cloisters for cheering this series on and yapping away about butches to me. here’s the fourth & final piece of the butch love letters quadrilogy

you huffed and puffed as you paced back and forth in front of the smoking open bonnet of your shitheap car.

you were cursing your friend for convincing you to get the cutesy car over the scuffed up ford you’d seen on the secondhand marketplace the same day. that tin can wouldn’t have broken down on you unexpectedly like this; stuck in the middle of nowhere as the sun set with no reception to call triple a or even your dad for a bit of engine advice.

you’d opened the hood as soon as you’d pulled over but you had no clue what was wrong with it, just that it probably shouldn’t be smoking or hissing like that. you’d tried to take a look at the canister that was spitting bubbles at the cap but had forgotten the golden rule of Don’t Touch, Hot after you’d been driving. your fingers still ached a little from the burn.

one hand on your hip, you held your phone up with the other like it would help at all as you tried to call for help again. the hazard lights from your car were starting to become brighter than the natural light and the streetlights were dim and far apart, not offering much in lieu of the setting sun.

you really didn’t want to be stranded there for the night.

you’d ignored the cars that had passed earlier when you’d first pulled over, not expecting to need an extra hand when your paid-for car support would be arriving presumably swiftly after you called. and then when you’d realised it wouldn’t be so easy, you’d hoped that simply letting your car cool off a little would fix the issue enough to get you further down the road at least.

you’d sat behind the wheel once more and felt your stomach drop when the engine rolled; a mean, dry grinding noise coming from it instead of the usual purr.

you’d tried once more before pulling your keys free and glueing yourself back to your phone as your last hope. you knew there was no way you’d be able to walk for help, especially not with how long you’d waited and how dark it was quickly becoming.

short of a miracle, you’d be stuck there until someone passed by in the morning and could maybe tow your little fiat to the nearest garage.

the rumble of a bike had your spiralling thoughts stopping in their tracks and your head snapping up towards the road. you felt your eyes widen as the rider pulled over, stopping a little ways behind you.

they climbed off the impressive bike easily, thick thighs nudging it to stay in place as they nudged the kickstand in place, and removed their helmet.

you wondered for a moment if you’d managed to hallucinate the woman stood before you - a miracle after all - with her close cropped hair glittering with greys spattered throughout. you stared shamelessly at the clustering of them at the shaved sides, but wondered at the way the low light caught the peppering of them through the messy, longer trim on the top.

“what’s the problem?” the woman asked, her voice firm but light.

you swallowed thickly and dragged your eyes down to her face, not that it was a difficult task to look at her. she was gorgeous and you felt your knees knock as you watched her come closer.

her sarcastically cocked eyebrow reminded you that you’d not yet answered her and you cleared your throat before shyly shrugging.

“it just started smoking so i pulled over. couldn’t tell where it was coming from but the engine won’t start,” you said and stepped out of the way so she could have a look. her lips thinned as she carefully dug around inside. you felt the need to fill the sudden silence and stepped back to her side, your hip pressed to the car but still giving her enough space so you weren’t touching. “it had been hissing for a while before.”

“hissing?” she asked as she looked up at you, her hands veering towards the left at your confirmation.

“mhmm. for maybe the last mile or two,” you said sheepishly.

“you kept driving?” she asked with a tinge of judgment. you folded your arms in front of you as you felt the look wash over you.

“no lights came on the dash,” you said a little feebly.

she blinked slowly, as though processing what you’d said before turning back to the car.

you had the distinct feeling that she thought you were an idiot. you dug your fingers into your arms as you watched uselessly. maybe you were.

“y’radiators gotten too hot with no water, cracked the water tank. it’s no wonder the engine wouldn’t start, y’wont be able to drive it ‘til it’s fixed, could set the engine on fire,” she said as she pointed out the things she was talking about. she stood back up straight and turned to you as your heart sank.

“fuck,” you swore heartily and clenched your eyes shut. that sounded expensive.

“i know a local garage that can sort it for you, decent rates,” she offered, her voice a touch softer than it had been so far. “i can give you a lift too.”

you opened your eyes just in time to watch her nod to her bike and start walking.

“oh, i don’t know if i should leave my car here…”

“we’ll call up a service to collect it as soon as we’re in range, won’t get any signal out here,” she said and pulled out a spare helmet from the back of her bike as if it was already decided, you were just late to the game. she pulled her own on with practised ease and held out the other towards you with a tilt of the head.

you darted back to your car and grabbed your bag before turning off the hazards, locking the door and finally joining her. you introduced yourself and waited for her to do the same.

“you can call me price,” she said brusquely, not returning your smile.

not the friendly introduction you’d been hoping for, but you were grateful for a name to put to the face all the same.

price didn’t hesitate before pushing the helmet onto your head, knocking your chin up with her finger in order to clip the strap in place. you stood frozen as she straddled her bike, lost for a moment at the unexpected touch and not seeing the impatient nod of her head to the space behind her.

“haven’t got all night, love. are you getting on or not?” price snapped, eyes flinty as they stared you down beneath the open visor.

“right, yes, sorry,” you stuttered, scrambling to her side. you paused at the height of the bike, the length of your summer dress not allowing for much movement before you’d inevitably flash your saviour; but at the memory of her sharp look, you tried to balance yourself and quickly lift your leg over the seat.

you were conscious of your size and weight behind her as soon as your arse hit the leather, shuffling back to give her room. you ran hot at the best of times and you couldn’t imagine she’d like a heater pressed along her back for the ride ahead given how testy she’d been already.

balancing behind her without clinging on was tricky however, with your toes just scraping the ground to keep you in place. even with your grip on her jacket at her waist you didn’t feel particularly sturdy.

you saw more than heard her sigh as her shoulders lifted then dropped in front of you and then suddenly her strong hands were on your thick thighs as she tugged you forward, slotting you so you were cradling her hips flush against your own.

“you need to hold on tight,” she said plainly and tugged your arms around her sturdy middle, tightening your grip further with a scoff when you automatically loosened it once she’d let go. you clenched your hands together above her belt and finally it seemed you’d done something right as she set off, kicking the stand up and revving, checking the empty road as she pulled out.

your dress fluttered in the wind; never mind flashing her as you’d climbed on, you would definitely be giving her a show now if she had the mind to look down and back at you. but you were too busy to fuss with the flighty material, instead concentrating on staying attached as she took corners sharply, dipping and weaving and tilting the bike so you’d have to clench your legs tighter and tighter against hers.

every time your knees felt like they could touch the asphalt, you hid your face in her back as best you could with the bulky helmet hindering your way, but you could still feel the way her shoulders shook with a laugh. you were inclined to pretend it was just the rumble of the engine, but you were more than aware of the difference in vibrations at your core and although both had you squirming, you knew they weren’t one and the same.

the ride was short - a blessing and a curse - and soon you were pulling up to a garage; lights turned off and clearly closed for the evening.

you felt disappointment bloom as you stumbled off the bike but price didn’t let it linger. unlocking the garage door and pressing a button on the attached fob to send the shutter lifting. she pushed her bike inside and you followed without needing to be told.

you stood near the entrance as you watched her walk around, clearly familiar with the workshop. you let your gaze drift, taking in the few cars parked inside the sprawling space, hoods down and doors presumably locked while they weren’t being worked on, tools packed away at their stations not necessarily neatly but clearly with care.

a hand on your lower back had you jumping and you turned to see price at your side, ushering you further in until you were sat on a tall stool next to a workbench.

you noticed as she walked away that she’d taken off her jacket and your eyes caught on a tattoo on the outside of her bicep, a labrys. simple in its design, and clear in its message.

you tried not to stare too hard, but your eyes kept snapping back to trace the lines that made up the two headed axe, especially as she moved and her bicep bulged. your throat felt suspiciously dry all of a sudden.

you played with the little orange carabiner attached to your bag strap, your keys jingling softly in the silence of the garage.

price was at the other side of the room, head leant against her raised shoulder to keep her phone in place as she spoke into the receiver and wrote something down at the same time. you saw her frown and roll her eyes and bit your lip, heat pooling below your gut. you watched as she said something indistinct before hanging up and calling a new number.

you felt yourself grow fidgety and sat on your hands to keep yourself still, the solid wood seat sobering with how unforgiving it was against the back of your hands as your palms and fingers gripped the underside of your sweaty thighs.

price laughed across the room and you tuned back in to her conversation. “l

“sure, i owe you one nik. see you in a few then,” she said and hung up her phone, slipping it into a pocket. she turned to you and her lips twitched when she found you already watching her. “found someone that’s going to tow it tonight, just need to wait here to lock it inside safe and sound before the lads can work on it in the morning. shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours before he turns up.”

“amazing, thank you,” you said, gratefully smiling at her. you swallowed and gathered what confidence you had before speaking, putting on your best flirty tone, “i don’t know how to repay you for all of this.”

price paused for a moment and watched you closely, seeming to look for something in your face to decide how she’d respond even as amusement danced in her eyes.

“i’m going to check over a few cars, make sure they haven’t been getting lazy with the work here while i’ve been away,” she said finally, ignoring your clumsy almost-proposition. you scrunched your face in annoyance and regret once she’d walked off towards the key cabinet facing away from you, wanting to bury your face in your hands as it flushed hot in embarrassment but realising they’d gone a little numb when you slipped one out from beneath you.

you could still feel it as you curled your fingers, but it was almost distant, secondary.

an idea came to the forefront of your mind. you peeked up at price as she bent over the open hood of a stranger’s car, checking the notes one of her coworkers had left from the day before and you were suddenly flooded with a deep yearning. tumultuous and red hot, it stirred between your legs as you remembered price’s firm hold on your thighs and wrists and the feeling of her settled between your legs as she laughed and ordered you around.

you breathed in shakily and let your tingling hand rest on your knee, trailing it up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh slowly as you kept your eyes on price. the last thing you needed was her catching you even if the touches could be considered innocent so far.

watching to make sure she didn’t suddenly turn around to catch you also mean you could see the shift of her muscles and weight beneath her vest; a sight you’d never say no to and one that only caused your breath to hitch as you continued the trail to the hem of your dress.

you stopped and bit your lip, unsure if you wanted to continue. it wasn’t like you’d be able to get yourself off in the middle of the garage so it would only further frustrate you and the possibility of getting caught and having to awkwardly face price the next day to get your car back after it was fixed was mortifying enough to still your trembling fingers.

“looks like you’re not the only one with a cracked water tank,” price spoke up from her spot in front of the car. her hands were on her hips before she dragged one over her short hair, scratching at the freshly shaved base of her neck. “i’ll check to see if we have a few in stock, might make it a quicker fix for you if johnny already ordered some in for this one.”

you nodded even though she didn’t look at you and you pulled your other hand out from beneath your arse. your right hand hand gained its feeling back so you dropped it in your lap; the left however was fighting pins and needles as you ran it over your stomach to your chest, squeezing lightly at your breast as shame and excitement and lust flooded through your system like lightning. your eyes slipped closed for a second and even though it felt nothing like price’s confident, sturdy grip from earlier, you couldn’t help but picture it to be her as you grazed your thumb over your nipple with a firmer pressure.

“we’ve got a spare one in stock, so we just need to double check it’ll fit, but otherwise it should be good to go tomorrow unless something else comes up when gaz checks it over.” price’s voice jolted you out of your reverie too soon, having not heard her re-enter the room, and your hand flew down to join your other in your lap, your elbow smacking back harshly against the worktop and echoing in the large empty area.

price raised her eyebrows at you, her jaw falling slack for a moment, as she watched you try to hide your deep wince of pain. a second later she started to walk over to you.

her pale blue eyes were piercing as she kept eye contact with you. “you alright?”

“yep, fine. totally ok. uhm, why?” you tried to play it off casually, landing so far from nonchalant it had price’s worry slipping off her face.

her smirk grew. “y’just smacked your elbow so hard i could hear the bone rattle.”

“oh, sorry?” you apologised uselessly.

“no need, love,” she dismissed your apology quickly, eyes still lasered in on you. “it’s just… you’re looking a little hot and bothered.”

the mean tilt to her smirk didn’t help and you felt yourself fluster and sweat anew under her pinning gaze.

she took a step closer, reaching one hand out to skim across the bare skin of your leg, unknowingly tracing the same path your hand had before. your legs turned to jelly beneath her touch in a way they didn’t under your own and seemed to naturally fall open at the slightest pressure as she urged you to make room for her to step between them.

her fingers’ path stopped at the hem of your dress before she started to bunch it up, letting the material gather at her knuckles as the tips of her finger disappeared beneath while she revealed more soft skin to her greedy gaze.

“were y’committing the view to memory for when you get home and can get your hands on whatever little toy gets you off quickest?” she asked rhetorically, her tone light but words pointed as she watched for your reaction.

you bit back a gasp.

“i can give you what you want,” she offered, voice sweet and soft once more. enticing. “what you need. you don’t have to squeeze your thighs tight for a little relief as you watch me work.”

you flushed hot at the reveal that she’d noticed you all along and shivered as her fluttering touch continued its agonisingly slow path, diverting up to your hips and away from your drooling pussy at the last second. you whimpered.

“would you like that?”

you nodded eagerly, eyes hooded and mouth panting as you watched her hands at their stand still, your panties revealed with your dress hiked up so far, taut where it was caught beneath your arse. you lifted your head to stare at her chest in front of you and then looked up into her flinty eyes, nodding again dumbly. price tutted and you felt your clit throb.

“gotta hear the words, love.”

you flushed hot, head to toe, and mumbled a shy, “i’d like that.”

“mm what was that?” she asked, cocking her head and running her hands, palm flat, back down your legs to your knees, squeezing.

“i want you to touch me,” you said louder, bashful but growing desperate. “please?” you added belatedly.

“‘please’? so polite, love. bet you always get what you want speaking like that, looking like this.”

your eyes had begun to water, glistening as frustration and need overwhelmed you; you shook your head looking up at her.

“never— never done anything like this,” you admitted.

price laughed, tickled by your answer.

“oh, you don’t fuck your mechanic usually?” she asked, pretending to be shocked. “he must not be doing a good enough job on your little kia.”

you hummed, pitchy and unconvincing, eyes growing shifty and giving away that you meant you didn’t do any of it in general. that you weren’t exactly practiced. and price picked up on that immediately.

“oh.” she smiled meanly. “that’s not it, is it? no, i bet he’s floundering for your attention, but you’re just too nervous to give him what he wants, ey? don’t want your first time to be in a dirty garage, in the back seat of some other prick’s car while your mechanic fumbles around in your knickers.”

she’d bent down low to run her lips along your neck, kissing along your neck and leaving a delciate wet trail as she kitten licked across your racing pulse. you gasped when you felt her fingers finally trail over your cunt, the thin material of your panties barely hindering the electric feel of her touch before she pulled at the band and let it snap back against your skin.

“but i think getting dirty is part of the appeal for a girl like you, pretty as you are. you want to be manhandled and marked and ruined,” she whispered hotly, her breath tickling your neck. “nahh, must be that you’re just not interested in what’s been on offer before, hm?”

“he’s nice enough,” you admitted, clinging onto price’s shoulders, “but…”

“—but he’s not what you want,” she finished for you, raising her head from your neck to kiss along your cheek and hovering over your lips. “none of them are, are they? you want something else entirely.”

you leant forward to close the gap, hoping to finally get a taste of her but she pulled back. you chased her lips until she was stood back up straight, looming over you as embarrassment flooded through you again, but pleasantly.

“bet you’ve never been touched before; never had this pretty pussy licked open, spat on.” you felt your chest heave as she spoke bluntly, looking down at you, her hips began to subtly grind against yours. “have you ever even cum on someone else’s fingers?”

“i have,” you huffed at her assessment of you, but she only laughed at your petulant tone.

“no, you haven’t,” she insisted to further wind you up. “bet you’ve not even kissed another woman.”

your breath stuttered as she focused on your lips, licking her own.

“i want to kiss you,” you said bravely.

“that’s all you had to say.”

she dipped low, hands on the worktop either side of you, and licked her way past your gasping lips. you felt overwhelmed and fully explored as the tip of her tongue flicked at yours, saliva building in your mouth as you moaned wantonly and soaked up her quiet grunts in return. she tugged you up onto your feet and in between wet kisses and tight squeezes to your soft hips she led you towards her office in the back.

you made it to her desk with minimal tripping and no bumps on your way despite not having detached to see the way there. instead you’d clung on and trusted she wouldn’t lead you into a wall or car accidentally as she hurriedly felt up your sides to your breasts.

she encouraged you to sit on the edge of the desk and plucked at one of your nipples through the thin dress with a teasing grin.

“feel better than your own hand?” she asked and dropped to her knees before you could answer.

with rough movements price hiked up your dress to reveal your panties and leant forward without hesitation to latch on to your clit through the thin cotton, eager to get you squealing.

she laughed at the restless twitch of your hips in her hands and turned her head to snicker into the fold of your thigh and groin.

“you’re more fun than i thought a virgin would be,” she goaded, eyes heavy as they gazed up at you. you fell for the bait, scoffing down at her with a pout once more as your hand rose to her short hair and yanked what your could grasp to lead her back towards your drooling cunt. you winced when her teeth clashed against your core as she grinned into your panties, endlessly amused by your brash urges hidden behind a forced shy politeness.

price reached up and tugged the material aside to lick a broad stripe up your slit, humming low at your taste and the building slick that had been steadily leaking since she’d first frowned down at you in condescension in front of your car.

“needy an’ desperate,” she huffed before focusing back on task, kitten licking at your clit as you gasped and whined. it felt like you were on fire and you couldn’t help but push up onto her tongue with jerky little thrusts when she dipped low to your hole, desperate for her to keep berating and humiliating you.

she pulled back with a wet suck and a gasp, pushing two fingers into you with no resistance as she caught her breath and licked your arousal off her lips.

she stared up at you as you shook on her fingers, practically doing all the work as you rode her hand until she decided the pace wasn’t good enough and picked up where she’d let you take over.

“fucking hell,” she whispered and nipped at the fat of your thigh. you clenched down on her fingers with a groan.

“please, please, please,” you begged airily. price smiled as she looked you over, head to toe, before nodding benevolently and dipping down to lavish your clit with attention once more.

you felt your orgasm begin to peak and wave over you with a loud, unashamed moan as she curled her fingers just right inside you, the awkward angle of her wrist doing nothing to slow her down as she prolonged your pleasure until you slumped back. spent and exhausted.

“better than your own hand?” she asked cheekily once more and you nodded dazedly.

“uh huh,” you said, remembering she liked verbal answers, and lifted a tired thumbs up at her.

she snorted and took a hold of it, pulling you up just enough to get your hand down the front of her open jeans and into her own soaked underwear.

you moaned as she guided you to slip inside and you clenched your thighs around her as if it was your own pleasure as you slowly sunk in deep. price groaned low and long, curling over you and humping against the heel of your hand where it pressed against her clit.

you weren’t as confident or practiced in your movements from this angle but you did you best to pull out those dazed moans and hitched breaths from price when you moved your fingers and your palm a certain way, repeating until you got the reaction you wanted oh so desperately from her.

price was panting into your neck after a few minutes, the skin between you clammy and you echoed her moans back to her without thought.

“w-warm, so tight,” you stuttered into her ear as you felt her clench around your fingers, nearing her own orgasm as slick ran down past the webbing of your fingers.

your enthusiasm turned price on like nothing else and she shuddered at the next prod and rub of your fingers deep inside of her.

“fucking hell, love,” she swore breathlessly, a grin tugging at her lips as she pulled back to look at your fucked our expression. “got you pussy drunk in under ten minutes and we’ve not even fucked yet. that’s a record even f’me.”

you crooked your fingers and felt a deep satisfaction when price’s jaw dropped on a silent moan, eyelashes fluttering down at you.

you watched her in awe; the way her crows feet became pronounced as her eyes squinted and her brows pulled in in pleasure, the shape of her pretty parted lips as she trembled in your hands.

“i wanna taste,” you blurted out, voice cracking with how dry your throat had become.

you struggled to free your hand and push price back a step as she grumbled, but you got enough space to hop down off the desk and drop to your knees in front of her. you yanked at her jeans without fanfare, wiggled the waistband and her underwear down to her knees before going wide-eyed at the sight of her thick bush.

feeling the soft curls against your fingers was one thing…

you leant in with abandon and pressed your nose in tight, huffing open-mouthed against her mound. soaking in the sweat, slick scent of her and moaning weakly into the damp curls.

“jesus fucking christ.” price tipped her head back and silently thanked whoever was listening for the enthusiastic little freak she had at her feet. she didn’t deserve you, but she wasn’t going to pass up this golden opportunity either.

your hot breath had her thighs twitching where you rested your hands over her pants to keep her still, but her patience ran thin.

“get to it then, love.”

you flicked your eyes up to look at her and she rested one hand on the back of your head, controlling and reassuring.

you started with little kitten licks, needing coaxing ever so into loosening your restraint despite the reckless way you’d just face planted her pussy moments prior. a firm hand or a sharp word would have you set right, you knew, so you continued as you were, trying to remember what you’d liked and copying it.

price didnt wait to see if you’d warm up on your own and used her other hand to tug at your jaw, prising your mouth open further and encouraging your tongue to wag out.

“tongue,” she ordered brusquely before grinding against your face. you got with the program and pointed your tongue so it slipped inside easier, gripping onto price’s arse and thighs as she rode you with little concern for your breathing.

you sucked and hummed against her, lapping at what you could reach when she adjusted her angle before continuing to use you. your nose pressed tight to her mound and caught on her clit on every other thrust up until price was moaning into the air above you, her orgasm quickly rising.

she pulled back and held you away with one hand while the other gave a few hard flicks to her clit. she got off with a broken moan, looking at your wet, messy face; arguably more fucked out than her own. her eyes caught on the hand you’d dropped to finger at your clenching hole again and she groaned, low and amused. fond.

with a breathless laugh, she tugged up her waistband back to her hips but left the jeans unzipped. she pushed her boot between your spread knees, beneath your hips and pushed down on your shoulders until you were resting over the tilted toe of her boot.

you were quick to get the idea and pulled your fingers free, thrusting to catch your clit against the unforgiving material until you came a second time, leaving a thick shine along her shoe when she pulled it back.

you panted against her hip, forehead resting against her just above her open waistband as you caught your breath with a giddy smile. you nibbled and sucked at her stomach as she pet the back of your head.

“don’t usually let girls mark me,” she said softly under her breath as she watched you. she rubbed at one of the the budding red marks you’d left near her zipper. “but I’m quite fond of you after that little performance. might keep ya.”

butch 141 masterlist

moodboard masterlist

[dontrllycaretbh]

girllllllllllll

please drop part 2 of cost of quiet

Title: The cost of quiet pt.2

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x fem!reader

Warnings: heated argument, messy emotions, years of tension boiling over, swearing, slow emotional unraveling

You chased her down.

Didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Just moved — through the crowd, down the tunnel, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun the shame still clinging to your skin.

Confetti stuck to your sneakers. The taste of regret stuck to your tongue.

You found her near the back exit, just past the media row. Alone. Hoodie up. Shoulders tight. Back turned.

“Paige,” you said, breathless.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even look at you.

You stepped closer. “Please—”

“Don’t.”

Just that. One word. Cold. Sharp. Like glass breaking.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh my God,” she snapped, spinning on you. “Stop saying that.”

You froze.

“You didn’t mean to,” she mocked. “You panicked. You weren’t thinking. I wasn’t ready. You’ve had the same excuse since we were nineteen.”

Her eyes were wet, but her voice was a storm. “It’s been four goddamn years, and you’re still scared. Still acting like loving me out loud is some kind of crime.”

“I’m not ashamed of you,” you said too fast, too defensive. “I’m not. I just—”

“Just what?” Her voice cracked. “Just don’t want to deal with what comes after? The headlines? The tweets? The questions from your family you still haven’t come out to?”

You said nothing.

She laughed — hollow, bitter. “That’s what I thought.”

“That’s not fair,” you managed. “You know what I’ve been through.”

“And you know what I’ve waited through,” she shot back. “Every birthday. Every win. Every off-season. Every time I had to smile while people asked if I was single and pretend the person I loved wasn’t standing right next to me, saying nothing.”

You stepped forward. “I’m here now.”

“No, you’re here now because you feel guilty.”

She wiped at her cheek with her sleeve, eyes burning into yours.

“You only ever show up when I’m already halfway gone.”

That gutted you. Worse than anything.

You tried again, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She looked at you then, for real — and it wasn’t anger in her face anymore. It was grief.

“But you did,” she whispered. “You always do. And I let you. Because I kept hoping one day you’d love me enough to stop hiding.”

You stepped closer. “I do love you.”

“No,” she said, stepping back. “You love the idea of me. The private version. The version that fits into your world behind closed doors.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then prove it.” Her hands trembled. “Walk out there and tell the world we’re together. Tell them what we are. Say it out loud. Right now.”

You hesitated.

And that was enough.

Her silence filled the tunnel like thunder.

“Exactly.”

She grabbed her bag, shoved past you. Her shoulder hit yours hard, and it felt like a goodbye.

“Paige, wait—”

She turned once more, just before the door.

“Maybe I don’t want to be someone you only fight for after you lose them.”

Then she was gone.

And you were alone.

[mattsangelbaby]

⋆.˚✮ please please please . . chris sturn.

𝜗᭪ warnings ! smut, p in v (unprotected), slight angst, etc.

in which . . fratboy!chris proves to you he’s the one, and will be the only one.

SHORT N’ SWEET writing marathon . . fic #2

the loud bass rings through your ears, along with the crowded bodies surrounding you. the air reeks of alcohol and weed — your nostrils flaring at the burning stench. frat house parties were never your favorite. the overwhelming amount of people was enough to make you want to leave. but you only came here for one thing and one thing only — chris.

you and chris are.. well you don’t really know exactly. you and chris met in this exact location about five months ago. from that time to now, you and him have had a crazy relationship one could say, from friends to benefits to basically dating. chris was a great guy. in some aspects.

he’s so sweet to you, and treats you like you both are dating. makes you feel like you’re the only girl in the world. until your not there. the minute your gone, another girl is already in his bed. you knew what you were signing up for when starting something with chris, you just thought in some way maybe he’d be different — prove you wrong.

but clearly you were right, and you were done. officially done. you move your way past people as you slightly push them out of the way finding the one person you need, going to where he always is. man spread on the couch with a joint in his mouth, with his signature smirk he always has.

you both lock eyes as chris’s eyebrows raise slightly, titling his head at you. you make your way over to him until your body is standing in between his legs, your arms crossed over your chest.

chris looks up at you, his hands making there way to your hips pulling you closer into him. “wassup’ ma,” you slightly scoff your eyes meeting anywhere but his. “got a problem?”

your eyes meet his red rimmed droopy ones, and you can’t help but stare knowing he looks way too good. “you’re my problem,” you mumble slightly moving out of his grasp. he smirks at that, letting out a slight chuckle before bringing his joint towards you, offering you some. “hm? so what’d i do this time, huh?”

you give him a dirty look, your emotions getting hard to keep at bay, before shaking your head at his offer. “what’d you do? what haven’t you done. chris i’m so tired of this, so tired of you.” he tilts your head farther at you before letting out a scoff, shaking his head slightly at your actions.

“we really gonna do this here?” you sigh quietly as you reach for his hand pulling him up from the couch. chris’s hand laces with yours, giving you a slight squeeze, letting you lead the way to his bedroom.

you both walk up the stairs to his bedroom, passing and pushing your way through. as you open his door your met with the familiar room you know so well. so many good memories spent here, and some more than others definitely for the books. chris shuts the door behind him before putting his joint out. he leans on the door, staring at you — looking you up and down. “you gonna tell me what’s up w’you, or just keep standin’ there?”

“don’t talk to me like that,” you declare desperately trying to keep yourself calm. “i can’t keep doing this anymore, chris. seriously. how are you gonna act like i’m the only girl for you then the second i’m gone, another girl is here? right in this exact room.”

his eyes widen at your statement before slightly softening at your sad expression, the glassy look in your eyes. “baby, i mean it when i say it. they mean nothin’ to me, nothin’ at all,” chris reassures you as he walks closer up to you. “that doesn’t mean anything chris. just because they mean “nothing” doesn’t mean it won’t hurt me. you don’t get to act like you love me then fuck another girl.”

chris stands right in front of you — his arms moving to wrap loosely around your waist while one hand moves up to your cheek wiping away a stray tear. “sweetheart, m’sorry. i really am my sweet girl, you’re the only girl f’me always,” he coos taking in your sad expression. “what’d i gotta do to prove it, hm?”

you shrug, your eyes looking everywhere but his. you hate how right it feels to be in his arms, you hate how much small words from him comfort you. you hate it. “i don’t know, i just want you to prove me wrong. show me i really am the only one.”

chris hums, rubbing up and down on your hips before his lips make their way to your neck. “i think i know how,” he mumbles between wet soft kisses, “jus’ gotta let me show you.”

you softly sigh as chris pushes you down gently onto the bed, his body which reeks of alcohol, weed and his cologne you know all too well, climbs ontop of yours. “chris,” you gasp as his mouth sucks and licks at the skin of your collarbone.

“shh, gotta prove to my girl she’s the only one, yeah?” chris continues to make his way down your body, kissing and touching you wherever he can. his hands make there way to the bottom of your tank top, pulling it up and over your head, your white laced bra now on display.

you reach behind your back as you unclasp your bra, dropping it onto the floor next to you. chris groans slightly at the sight of you, his mouth already kissing around your nipple. “look at my girl, prettiest one i know. my beautiful girl,” chris purrs before attaching his mouth onto your nipple, you letting out a moan as your hands lace through his brown locks.

“chris— please,” you whimper while your legs wrap around his waist, your hips beginning to buck into his trying to get the friction you need. chris pulls off with a small pop before moving to give your other boob the same attention. “i’ll give ya’ want you want ma, i promise.”

you push his head farther onto your chest, chris’s mouth feeling nothing but heaven on your needy body. he pulls off leaving a soft kiss on your nipple before beginning to kiss his way down your body. leaving a wet kiss above your shorts, his fingers find the sides of your shorts, pulling them down slowly down your legs along with your panties.

chris is met with your soaked pussy — legs spread and wide ready just for him. “you’re soaked huh? jus’ from my mouth?” you nod as your hands grip onto his biceps pulling him up towards you, slotting your lips between his. your lips harshly meet with his, your tongue sliding into chris’s mouth as he begins to pull down his shorts and boxers.

one of his hands move down to grip his cock pumping himself a few times before sliding into you with one quick thrust, your walls clenching around his length. “god this pussy was made f’me, wasn’t it?”

you nod as you begin to hold onto his shoulders as chris moves in and out of you at an intense pace, hitting that spot so so deep inside of you. “my girl, my sweet baby all mine— yeah. all mine.” his hips continue to snap against yours, one hand making it down between you two, rubbing fast circles onto your sensitive bud.

“the only one for me aren’t you? my pussy forever, hm?” you moan loudly, the feeling of him so deep inside you making you absolutely dumb on his cock. “yes! — god yes.”

chris continues to pound into you— your cries and moans filling the air as your a complete mess. no matter what chris might do you know nothing could ever beat how he makes you feel, how amazing he makes you feel every single time.

you begin to clench around chris’s cock as you arch into his movements, chasing your high your so close to reaching. “ya’ close, baby?” chris pants as he speeds up his actions, chasing his own high while you nod below him, loud pornagraphic moans leaving you.

“cum for me my girl. show me how i proved you wrong, yeah?”

© mattsangelbaby

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ·˚ ༘ ꒱ i’m sorry this is so ass and so long but hi!

ꪆৎ˚ marathon concept and all other credits go to @delilahsturniolo :)

[firelilyfox]

Flirty Soldier

Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: You are a dancer at the Captain America Tour. Bucky admires you from afar until one night the finally invites you to a date.

Wordcount: idk but short :)

Warnings: heavy flirting. dancing with Bucky. kissing. touching. and physical violence (against a third person don’t worry)

Authors note: can we take a quick moment and look at that Bucky Gif?! It’s by far my favourite!Isn’t he just the cutest?! 🥹💙

———————————

Dancing on a stage in front of two hundred roaring men, felt not as fun as it sounds.

Dirty faces, distorted with arrogant smiles and filthy hands making disgusting gestures, were now part of your everyday life.

“Isn’t it glamorous to be one of Cap’s Girls?” a woman your age asked from the side. She wore the same uniform as you did: a short dress in the colours of the U.S flag and elegant dancing shoes with a heel.

You nod half-hearted. “Yeah. I never felt more glamorous in my entire life.”

Her big, naive smile made it clear that she didn’t understood your sarcasm. But you couldn’t judge her for that. This job was a good opportunity for young girls to see other places, earn some money and maybe find a husband.

You on the other hand were only here because you wanted to get away from your abusive home. From a father that hit you and a mother that loved a good whiskey more than her own daughter.

So maybe this was glamorous after all.

“Good evening, ma’am.” It was Steve Rogers alias Captain America who stepped in front of you and the naive girl with a playful salute.

“Oh hello Captain!” The girl did a salute back. “How may we help you?”

“I wanted to thank you personally for you performances this far. It is always a pleasure working with you. And I wanted to invite you two to a drink later.”

The sounded like he had studied this words, but you couldn’t focus on the US Golden Boy any longer because your attention was caught by another soldier standing beside him.

He was drop dead handsome. With his bright, blue eyes and dark, wild hair he looked like a prince people wrote books about. Suddenly your heart made funny things and when he crooked a shy smile, you couldn’t resist but return it.

“Is this like a double date?” The girl asked - you put asking for her name on your mental list.

“Indeed, ma’am. My friend James and I would like to invite you.” Cap pat the shoulder of the handsome soldier.

“James it is?” You reached out your hand and the soldier instantly took it in his, just to print a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“You can call me Bucky, doll.”

Your cheeks turned pink. “Looks like you already have a name for me.”

His eyes widened. “Oh my apologies, ma’am. I didn’t want to …”

“I like it.” You said and turned around to follow the other girl. “See you later, Bucky.”

~A few drinks later~

He was a shameless flirt. Bucky spend the whole evening looking for every opportunity to be close to you, never letting you out of sight. He even pressed a kiss on your cheek because he thought nobody was watching. And you enjoyed every minute of it. He was the perfect gentleman mixed with a mysterious grin.

“Would you like to dance with me, doll?” He reached out for your hand. His warm touch was electrifying.

“I thought you would never ask.”

A slow jazz song was playing and the dance floor filled with couples. You laid one hand on his shoulder, while Bucky pulled you closer with one hand on your back.

“So wich idea was it?” You asked with a lowered voice, so only Bucky would hear you.

His chin brushed over your cheek as he turned his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

You chuckled. “I mean, did Steve over there wanted to invite us or … was it your idea?”

Bucky leaned back without letting you go. His blue eyes reflected the sparkling light of the candles around you. A hint of mischief showed in them as he smiled down to you.

“You are a smart girl. What do you think?”

You squeak when he swirled you around. As a reaction you hold on tighter on his strong arms. “I think I never saw you in the crowd making these … rather offending comments about the girls. But I remember seeing you walk around backstage a lot. You seemed quiet but never creepy.”

Bucky huffed a smile. “I’m glad you think that I’m not creepy.”

“I think”, you continued. “I think it was your idea to invite us. But I would like to know, why?” You gave him a sweet and innocent smile.

Bucky bit down on his bottom lip, watching you teasing him with a heated look on his face. “Can’t you answer that question for yourself?”

“I would like to hear it from you.”

His grip around your waist just got a little tighter and as an answer to that your heart started to flutter.

“You were on my mind for quite a while now. Seeing you on stage, dancing like you don’t care about anyone else. And off stage, being such a beautiful but rarely seen face.” Bucky raised his hand to gently cup your cheek. “I wanted to talk to you for a while now but somehow you managed to disappear as soon as you leave the stage.”

“Lucky for you I don’t want to leave anytime soon tonight.” You mumbled. Your mouth went dry and your throat was all tighten up. It was impossible to play it cool, when Bucky looked at you the way he does now.

He looked like he wanted to kiss you. And your thoughts were just screaming for him to do it.

Then someone grabbed your arm painfully.

“My turn now, Barnes.” A dirty man made an effort to pull you away from Bucky. His smile was suggestive and his eyes were only focused on your breasts. You immediately felt dirty and uncomfortable.

“Back off, Jackson.” Bucky thundered with a warning tone in his voice. “Let the lady go. I won’t ask twice.” He stepped between you and the man to protect you from his greedy fingers. Bucky was tall and had a strong frame to hide away behind.

The man - Jackson, laughed loud. “A lady? Pah, this is not a lady. She is just dancing eye candy. A slut in a nice dress.”

A fist met the face of the man and Bucky grabbed the man by the throat to plant another punch.

“You better apologise to her for that or I will make sure that not even your mother can recognise your face, after I’m done with you.” Bucky was not joking. The low warning in his words traveled right into the man’s bones and made him shiver.

“I-I I want to formerly apologise, Madame. Please f-forgive me and my outrageous assumptions.”

Bucky looked over his shoulder, still holding the shivering man by his throat. He waited for your approval. You nodded once.

After the pig of a man trembled out of the bar, the music started playing again and the other guests minded their own business again.

“Are you alright, doll?” Bucky asked concerned and cupped your face to search for something alarming in your face. But instead of that you started to smile.

“You just defended my honor.”

Bucky crooked a smile. “You made it sound like I was a knight in shining armour and not just a man punching a guy in the face.”

“Just my kind of a knight.” You dig your fingers into his uniform, pulling him down to you.

“At your service, ma’am.”

Bucky kissed you and you melted into his arms. You felt him smile against your lips just before he picked you up and swirled you around again.

————————-

Thank you so much for reading! 💙 All interactions are highly appreciated!! (But please don’t copy my work)

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

[sturniololuvz]

hiii,

random request but i was wondering if you could please write a fan fic about y/n refusing to take her depression medication due to her just not wanting to get better anymore. she could have like bipolar or bpd too in this so it makes things more difficult and so the triplets have be her reminder, and have to get her to take it as they won’t taken no for an answer, because they want her to just feel better.

(sorry if that made no sense i suck at explaining, but thankyou so much for reading!)

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, you are not alone. You matter. And there’s help available.

“Take It Tomorrow”

It was around 3:14 p.m. when Chris noticed.

Y/N’s pill bottle was still sitting on the counter. Same spot. Same two tablets rattling around inside.

He picked it up, frowning. “Did she take these?”

Matt glanced over from the couch. “Not since yesterday.”

Chris’s jaw clenched. “She said she would this morning.”

Nick walked in from the kitchen with two granola bars and a quiet sigh. “She said that yesterday too.”

They were used to Y/N’s shifts — the highs where she was laughing too loud and saying yes to everything, and the lows where she went still, like gravity had gotten heavier and it was just too much effort to even exist. She’d been diagnosed with bipolar II last year, maybe BPD too, though her therapist was still careful with the label.

Some days were great.

Some days were this.

Chris climbed the stairs first.

Y/N’s door was cracked, a quiet sign of isolation. The room was dark. She was under the covers, face turned toward the wall.

He knocked anyway. “Hey.”

No answer.

Chris stepped in. “You didn’t take it.”

“I forgot.”

“You always forget when you don’t want to.”

Y/N stayed quiet. Her hand was curled near her face, fingers twitching like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Nick and Matt came in behind him, sitting at the foot of the bed.

“Y/N,” Matt said gently, “talk to us.”

She rolled onto her back slowly, eyes puffy, hair a mess. “What’s the point?”

The silence hung sharp and sudden.

“I’m tired of chasing normal. I’m tired of swallowing stuff just to pretend I’m okay. What if I never get better?”

Chris exhaled, kneeling beside the bed. “Then we keep showing up. Every day. Every hour if we have to.”

“I don’t want to anymore,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I’m tired of trying.”

“Okay,” Nick said quietly, scooting closer. “Then let us try for you today.”

Matt held out the water bottle. Chris placed the two pills in her hand.

Y/N didn’t move.

“I hate that it has to be like this,” she said.

“We know,” Chris replied. “But we’d rather you be here, hating it, than not here at all.”

Her bottom lip trembled. “I feel like a burden.”

“You’re our sister,” Matt said, his voice firmer than usual. “You’re not a burden. You’re the reason we laugh in the car. You’re the reason we eat dinner at the table. You’re the heart of this house.”

Nick nodded. “You don’t have to feel okay. You just have to take the step. One tiny, shitty, hard step. Right now, that’s swallowing.”

Y/N looked at the pills in her hand. Her fingers curled. For a second, they thought she might toss them.

Then, slowly, she brought the water to her lips and took them.

The silence afterward felt like breathing again.

Chris brushed her hair back. “We’ll do this again tomorrow.”

“And the next day,” Nick added.

Matt leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’re not doing any of this alone. Ever.”

Y/N turned toward the wall again, this time with tears falling for a different reason.

She didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t need to.

They already knew.

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