hii! can I request something with Quinn Hughes where he’s been with his long term girlfriend for years and just recently got engaged. She’s a one of the best doctor’s for athletes, and is extremely busy. But when both jack & luke needed shoulder surgeries, she denied helping anyone else and wanted to focus on helping them throughout their whole recovery until they’re back on the ice. Quinn and his parents just feels so warmth that she cleared everything for jack & luke and everyone just can’t wait for the wedding for her to be officially apart of the family.
Already family
SUMMARY: After years of being part of Quinn Hughes’ life, Y/N is already loved by the entire Hughes family. Recently engaged and balancing a demanding career as one of the best doctors for athletes, she immediately clears her schedule when Jack and Luke both need shoulder surgeries. As she guides them through recovery with patience, firmness, and love, Quinn and his parents are overwhelmed by how deeply she cares for the family. By the time Jack and Luke return to the ice, it becomes clear that the wedding won’t make her a Hughes, it will only make official what everyone already knows.
WC: 4.3k
WARNINGS:
Warnings: Injury recovery, shoulder surgery mentions, medical/hospital setting, post-surgery discomfort, emotional family moments, mild anxiety around surgery, lots of fluff, hurt/comfort, engaged couple, found family vibes, soft Quinn, protective Hughes family.
masterlist// imagines masterlist
By the time Quinn Hughes proposed, everyone who mattered already knew the answer.
Not because you had said it out loud, not because Quinn had spoiled the surprise, and not even because Ellen had once caught you staring at a wedding dress shop window in Vancouver with the softest, most betrayed look of longing on your face. They knew because you had been part of the family for years already. You had been there through playoff disappointments, summers at the lake house, birthdays, injuries, late-night flights, and early-morning practices. You had been beside Quinn when he carried too much silently. You had learned how Jack took his coffee, how Luke got quiet when he was hurting, how Ellen worried in a way that made her fold laundry she had already folded, and how Jim pretended not to get emotional even when everyone knew he did.
So when Quinn proposed and you said yes with tears running down your face before he had even finished asking, nobody was surprised.
Jack had screamed when Quinn called him. Actually screamed, loud enough that Luke had texted five seconds later, Did Jack just get murdered or did she say yes? Ellen cried. Jim cleared his throat about six times before saying, “Well, we already thought of her as ours, but that’s pretty special.” Luke just smiled at Quinn through FaceTime and said, “Finally. Took you long enough.”
You were already in the Hughes family orbit. The ring just made it official.
Or at least, almost official.
“Once the wedding happens,” Jack kept saying dramatically, “then she’s legally stuck with us.”
“That’s not how marriage works,” you told him.
“It is for us,” Jack replied. “You marry Quinn, you inherit all of us. Sorry. No returns.”
Quinn, sitting beside you with one arm draped across the back of your chair, had only looked over with that small, private smile of his and said, “You say that like she didn’t know what she was getting into.”
You did know. You had known for years.
You knew what it meant to love Quinn Hughes. It meant loving the way he carried the people around him as if their problems were his before they even asked for help. It meant learning his silences. It meant knowing that when his thumb rubbed over your knuckles during dinner, he was checking in without needing to interrupt the conversation. It meant understanding that he loved deeply, carefully, and completely, even if he didn’t always use many words to say it.
And loving Quinn meant loving his family, too.
Which was why, when Jack and Luke both ended up needing shoulder surgeries in the same offseason, your decision was immediate.
You were one of the most sought-after doctors in sports medicine. Athletes flew across the country for consultations with you. Teams called your office constantly. You had built a career on precision, discipline, and an almost intimidating ability to see what others missed. You worked with hockey players, soccer players, tennis players, baseball players, Olympic athletes—people whose bodies were their livelihoods and whose recoveries depended on getting every detail right.
Your schedule was booked months in advance.
Then Jack called Quinn.
He tried to sound casual at first, because of course he did. Jack never wanted to sound scared, especially not when Quinn could hear it. He joked about being “dramatic but not dead,” said the shoulder had been bothering him more than he wanted to admit, and then finally got quiet when he said the word surgery.
Quinn had gone still beside you on the couch.
You looked up from your laptop immediately.
“What?” you mouthed.
Quinn’s jaw tightened. “How bad?”
That was all you needed.
By the next morning, you had already reviewed scans, spoken to surgeons, and reorganized your entire schedule with the efficiency of someone who had decided there was no other option. When Luke’s situation became part of the same brutal offseason conversation days later, you did not hesitate then either.
Your assistant stared at you across the desk when you said, “Cancel everything non-emergency for the next several weeks.”
“Everything?”
“Refer them out. I’ll personally send notes where needed.”
“You have three pro athletes flying in next week.”
“They’ll see someone else.”
“One of them requested you specifically.”
You looked down at Jack’s imaging report, then Luke’s recovery timeline, then the photo on your desk of Quinn with his brothers at the lake, all three of them squinting into the sun, Jack grinning, Luke leaning into Quinn like he had done since he was a kid.
“My family needs me,” you said simply. “Everyone else can wait or see another doctor.”
It was not dramatic to you. It was not a sacrifice you needed praise for. It was obvious.
But to Quinn, it was everything.
He found out later that night when you were at his apartment, sitting cross-legged on the floor with your laptop open, medical notes spread around you, your engagement ring catching the light every time your hand moved across the keyboard. Quinn had come home from training and stopped in the doorway when he heard you on the phone.
“No, I won’t be taking new cases for the next month,” you said, calm but firm. “Yes, I understand. I can recommend another specialist. No, this isn’t negotiable.”
Quinn leaned against the wall, listening.
You paused, then your expression softened. “Because I have two patients recovering from shoulder surgery who matter more to me than anything else right now.”
Quinn’s throat tightened before he could stop it.
When you hung up, you looked over and found him watching you.
“What?” you asked, immediately suspicious. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“That face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“Yes, you are. It’s your emotional face.”
Quinn huffed a quiet laugh, but he didn’t deny it. He crossed the room slowly, crouched beside you, and reached for your hand. His thumb brushed over your ring first, then your knuckles.
“You cleared your schedule,” he said.
You shrugged like it was nothing. “They need consistency. Especially in the first stages. I want to be there for the surgery planning, post-op, early rehab, mobility milestones, everything.”
“You had clients.”
“I have referrals.”
“You had important clients.”
You gave him a look. “Quinn.”
His mouth closed.
You squeezed his hand. “They’re Jack and Luke.”
That was all you said, as if those three words explained the entire universe.
To Quinn, they did.
He looked at you for a long moment, and something in his chest went warm and heavy at the same time. He had always known you loved his brothers. He had seen it in a thousand little ways. In how you texted Luke reminders to eat real food during busy stretches. In how you called Jack out when he tried to pretend he was fine while clearly being in pain. In how you sent Ellen articles about injury prevention because you knew she would read them at midnight. In how you never made Quinn feel like loving his family so fiercely was something he had to apologize for.
But this was different.
You had built a life around your career. You were brilliant at it. You were busy, respected, needed. And still, without needing to be asked, you had stepped away from the rest of the world because his brothers were hurt.
Quinn leaned forward and kissed you, soft and lingering.
When he pulled back, you blinked at him. “What was that for?”
“For loving them.”
Your expression changed then, your confidence softening into something tender. “They’re going to be my brothers too.”
Quinn’s eyes flickered.
You smiled. “Technically. Soon.”
“They already are,” he said quietly.
Jack’s surgery came first.
He acted like he was fine until the second he was in the hospital gown, at which point he became, in your professional opinion, deeply annoying.
“I just think,” Jack said from the bed, gesturing with his good hand, “that if you really loved me, you’d let me walk out of here.”
You stood beside him with a tablet tucked under one arm. “If I really loved you, I’d sedate you myself.”
Luke, sitting in the chair near the wall, burst out laughing.
Jack pointed at him. “You’re next, don’t get comfortable.”
Luke immediately stopped laughing.
Quinn sat beside Jack’s bed, quieter than usual, one hand resting near the rail. He was trying not to hover. He was failing. You noticed, of course. You noticed everything. You stepped closer to him, brushing your fingers lightly against the back of his neck as you passed, just enough to steady him.
Jack noticed too.
“Look at you two,” he muttered. “Disgusting.”
“You’re nervous,” you said without looking up.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’ve asked me if your shoulder will fall off three times.”
“That was a medical question.”
“It was not.”
Jack groaned and tilted his head back against the pillow. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little nervous.”
The room shifted. Quinn’s teasing expression faded. Luke looked down at his shoes.
You set the tablet aside and moved closer to Jack, your voice gentler now. “I know. That’s normal.”
Jack swallowed. “I hate this stuff.”
“I know.”
“I hate being out.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I can’t just fix it by playing through it.”
Your face softened. “That’s why I’m here. You’re not going to rush this. You’re not going to panic halfway through and decide you’re behind. You’re not going to compare your timeline to anyone else’s. We’re going to do this properly, and you’re going to get back on the ice when your body is ready. Not when your pride is.”
Jack stared at you for a second.
Then he looked at Quinn. “She’s scary when she’s being nice.”
Quinn smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
You rolled your eyes, but Jack reached for your hand before you could move away. His grip was brief, almost embarrassed.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
You squeezed back. “Always.”
That was the first moment Ellen cried.
She was standing in the doorway with Jim, trying to give everyone space, but when she saw Jack holding your hand, saw Quinn watching you like he could barely believe he got to love you, saw Luke sitting there with fear tucked behind his eyes because he knew his own turn was coming—she pressed her fingers to her lips and looked away.
Jim put a hand on her back.
“She really dropped everything,” Ellen whispered.
Jim nodded, his own expression soft. “Yeah. She did.”
“She didn’t even hesitate.”
“No,” Jim said. “She didn’t.”
Ellen looked back into the room as you gently bullied Jack into listening to post-op instructions, as Quinn relaxed for the first time all morning, as Luke leaned forward to ask you a question because he trusted you more than anyone.
“She’s already ours,” Ellen said.
Jim smiled. “Quinn knows.”
Jack’s recovery was exactly as dramatic as expected.
He complained about the sling. He complained about sleeping upright. He complained that Luke was “breathing too loud” when Luke came over and sat with him. He complained that Quinn was looking at him “with captain face.” He complained that you had hidden the remote after he tried to reach too far for it.
“You are a doctor,” Jack accused from the couch, wrapped in a blanket like a furious Victorian child. “You took an oath.”
“Yes,” you said, adjusting his pillow. “To prevent harm.”
“You’re preventing joy.”
“I’m preventing you from tearing something because you wanted to watch highlights.”
Luke, sprawled in the armchair, smirked. “She owns you.”
Jack glared. “Your surgery is in six days. I’d be careful.”
Luke shut up immediately.
Quinn spent those days watching you move through his family’s chaos like you had been born into it. You checked Jack’s pain levels with clinical precision, but you also knew when to make him soup and when to distract him with a movie. You explained things to Ellen in a way that eased her anxiety without making her feel silly for worrying. You gave Jim practical updates because you knew he needed something concrete to hold on to. You monitored Luke too, even before his surgery, catching the tiny ways he protected his own shoulder without admitting it hurt.
And with Quinn, you were softest.
At night, after everyone else settled, you would find him in the kitchen, standing in the dim light with his hands braced on the counter.
“You’re doing it again,” you said one night.
He glanced over. “Doing what?”
“Carrying everyone.”
His lips twitched. “Isn’t that your job right now?”
“No. My job is shoulders. Yours is not emotionally absorbing every injury in a twenty-foot radius.”
He looked down, smiling despite himself.
You stepped behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. For a moment, Quinn let himself lean back into you.
“They’re okay,” you murmured.
“I know.”
“They’re going to be okay.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t have to be calm every second for everyone else.”
That made him exhale.
Quinn turned in your arms and pulled you against him, his chin resting on top of your head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You smiled into his chest. “Probably let Jack convince you he’s healed after four days.”
“He was very convincing.”
“He asked if he could skate with one arm.”
Quinn’s laugh was quiet, tired, and full of affection. “Yeah. Okay. Fair.”
Luke’s surgery was harder emotionally, mostly because Luke was quieter.
Jack filled fear with jokes. Luke filled it with silence.
On the morning of his surgery, he barely spoke. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed, looking too tall and too young at the same time, his hair messy, his shoulders tense. Jack was still recovering, but he had insisted on coming, sitting nearby with his sling and a protective scowl like anyone was going to personally offend him by operating on his brother.
“You good?” Jack asked.
Luke nodded.
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’t help,” Quinn muttered.
You watched Luke carefully, then sat beside him on the bed.
Not as his doctor. Not exactly.
As family.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” you said.
Luke’s eyes stayed on the floor. “I’m not scared.”
Jack scoffed. “Liar.”
You shot Jack a look, and he raised his good hand in surrender.
Luke swallowed. “I just don’t like feeling stuck.”
“I know,” you said.
“I watched Jack be miserable all week.”
“Hey,” Jack protested. “I was brave.”
“You cried because you couldn’t open a protein bar.”
“It was a hard protein bar.”
Luke almost smiled, but it faded quickly.
You nudged his knee gently with yours. “You’re not stuck. You’re healing. It feels slow, but it’s movement. Every stage counts, even the boring ones.”
Luke finally looked at you. “You’ll be there?”
Your heart squeezed.
Quinn looked away for a second, blinking.
You reached for Luke’s hand without hesitation. “Every step.”
Luke nodded once, but his grip on your hand tightened.
After they took him back, Quinn stood in the hallway and didn’t say anything. His parents were nearby. Jack was sitting with his head tipped back against the wall, pretending his eyes were closed because he was tired and not because he was worried.
You stood beside Quinn.
His hand found yours automatically.
“He asked if you’d be there,” Quinn said quietly.
“I heard.”
“He doesn’t ask people for that.”
“I know.”
Quinn looked at you then, and his eyes were full of something so tender it made your chest ache.
“You have no idea what that means to him.”
You leaned into his side. “I think I do.”
“No,” Quinn said softly. “You don’t.”
Across the hall, Ellen watched you two together, Quinn’s body angled protectively toward you even in his worry, your hand linked with his, your shoulder pressed into him like you were holding him upright without making it obvious. Jim stood beside her, quiet as always, but his eyes were warm.
“She’s good for him,” Ellen said.
“She’s good for all of them,” Jim replied.
The recovery weeks that followed became some strange mixture of medical boot camp and family bonding.
Your apartment with Quinn became the unofficial Hughes recovery center. Jack claimed the best corner of the couch and complained when Luke got equal pillow privileges. Luke pretended he was above the competition but absolutely kept track of who got more smoothies. Quinn cooked when he could, though you banned him from “stress-cleaning the kitchen at midnight.” Ellen visited with enough food to feed an army. Jim drove people to appointments even when nobody asked him to.
And you ran the whole operation.
“Jack, stop trying to rotate your shoulder.”
“I’m not.”
“I can see you.”
“I was stretching emotionally.”
“Luke, did you do the mobility set?”
“Yes.”
You looked at him.
Luke sighed. “Half.”
“Finish it.”
Jack grinned. “Busted.”
“You too,” you said.
Jack’s grin disappeared. “I’m injured.”
“You’re both injured. That’s the point.”
Quinn loved you in those moments so much he sometimes had to leave the room.
It was ridiculous, maybe, how much it affected him. Seeing you in sweatpants, hair pulled back, engagement ring on your finger, telling his brothers what to do while they listened with varying levels of attitude—it did something to him. It made the future feel real. Not abstract. Not just a wedding date or a venue or a guest list Ellen kept gently asking about. Real.
He could see it.
You in the kitchen with his mom. You laughing at Jack’s dramatics. You fixing Luke with one of those firm looks that somehow made him obey instantly. You curled against Quinn at the end of the night, exhausted but content, asking if he remembered to eat.
One evening, after a long rehab session, Jack fell asleep on the couch. Luke was half-asleep in the armchair, his head tilted awkwardly. Ellen and Jim had gone back to their hotel. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher.
You were sitting on the floor, reviewing notes on your laptop, when Quinn sat down beside you.
“You know they’re never going to let you go after this,” he said.
You smiled without looking away from the screen. “Good thing I’m marrying in.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Quinn watched you for a moment. “My mom cried again today.”
Your face softened. “I know. I pretended not to notice.”
“She said she can’t wait for the wedding.”
You laughed gently. “Because she wants to see you cry at the altar.”
“I’m not going to cry.”
You looked at him.
Quinn held your stare for about two seconds before looking away.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Maybe.”
You closed your laptop and shifted closer. “Your family has been my family for a long time, Quinn.”
“I know.”
“But I think this made them believe I really mean it.”
His eyes softened. “You didn’t have to prove anything.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why it means so much.”
You reached for his hand, turning it over in your lap. “When I marry you, I’m not just choosing you when things are easy. I’m choosing your people. Your worries. Your annoying brothers.”
“Very annoying.”
“Extremely annoying.”
From the couch, Jack mumbled, “I can hear you.”
“You were meant to,” you said.
Luke, eyes still closed, whispered, “She’s right.”
Jack gasped weakly. “Betrayal.”
Quinn laughed then, really laughed, dropping his head against your shoulder. You turned and kissed his hair, and for a second he stayed there, letting himself be held in a room full of the people he loved most.
Months passed in small victories.
Jack lifted his arm higher than expected and tried not to smile when you praised him. Luke hit a strength milestone and immediately looked at you first, like your approval mattered more than anyone else’s. Quinn kept every update in his phone even though you had everything documented professionally. Ellen sent you wedding centerpiece ideas between rehab check-ins. Jim started calling you “doctor” in a teasing voice and “kiddo” when he got emotional.
Then came the day Jack and Luke were cleared to get back on the ice.
Not fully, not recklessly, not without restrictions—you made that very clear at least ten times—but enough.
The whole family showed up.
It was early morning, the rink still quiet, the ice freshly cut and shining under the lights. Jack stepped onto it first, cautious despite himself, then Luke followed. Quinn stood beside you at the boards, one hand resting lightly on your back. Ellen was already crying. Jim had his arms crossed, suspiciously focused on the ice.
Jack took a slow lap, then another. Luke moved carefully at first, testing his body, feeling the rhythm come back. There was no dramatic music, no crowd, no cameras. Just blades on ice and two brothers returning to a piece of themselves.
You watched with your arms crossed, doctor eyes sharp, heart completely exposed.
“They look good,” Quinn said quietly.
“They do.”
“You did that.”
You shook your head. “They did the work.”
“You gave them the chance.”
You glanced up at him. “Don’t make me cry at a rink.”
His mouth curved. “You cry at rinks all the time.”
“Because your family keeps doing emotionally devastating things in them.”
Jack skated toward the boards then, stopping carefully in front of you. His face was flushed, eyes bright.
“Well?” he asked, trying to sound cocky and failing.
You pretended to assess him sternly. “You listened for once.”
Jack’s grin broke wide. “That’s basically a miracle.”
“It really is.”
He leaned forward awkwardly over the boards, and for a second you thought he was trying to say something sarcastic. Instead, he wrapped his good arm around you as best he could.
“Thank you,” he said into your shoulder.
Your face softened immediately. “You’re welcome, Jack.”
Luke came over next, quieter as always. He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, then at Quinn, then back at you.
“You okay?” you asked.
Luke nodded. “Yeah.”
Then he stepped in and hugged you too.
It was gentle, careful, but full of feeling.
Behind you, Ellen made a tiny broken sound.
Jack pulled back and pointed at her. “Mom’s crying again.”
“I am not,” Ellen said, while absolutely crying.
Jim cleared his throat. “It’s cold in here.”
Quinn didn’t say anything. He just stood beside you, one hand on your waist, watching his brothers on the ice and his fiancée smiling through tears.
His whole life was right there.
Later, after Jack and Luke had skated enough for one day and you had threatened them both into following cooldown instructions, everyone gathered near the benches. Jack was still buzzing. Luke looked lighter than he had in months. Ellen kept touching your arm like she couldn’t help herself. Jim hugged you longer than usual and whispered, “Thank you for taking care of our boys.”
You nearly lost it then.
Quinn noticed, of course. He always noticed. He slipped his hand into yours and squeezed.
Jack, because he had never let a heartfelt moment exist without making it worse, looked between you and Quinn and said, “So, when’s the wedding again?”
You laughed. “You know when the wedding is.”
“I just think we should move it up.”
Luke nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”
Quinn gave them a look. “Why?”
“Because,” Jack said, gesturing at you like the answer was obvious, “she fixed our shoulders.”
“I did not fix—”
“She fixed our shoulders,” Jack repeated, louder. “She yelled at us, fed us, kept Quinn from spiraling, made Mom cry like forty times, and got us back on the ice. I think we need to lock this down.”
Luke nodded again. “Before she realizes she can escape.”
You burst out laughing, leaning into Quinn’s side.
Quinn’s cheeks went pink, but his smile was soft. “She already said yes.”
“Engaged isn’t married,” Jack said. “There’s still time for her to come to her senses.”
You looked up at Quinn, squeezing his hand. “Too late.”
His eyes warmed.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly.
You smiled. “Way too late.”
Ellen stepped closer then, wiping under her eyes. “For what it’s worth,” she said, voice thick but happy, “we have felt like you were part of this family for a very long time.”
Your throat tightened.
“But after this,” Ellen continued, reaching for your hands, “after what you did for Jack and Luke, after how you cared for them… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain how much it means to us.”
You looked down, blinking quickly. “I love them.”
“We know,” Jim said gently.
Jack smiled, softer now. “Yeah. We know.”
Luke added, “We love you too.”
You pressed a hand to your mouth, overwhelmed.
Quinn turned toward you fully, his hand sliding to your cheek. “Told you,” he murmured.
“What?”
“They already are your brothers.”
You laughed through the tears. “Unfortunately.”
Jack gasped. “Rude.”
Luke smiled. “Accurate.”
Quinn kissed your temple, lingering there for a second while everyone around you laughed. And standing in that rink, surrounded by his parents, his brothers, and the woman he was going to marry, Quinn felt that same warmth settle over him again.
The kind that came from knowing someone had chosen not just the polished parts of his life, but the messy ones. The injured ones. The worried ones. The family parts.
You had cleared your whole world for Jack and Luke.
You had carried them back to the ice.
And even though the wedding had not happened yet, even though your last name had not changed, even though there was still a dress to pick and vows to write and a day to plan, everyone there knew the truth.
You were already a Hughes.
The wedding would only give them an excuse to say it out loud.
pairing: lumberjack!alpha!stucky x omega!reader (poly)
word count: 8.6k
summary: Needing a change, you take a risk by moving out of California to a cottage in upstate New York that your great-grandfather built for your great-grandmother when they first got married. What you didn’t know was that the house was going to need more work than you originally thought, more than what you could handle. Luckily, your very attractive and handy neighbors offer their help – free of charge, of course. The only problem is that they’re mated to each other. So, why does it feel like they’re flirting with you?
warnings: modern!au, omegaverse, this is just full of absolute fluff, miscommunication/obliviousness, teasing and flirting, also Steve is a little bit of a slut (it’s already canon), reader is a little clumsy, stucky are extremely smitten, public displays of affection, poly relationship, stucky are tall and beefy, pet names (bambi), true mates, love at first sight, stigma around two Alpha’s dating, alternating pov’s
a/n: thank you so much to @toocrazyunsexycool for this idea (from forever ago)!
masterlist | tip jar | ao3
It’s quite a beautiful day for it being well into fall. It’s not freezing cold thanks to the sun shining high in the sky, but the light breeze keeps it pleasantly cool. The leaves are orange and falling, crunching underneath your boots as you make your way up the cobblestone path to your new house. Stopping just in front of the porch, you look up at it – a beautiful one-story cottage with a broken board on the porch and a busted window. It’s a light-yellow color with trees surrounding the backyard and a decent space in the front for a vegetable garden.
It was hand-built by your great-grandfather in the mid-thirties for his wife after they first got married, and it’s been passed down in your family with each new generation. And despite the house’s dilapidated state, you can tell there’s a lot of love that went into the foundation. You’ve heard stories of your great-grandparents' love and happiness, and the fact that your great-grandfather built his wife a house with his own hands is just proof of their everlasting bond.
It’s a bond you want for yourself.
Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you carefully step up the porch and push through the front door – making a mental note to pick something up from the store to fix the creaky hinges. Immediately upon entering, the kitchen is placed to the right, with the dining room directly across, off to the left, and the living room straight ahead. The bedroom and bathroom are down a hallway near the back of the house, and the open plan allows you to see almost the entire living area, making the environment inviting and comforting.
Setting down the box you were holding by the dining table, you take a quick glance over all the other boxes scattered around, and already anxiety is forming, wondering how you’re going to unpack all of your things by yourself. But you decide to tackle that later and go back out to your truck for the last of your things.
You stop as soon as you get back to the porch, finding two men standing at the end of the driveway, motioning to the moving truck and talking to themselves. You’re not sure where they came from, but their athletic clothes let you know they were probably exercising before they stopped here.
“Um… Hello?” You wrap your arms around yourself to shield yourself from the wind picking up, and walk carefully down the porch. “Can I help you guys?”
“Oh!” The men turn to you; the blonde’s eyes are wide as though he wasn’t expecting you. The brunette man smiles at you and waves, looking sheepish.
“Hey,” He says, nudging his elbow into his friend’s side and walking towards you. “Sorry, we were on a run and saw you driving by, so we wanted to come and say hello to our new neighbor. No one’s lived here since we moved in a couple of years ago.”
His explanation puts you at ease, and when the men stop in front of you, your knees almost buckle. The wind carries their scent directly into you, their Alpha scent. Potent due to their run, but not unpleasant, not at all. And the men must take note of your scent because their nostrils flare and their eyes darken a little bit before the brunette man shakes himself out of his trance.
“I’m Bucky, and this is Steve.” You give them your name before you can forget to think, and you have to shake yourself out of your own reverie.
“My great-grandfather built this house in the thirties, and it’s been in my family ever since. I lived in California for a bit but wanted a change, so my mom gave me the keys,” You say as you motion to the house behind you. You take a quick glance at its deteriorated state and cringe a little. “I obviously didn’t know it would be in this condition, but now that I’ve seen it, I want to fix it up again. I don’t want my great-grandfather’s effort to go to waste, you know?”
You’re not sure why you’re telling them this, but their smiles are understanding, and they quickly glance at each other before Steve speaks up.
“Well, we’re lumberjacks, so we’re pretty handy. We’d be happy to help you with some of the dirty work.” Steve sounds hopeful, and Bucky nods in agreement, his eyes shining with nervousness, and it tugs at your heart. You’ve heard of true mates. It’s not super common, but it does exist, and you can’t help but feel like this might be that.
Stop it. You just met them. You’re getting ahead of yourself.
“Oh, oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. It’s a lot of work, and I don’t want to put you guys through that. Plus, I–I really can’t afford to hire people to help right now.” You smile awkwardly, and while you would love the help, it’s true that you’re limited on funds. You’d spent a lot of money moving all of your things across the country, and you’re seriously rethinking taking time off work to adjust to the move.
“Oh, no,” Bucky says, turning your attention to him, and he’s shaking his head. “You’re our neighbor; we’re not going to charge you a thing.” Maybe he can sense your hesitation because he holds up a placating hand. “Plus, like you said, it’s a lot of work. We’re not trying to undermine you, we swear, but we’d feel bad if you had to do all of this yourself.”
Biting your lip, you weigh the pros and cons. On the one hand, you just met them; they could have an ulterior motive just to try and get into your pants. Or steal your things. On the other hand, you really do need help. When you first saw the cabin, you figured that you would start small and slowly fix things over time, but it would be very nice to get everything done faster. Plus, even though you’re an Omega, you’re strong-willed; you know how to set boundaries and are firm in them.
“Okay, but I’ll still feel really bad if I can’t pay you. Um… I could buy you guys food whenever you come over? After all, I wouldn’t be a good host if I made you work without eating.”
Steve and Bucky glance at each other with smiles, seemingly having a silent conversation before they nod and look back at you.
“I’m sure you’d be a great host even if you didn’t feed us, but we’ll take the compromise.” Steve smiles at you, and you momentarily get lost in his ocean-blue eyes. They pull you in, but Bucky’s soft laugh pulls your focus to him. And, you want to be ashamed of yourself for so clearly ogling him, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems rather amused, especially when you shuffle awkwardly and fiddle with your fingers.
Plus, you’re pretty sure Bucky’s laugh is the best sound you’ve ever heard; it’s deep and filled with a sort of mischief that doesn’t put you off. Instead, it flusters you, and you can even tell your scent is sweetening at all the attention and kindness. It’s not that you don’t receive positive attention from Alphas, it’s just never been these Alphas. And, well, it’s fucking with your brain because you don’t know how to process these feelings.
Your great-grandparents were true mates, so you do you believe in them, you’re just positive you’re not supposed to feel like that for two people. To your knowledge, it’s never been documented as a possibility, so your conflicted emotions send you spiraling a little.
“Okay,” You say, somehow able to speak while also having an internal crisis. “Um… when would you be able to start? I still have a few boxes to bring in, but other than unpacking, I have a lot of free time, so you’re welcome to come over whenever.”
“How about now?” Bucky asks, maybe a little too quickly. But you don’t mind; it just makes you smile at his eagerness to help. “We can take a look at the house now, and then we’ll be able to see what we need to focus on first.”
You can hear your mother’s voice in your head chastising you for letting strangers into your home, but you’re going to ignore that. Because there’s a feeling deep in your bones that lets you know that this is a good idea.
“Okay.”
With your permission, Bucky and Steve make their way inside, and Bucky pulls out his phone so he can start taking notes. Within the first thirty seconds, he’s already got a few problems jotted down. The broken board on the porch, creaky door hinge, broken windows, the dining table looks like it’ll collapse if anything is placed on it, and a few of the cabinets in the kitchen are completely gone.
Bucky wants to get to work immediately, and with the way Steve is fidgeting as they walk further into the house, he wants to as well.
“Babe,” Steve says quietly after he notices the long list on Bucky’s phone. And they haven’t even made it past the living room. “We need to get her new furniture too; the springs are busting out of the couch.”
“I know,” Bucky says, eyebrows furrowing in concern, not necessarily for the house, but for you. The work needed will take at least a month, and both he and Steve can already tell the heater is busted. They haven’t seen your room, but if the couch is anything to go by, both Alphas just know it’s old as well. But he also knows that they’ll do whatever they need to do to help you.
“Let's focus on the big things right now, like the windows and the porch.”
At the mention, they hear a thud and your shout of pain behind them, and they whip around and see that you’ve tripped over the broken board. They rush over to you, Steve moving the box you were holding while Bucky helps you sit so he can crouch down and inspect the damage. There’s a pretty nasty cut on your shin, and you whimper when he touches your ankle.
“How bad does it hurt?”
“Um – ah!” You shout again when he gently moves your ankle to test the pain, and he immediately lets it go in favor of worming his arm under your bent knees, and his other arm wraps itself around your back. He hears you whimper, and he has the suddenly irrational feeling of wanting to absorb your pain, getting agitated that you’re hurting, and knowing he can’t really stop it.
Steve has already taken to laying a blanket on the old couch and placed a pillow on the arm of it. While Bucky gently sets you down so you’re propped up against the pillow and your leg is out straight, Steve rushes to the kitchen, then comes back with a frozen bag of vegetables that were put in the freezer thanks to your foresight of grocery shopping before you started unpacking the moving truck. He also has a towel, which he places over your hurt ankle before resting the make-shift ice pack on it.
“Where’s your first-aid stuff?” Bucky asks in a calming tone despite feeling nearly frantic with the overwhelming need to help, to show you that he can be useful.
“I – I don’t have one,” You say sheepishly, and Bucky wants to sigh and lightly scold you, but knows it’s not his place to.
“Steve –”
“I’ll go get our kit!” Steve interrupts as he jogs out of the door and back to their house. When Bucky sees your eyes widen slightly, he knows you’re about to protest.
“The cut might get infected if we don’t clean it up soon, plus, I’m pretty sure we have a wrap we can use for your ankle. You shouldn’t walk on it for a little anyway, so Steve and I can finish bringing in your boxes. And –” Bucky’s rambling is cut off when you place your hand atop his that’s now on your knee.
“Thank you, Bucky,” You say softly, and Bucky just melts. It’s a little unnerving, these feelings swirling in his chest. He knows them well; he’s grown accustomed to them ever since he can remember, because this is almost exactly how he feels about Steve. He grew up with Steve, has known Steve was his mate since they were young, even when they both presented as Alphas. It’s a little different because he knows Steve intimately in ways no one else does, and he doesn’t know much about you other than the red string of fate telling him that you’re theirs. But, it’s strong enough that he genuinely believes he could love you just as much.
He knows it’s not common for two Alphas to be mated to each other; the dirty and confused looks, coupled with the fact that they were practically shunned out of their neighborhood when they decided to come out, were the main reasons why they moved up here. They wanted to get away from prying eyes and hateful comments, and they’d managed to find friends up here, ones that accepted and supported them.
Bucky briefly wonders how they’d react if they found out about you.
“O-Of course,” Bucky clears his throat, squeezing your knee affectionately. His heart rate is increasing slightly, and he hates feeling off kilter, but your grateful smile settles his worries. “Besides, Stevie and I would never let a pretty Omega be in pain by herself.” He doesn’t know where he got the gall, but it’s worth it when you awkwardly giggle and look away, clearly flustered.
Bucky wants to rumble pleasantly when your scent sweetens, and he can’t deny that his ego gets a little boost when he realizes that he is the reason for it. For a moment, he stares at you while you mindlessly fiddle with the threaded edges of the blanket you’re sitting on. When you look back up at him, you open your mouth to speak, but then immediately shut it when Steve comes rushing back through the door.
“Alright! I got the kit,” Steve says as he kneels down beside Bucky. They work in sync, cleaning your wound and rubbing antibiotic ointment before carefully bandaging it, and are gentle when they have to adjust your foot so they can wrap your ankle.
It doesn’t take long, but Steve talks and asks you questions to distract you from the pain. Apparently, your favorite color is yellow, you have a cat that’s currently at your mother’s house, you’re planning on getting her back after you’ve finished moving and unpacked at least half of the boxes, and you work as a freelance copywriter for various art-centric blogs and articles.
That last fact had Steve perking up, and Bucky wants to playfully roll his eyes because his Stevie will take any chance he gets to discuss art history and different painting techniques for hours. Bucky wants to, but he won’t, because you get excited too when Steve reveals his passion for art, and he would never discourage that.
Eventually, Steve and Bucky go back to searching for more problems with the house, though they check on you every few minutes. Time flies by, and Bucky’s phone is filled with issue after issue, things that need to be fixed, and things that need to be replaced altogether. But, they’re both worried about leaving you so soon after your fall, so they take it upon themselves to order pizza – your insistence on paying for it falling on deaf ears.
And they spend most of the day with you, talking and laughing as though you’ve known each other for decades. It’s surprising, while at the same time not, that all of you just instantly click. You have a lot of the same hobbies they do – reading, hiking, and the occasional baking if you’ve found a particular recipe on pinterest that you think you can make without fucking it up too bad given that you’re actually quite horrible at baking in general.
It’s not until Steve glances at his phone later in the day that he groans.
“What is it, Steve?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing.
“It’s almost six-thirty, we need to feed Alpine,” Steve says remorsefully, glancing at Bucky, who hums in agreement.
“Alpine?”
“Our cat,” Bucky explains, smiling when you perk up. He pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finally holds it up so you can see the white fur ball curled up on what looks like a sweatshirt. “She loves stealing Stevie’s sweaters.”
“And our blankets, sweatpants, and basically anything that has our scent on it.” Steve looks down at Bucky’s phone lovingly; they both love Alpine, doting on her like she were their child.
Bucky smiles widely when you laugh, nodding along and saying, “I wish my cat did that; Maggie prefers my socks.”
Both Alphas laugh, and Bucky can’t help but want Alpine to meet Maggie and see how they’d react to each other. Alpine is very particular about humans, but relatively friendly with other animals as long as they’re not loud and rambunctious; she likes peace and quiet.
“Well, I guess we have to go,” Bucky says sadly, slowly standing because he really, really doesn’t want to leave, but also knows that their cat is probably missing them and their attention. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” You assure him with a smile, gently lifting your leg and rolling your ankle in a small circle to test the pain. “It still hurts a little, but not as bad; I’ll be able to walk.” Suddenly, Steve takes both of your hands in his and helps you stand, not letting go until you rest more of your weight on your injured ankle and nod.
“Go get some rest, we’ll be back tomorrow morning with some tools and get to work,” Bucky says, smiling, admittedly a little dazedly, when you look up at him with a smile of your own.
“Okay, I’ll have food ready when you get here.” Steve opens his mouth to protest before you start speaking again. “I promised you food, and I’m not taking it back just because I hurt my ankle by being clumsy.”
Bucky and Steve look at each other hesitantly, but eventually agree when they realize you won't back down.
“Alright, but please don’t overwork yourself,” Steve says, taking your hand again so he can squeeze it.
“I promise,” You say with a chuckle, squeezing back. “Now, go give some love to Alpine for me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, laughing along with Steve. As they walk to the door, Bucky can’t help but look back at you, smiling when he finds you looking back at them with what Bucky thinks (hopes) is fondness. With a final wave, they leave and make the short trek back home.
It’s nine in the morning when you hear a few knocks on your front door, and you have to remind yourself not to hurt your ankle further by rushing to answer. When you do, you see both Alphas holding bags presumably filled with tools to fix up your rundown cottage. Bucky sets his down on the porch next to the broken board while Steve brings his inside, and you step aside to let them in.
“Good morning, guys! I didn’t know what you liked to eat, so I just made pancakes and bacon; I hope that’s alright.” Suddenly, you’re hit with a mild wave of regret for not asking them yesterday what they preferred, but Steve’s stomach growls almost as soon as you finish talking, causing all of you to laugh.
“Sounds perfect to me,” Steve says with a wide smile, and it fills your stomach with butterflies, even more so when Bucky nods in agreement.
“We’ll eat anything you make us, Bambi. I’m sure it’s going to be delicious.”
“Bambi?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing a little. When Bucky nods to your hurt ankle, you huff out a laugh and roll your eyes. “Oh, because I’m clumsy?”
“You said it,” Bucky says and shrugs, his eyes twinkling with amusement when you playfully glare at him.
“Well, I guess I can’t argue against it. But just for that comment, I’m making you clean up the dishes.” You meant it playfully; you’re not actually going to make them clean, so you’re surprised when Bucky nods easily and shrugs.
“I’m fine with that.”
“Oh, no, I was just -”
“Alright!” Bucky interrupts you, giving you a wink. “Let’s get eating, Stevie, and then we’ll get to work.”
They scarf down the food quickly, but not before making sure you’ve already eaten because they’d feel bad about not leaving any for you. And when they finish, Bucky shoos you out of the kitchen so he can work on the dishes while Steve sets up in the front yard.
“Is, um. Is it okay if I stay out here with you guys? I won’t get in your way; I’ll just sit on the swing over there and read.” Fiddling with the book in your hands, you chew on your lip nervously. You’d hate to disrupt them in any way, but your concerningly overwhelming need to be around them outweighs any of that trepidation.
“It’s your house, Bambi,” Steve says, now kneeling and emptying his tool bag. “You can sit wherever you’d like. Plus, Buck’s always happy to show off.”
“Shut up, punk,” Bucky grumbles, giving an admonishing tap on the back of Steve’s head. “Besides, you know your shirt size yet still refuse to wear the correct one.”
“It’s all for you, babe,” Steve laughs, jabbing Bucky in the side when he kneels as well.
“Babe?” You don’t mean to question it aloud, but you’re a little confused. Sure, they smell like each other, but you figured that it’s because they live together. You didn’t question why they do, based on yesterday, you assume it’s because they’re such close friends. And, you’re pretty sure Bucky was flirting with you yesterday with that ‘pretty Omega’ comment. They couldn’t possibly be -
“We’re mates,” Bucky explains, but he seems a little hesitant to do so. They give each other a brief and nervous look before turning back to you. “We know it’s not… common for Alphas to be mated together, and if you’re not comfortable with us being here -”
“Oh, no!” You say quickly, now worried about upsetting them. You don’t want to upset them, but you can't deny that now you’re a little sad knowing that they’re taken. But then you have to remind yourself that just because you might think you’ve found your true mates, they’re probably too enamored with each other to even consider you. “I’m not uncomfortable with it, I promise! Like you said, it’s not common for Alphas to be mated to each other, so I just didn’t assume. But I don’t care what other people do as long as they’re not hurting anyone.”
“Well, we’ll treat you right, we promise.” Steve’s words and smile do little to ease the ache in your heart, but you plaster on a smile and nod.
With that, you make your way to the porch swing and open your book. And you really do try to read it, but the Alphas’ grunts as they work to fix the wood, coupled with their scent growing more and more potent the longer they’re out in the sun, makes your head spin.
It also confuses you because they keep sending glances your way – which you’re aware of, considering you keep glancing at them. You’re not sure what it means, but you try to focus on your book and put it out of your mind. That is, until an unknown amount of time later, Steve comes up to you holding a glass of lemonade.
“I hope you don’t mind,” He says, smiling awkwardly down at you as he offers you the drink. “Buck and I were thirsty and raided your fridge.”
You’re momentarily frozen because Steve apparently took off his shirt at some point, leaving him in only a white tank top. His muscles glisten with a thin layer of sweat, his pecs are bulging through the fabric, and you’re definitely not proud of the way your mouth waters at the sight. And if he notices how flushed you are, you hope he assumes it’s because of the abnormally warm Fall day and not the fact that he looks and smells like sin.
“Oh, no it - it’s okay! Help yourself to whatever.” Your voice cracks a little in the middle of the sentence, causing you to cringe slightly. “Thank you for bringing me some.”
“Of course,” Steve says easily, looking relieved that you’re not mad. “We’re almost done out here, then we’re going to move inside.”
Nodding, you set your book aside and stand, but you soon regret it because you’re now almost pressed to Steve’s chest because he didn’t move back. You have to crane your neck a little to look up at him, and his large stature makes you feel safe and protected. It also makes your hindbrain go a little insane – an innate feeling that he can provide for you, that he – and Bucky – can be the perfect Alphas for you.
It’s not until Bucky calls for Steve that you break out of your trance.
“I’ll, uh, go make us some food.” You give him a smile and one to Bucky as you pass him on your way into the house.
Cooking gives you a little break from your inner turmoil, having something to hone in on that’s not the confusing swirling of emotions in your heart. It feels like they’re flirting with you, but that can’t be true because they’re mated together for fucks sake.
And these feelings continue throughout the day, sitting on your sofa and constantly stealing glances at them, and feeling their eyes on you whenever they pass through the living room. They have the heater fixed within two hours, and you’re grateful for that because it was freezing last night, and you’d hate to have to deal with that for another night.
It’s just the beginning of sunset when they decide to leave for the day, promising to return tomorrow around the same time to look at the few broken windows. You wave them goodbye with a smile and a promise of your own to get breakfast ready.
It’s when you’re finally lying in your uncomfortable bed that you internally curse whatever higher power there is for teasing you like this, dangling the two most perfect men right in front of your face, only to pull them away within the blink of an eye.
The next three weeks practically fly by. Steve and Bucky go to your house three days a week to help with renovations in between doing their actual jobs. They’re efficient in fixing up your house, but both of them will admit that even though it’s taking less time than they originally thought, they’re taking a little longer than necessary because, despite Steve and Bucky’s hints, you don’t seem to catch on to their flirting.
Which is why Steve decided that today would be a good idea to take you to the market in town to do some decor shopping, figuring that maybe taking you out would give you a better taste of what it would be like to be with them.
And it’s quite a beautiful day; the sun is out and shining bright, the birds are chirping happily, and the leaves are more colorful than ever, giving that true autumn effect. It’s made even better when you step out of your house and make your way down the walkway to Steve and Bucky’s truck. You’re wearing a simple long-sleeved sweater and jeans, but Steve thinks you’re the most beautiful Omega ever. And Steve doesn’t even have to be mated to Bucky to know that he feels the same, because he immediately starts trying to adjust his own sweater despite the seat belt being in the way, always wanting to look his best for you.
“Hey, Bambi,” Steve says as he steps out of the car when you’re closer, giving you a wide smile that matches your own and opening his arms for a hug.
“Hi Stevie,” You say, and Steve rumbles a little when he hears your tiny squeak whenever he squeezes you to his chest.
“Get her in here, punk!” Bucky calls, and Steve lets you go so he can help you into the middle seat of the truck.
“Aw, are you feeling left out, Buck?” You tease, and Steve settles in beside you once you’re buckled. You lean into Bucky’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his neck and giving him a side hug.
“Of course not, I know I’m your favorite.” Bucky winks at you, and both Alphas can smell when your scent sweetens at the action.
Bucky loves flustering you.
“That’s a lie and you know it,” Steve says, knocking his arm against yours. “I’m her favorite. She said so just last week.”
“That’s just because you gave her your vintage art magazine she’s been searching for, but I am going to be her favorite today because I’m getting her the good hot chocolate from Clint’s shop.” Bucky sticks his tongue out at Steve, causing you both to laugh.
“Well, I will –”
“Who said either of you guys are my favorite?” You ask in a teasing voice. “If Clint’s hot chocolate is as good as you’ve been saying, then maybe he’ll be my favorite. Now, let’s go. I want to look for new blankets.”
Bucky grumbles playfully about how he’s not getting you the drink now as he backs out of the driveway, and Steve smiles to himself when you laugh. And Steve really can’t be blamed for getting hit with a wave of fondness at the sound. He and Bucky just want you so badly; they want to make you laugh every day, they want to provide for you, and love you like they’re sure no one else can. They want to make you happy and support you in everything you do.
It’s a fairly small town, so it doesn’t take long to get to the outside market, and your eyes widen when you step out and get a good look at a few of the stalls. There’s food, wall art, pottery, and the Alphas know that there are a few book stands towards the back that you’ll probably be most excited about.
“Ready?” Steve asks with a laugh, already knowing the answer because you’re practically vibrating in place.
Instead of answering him, you hook your arm through his and do the same to Bucky when he rounds the corner holding a basket. You practically drag them to the entrance, and your excitement is contagious because neither Alpha can keep the smiles off their faces when they see the wonder in your eyes.
They know you haven’t experienced a true Fall season in a while due to you living in southern California for a few years, and they’re already a bit happy with themselves for this date idea, even though it’s not technically a date. To you, anyway.
The three of you spend hours walking around and visiting all the shops, picking up knick-knacks and spices that they refuse to let you pay for. They also encouraged you to pick out vegetable seeds since you’ve mentioned wanting to start gardening. And the entire time, you’ve only let go of their arms to pick items up and inspect them, but as soon as they’re put back or paid for, you wrap your arms around theirs again, and Steve feels like he’s walking on clouds the entire time. And, based on the fond smile that hasn’t left Bucky’s face since they first picked you up, he feels it too.
It’s when you finally make your rounds to Clint’s setup that your eyes really light up.
“Hey guys!” Clint calls when he sees you all, one arm high in the air and waving to gain your attention.
“Hey Clint!” Bucky says when you get closer, and you’re able to see all that he’s selling: hot chocolate, coffee, and various pastries that Steve already knows you’re going to want.
“And hello to you, pretty lady.” Clint’s comment makes you smile, and you greet him with a small wave. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, we promised Bambi here that we’d get her some of your famous hot cocoa, so we came by to see if you had any left.” Steve smiles down at you and fights the urge to puff out his chest when you lean your head on his arm affectionately.
“Of course I do,” Clint says easily, pulling out three cups to get started. “And I stole one of Nat’s peppermint chocolate bars earlier that your Bambi can have.”
Now, you get flustered easily. Or, at least you do around Steve and Bucky, so it doesn’t surprise them when you start shuffling nervously and awkwardly chuckling. And Steve would be worried about the ‘your’ part of Clint’s comment upsetting you if not for your scent getting noticeably sweeter. Steve looks at Bucky over your head, and he can see the light flush on his mate’s face as well as the fact that he’s clearly trying not to smile.
“O-Oh, um, thank you,” You say, extracting your arms from the Alphas’ so you can grab your cup and hold it close to your chest, letting the steam waft up into your face and warming you up. As soon as you take a sip, Steve has to stop himself from shivering at your pleased hum, and he aches to taste the chocolate straight from your lips.
He doesn't kiss you, though. No matter how badly he wants to. What he does is wrap an arm around your shoulder, smiling down at you when you look up at him, your eyes wide and sparkling.
"You like it?"
"It's delicious," You respond, leaning into his side. But, unable to leave Bucky out, you once again loop your arm through his.
"I'm glad," Clint says, breaking you both out of your moment. When Steve looks at him, Clint has a mischievous glint in his eyes, a smirk forming on his face. Immediately, he knows his friend is going to say something to embarrass him and Bucky, probably to point out how stupid they look whenever they're so much as near you.
"Why don't we look for those blankets you've been wanting?" Steve asks, interrupting whatever Clint is about to say.
"Okay!" You perk up almost immediately, smiling widely at him and Bucky, then turning to Clint. "Thanks for the hot chocolate. How much do I owe you?"
"Not a single penny, sweetheart," Clint responds, shaking his head. "It's on the house. After all, I’ve never seen these two idiots more in lo–”
“Alright!” Bucky exclaims nervously, glaring at Clint when he’s sure you’re not looking at him. “I think there are more stalls this way.”
Before you even have a chance to question anything, both Alphas are ushering you along the walkway to a booth further away, not caring what they’re selling as long as they get you away from Clint. When Steve looks back at his friend, he sees the cheeky smirk plastered on his face, and Steve knows he should probably be upset about his friend almost spilling their secret, but he and Bucky have been trying to tell you for so long that he’s anxious for you to know, no matter how you find out.
Still, Steve reasons that you probably shouldn’t find out in public when they are your transportation, and they’d hate for the drive home to be awkward in case you don’t feel the same way they do. So, they spend the rest of the day showing you around, buying whatever you look at for more than five seconds, and relishing in the feeling of having you so close to them.
When they finally take you back home, they insist on bringing in your things, never wanting not to be useful to your needs and wants. And, if they linger in the doorway a little longer, if they hug you a little tighter, if they take a few inhales of your scent before pulling away, well, who can blame them? When it comes to you, they’ll take whatever they can get.
It’s almost four in the afternoon, and your entire body is thrumming with nerves. Steve and Bucky came by around nine this morning, only to kick you out of your own house under the guise of Natasha, another one of their friends and Clint’s fiancée, wanting to hang out with you. You don’t doubt that she genuinely did want to go shopping together, after all, you’ve become pretty good friends ever since you met her shortly after the farmer’s market. But the looks on everyone’s faces when you hesitantly said yes to the girl’s date had your mind racing.
What could they possibly be planning?
Steve only texted you once since you left: a blurry picture of Bucky falling down your porch steps. It had you cackling and texting back that maybe Bucky’s nickname should be ‘Bambi’, but there wasn’t a response, so you were left to rack your brain over what the hell is going on at your house for the rest of the day.
“Don’t worry,” Natasha says as you both get back in her car, your bags in the trunk and your stomachs filled with delicious food from the bakery not too far from your cottage. “I promise that they’re not breaking your house.”
“Wait.” You turn in your seat, giving her a quizzical look. “Do you know what they’re doing?” She smirks, and confusion settles in your chest, now even more desperate to know what they’re up to now that you know she definitely knows.
“Not everything,” She says easily, shrugging one of her shoulders, and you’re momentarily jealous of how soft her hair looks as it bounces with the movement. “I can just tell you’re a little worried. And they may be idiots sometimes, but they’d never do anything to mess this up.”
That causes you to pause. Mess what up? It may seem a little silly, but you’ve come to trust them over the last few months you’ve known them. They’ve shown endless amounts of patience, not just with you, but with your house as well. They’ve proved over and over that you can trust them, so you don’t doubt that they’re not fucking up your place again, but you do know that they can cause trouble if they want to.
So, again, what are they planning?
“Natasha,” You sigh, biting your lip nervously. “What is going on?”
“I can’t tell you.” Natasha sighs too, and looks over at you with a soft smile, placing her hand over yours. “I can just see how nervous you are, and I feel the need to tell you that you’re going to love what they’re doing. They care about you, Bambi.”
For a moment, you almost tell her that you love them, that you trust them more than anyone, but you feel like that would give away too much. Besides, just because they care about you doesn’t mean they love you like you love them. With how they are, you know they care about all of their friends, so you try to remind yourself that you’re not their mate.
“I… I care about them too,” You say softly, settling into your seat.
“I know,” She says, a hint of a smile on her lips as she puts the car in drive. You don’t bother asking how she knows, over the time you’ve known her you have come to realize that she knows a lot. And what she doesn’t know, she’ll find out some other way. “Now, let’s get going.”
Even though the drive back to your cottage is not even ten minutes, it still gives you enough time to think over the million possibilities of what could be happening, what they could have waiting for you. The anxiety in your chest is growing slowly, but you try to remind yourself that the Alphas would never do anything to harm you, even if they are goofballs with tendencies to play pranks.
As you get closer to your cottage, driving out of the town and passing Steve and Bucky’s own house, you notice something weird. In the driveway are more cars, but they block your view of the entrance of your house, and Natasha parks far enough away that you can’t make out who is on the porch. You’re only more confused when you see Sam, another friend of Steve and Bucky, jog down the path to Natasha’s car with a wide smile and a piece of cloth.
“Hello, Bambi!” Sam says excitedly, opening the door for you and helping you out.
“Hey, Sam - oh!” You’re cut off by Sam turning you around and placing the cloth over your eyes and tying it around your head, using it as a blindfold. “What the hell is up with everyone today?”
“You’ll see!” Sam exclaims, and even though you’re even more curious now, Sam’s excitement is contagious, and you can feel your heart beating a little quicker in anticipation. “And you’ll love it.”
Sighing, though playfully, you let Sam turn you around to presumably face your cottage, and you feel one of his hands on your back while his other takes hold of you arm as he urges you forward, occasionally guiding you left or right to avoid any obstacles in your path. And, despite feeling overwhelmingly perplexed, you can’t deny that you know you’ll love whatever the Alphas have planned for you.
After a minute of walking, slowly since you’re basically blind right now, you feel Sam step behind you and start untying the blindfold.
“Okay, Bambi. Are you ready to see what your Alphas did?”
Your face immediately goes hot, because, while they’re not technically your Alphas, no matter how much you want them to be, it does feel nice to hear it, especially from one of Steve and Bucky’s closest friends.
“God, yes,” You say exasperatedly, laughing a little to show him that you’re not actually upset over the fact that you’ve only been given cryptic clues throughout the day, left to wait to see what they could have done to warrant this type of energy from their friends.
“Okay then. Three, two, one!” The cloth falls away from your face, and you have to blink and squint your eyes for a moment to adjust to the light.
Once you’re able to focus your eyes on what is in front of you, your mouth drops open, your heart nearly stopping. Because in front of you stand Steve, Bucky, and Clint, all with wide smiles on their faces. Natasha moves to stand beside you, shopping bags in hand, and you can see her smiling out of the corner of your eyes.
It takes you a moment to gather your bearings, but finally you notice something that wasn’t there this morning: fairy lights dangling from the roof of the porch, a new porch swing with what looks like the softest pillows perched on it, and potted plants on either side of the front door. In the simplest of terms, it’s beautiful. Ethereal, even. It’s almost like Steve and Bucky dove into your brain to figure out how you want to decorate your place.
“Wha - How did you…” You’re unable to finish your sentence because you’re just at a loss for words. Obviously, it wouldn’t have taken all day just to decorate the porch, so you have a sneaking suspicion that they must have also added some finishing touches on the inside as well.
“Your mother helped a lot,” Steve says, a soft and endearing smile on his face.
“My mother?”
At the mention, the front door opens and your mom steps out, also smiling, with her arms open for a hug. You haven’t had the chance to see her since the first day you moved out here, so you can’t really be blamed for rushing up the steps and practically throwing yourself at her, a laugh bubbling up in your chest as she squeezes you to her chest.
“I may or may not have found your Pinterest account and sent them the link,” She explains, and you pull away to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that. These handsome Alphas wanted to help you get officially settled in, and you deserve to have people in your life that want you to be happy.” She then leans in closer to whisper in your ear, but just loud enough that you know she wants the others to hear, “And even though I just met them, I know they make you happier than you’ve ever been.”
Your face flushes even more at her comment, and tears want to spring to your eyes. Even though you lived in California for years, and you had several friends that you were reluctant to say goodbye to, you never really realized how much you needed people like Steve and Bucky in your corner, not to mention their friends that have welcomed you into their little circle. It sends a surge of love all throughout your body, and when you finally step back from the hug, you turn to see both Alphas looking at you nervously, both fiddling with their clothes as though they’re stopping themselves from hugging you as well.
“Thank you guys, I – I mean it. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.” Your voice is small, and you take a risk by slowly walking towards them, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “But I’m so grateful that you did.”
Before you can stop to think, you surge forward, wrapping one arm around Steve’s waist, and the other around Bucky’s, pulling them close to hug both of them. You can feel them sigh in what sounds like relief, both of them encasing you in their arms as well. For a moment, you forget that there are people watching you, you just hug the Alphas as tight as you can to show your gratitude. And it seems to last forever, neither of you wanting the hug to end. That is, until you hear someone clear their throat, and that’s when you remember that you’re not alone.
You pull away from them, turning your head and looking at the group with an almost embarrassed smile.
“Oh, don’t mind us,” Sam says with a smirk, looping his arms around Clint and Natasha’s shoulders. “Why don’t we give these three a little privacy.”
“Come inside everyone, I’ll make us some tea,” Your mother says, and when you look at her, you see a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Not you,” She says while pointing at you, “You guys take all the time you need out here.”
With that, the gang follows your mom inside the house, leaving you to stand in front of Steve and Bucky, shuffling nervously. Finally, when you’re alone, you look up at the Alphas, both of them glancing at each other before turning their gaze back to you.
“We, um…” Bucky trails off, breathing deeply. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”
Immediately, your heart starts beating faster, and you have the smallest suspicion of what they’re going to tell you. You know it’s probably wishful thinking, but you can’t help but hope and pray it’s what you’re wanting to hear.
“About what?” For a moment, everything is quiet except for the pounding of your heart in your ears, but then, both Alphas reach forward to take your hands in each of their own.
“Bambi,” Steve sighs, looking over at Bucky anxiously. When his mate nods, they both once again turn back to you. “We care about you. A lot. And – And it’s more than just how we care about our friends. We…” When Steve stops, Bucky picks up for him.
“We love you, Bambi,” Bucky says, and you can smell how anxious they are, it’s potent. “We’re pretty sure you’re our mate.”
“And we know it’s rarely heard of for people to have two mates,” Steve continues, squeezing your hand. “But from the moment we met you, we knew you were different than any other Omega we’ve ever met. We’ve been trying to drop hints here and there, but you’ve never responded to them. And we didn’t know whether it’s because you truly didn’t know or you’re just too kind to say anything about it, but now that the house is finished, we couldn’t wait any longer.”
“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way.” Bucky chews on his bottom lip for a moment, and you want to stop them, you want to scream from the rooftop that you love them too, you want to kiss the worry off their faces. But, you don’t, because he keeps talking. “And if you don’t, then that’s perfectly fine. We don’t expect you to love us back just because we helped you with the cottage, and we’re still not going to charge you for any of the work. And we’d love to still be friends, but it’s totally understandable if you’d be too uncomfortable with that. We just…”
“We just needed you to know how we feel,” Steve says softly, smiling at you, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “But –”
“Guys,” You say quickly, squeezing both of their hands and stopping them in their tracks. “I… To be honest, I did kind of suspect that you were flirting with me. I just didn’t know if it was wishful thinking, though, because you’re mated to each other. But…” Taking a deep and steadying breath, you glance between them, happy tears in your eyes.
“But, I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. I just never said anything because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I couldn’t handle not having you both in my life, so I was content with what we had. However, if you’re serious, then I’d love to be with both of you. Like, mates.”
“Thank god,” Both Alphas say, laughing from the sheer joy of finally having what you’ve all apparently wanted for months. The three of you fall into a bout of silence, relishing in your newfound relationship, Bucky’s free hand coming up to wipe away a stray tear with his thumb.
“Oh come on!” Someone exclaims, and all of your heads snap up to see the whole gang staring at you through the slightly opened window.
“Kiss already!” Your mom says happily, and you would be scandalized at her watching, but you know she just wants the best for you, so you’re not that upset that they’ve been snooping.
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve says, smirking down at you, leaning in close and pressing a lingering kiss on your lips. It’s not an intense kiss, but the emotions you feel certainly are. It’s almost like the world has tilted, righting itself, and leaving you breathless when he pulls away.
Bucky follows soon after, pulling you in by the hold he has on your hand so he can kiss you too. It’s a little hard to kiss when you’re both smiling, but it’s just as perfect as your kiss with Steve.
Now that you think about it, you never thought you’d ever have a true mate, let alone two, and it may be a little cliche, but right now you feel as though you’ve been missing something for your entire life, and you’ve finally found it in the form of two perfect Alphas.
More TikTok trends~ I even added one of my own, like a big girl, but omfg I watched that video and went YES THIS IS SO LUKE AND HEALTHCARE READER CODED EEEEEE and kicked my feet like a toddler lol so ENJOY!!
Word Count: 3227
Warnings: Use of (Y/N), AFAB! Reader, talk about tampons no graphic period discussion, just silly and goofy.
Summary: Not allowed to open doors, and my tampon got stuck + Comments!
-------
Luke had been opening doors for you for so long that neither of you really thought about it anymore.
Car doors, store doors, restaurant doors, the front door of the house, if there was a door between you and your destination, Luke somehow appeared in front of it first.
Most of the time, it was sweet. Occasionally, it was annoying. Today it was hilarious.
You'd seen the trend all over TikTok. Girls opening their own doors, and boyfriends reacting as if they'd just committed a federal crime.
So when Luke pulled into the grocery store parking lot and put the truck in park, you quietly set your phone in the cup holder facing both of you.
Luke didn't notice he was busy talking about something Jack had done. "...and then he tried to convince me it wasn't his fault even though I literally watched him do it."
"Mhm."
"He broke the blender."
"Mhm."
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Nope."
Luke narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Then he climbed out of the truck.
Perfect. The second his door shut, you reached for your own handle, but you barely got your fingers around it before the door suddenly flew open from the outside.
Luke stood there staring at you, offended. "What are you doing?"
You blinked innocently. "Getting out?"
"No."
"...Yes?"
"No."
You started laughing.
Luke pointed at the handle. "Why were you touching that?"
"It's my door."
"No, it's not."
You laughed harder.
Luke looked genuinely disturbed. "Why would you do that?"
"Luke."
"Seriously." He stepped aside so you could get out, but his expression never changed. "You were just gonna open it yourself?"
"That's usually how doors work."
His jaw dropped. "You have me."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means you don't open your own door. You don’t even look at the door."
You climbed out of the truck while trying not to laugh.
Luke followed close behind, still shaking his head. "This is what happens when I let you spend too much time on TikTok."
"Oh my God."
"I'm serious."
"You are being dramatic."
Luke stopped walking. "Dramatic?" He pointed at the truck. "I walked around the entire vehicle."
"Luke."
"I practically sprinted."
"You were walking."
"I was moving with urgency."
You were fully laughing now, and people in the parking lot were starting to look, but Luke didn't care.
"If I see you touch another car handle, we're having a conversation."
"A conversation?"
"A serious one."
You grabbed his hand. "About what?"
"Boundaries."
"Boundaries?"
"Between you and the passenger door."
You nearly folded in half laughing. "You're ridiculous."
"You love me."
"I do, very much."
"Good." He leaned down and kissed your forehead before steering you toward the store with a hand on your back.
Then, because he was Luke, he hurried ahead and grabbed the store door before you could touch it. The smug look on his face was unbearable.
"See?"
"See what?"
"You almost opened that one, too."
"Luke."
"I'm protecting your reputation."
"My reputation?"
"People would think I don't adore you."
You stared at him. “How does that have anything to do with my reputation?”
Luke shrugged. "Can't have that.”
-----
Comments:
yn_buggy: i touched the handle for 0.2 seconds
↳ lhughes_06: that's all it took
↳ yn_buggy: YOU WERE TIMING IT???
↳ lhughes_06: yes
---
jackhughes: "it's my door." bold statement from someone who clearly doesn't know the rules
↳ yn_buggy: WHAT RULES?!?!?!
↳ lhughes_06: exactly
---
trevorzegras: "you have me" brother what does that even mean 😭😭😭
↳ lhughes_06: it means she doesn't open doors Trevor
↳ trevorzegras: i feel like we're speaking different languages
↳ yn_buggy: you’ll never understand love parasite
↳ trevorzegras: SHUT UP RAT YOU DON’T KNOW LEFT FROM RIGHT
↳ yn_buggy: LEAVE MY DIRECTIONAL CHALLENGES OUT OF THIS
---
_quinnhughes: the offended look was 100% real
↳ yn_buggy: THANK YOU
↳ _quinnhughes: i've seen that face before
↳ lhughes_06: because people keep doing ridiculous things. mostly my beautiful girlfriend
↳ yn_buggy: awww Lukeyyyy
↳ jackhughes: this is disgusting
↳ yn_buggy: jackson. no one asked
---
nicohischier: "it's not your door" 😭😭😭
↳ yn_buggy: NICO HELP ME
↳ nicohischier: unfortunately i think he's serious schwöschterli
↳ yn_buggy: Captain please 😭
---
gritsy_96: "boundaries between you and the passenger door" i'm framing this comment
↳ yn_buggy: funniest thing he's ever said
↳ lhughes_06: i was being serious
↳ gritsy_96: somehow make it funnier
---
ethanedwards: the fact that he beat the automatic lock system to the door is impressive
↳ yn_buggy: he practically teleported
---
austinhockey: i'm crying at "people would think i don't adore you"
↳ yn_buggy: HE SAID IT SO CASUALLY
↳ austinhockey: like that's a normal sentence
↳ lhughes_06: it is a normal sentence Austin
---
alexisnurse: protective? yes. dramatic? also yes
↳ lhughes_06: unfair
↳ alexisnurse: accurate
---
mackcelebrini: "i walked around the entire vehicle" congratulations man 😑
↳ lhughes_06: thank you
↳ mackcelebrini: that wasn't a compliment
---
devilsfan17: this man treats opening doors like it's part of his contract
---
hockeygirl92: not him looking personally betrayed 😭
---
lukesnumber1fan: "it's not your door" SIR WHOSE NAME IS THE TRUCK REGISTERED UNDER
↳ yn_buggy: *sigh* his
↳ lukesnumber1fan: MOTHER?!?!
---
jerseyfan44: he opened the store door too 😭😭😭
---
redandblackhockey: this is the most Luke Hughes thing i've ever seen
---
sportsfan22: "i'm protecting your reputation" 😭😭😭😭
---
nhlgirl15: the way he didn't care that people were staring in the parking lot
---
devilsnation: he's not opening doors because he's polite anymore. he's doing it out of territorial instinct
---
trevorzegras: blink twice if you're allowed to carry your own groceries
↳ yn_buggy: i'm not sure anymore
↳ lhughes_06: absolutely not
↳ jackhughes: THERE IT IS
---
randomfan88: the forehead kiss after arguing about a car door 🥹
---
randomfan34: every video somehow reveals a new level of boyfriend behavior
---
yn_buggy: guys he opened the freezer door for me in the grocery store too
↳ mackcelebrini: no way
↳ yn_buggy: yes way
↳ lhughes_06: she was reaching
↳ yn_buggy: IT WAS THE ICE CREAM SECTION
↳ lhughes_06: exactly
---
jackhughes: i've known him his whole life and somehow this still surprises me
↳ trevorzegras: same
↳ _quinnhughes: same
↳ nicohischier: same
↳ lhughes_06: fake friends
---
randomfan56: "people would think i don't adore you" sir nobody has ever thought that. we KNOW you adore her
---
yn_buggy: for everyone asking, yes he opened my car door when we got home too
↳ lhughes_06: as i should
↳ yn_buggy: i wasn't asking
↳ lhughes_06: doesn't matter
↳ jackhughes: this relationship is just Luke making rules and Y/N arguing with them 😭
↳ trevorzegras: and somehow Luke wins every time
↳ yn_buggy: unfortunately true 😭
-----
The TikTok started with a simple caption: Trying to open my own door to see my boyfriend's reaction.
It was a terrible idea. The two of you had just finished dinner with Jack and were heading back to the car.
Jack was already walking ahead, scrolling through his phone and completely ignoring both of you. Luke had his keys in one hand and your leftovers in the other while you trailed beside him.
Normally, Luke would walk you to the passenger side before heading around to the driver's seat every single time without fail, but tonight, you had a mission.
The second you reached the truck, you casually slipped away from him. Luke didn't notice at first; he was unlocking the doors.
Perfect.
You grabbed the passenger handle, the handle moved maybe half an inch. Maybe.
Before Luke's voice cut through the parking lot. "Hey."
You froze, slowly turning towards him. Luke was staring at you then at your hand, then back at you.
His eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline. "What are you doing?"
You blinked innocently. "Opening the door."
Luke looked horrified. "Huh?"
"The door?"
"No."
You glanced down, then back at him. "Yes?"
"No."
You started laughing.
Luke wasn't laughing. He walked over, staring at your hand. "Why are you touching that?"
"It's the door handle."
"I know what it is. I thought we had this conversation already?"
"So..."
"So what are you doing?"
You were already trying not to smile. "Getting in the truck."
Luke looked genuinely confused. "Without me?"
"What do you mean without you?"
"I haven't opened it yet."
You laughed. "Oh my God."
"No seriously." He pointed at the handle. "Why would you do that?"
Jack looked up from the back door. "What's happening now?"
"She's opening her own door."
Jack looked at you, then at Luke. "You touched the handle?"
"Thank you!" Luke said.
Jack nodded solemnly. "Yeah, that's kinda messed up. He’s supposed to get the door. It’s the rules."
"Both of you are insane."
Luke stepped between you and the truck. "You wait here."
"Luke."
"I'll get the door."
"Luke."
He opened the door dramatically, then stepped aside. "There."
You were laughing too hard to stand properly. "Thank you so much, you're my knight in shining armor."
"You're welcome, princess." Luke looked far too pleased with himself.
You climbed into the seat, Luke shut the door behind you, and walked around to the driver's side.
The second he got over there, you reached across and opened his door. Luke froze. A cool breeze drifted inside.
You smiled sweetly. "There you go."
Jack folded over laughing from the backseat.
Luke stared at the open door. "You think you're funny."
"I am funny."
"You just ruined the whole system."
"What system?"
"The system."
"There isn't a system."
"There is now."
Jack was practically crying.
Luke pointed at him. "Don't encourage her."
"I'm trying not to, but that was hilarious!"
Luke sighed dramatically before pulling the door shut. Then he leaned across the center console, kissed you quickly, and shook his head. "You've spent too much time on TikTok."
"You love me."
"I do."
"Enough to let me open my own door?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"Because that's my job."
You couldn't stop smiling.
Luke caught it, and his expression softened. Then he reached over, squeezed your thigh, and started the truck.
"Next time," he said, "at least let me pretend I'm useful."
------
Comments:
yn_buggy: for the record i opened approximately 3% of the door before he noticed
↳ lhughes_06: 3% too much
↳ yn_buggy: ITS A DOOR
↳ lhughes_06: exactly
---
jackhughes: she touched the handle and this man looked like he witnessed a crime
↳ lhughes_06: because i did
↳ jackhughes: you need help
↳ lhughes_06: says you
---
_quinnhughes: i watched this happen in real life once
↳ yn_buggy: HE GOT OFFENDED
↳ _quinnhughes: genuinely offended
↳ lhughes_06: because she knew what she was doing
---
trevorzegras: "you wait here" 😭😭😭 like she's a toddler at a crosswalk
↳ yn_buggy: THANK YOU
↳ lhughes_06: she was unsupervised
---
nicohischier: the betrayal in his face 😭
↳ yn_buggy: he looked devastated
↳ nicohischier: i've never seen someone so upset over a door
---
gritsy_96: Luke acting like the passenger door filed for divorce
↳ yn_buggy: THIS ONE
↳ lhughes_06: not funny
↳ gritsy_96: very funny
---
alexisnurse: "without me?" took me out 😭
↳ yn_buggy: HE SAID IT SO SERIOUSLY
---
mackcelebrini: bro got beat to the passenger door and never recovered
↳ lhughes_06: exactly
↳ mackcelebrini: that's not the side i was taking
---
ethanedwards: protective level: irrational
↳ yn_buggy: accurate
↳ lhughes_06: wrong
↳ ethanedwards: buddy you physically blocked the truck
---
austinhockey: if she opens a door by herself does she disappear or something
↳ yn_buggy: apparently
↳ lhughes_06: you stay out of this
---
ybfn: the way he looked at your hand 😭😭😭
↳ yn_buggy: LIKE IT BETRAYED HIM
---
devilsfan44: not him saying "without me?" 😭😭😭😭
---
hockeygirl23: this is actually the cutest thing i've ever seen
---
redandblackfan: the fact that he noticed before the door was even open is killing me
---
puckbunny98: man sensed it through the force
---
lukesbiggestfan: "i haven't opened it yet" 😭😭😭
---
jerseyhockeymom: my husband does this too and gets offended every single time
---
sportsgirlie: him stepping between her and the truck 😭
---
hischiercaptain13: the passenger door being under witness protection has me crying
---
nhlfan27: luke treats chivalry like it's a legally binding contract
---
devilsnation: the forehead wrinkle when he saw her hand on the handle 😭
---
hockeyedits22: "that's my job" okay sir 🥺
---
yn_buggy: guys he opened the house door for me when we got home too
↳ devilsfan44: he was re-establishing order
↳ trevorzegras: resetting the system
↳ jackhughes: factory reset
↳ lhughes_06: exactly
---
randomfan18: not him acting like she tried to drive the truck
---
randomfan55: every video proves more and more that this man is obsessed with her
↳ yn_buggy: finally someone gets it
↳ lhughes_06: thank you
↳ jackhughes: don't encourage him
---
lhughes_06: for everyone asking, no she's still not allowed to open her own door
↳ yn_buggy: ALLOWED???
↳ lhughes_06: ❤️
↳ yn_buggy: that's not an answer
↳ lhughes_06: yes it is
↳ jackhughes: i'm reporting this relationship to HR
↳ trevorzegras: there is no HR
↳ jackhughes: there should be for this guy specifically 😭
------
The TikTok starts in the bathroom. You have your phone propped up on the counter while Luke sits on the couch in the other room scrolling through his phone while waiting for you to finish getting ready.
He's completely relaxed.
"Luke, can you come here please?"
He looks up instantly. "Yeah Baby?" He asked as he walked into the bathroom.
"I have a problem."
His phone drops to the counter. "What happened?"
You try to keep a straight face. "My tampon is stuck."
Luke freezes. "What?"
"My tampon is stuck."
The concern on his face is instant. "What do you mean stuck?"
"I can't get it out."
Luke is already turning. "Okay."
You blink."Okay?"
"Okay." He's nodding like he's preparing for battle. "We can fix this."
You have to look away. "We can?"
"Yeah." Luke walks over to you. "Did you try pulling it?"
"Yes."
"Harder?"
"Luke."
"I'm asking questions."
You nod seriously. "Yes."
Luke frowns. "Stay here."
And before you can stop him, he's gone. You hear his footsteps sprinting down the hallway, downstairs, cabinet doors opening and closing.
Then Jack's voice. "What are you doing?"
"No time."
"What do you mean no time?"
"No time, Jack!"
You nearly choke trying not to laugh. A minute later, Luke comes jogging back upstairs. Arms full of stuff.
You see the headlamp first, then the kitchen tongs, a flashlight, and somehow a pair of barbecue gloves.
You stare.
Luke sets everything on the bathroom counter. "Proud of myself for thinking of the headlamp."
You can't breathe. "Luke."
"What?"
"The tongs?"
"Extra reach."
"The barbecue gloves?"
"Protection."
"From what?"
"I don't know." His answer is immediate. Luke starts putting on the headlamp, tightening the strap, and testing the light. The bright beam shines directly into your eyes. "There."
You have tears forming already. "Lukey, what are you doing?"
He looks at you like you're the crazy one. "Helping."
Then he picks up the tongs and clicks them twice.
You double over laughing.
Luke pauses. "Why are you laughing?"
You can't answer.
"Y/N."
You're crying now.
Luke's eyebrows pull together. "Sweetheart, this isn't funny." The sight of him standing there fully dressed in grilling equipment makes it worse.
You laugh harder.
Luke looks between you and the tongs. Luke lowers the tongs. "This is a TikTok."
The laughter gets worse.
"Y/N."
You slide down the bathroom cabinet, unable to breathe.
Luke pulls off the headlamp. "I raided the kitchen."
You nod still laughing. "I can see that."
"I grabbed the good tongs."
"The good tongs?" you wheeze.
"The metal ones." Luke sounds genuinely upset about it.
Jack suddenly appears in the doorway, takes one look at Luke, and sees the headlamp, flashlight, tongs, and stops.
"What the fuck?"
You fall over laughing.
Luke points at you. "She said her tampon was stuck."
Jack stares. Then bends over laughing so hard he has to grab the doorframe.
Luke watches both of you completely unimpressed. "I was trying to help."
Jack can't even speak.
Luke crosses his arms. "You know what?"
"What?" you ask.
"If it was actually stuck, you'd both be real happy I had a plan."
Jack starts laughing harder, and Luke still looks convinced the tongs would've worked.
-----
Comments:
yn_buggy: he went downstairs and assembled a rescue kit 😭
↳ lhughes_06: because you said it was stuck
↳ yn_buggy: LUKE YOU GOT TONGS
↳ lhughes_06: extra reach
↳ yn_buggy: STOP SAYING THAT
---
jackhughes: i walked into a crime scene
↳ jackhughes: why was there a headlamp
↳ lhughes_06: visibility
↳ jackhughes: I'M CRYING
---
trevorzegras: NOT THE TONG CLICK 😭😭😭 bro hit the click click like he was clocking into work
↳ lhughes_06: that's how you test them
↳ trevorzegras: TEST THEM FOR WHAT
---
_quinnhughes: he really thought he was the most qualified person available
↳ yn_buggy: not a single doubt in his mind
↳ _quinnhughes: that's the scary part
---
nicohischier: the confidence is what gets me
↳ nicohischier: no hesitation whatsoever
↳ yn_buggy: NONE
---
gritsy_96: "stay here" like he was responding to a national emergency 😭
---
mackcelebrini: THE BARBECUE GLOVES WHY DID HE NEED BARBECUE GLOVES
↳ lhughes_06: safety
↳ mackcelebrini: FROM WHAT
↳ lhughes_06: i don't know
---
ethanedwards: luke entering the bathroom like a mechanic about to fix a transmission
---
alexisnurse: as an actual medical professional i can confidently say none of those items were necessary
↳ lhughes_06: disagree
↳ alexisnurse: you disagree with medicine?
↳ lhughes_06: i had a strategy
---
austinhockey: my favorite part is that he somehow made it worse every time he explained himself
↳ yn_buggy: EXACTLY
---
randomfan14: not him showing up with an entire starter kit 😭
---
hockeygirl22: "proud of myself for thinking of the headlamp" I'M DONE
---
devilsfan87: the fact that he didn't say "let's go to the doctor" he said "i got this"
---
redandblackfan: boyfriend instincts: 100. common sense: 0
---
sportsgirlie: he really saw a problem and said "i'm the solution"
---
trevorzegras: somewhere out there is an alternate universe where luke actually tried this
↳ jackhughes: don't say that
↳ trevorzegras: you know i'm right
↳ jackhughes: unfortunately
---
yn_buggy: the worst part is he was so confident
↳ nicohischier: that's usually the problem
---
randomfan56: "the good tongs" SIR WHAT DOES THAT MEAN
---
lhughes_06: everyone is laughing until something gets stuck for real
↳ jackhughes: NOTHING IS EVER GETTING STUCK ENOUGH TO REQUIRE TONGS
↳ trevorzegras: sentence of the year
---
gritsy_96: imagine explaining this to your future children
---
_quinnhughes: i promise he means well
↳ yn_buggy: that's somehow what makes it funnier
---
devilsnation: the headlamp has me in tears
---
hockeyfan31: not him gearing up like he was about to explore a cave 😭
---
mackcelebrini: i just know he practiced with the tongs on the walk upstairs
↳ yn_buggy: STOP
↳ jackhughes: he absolutely did
↳ lhughes_06: i did not
↳ jackhughes: liar
---
randomfan88: "stay here" where exactly did he think she was gonna go 😭
---
alexisnurse: i'm still stuck on the flashlight
↳ yn_buggy: there was already a light on in the bathroom
↳ alexisnurse: THAT MAKES IT WORSE
---
jackhughes: for everyone asking. yes those were our kitchen tongs. yes he washed them after. yes i threw them away anyway
↳ lhughes_06: YOU WHAT???
↳ trevorzegras: 😭😭😭😭😭
↳ yn_buggy: JACK
↳ jackhughes: worth it
---
lhughes_06: all i'm saying is nobody offered a better plan
⸝⸝ SUMMARY — ❝ the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you. ❞ ⧽ 14.4k
！SMUT, sex pollen (dubcon-ish elements), masturbation (m), oral sex (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampies, overstimulation, hyperspermia, mating press, standing sex, aftercare, manhandling, size kink, praise kink, dacryphilia if you squint, sweat kink if you squint, roommates to lovers, guilty!pervy!steve who apologizes but can't stop, pwp but lowkey with plot?, sprinkle of yearning, 18+ MDNI
⤷ from maddie: official, diagnosed, terminal case of the yapperitis for this one. i got stressed writing pt. 2 of ocayf, and so decided to take a "little break" from it, and accidentally wrote this instead. it's sort of inspired by this post by @blobfishlol (hope you don't mind the tag!) and it was meant to be a quick, filthy little pwp but apparently my brain said no 🤍 it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted anything this long and i feel like i forgot how to write halfway through, so pls be gentle with me!!
dt: @love-stucky for letting me yap her ear off about this fic and for the steve pic edit » MASTERLIST ⟡˙⋆
Steve's still running through the debrief in his head when he pulls up outside his apartment block.
The bike's engine cuts out with a rumble, but Steve still feels a deep thrumming vibration in his chest that won't quit. His heart's pounding - has been pounding since he left the compound, he realises - and that doesn't make sense for someone whose resting heart rate is forty-five. Frowning, Steve rolls his shoulders like he can physically shake off whatever this is. Adrenaline, probably. Leftover cortisol.
Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.
Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use.
It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.
And move through it wrong Steve had.
When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.
He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.
Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.
But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.
The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.
By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.
Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.
But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.
Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.
He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.
Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.
Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.
You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.
And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends.
You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—
"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!"
The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"
"Is that my hoodie?"
The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.
You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten.
"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"
Mind. Right.
Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?
"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."
"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."
There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.
But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.
He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent.
You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.
The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.
And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.
Of course, it's not new, the attraction.
He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him.
Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you.
But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.
And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—
"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"
Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry.
"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."
Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.
This is insane. He's going insane.
Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.
"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."
"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."
"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."
He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.
His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off.
"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."
"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"
"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"
He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.
"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."
He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.
Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.
Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.
Maybe he is.
Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.
He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.
Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.
Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.
He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.
His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.
The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.
Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.
This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame.
Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it.
Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.
The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.
Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.
"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.
His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.
Maybe it's just because it's been so long?
Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."
This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.
The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.
He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on.
Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.
That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.
And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.
It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.
Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long.
He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this.
And in his thoughts, you're there.
Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about—
"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles.
God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch.
A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.
Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.
His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.
Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.
A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.
But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.
"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"
His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.
For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body
Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.
Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.
Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.
He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.
If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.
"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."
This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?
Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.
But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life.
He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate.
Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.
Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.
He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.
And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.
Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.
You're in his bedroom.
Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.
"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."
The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.
Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.
And then your gaze drops lower.
Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.
"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."
You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time.
He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.
You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"
"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.
"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."
The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.
Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.
"Steve?"
Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.
Arousal.
You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.
"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"
Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.
"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.
You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.
"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."
Anything at all.
Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for.
You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.
"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."
But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.
The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.
"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.
Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"
He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.
Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.
He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.
"I'm calling Bruce—"
"No!"
The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.
"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."
"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"
"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.
He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."
Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"
"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."
"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"
"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"
He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.
You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.
"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.
You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.
You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.
Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.
God, you want to feel it tomorrow.
He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.
His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.
When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.
Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.
Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring.
"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"
"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."
And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself.
His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.
Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.
Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.
The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.
But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock.
"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"
Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.
"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."
Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this.
All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.
But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.
Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.
Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.
"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."
He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.
His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet.
The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you.
But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.
His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.
But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.
The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left.
His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.
He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.
"Steve—!"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"
But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins.
All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.
"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me."
His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.
He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.
Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.
"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.
His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.
Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you.
His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name.
Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.
But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.
God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.
The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.
The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.
"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.
But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.
"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."
The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.
Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.
But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.
"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"
He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.
"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"
He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.
He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.
Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.
"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."
One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.
His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.
He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.
“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."
He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.
Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"
The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?
"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."
But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.
"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"
"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."
His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.
"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."
The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.
Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.
The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone.
Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.
"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"
But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.
"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."
You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie."
It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.
Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.
You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.
Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.
"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"
You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.
"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.
"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"
But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.
"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."
Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.
"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full."
"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl."
His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.
Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.
A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.
"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."
His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.
But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.
"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.
"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"
You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.
"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."
Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.
Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.
"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."
One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already
"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."
"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."
The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.
"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.
But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
"That's it, come on, give it to me."
And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.
But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better.
His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.
"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"
Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.
"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.
The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.
"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.
You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body.
Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.
"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."
Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.
"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"
You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.
The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.
"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.
"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."
His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.
You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.
"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"
His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more.
Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.
His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.
The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.
His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.
"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"
You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.
"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."
He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.
"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."
He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.
"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.
With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.
"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."
Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.
Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.
Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.
"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."
You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.
"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.
The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.
"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."
He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.
"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."
There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.
With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable.
"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."
Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."
Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.
"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."
His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.
"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."
You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him.
He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.
But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.
He'll figure it out in the morning.
For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.
more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂↕️
taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @/love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll - if you’d like to be added to my taglist, please leave comment here!
you can build off this if you want i jus have this fantasy and i feel like im edging myself not knowing whats gonna happen next. just imagining being in close quarters with werewolf best friend while wearing tights…for some reason limited space requires you to sit on his lap. You’re nervous and he subtly massages down your thighs, relaxing you. As the minutes pass on he coaxes your legs further and further apart and has you seated tight with your back against his chest. He keeps your clothed pussy flush against his huge hard cock in his jeans. Your friends don’t notice as your ass and hips begin to quiver and shift, causing him to press you down further. He shoves his meaty fingers down your throat to keep you quiet as he expertly shifts his own hips and uses his free hand to orient you how he needs. I just wonder how long he’d have you like that. How wet you’d be and how hard and painful his cock would be jutting into your slow, rocking pussy. I wonder how he’d address it in private, and how he’d take you once the tension finally blew again. Would he show it off to your other friends? would he make a mission of stretching and spreading every part of you like he did your thighs? Are you in a car? Watching a movie? Bonfire? So much to think about I just think the massive surface area of his huge cock and hard, muscular thighs would feel so good to just grind and wither against. Maybe you make so much of a scene your other friends decide you’re theirs for the taking.
Tight Quarters PART 1 (werewolf best friend x fem reader)
Kate: Hey moonlust crewwww and dear anon! This one was a WILD ask in the best way. It got so out of hand that I had to split it into 2 parts!!!
Note: while writing this, the werewolf (I named him Marcus) turned into a very touchy, very feral werewolf. Before I knew it, I was hard into the possessive werewolf best friend trope! Marcus has been secretly obsessed with reader forever, so there’s NO way he’s staying normal with her squirming on his lap in tights for that long or even sharing her.
Anyway, I kept the vibe focused mostly on him and reader AND I ran wild with the tension and the 'finally snapping after holding back too long' energy!!!
Hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it and stay tuned for part 2 with more smut 😭 Hugs!!!
Summary: A mountain cabin. A sudden storm. Your werewolf best friend's lap is the only seat left. What could go wrong? Everything.
TW: NSFW, submitted compliance, public semi-public, size difference, grinding, dry-humping with clothes on, mouth fingering, super pro max possessive behavior, primal, sexual tension.
GO TO PART 2
--------------------------------
The cabin had seemed like a good idea three days ago.
A cozy retreat. Wood-paneled walls. A stone fireplace. Friends gathered together.
Perfect weekend.
Then the sky split open.
The rain started before sunset. By midnight, the roads were flooding and the power kept flickering hard enough to make everyone nervous. Leaving was impossible. Trees had fallen somewhere down the main road.
Thunder cracked.
Then the power flickered.
Once. Twice.
Then nothing.
Darkness swallowed the living room.
"Shit." Marcus's voice rumbled from somewhere behind you, that deep growl that did things to you. "That's it. Power's out for real this time."
Your other friends groaned from their spots scattered around the living room; Sarah curled on the loveseat, Derek sprawled on the rug, Jenna and Tom sharing the armchair by the dimmed fireplace.
But you? You'd been the last one through the door when the storm hit, which meant the only spot left was the corner of the small couch. The corner already occupied by Marcus's massive frame.
Your best friend since freshman year. The person who knew every embarrassing thing about you (well... almost everything). The werewolf who'd grown from lanky, awkward teenager into a muscled beast with dark fur and emerald eyes that made your mouth dry.
He'd patted the cushion next to him when you'd hesitated. "Come on. Promise I don't bite."
You'd perched there nervously at first, your weight barely grazing his denim-clad leg, body angled awkwardly so you wouldn't have to touch him. You wore tights, black tights because Jenna said casual night, but they fucking squeaked against the worn couch fabric as you shifted.
"Settle," Marcus whispered so the others wouldn't hear. His hand found your hip, fingers spreading across. "You're gonna fall off like that."
"I'm fine."
"You're trembling."
Were you? You couldn't tell anymore. His body heat rolled off him in waves, that particular warmth and musk he gave off, and every small adjustment you made brought some new part of you into contact with some new part of him.
Lightning cracked.
Sarah squealed.
Derek snorted.
And Marcus's hand slid from your hip to your thigh. Resting there. His palm cupped the outer curve of your leg through those stupid, stupid tights. His thumb stroked absent circles against the fabric. The motion hypnotic. Unthinking.
He doesn't know what he's doing, you told yourself. It's just Marcus. He's always been tactile. He's always touched you without thinking.
But his thumb traced higher. Then lower. And your muscles started unknotting without your permission. Your spine softened. Your pelvis tilted backward. Your body curved toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.
"You're wound tight," he observed, still pitched for your ears only. "When's the last time someone took care of you?"
"Marcus—"
"Shh. Just breathe."
Another crack of thunder.
You jumped. Your shoulder blades met his chest. And his arm came around you.
Oh.
Oh no.
His cock was already half-hard against your lower back. A thick bar of heat that nudged against you when he shifted, pulling you deeper into the cradle of his body. Your breath caught in your throat and stuck there.
"There you go," he purred. "That's better."
While you hyperventilated, his hand continued moving.
Up your thigh. Down. Wider each time, coaxing your legs apart millimeter by millimeter. Until you realized you were practically sitting back on him, your knees spread open, your tights-clad pussy pressing against the ridge of his zipper.
"Marcus." Your whisper barely existed. "People can see—"
"They can't see shit. Lights out. Phones are dying. Phones are dead, actually. Look around, sweetheart."
You did.
The cabin existed in shades of gray.
No one was looking at you.
No one could see Marcus's hand on your thigh.
"See?" His thumb traced the inside of your knee. "Nobody's paying attention. So stop being afraid."
"I'm not afraid of—"
"No? Oh... I see..."
"What?"
"You smell sweet." His nose brushed your temple, inhaling. "Really sweet."
Heat flooded your face. "I—I don't know what you mean."
"Mhm." Another inhale. Longer this time. His chest expanded at your back. "You do."
His thumb pressed lightly into the inside of your thigh and you bit back a moan. "Wait..."
"There it is," he said, voice rough. "You’re not scared of the storm. So tell me what’s got you this worked up while sitting in my lap, sweetheart."
"Nothing."
He chuckled. "Liar. I can smell it. That sweet, wet pussy scent. And I know you didn't piss yourself." His thumb traced higher. "This is arousal, sweetheart. Your cunt's dripping. Leaking all over my jeans. I can feel it through the denim."
Oh god.
Your face incinerated both at his words. Your core clenched. Fuck, he was right. More slick bloomed between your thighs, soaking through the thin gusset of your panties, darkening the tights above your seam.
"Why?" he murmured. "You can tell me. I'm your best friend."
That's the problem.
Your throat closed around the words. You'd been hiding this for years. You liked him. Had always liked him. Because of him, your dreams had turned into something you couldn't admit to yourself, let alone to him. The way you'd touch yourself at night, imagining his hands, his mouth, his—
"I... I don't know..."
"Bullshit."
"Wh—no, I didn’t—" you stammered.
"Shhh, easy now," he soothed. "I need to check. Make sure you're okay. Spread those legs for me."
You hesitated, biting your lip, but instinct and hunger made you obey. Shyly, you parted your thighs more. He tutted and his hands hooked under your knees, prying your legs wider apart and outside his.
"Like that. Good girl."
Behind you, his muscular hips shifted.
The hard column of his cock, (and god the sheer size of the thing) nudged the cradle of your ass. You felt it jump against you as he settled deeper into the couch. His free hand came up to your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach, and he pulled you flush against his chest.
"Feel that?"
He rolled his hips. Just a small, testing movement.
His cock dragged against your pussy through all those layers. Denim. Tights. Panties. Still, you felt the inhuman thickness pressing against your clothed slit like it wanted to split you open right then and there.
"Fuck... mmhp!"
He covered your mouth before another sound escaped. Shoved two thick digits past your lips and pressed down on your tongue.
"Don't want them hearing how desperate you are, do you?"
In the dim glow of someone's dying phone—Sarah's, probably, because she'd been conserving battery, you could see the room. Sarah scrolling, oblivious. Derek still watching the rain. Jenna and Tom tangled together in the armchair.
No one was looking.
No one saw Marcus's hand slide down your belly, over the mound of your pubic bone, until two thick fingers pressed directly against the soaked fabric covering your clit. You whimpered mutely and wiggled on his lap.
"Be good," he murmured, his finger pulling away from your clit. "Why are you trying to run from me?"
"’m not—" you mumbled through the fingers in your mouth.
"You are."
His nose skimmed behind your ear, breathing you in again.
"You know the funny thing?" he said softly. "You started soaking through those little tights the second you sat beside me."
"No-mphhh!"
"You did." His fingers pumped in your mouth, ruining your ability to think. "Been feeling you squirm this whole time. Every time you shifted, your cunt leaked a little more. By the time the lights went out, you'd already soaked through."
"St-op... mphh... teasing..."
"But it's cute." His fingers danced over your tongue. "You were perfectly fine around everybody else tonight. Laughing. Eating popcorn. Playing board games like a normal person." His hips rolled again, grinding his length against your seam. "Then you sit on my lap and suddenly you're a mess."
You whined low, hit by the absolute truth of his words.
He smiled against your skin. "You wanna know what that tells me, sweetheart?"
You couldn’t answer. Your teeth had sunk into his fingers, your hips moving without your permission.
"It tells me this isn’t the storm making you wet.” His mouth brushed your temple. "It’s me."
You couldn't answer. You gyrated slightly, rocking against him. Your ass grinding against his lap, your tights-slick pussy dragging across his trapped cock, seeking friction, anything to ease the awful, wonderful ache building between your thighs.
Marcus's fingers returned, teasing your clit through the tights. "That's it. Use me. Take what you need."
His hips answered your rhythm. Thrusting up against you in counterpoint. And god, he got even harder; you could feel the shape of his cock clearly. The broad flare of the head. The heavy shaft. The weight of his balls.
He was huge. Bigger than any human of course, and somehow your body craved that stretch, even though you knew it would break you open.
Your thighs quivered. Your stomach clenched.
The pressure in your core built and your rocking turned frantic, while you suckled at his fingers, grateful for something to keep you quiet. He kissed your cheek. Curled his digits, caressing the soft palate of your throat.
"That's right," he rasped. "Choke on my fingers while I use this pretty cunt through your panties. You're so fucking wet I can feel it creaming."
He wasn't wrong. Your arousal had soaked through everything. The ridges of his jeans caught on your clit through the tights, sending sparks up your spine, and your eyes rolled back as he altered his angle.
"You want to cum. You want to soak through your tights and make a mess all over my cock, right here, with everyone in this room."
You shook your head frantically around his fingers.
"It's going to happen, sweetheart." He laughed darkly. "I can feel you fluttering. Your cunt's trying to milk something that isn't even inside it." His hips circled, grinding his length against your seam, and you felt the heat of him even through the denim. "You're gonna cum. But when you do, you're gonna do it quietly."
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—
Your orgasm overwhelmed you.
A silent, powerful thing that ripped through your spine and had your thighs trembling against his legs. Your pussy pulsed against his trapped cock, your hips rocking in staccato jerks as you rode out the pleasure on his lap.
Your mouth opened wide around his fingers but no sound came out except a muted "guhhhhh—"
Saliva spilled down his knuckles. Behind you, Marcus's entire body went rigid, his cock throbbing against your twitching pussy through the denim, and he let out a breath that was almost a whine.
"That's my good girl," he whispered, pulling his slick fingers from your mouth. Strings of spit connected his knuckles to your lower lip. "So pretty when you fall apart for me."
You slumped against his chest, panting, vision blurring at the edges. Your walls still pulsed in little aftershocks that made you clench around nothing. You could feel the wet spot you'd left on his jeans.
Suddenly, the power flickered back on.
The lights blinded you.
"Well," Sarah said, glancing up from her phone, "that was dramatic. You two okay back there?"
"I'm fine," you mumbled, hazy and embarrassed.
Thankfully, Marcus had acted before anyone could notice a thing. He'd shifted you fully into his side, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other pulled your legs across his lap. You were tucked against his chest, curled into the warmth of his chest.
His jeans were ruined.
So were you.
But nobody could see it.
"She's scared of thunder," Marcus said smoothly.
Derek snorted. "Didn't take you for the type to do cuddling, Marc."
"Everyone needs something." Marcus's voice dropped, pitched for your ears alone. "And some of us are about to get everything."
------------------------------------
GO TO PART 2!!!
Meanwhile, show some love if you enjoyed :) Hugs and kisses :)
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.
“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.
At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.
“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.
James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.
“My… Mother.”
He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.
“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“I did say that.”
“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”
Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What-“
“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”
You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”
There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You don’t succeed.
But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.
You’d rather have the gloves.
“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”
“Okay?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”
“Hm.”
“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”
“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“
“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”
“Told you, nothing-“
“What.”
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.
“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”
“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.
“Yeah, I thought you did.”
“Then why’d you ask-“
“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.
There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They won’t see. None of them will see.
And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
“You never tell me about your family.”
Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
“You never ask.”
His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”
“So?”
“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”
“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”
“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”
“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”
“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”
“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
“Why?”
“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”
“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”
Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”
“She doesn’t adore me-“
“She adores you.”
He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”
“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”
You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.
He’s not making that part easy, either.
“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”
“My favorite flower-“
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”
“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”
“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”
You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.
If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.
“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.
“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.
They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”
Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”
“Yes, sir.” You drawl.
Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”
“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
“James, are you-“
“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.
It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.
He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.
“Are you-“
“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.
You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
“But- I can help-“
“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”
“Steve-“
“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.
“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.
“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“
“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.
Bucky’s not the type to do that.
He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
But you’re pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.
“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”
“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”
You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“
“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“
“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”
You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”
“But you’re not.”
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“
“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.
“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”
Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.
But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.
You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.
You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”
Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”
“I know. I’ve read the about page.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”
“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.
“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”
He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”
It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
“By everyone.”
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.
“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.
“Thank you.”
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”
“I’ve been told-“
“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.
You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“
“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.
When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
“Hey.”
“What’re you-“
“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”
You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”
You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“
“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
“You’re not my boss.”
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
“James…”
“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“
“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.
“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”
You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”
“Bucky-“
“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”
You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you meant it?”
You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
“Ja- Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“
You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“
“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”
“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
“You read my messages, right?”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“
You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“
“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.
“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”
Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.
“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”
He tenses around you. “Don’t?”
“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”
Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“
“Bucky-“
“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.
“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“
“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“
“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.
“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.
“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
“You.”
“Me?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
“What about me isn’t nice?”
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”
“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“
“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”
“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
“James-“
“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.
“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”
“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”
“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
“Okay-“
“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”
You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“That a problem, doll?”
“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
“Bucky-“
“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.
“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.
“How long-“
“The same.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“
“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“
“Then show me.”
Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.
“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”
“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.
“Yeah. Yes. Please-“
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.
“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”
“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.
“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“
“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”
“You- You didn’t-“
“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.
Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”
You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”
“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.
“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“
“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”
“Wha- Bucky-“
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.
“Bucky, come back-“
“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”
You scowl. “James-“
“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”
He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.
“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Strip.”
“Like, completely?”
“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
“Please?”
Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“
“It’s polite-“
“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”
You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
“Next time?”
He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.
And he’s just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”
“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“
“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“
“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”
If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”
“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”
You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”
“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”
There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”
“You’re- You’re touching me-“
“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“
“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”
“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”
“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“
“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“
“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.
“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“
“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.
“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”
You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
It’s a risk you’re willing to take.
“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
“Hi.”
“You still in this?”
You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I’d like you to say it-“
“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.
It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”
You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.
“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down.
“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”
You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”
He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.
“But you’re so pretty when I do.”
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.
He’s going to treat you well.
“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”
You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.
“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
“Are you-“
“Yes- Fuuuuck-“
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
“You gotta stop doin’ that-“
“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“
His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”
“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“
“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“
His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”
There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.
“Ye- Yes.”
“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”
“I- I was-“
“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”
“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”
“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“
“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”
“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.
“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.
“Buuccky-“
“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”
And he does.
Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.
Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.
“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“That wasn’t too-“
“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.
“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
“I know.”
“I was serious, about all of it-“
“I believe you.”
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.
“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“
“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”
✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
summary: from locker rooms to late nights, from growing up too fast to building something that lasts - this is what it looks like to be loved gently, completely, and without hesitation.
i’ve been seeing all these videos about the sharks at a school (?) or wherever they were, and one was macklin reading to kids, so my idea was like student teacher reader meets macklin or something cute
the run-ins
macklin celebrini x student teacher!reader
wc: 5.4k
note: full disclosure, i'm not sure kindergarteners learn about the life cycle of animals, but i had a cute idea so who cares
the first time you run into him, you're at target.
it's 10:30, target closes at 11, and you have a class full of kindergarteners that are fully expecting pet dinosaurs tomorrow morning at seven thirty sharp.
your host teacher, allison, has a tradition every year where the kids raise pet dinosaurs. it's during the life cycle unit, after learning about how different animals go from being in eggs to being fully grown.
at the beginning of last week, you and allison handed out the dinosaur eggs. the kids had spent the entire week loving them, making sure they were safe, even building little nests inside their desks for them. they all got really into it, passionately dedicated to their future pet dinosaurs.
it's one of the cutest things you've ever seen.
which is why you desperately need these little plastic dinosaurs.
allison has a four year old and a two year old. she has a lot on her plate. she's the best host teacher you could've ever dreamt of, the nicest woman on the planet, and all you want is for her to be happy.
both of her kids have been having trouble sleeping lately, which means allison hasn't really been sleeping, either. she puts on a really good front for the kids, but you see sides of her they don't. you see the way her blinks are just a little bit too long, the bags under her eyes, and the way she's struggling to focus more and more everyday.
so when she complained about having to make time to run to the store to get plastic dinosaurs, you volunteered to get them yourself.
unfortunately, this week was very busy for you between class, student teaching, and work. so... you totally spaced it.
10:30 on a sunday. and you can't find these fucking dinosaurs.
you've checked toys twice, party favors, and even the art section, but they're nowhere to be found.
it hits 10:45, and the remaining employees are eyeing you with concern, hoping desperately you get out soon. you feel bad, because you know that they don't get paid enough, and all they want is to go home, but you are not leaving without plastic dinosaurs.
you already braved asking an employee if there are any in the back, but the tired-looking teenager had just said: "what we have is out, ma'am, i'm sorry,"
so you're kind of out of luck.
but that's when you see him.
you're standing in front of the party favor aisle, where you'd been sure they would be. a man appears at the other end of the aisle, and even though you don't want to admit it, what catches your attention initially is how pretty he is.
tall, floppy brown hair, bright green eyes, rosy cheeks.
woah.
you're momentarily distracted by him, caught a little bit off guard at the attractive stranger in target at such a late hour.
so distracted, in fact, that it takes you a second to realize what he's just grabbed.
a package of tiny plastic dinosaurs.
"hey!" the word is out of your mouth before you can really process it, and then you're walking towards the cute stranger with more determination than you thought you could possess at this point in the night. "um, where did you find those?"
the cute stranger looks beyond confused, but answers anyway. "right there," he points at a small gap between two other products. which, unfortunately, is disastrously lacking in additional dinosaurs.
"do you need them?" you ask, pointing at the dinos in his hand. you know you look crazy, but you've decided you no longer care.
cute stranger cocks his head to the side, thinking for a few seconds. "i guess not. my roommate is really into baking and wanted to make a dinosaur themed cake."
"can i have them please?" you ask. "i'm sorry about your roommate's cake, but i really need them."
he looks like he's trying to hold in a laugh. "is there some sort of plastic dinosaur emergency happening somewhere?"
"kind of," you admit. "i'm a teacher. we're learning about the life cycle, and my kids are expecting pet dinosaurs to be hatched in their desks by tomorrow morning. i totally spaced getting them this weekend, and my host teacher is already struggling, so i thought i was doing her a favor by offering to get them for the kids, but it's not a favor if i don't actually get them, and-"
"here," cute stranger cuts you off by shoving the little bag in your hands. "my roommate will survive."
for a few seconds, you just stare down at them in shock. then the excitement takes over, and you smile, hugging them to your chest.
"thank you," you breathe. "seriously, you have no idea how awesome you are. you just made a class of 25 kindergarteners very happy.”
he nods, a smile on his face. "i'm so glad."
the two of you just stand there for another few seconds, looking into each other's eyes, a slightly awkward silence engulfing the situation.
finally, you sigh and say, "well i um, better get out of here. school tomorrow and all."
"i have work," he sticks his hands in his pockets.
you're not sure what else to say, so you just smile, and then turn around to start walking towards the registers.
cute stranger starts walking with you.
"i'm mack, by the way," he offers. you look up at him in surprise, watching as pink begins to crawl up his neck to his cheeks, even the tips of his ears warming.
"y/n," you respond, feeling a little bit awestruck. "nice to meet you."
he walks with you to the register, stays with you as you approach the tired-looking cashier. you're so busy with rifling through your bag for your card that you fail to notice two things.
one, the cashier's eyes widening as they land on mack, mouth dropping open in surprise and awe.
two, mack tapping his phone on the little device, paying for your students' pet dinosaurs.
you only end up noticing one of those things.
"oh, you-" you try, but then the little screen says card accepted, and this strange, very cute boy has just paid for you. when you look up at him, there's a small, proud smile on his face. "you didn't have to do that," you finish.
mack shrugs. "i... wanted to,"
you sigh, snatching the little bag of dinos off the counter, and beginning to exit the target. you can’t keep the smile off your face, but you can’t keep the disbelief out of your mind, either. you don’t look back as you walk through the sliding glass doors and towards your car.
you know that he’s behind you.
halfway through the parking lot, you stop.
“i’m not going to give you my number just because you bought dinos for my kids,” you say, willing yourself to stay strong. he’s cute, yes, but he’s still a stranger. a stranger who bought you something, which is almost never a good sign, even if this guy seems really nice. “it was very sweet, but i’m perfectly capable of providing my own students with dinosaurs,”
you turn back around, continuing to make your way to your car. you can hear his footsteps continue behind you.
mack-the-stranger nods, hand reaching up to awkwardly scratch at the nape of his neck. “yeah, i can see what’s going on here…” he sighs. “i don’t expect your number. just wanted to do a nice thing for a pretty girl,”
your cheeks heat at the compliment, as well as being relieved that he’s not pressuring you for anything. he is really cute, and seems really nice. you almost offer to give it to him anyway, but you stand your ground.
so instead, you just smile, say, “well then, goodnight mack. it was nice to meet you,” and get in your car.
you tell yourself to forget about him, about the cute target boy who was so kind as to give you the plastic dinosaurs for your students, and then buy them for you. when you go into school the next morning, and begin setting out the dinosaurs for your students, you try to forget him. and you try your hardest to not bring him up when allison thanks you for getting the dinosaurs so she didn’t have to, but you’re unable to.
even though you spend the next few weeks trying desperately to get the cute stranger from a late night target run out of your mind, you continue to fail.
miserably.
the next time you see him, you’re attempting to balance 10 pizzas in your arms.
your kids won a contest, reading more books than all the other classes at the elementary school. because of that, they’re getting a pizza party.
it’s well deserved. they all read like crazy, giving the best book reports allison says she’s ever seen from her students, and supporting each other when the class was beginning to slow down on their reading progress. it was so cute watching them all treat the school wide reading contest like some sort of battle field, especially since they came out victorious.
when the principal came over the PA system and announced that it was mrs. wright’s class (your class) that had won the pizza party, the room exploded instantly. you’ve never seen them so happy, it was amazing.
they worked so hard for the pizza party, and they definitely deserved it.
you and allison were both excited for it as well, considering that would be an hour where you didn’t have to be doing any teaching, and would just get to have fun with the kids.
there’s just one wrinkle.
nobody told you that the pizza wasn’t getting delivered.
you’re in your car before anyone can say anything, speeding towards the pizza place as safely as you can.
when you get there, the place is pretty empty. there’s a small family sitting in the corner, and a man standing by the counter wearing a ball cap, and the guy behind the register.
“hi!” you’re out of breath from sprinting to your car, then into the building, and from your anxiety. “i have a pickup order for bachrodt elementary school.”
the teenager at the register clicks a few buttons on his ipad, and then walks over to the pizza warmers, where he silently takes out ten pizzas, and places them on the counter. after he’s done, he just looks at you expectantly.
“do i… have to pay?” you ask. you’d been under the impression that the school had paid for them when they put in the order.
he looks down at his screen again, and when he looks back up at you, he’s shaking his head.
you just smile awkwardly at this silent worker, and start assessing how you’re going to get all ten pizzas in the car by yourself. your first thought is that you’re going to have to take multiple trips, but a quick glance down at your watch proves that that isn’t an option. the pizza party starts in fifteen minutes, and it’ll take you twelve to drive back to school. assuming, of course, that there’s no traffic.
one trip it is.
you’re so focused on trying to gather the pizzas as quickly and efficiently as possible that you don’t notice the presence next to you until words are spoken to you.
“need help?”
you let out a little gasp at the surprise, whipping around and coming face to face with none other than mack.
the late night target cutie.
“oh!” you smile despite yourself. “um… hi! what are you doing here?”
he glances around, amusement in his eyes, before saying: “ordering a pizza,”
“oh…” you laugh awkwardly, tucking your hair behind your ears. “nice!”
you facepalm mentally, and get back to gathering up your excessive amount of pizza boxes, trying not to freak out about the fact that the guy you haven’t been able to stop thinking about recently is standing right there in this random little caesar’s.
mack clears his throat. “do you need any help?” he repeats. “i’m uh… i’m waiting on a pizza. i can help you get those into your car if you’d like?”
you think about it for a few seconds. honestly, even though you’d love to spend a few more minutes with this handsome stranger, you’re not sure if you should. you don’t want to get your hopes up for anything, and you definitely don’t want to give your mind anything else to latch on to when you inevitably part from this handsome stranger.
but then you look down at your watch again. you don’t have enough time to deny help.
“sure,” you say, avoiding eye contact. you scoop up five of the pizzas, and turn to start heading back towards your car.
mack picks up the other five, and follows you out.
your car is right out front, and even though your keys are clutched in your fist, it’s still an awkward few seconds of you shifting both the pizzas in your arms and the keys in your hand to get everything in the optimal position to unlock your car. you stick the key in the lock, and then have to shuffle the door open to unlock the rest of them.
he speaks again as you’re trying to open the back door.
“another errand for school?”
you plop the pizzas down in your backseat and turn to look at him. “what?”
“well,” he slides next to you, arms brushing yours as he puts the other pizzas on the other seat so they don’t slide while you’re driving. when he’s done, he leans against your car and gives you the most adorable smile in the world. “the last time i saw you, you were getting pet dinos for your students. is this another thing for them, or have you just not eaten in a few days?”
you laugh, glancing at the ten pizzas in your backseat. of course this looks weird.
“another thing for my students,” you clarify. “they won a schoolwide reading challenge and earned a pizza party. my principal didn’t tell me that we had to pick them up, though, so i had to rush out before the party to get to them.”
mack smiles. “well, i’m glad you’re here.” he looks down for a few seconds, and when he looks up, his cheeks are pink. “i kinda thought i’d never see you again.”
“me too,” you admit, heart fluttering at the way he’s looking at you.
his body angles towards yours just the tiniest bit more, and your mouth opens in surprise. in seconds, it feels like your entire world is wrapped around him, and all you want is to talk to him. get to know him. spend time with him. you’d been a little bit annoyed at him for buying your students’ dinosaurs, but it was more on the principle of the thing, of the worry that he would expect you to give him his number.
he hadn’t, though. when you’d brought it up, he’d walked away with no worries.
if he asked for your number right now, you would give it to him.
right as you have that thought, your phone pings.
it’s a text from allison. are you otw? kids are almost back from recess
“shit!” you exclaim. you look up at mack in surrpise, and slam your rear door closed, the sound startling both of you. “i’m so sorry, i have to go right now! thank you so much for your help!” you rush out, before opening your driver’s side door.
“of course,” mack says, still smiling but looking confused. “before you go, can i—”
you want to let him finish, but you can’t stop thinking about your kids coming back from recess and there being no pizza, so you don’t. you close the door, and make sure he’s stepped out of the way before driving off, awkwardly waving, cringing at yourself as you begin to head back to school.
twelve minutes later, you’re back at school. taking all the pizzas in by yourself makes you infinitely grateful for mack and his help in getting them out to the car. you were right, the kids were devastated when they came back in from recess and there was no pizza, but the looks of excitement and relief on their faces when you walked in holding them made you feel better, and made the rush worth it.
even though you’re so so glad that you go the pizza to the kids, you regret not taking the extra second to get mack’s number. you’d been hoping that he would ask you, but you should’ve just been brave and asked him yourself.
and now, you’re probably never going to see him again.
the third time you run into mack, you’re really not expecting to.
the san jose sharks, the local hockey team for your hometown of san jose, california, are coming to your school today. it’s part of the “reading is cool” program, since the kids at your school read so much, the principal and the director of the program set up a day where a few of the players are coming to read to the classes, and then there’s going to be a reading award ceremony later in the day.
to say that life has been a bit hectic would be an understatement.
your class spent the morning making sharkie the shark hats, decorating the hats themselves and writing their names on it so that it would be easier for the players. keeping the kids somewhat under control while waiting for the players to arrive is the worst part, with everyone jumping off the walls and talking loudly about who they’re most excited to meet.
since you’re student teaching in kindergarten, your class is one of the first to get read to.
you’d been told that the three players who were going to be coming were zack ostapchuk, will smith, and macklin celebrini.
of course you thought of mack when you heard the name, the guy that you’ve run into twice and walked away from each time without a phone number. since talking about him to your friends (and to allison, of course), you’ve kind of convinced yourself that he’s the love of your life, and you’ve lost all chance with him by leaving both times.
so while it would be great if the mack that you know is somehow a famous hockey player, you’re just not that lucky. sure, he looked like he could be one. definitely has the face of one. but there’s just no way.
no way.
and yet, when the door to your classroom opens, there he is.
mack.
you gasp, louder than you intend to, which catches the attention of allison and a few of your students. the kids forget quickly, cheering at the appearance of the professional hockey player, but allison doesn’t.
“what’s up?” she asks, sidling up to you and eyeing mack.
it takes you a few seconds to answer, watching as the kids swarm him, his soft smile as he looks at them. your heart is pounding in your chest, your mind running a mile a minute at seeing him here.
“it’s… him,” you mumble. “mack.”
it takes allison a few seconds of thinking before it clicks in her mind, and she lets out a loud gasp. “mack?” she asks. she then turns to you, squealing quietly, a huge smile on her face. “babe, this is amazing! not only have you been flirting with a professional hockey player, he’s here! you thought you were never gonna see him again! oh, how wonderful the universe is!”
you almost want to laugh at the irony of it all, at what a coincidence this is.
that’s when he looks up and sees you.
he freezes. like, quite literally goes from walking and looking around to standing stock still, staring at you with wide eyes, his jaw dropped. you smile, nervously biting your bottom lip and trying your best to be as casual and normal about this as possible.
“y/n?” he asks, starting to move towards you. you want to run towards him, say how happy you are to see him, apologize for how you’ve left both of the times that you’ve met, ask for his number right now.
and then you’re interrupted.
“you know miss y/n?” one of your kids, evie, asks loudly. “how?”
mack’s mouth opens again, eyes widening once again as many of your kindergarteners catch onto this and start bombarding the two of you with questions. you can see the panic begin to grow on his face, so you step in. you clap three times, and your students respond with three claps of their own.
“we met this morning,” you explain calmly. “everybody chill out and go sit on the carpet.”
your kids laugh and move towards the carpet, keeping their eyes on the hockey player still standing near the door. mack’s eyes haven’t left yours, fingers flexing at his sides, beginning to move towards you with small, hesitant steps.
distantly, you notice that allison has gone to the carpet to continue settling the kids down. there are people with cameras filing into the rooms, people adjusting microphones, setting up lighting. in minutes, your classroom is going to be a tv set, and even though that’s something that’s been bothering you for a few days, you’re not thinking about that right now. right now, you’re thinking about the fact that the guy you haven’t been able to stop thinking about, that you’ve accidentally run into twice, no three, times now, is standing right here. in your classroom.
“hi,” he breathes when you’re close enough.
“hi,” you echo, having to remind your lungs that they need air.
mack rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. “i, um… i didn’t think i’d see you here. today. i mean, i definitely wanted to see you again, definitely hoped i would, this is just… unexpected.”
you laugh. “it’s definitely unexpected.”
confusion crosses his face, and his tilts his head, reminding you of the cutest golden retriever in the world. “you… didn’t know? who i am?”
“no,” you shake your head. “i grew up in a football family, we’re big 49ers fans. i mean, i know of the sharks, but i’ve never… the point is, no, i didn’t know that you’re a professional hockey player.”
mack smiles, and lets out a little sigh. the look on his face can only be described as disbelief, and maybe even a little… relief?
he opens his mouth to say something else, but is interrupted by a very official-looking woman wearing a suit. she hands him a book and ushers him to the front of the room, sitting him down in one of the kindergarten-sized chairs, comically small when he’s sitting in it. as soon as he’s sat down, people start adjusting the lights, have him say a few words to test the microphones, and you and allison are left to do your own thing.
you stay standing where you are for a few minutes, watching as mack complies with the media people. he looks slightly uncomfortable whenever he looks out at the sea of kindergarteners in front of him, but he’s putting on a brave face.
after a bit, you move to the back of the room where allison is, and sit next to her, watching in awe as mack begins reading to your class.
the kids are enamored, never commenting or interrupting his reading at all, unlike how they are when you or allison read. they’re all staring at him, probably not listening to anything he’s saying, and more amazed at the fact that he’s actually in front of them. you know for a fact that a few of your kids are die hard sharks fans, so this is definitely the best day of their lives.
you can practically feel your eyes turning into hearts as mack gets visibly more comfortable with the whole situation the farther into the book he gets. you can’t stop looking at him, your heart fluttering every time his gaze flickers up from the book to look at you, cheeks reddening and a soft smile coming onto his face every time you make eye contact.
“please tell me you’re not letting him leave without your number,” allison whispers.
with great difficulty, you tear your eyes from mack. “i mean… i’m gonna try. but i don’t know if he even wants it.”
allison scoffs. “are you kidding? that boy is clearly into you.”
you smile. “i hope so.”
when he’s done reading, he opens the floor up for questions. there are a lot, and you have to go over to organize it all, because he initially just asks for questions, and twenty five little voices start yelling at him. you make them all raise their hands, and then it goes much smoother.
there’s a variety of questions. most are about him being a hockey player, some are about who he is personally. one of your kids asks what his favorite book is, and he says it’s the one he just read them. immediately after, every kid in your classroom starts declaring that book their favorite as well. you watch in real time as his heart soars at how excited they all are to have the same favorite book as him, at relating to the professional hockey player in some way. your smile widens at the sight.
you can’t believe he’s here.
the moment is so incredibly perfect, so heartwarming that you almost want to cry.
and that’s when you remember the cameras.
you’d been hesitant about this whole thing when you heard about it, because the very last thing any elementary school needs is a huge camera crew following around a bunch of professional hockey players. even though every parent in your class signed the waiver for their kids to be on tv, you’re still iffy about it. as a teacher, you really despise kids being on television and social media. if anyone had asked you about this, you would have said that it’s a nice thought, but there was a lot wrong with it. not only the huge cameras being carted around this school, filming the kids’ faces, but it’s also distracting to their learning. you and allison have no doubt that you’re going to get very minimal work done in the next few days because everybody’s going to be so wrapped up in talking about this, and dissecting every little moment of it.
of course, if you were a kid experiencing this, you’d do the same thing. but you’re not a kid, you’re a student teacher. so it’s going to be difficult.
and obviously, right as you remember the cameras, one of your kids decides to ask the worst question in the history of questions ever.
evie raises her hand, and mack calls on her.
“um, mr. celebrini,” you smile at the adorable way she addresses him. “are you and miss y/n gonna get married?”
the class gasps, and then explodes in excitement. “yeah! are you gonna get married?” olivia yells.
“are you gonna have babies?” jacob questions.
you and mack stare in horror at the barrage of questions, and all you can think about is the fact that the cameras are recording right now. hopefully, they won’t use this moment. you’ll go up to them later and beg them to delete it, because even though mack is cute and you’re hoping to start talking to him more regularly, you definitely don’t want a clip of your students asking if you’re going to have babies with this man going on the internet.
allison rushes over, quickly quieting the students, and reminding them to ask polite questions. they all have the grace to look chastised, and even though you’d love to stay up there with mack, you quickly move to the back of the classroom.
mack doesn’t stop looking up at you throughout the rest of the visit to your class, but he definitely tries to keep the looks short, because apparently your students are paying more attention than either of you thought they were.
you and mack share one more long look before he’s sent to the next classroom, his expression feeling like a promise, like a single word.
later.
trying to get your students to do anything productive for the rest of the day is a lost cause, but you and allison try your hardest. you make the quiet coyote signal with your fingers pretty much constantly, and only a few of your students even noice to try and point it out to their peers, but nothing really works. thankfully, there’s no drama between any of the students, so really, you and allison are grateful for that at least.
at the very end of the day, there’s an award ceremony where four students are honored for their reading. you and allison get your kids settled in their assigned spots on the gym floor, before going to stand at the back with all the other students. allison is already gossiping with her two teacher friends about how you and macklin celebrini have been running into each other and flirting. you try to get her to stop, but the other teachers are already too invested, and they’ve promised not to spread it around. thankfully, you believe them.
mack keeps glancing at you throughout the entire assembly, and you’re doing the same. you’re both trying to be subtle about it, and both failing miserably. allison notices it, obviously, and now that the other two teachers are informed of the situation, they notice, too. all three of them are giggling and whispering to each other, much to your amused chagrin.
at the end of the assembly, you start trying to help gather up the kids, but allison stops you.
“absolutely not,” she says, gently nudging you to where the three hockey players are chatting with the coordinator of the event. “i’ll get them. you go talk to him.”
and then, she’s gone. the gym empties fairly quick, leaving just the hockey players, a straggler class, and a few members of administration.
it’s unprofessional, you tell yourself. you’re a student teacher, this is no place to be looking for romance.
but….
you don’t allow the hesitation to kick in. the small group disperses right as you gather your courage, leaving macklin alone. you force your feet to move, until you’re standing right in front of him.
“hi,” you start.
mack chuckles. “hi again.”
you take a deep breath, looking into his pretty green eyes, feeling both calmer and more nervous making such intense eye contact, and force yourself to say it.
“um. can i have your phone number?”
he freezes for a few seconds, looking at you in pure shock. then you panic.
“i-if you don’t want to, that’s totally fine,” you start. “i totally get it. i’m a stranger, we’ve only met a few times, and i’ve been really weird every time we’ve talked, including right now, which is unfortunate. you probably think that i’m just doing this because you’re a professional hockey player, which totally isn’t true because i know nothing about hockey so i have nothing to gain by asking you for your number. i mean, not that i’m trying to gain anything, i just, i don’t know. i think you’re cute and sweet and i would love to hang out more, but if you’re not—”
your rambling is cut off by mack sticking his phone out.
“i’d love for you to have my number,” his voice is calm. “and i’d love to have yours.”
your mind quiets in an instant, a small smile covering your face as you reach for his phone, already open onto a blank contact. you type in your name and number, then hand it back.
“there’s a really good froyo place like… five minutes away,” you say softly. “if you give me ten minutes for the kids to get picked up, we could go get some.”
mack smiles. “i’d love that.”
it was a long road to get here, but you’re glad that you did. because even though you’ve been unbelievably weird in all three of your meetings with who you now know is macklin celebrini, he’s still interested in you.
the impromptu froyo date goes amazingly. you learn a lot about him and about hockey. you tell him about your life, how you got into teaching, what made you want to do it. you talk for hours, about everything and nothing.
it’s amazing.
you drive back to your apartment with a huge smile on your face, and one thought in your mind.
you need to start watching hockey.
a/n: holy doozy this is a fat fanfic 😸 this has lowk been my passion project for the last couple days, so i'm excited for it to be done! partially because i've been working on it so long that if i look at it for five more minutes i'm going to throw my computer, and partially because i can't wait for you guys to read it! thank you so much for the lovely request, thank you all for all the support! i love you all so much, have a wonderful day/night! <33
You teach teenagers History in Vancouver, while dating a pro-hockey player, Quinn Hughes. Recurring teenage OCs like David for the lols.
In Your Element - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Quinn finally gets an opportunity to each lunch with you at your school, but he arrives a little early and sees a different side to you, when you're absolutely in your element
The Little Things Mean A Lot - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Sometimes it's the small things that make you fall in love all over again, like your favourite Singapore chowmein from your favourite Chinese takeaway after a long day of teaching and parent's evening
In Sickness and in Health - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You've convinced yourself that you're not actually that ill, mostly because setting cover for your lessons is more trouble than its worth. Quinn is having none of it.
Priorities - Quinn X Fem!Reader -When Quinn gets a text from you 2 hours before his game, he shows where his priorities lie when he drops it all for you. A kind of sequel to In Sickness and in Health but you don't need to read that to read this.
In the Firing Line - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You break up a fight at your school getting hurt in the process. There's only one person you want to call in that situation.
The Jello Incident - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You come home from work and tell Quinn all about the jello incident at school and then fall asleep on him.
Morning Sickness - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Quinn is getting increasingly worried about you as you're sick every morning and every evening, you're adamant that you're fine. Turns out you're right in a way.
Drabble: You're reaction of him being out on IR
Baby Shower Surprises - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Quinn organises a baby shower for you with your high schoolers. It might just be the sweetest a bunch of teenagers have ever been.
welcome to my little corner of the internet where I spiral daily over my current obsession: the slytherin boy specifically? tom riddle. And just to be very clear: this is the fictional son of voldemort, not the noseless menace himself.
Will update when i can ....
━━━HUSBAND!TOM RIDDLE MASTERLIST
⭑ my masterlist of fics dedicated entirely to husband!tom riddle because that’s my favorite genre of him and I have no shame...
━━━RIDDLE FAMILY MASTERLIST
⭑ my masterlist full of fics about the adorably chaotic riddle family featuring: Tom riddle, Y/N, and their equally dramatic children Mattheo, Delphini, Marvolo and the twins..
━━━FRIEND!TOM / BEFORE THE RELATIONSHIP MASTERLIST
⭑ a masterlist full of pre-relationship tension, longing glances, and dangerously soft moments—featuring tom riddle and y/n before the chaos.
━━━BOYFRIEND!TOM MASTERLIST
⭑ a masterlist full of boyfriend!tom riddle energy — these fics explore what it’s like to date someone like tom aka: he loves you, but it’s possessive, obsessive, and probably dangerous.
━━━FIANCE!TOM MASTERLIST / ARRANGE MARRIAGE FICS
⭑ a masterlist dedicated to fiancé!tom riddle — featuring fics where tom and y/n are engaged (whether by choice or arrangement) etc..
━━━EX!BOYFRIEND! TOM MASTERLIST
⭑ a masterlist full of ex!tom riddle energy — where the past never really stays in the past. these fics explore the aftermath of loving someone like tom aka: they broke up but the feelings didn’t.
━━━ DARK! TOM MASTERLIST
⭑ a masterlist full of dark tom riddle energy — where love is twisted, obsession runs deep, and power always comes at a price. these fics explore what it means to be wanted by someone like tom aka: it was never really love… but it was never really over either.
12k | w.eklund x fem!oc | w.smith & m.celebrini x oc platonic
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Summary: the sharks have a new social media intern and immediately the two young rookies stake their claim on her as their "adopted older sister". the three were always attached at the hip. when william eklund meets the new girl, hes immediately smitten by her. the only issue? he's too shy to do anything about it.
masterlist | series masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
If June Johnson had any illusions about starting a calm, professional internship with the San Jose Sharks, they were completely shattered the moment she stepped into the dressing room. She wasn't new to social media—she had spent years running accounts for small businesses, university sports teams, and even a short stint with a junior hockey club. But this? This was different.
This was the NHL.
And the NHL, apparently, came with an unspoken initiation involving two overly energetic rookies and a locker room full of chaos. She had barely set foot inside before she was noticed.
"Wait, you're new." Macklin Celebrini, the Sharks' golden boy, stood in front of her with a curious expression, his practice jersey half on, his skates still untied. Before she could respond, another voice piped up.
"Yeah, dude, she literally just walked in," said Will Smith, his grin wide, blonde hair slightly damp from morning skate. June barely had time to introduce herself before Will and Macklin had already formed a huddle, whispering loudly enough for the entire room to hear.
"Alright, what's the bet?" Will muttered dramatically. "How long do we think before she quits?"
"Oh my god." June rolled her eyes. "I'm literally standing right here." Macklin hummed, rubbing his chin as if he were deep in thought. "I give her three weeks."
"Three weeks?" Will scoffed. "Nah, she looks tough. I say she lasts a month." June crossed her arms. "You guys do realize I control the social media accounts, right? I can absolutely mute you both from existence."
Macklin's eyes widened. "You wouldn't." Will gasped. "That's... I didn't think of that." June smirked. "Try me."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, as if she had passed some unspoken test, Macklin and Will immediately abandoned their "bet" and turned their attention to grilling her instead. "Alright, but for real," Macklin leaned against his stall, arms crossed. "You actually want to work here?"
June shot him a look. "Yes? Why, should I be concerned?" Will grinned. "Let's just say... we're a little much." June snorted. "Oh, I've noticed." That was when Mario Ferraro, one of the veteran defensemen, wandered over with a laugh. "You'll get used to them."
"Will I?" Mario patted her shoulder. "Probably not."
Despite Macklin and Will's warnings, June quickly settled into her role. Her first few days were a whirlwind of learning the ropes, familiarizing herself with the Sharks' social media strategy, and—most importantly—figuring out how to handle the absolute disaster that was the team's young core. It didn't take long for Macklin and Will to adopt her as one of their own. At some point, she had unknowingly become their unofficial babysitter. They followed her around like lost puppies, insisted on helping her gather content, and were constantly dragging her into their antics. By day three, she had already been roped into filming a TikTok where the two of them attempted a viral dance trend.
Spoiler: it did not go well.
"I swear, we had it perfect before you hit record," Will complained, shaking out his hands as Macklin groaned beside him. June snorted. "Sure you did." Macklin narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you going to be this sassy all season?"
"Oh, absolutely." Will grinned. "I like her."
But June quickly realized that handling these two was only part of the challenge—because the rest of the team wasn't any better. She had planned to ease into things, maybe take a few weeks before jumping headfirst into recording the "random question of the day" segment.
Yeah. That plan lasted all of five minutes.
The second Logan Couture spotted her with the team's media camera, he nudged Tomas Hertl. "Bet she asks something ridiculous." Tomas, grinning, turned to her. "First question, let's go."
June hesitated, flipping through her mental list of backup prompts before blurting out, "Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?" The room erupted.
"Oh, that's a good one."
"Wait, do we get weapons?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Absolutely taking the duck-sized horses."
"Are you crazy? The horse-sized duck would kill you."
June blinked as chaos ensued. "...So I take it this is a success?" Mario nodded solemnly. "You're going to fit in just fine."
By the end of her first week, June had established herself as more than just the new intern—she was officially part of the team's day-to-day chaos. She had already lost count of how many times Macklin and Will had dragged her into some ridiculous argument (the most recent one being about whether or not cereal counted as soup). She had also learned that Henry Thrun would agree to any TikTok challenge if you dared him, and that Noah Gregor was terrifyingly good at coming up with completely random, borderline unhinged facts about obscure animals.
Most importantly, she learned that despite their antics, these guys weren't just a team—they were a family. And as much as she had expected to feel like an outsider, June realized something as she sat in the locker room, laughing at yet another one of Will's dumb ideas: She was already part of it.
⸻By the time June's second week rolled around, she had fully accepted her fate. She wasn't just the Sharks' new social media intern. She was now the official (unofficial) babysitter of two NHL rookies who had way too much energy and way too little supervision. Her schedule? Completely dictated by Macklin and Will. Her daily tasks? Constantly interrupted by their antics. Her peace and sanity? Gone.
And the worst part? She didn't even mind.
June had just walked into the practice facility when she heard it. "Junie! HELP!"
She barely had time to process before Macklin came barreling toward her. She dodged out of the way just in time to see Will chasing after him, waving what looked like—was that a half-eaten protein bar?
"You're a menace to society!" Will shouted. "How do you not like peanut butter?!"
"It's disgusting!" Macklin yelled back, jumping behind June for cover. June, half-awake, pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's literally eight in the morning."
"He called peanut butter MID!" Will exclaimed, shoving the evidence (a protein bar wrapper) in her face. "This is a CRIME, June. A CRIME." Macklin peeked out from behind her. "Are you seriously telling me peanut butter is top-tier? Grow up."
"GROW UP?!" And just like that, they were arguing again. June sighed, stepping around them to grab her morning coffee from the media lounge. "I'm too tired for this." She had barely taken her first sip when Logan Couture walked by, shaking his head. "Still want the job?"
June took a long, dramatic sip of her coffee before deadpanning, "I've made my peace with it." Logan smirked. "Good answer."
The thing about Macklin and Will was that they had absolutely no chill. If June thought they had been bad the first week, she completely underestimated just how much worse it could get. They followed her everywhere. They never let her work in peace. They somehow managed to turn every single day into some kind of ridiculous event.
Exhibit A: June had been setting up a behind-the-scenes TikTok, casually filming players walking into practice, when Macklin and Will sprinted into the frame—dramatically sliding in on their socks like they were action movie stars. She barely had time to react before they started posing. "Mack, hit 'em with the Zoolander." Macklin turned to the camera and gave his best Blue Steel impression.
"Oh my god," June muttered. "We're naturals," Will declared, tossing an arm over Macklin's shoulder. "Should we be influencers?" June deadpanned. "Absolutely not."
"Okay, rude."
Exhibit B: June was setting up a mic for a player interview when she felt something land on her head. She immediately knew who was responsible. "Will," she said slowly, reaching up to remove the hockey tape ball that had just been thrown at her. Will, sitting across the room, looked way too innocent. "What?" he said, blinking at her. "That could've been anyone."
June narrowed her eyes. "Really?"
"Really." From beside him, Macklin was struggling not to laugh. "You're lucky I like my job," June muttered, tossing the paper back at him. Will caught it easily, grinning. "You love us." June rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. "Debatable."
It took approximately zero days for the rest of the team to notice just how much time Macklin and Will spent following June around. "They have imprinted on her," Henry Thrun declared during a team meeting. Mario Ferraro nodded solemnly. "She's like their pack leader now."
"I give it a week before she starts bringing them snacks like a hockey mom," Tyler Toffoli joked. The worst part was that June heard all of this.
"You guys are talking like I'm not right here," she pointed out, arms crossed. "Oh, we know," Logan said, smirking. "We just think it's funny." June rolled her eyes. "They're not that bad." That was when Macklin and Will—who had been wrestling over a Gatorade bottle like literal children—accidentally knocked over an entire stack of towels. Everyone turned to her.
June sighed. "Okay, fine, they're a little bad."
By the time practice ended, June was exhausted. Not from the work—no, she could handle that. She was exhausted from babysitting two grown hockey players. As she sat in the lounge, sipping on what had to be her third coffee of the day, she suddenly felt two shadows looming over her.
"Junie." She sighed. "What do you want now?"
Macklin plopped down beside her, grinning. "Just saying hi." Will flopped into the chair on her other side. "We missed you." June gave them a look. "I literally saw you guys an hour ago." Will shrugged. "Yeah, but still." June groaned, dramatically dropping her head onto the table. "I give up." Macklin patted her shoulder. "It's okay. We love you too."
And that's when it hit her. Somehow, without even trying, she had become one of them.
⸻June Johnson was used to chaos by now. She had accepted that working for the San Jose Sharks meant zero peace and infinite amounts of babysitting two overgrown children (Macklin and Will) on a daily basis. But what she hadn't accounted for?
William Eklund.
She had heard his name before—obviously. He was one of the team's top young players, constantly hyped up by the media, and apparently the "responsible" one out of all the rookies. That was a lie. Because when she finally met him? He was the opposite of put-together. In fact, he completely malfunctioned.
June was minding her own business, setting up a camera for a post-practice TikTok, when she felt it. The weirdest, most intense stare from across the room. At first, she ignored it, assuming it was just one of the guys zoning out. But then she heard a very distinct choking noise. She turned—only to find William Eklund standing a few feet away, frozen, wide-eyed, and looking like he had just forgotten how to breathe.
"...Uh," June blinked. "Are you okay?"
William made a sound that was definitely not human. Then, instead of speaking like a normal person, he just kept staring. Like, full-on deer-in-the-headlights staring. It was so bad that even Macklin noticed.
"Yo, Eky," Macklin called, waving a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Eky?"
William didn't respond. He just continued looking at June like she was a mythical creature. Macklin and Will exchanged glances. Then Will, ever the troublemaker, grinned.
"Oh my god," he whispered. "He's starstruck." Macklin's eyes widened. "No way."
June, completely lost, looked between them. "What?" Will beamed. "Oh, this is amazing." At that moment, William finally snapped out of his trance—only to immediately panic.
"Vad i helvete," he blurted out. June frowned. "What?" William visibly cringed. Then, because his brain was apparently not functioning, he started nervously rambling.
"Uh—I—hi," he stuttered. "You're—you're—um."
"Oh my god," Will whispered. "He's broken." Macklin gasped. "Did we just witness love at first sight?"
William immediately turned bright red. "Nej! Sluta!" June tilted her head. "I don't speak Swedish, but that sounded defensive." That only made him more flustered.
Macklin doubled over laughing. "He's panicking! He's literally panicking!" William looked so done. June, still completely out of the loop, crossed her arms. "Okay, can someone explain what's happening?" Will grinned. "Oh, nothing."
"Except that Eky," Macklin added, "is down bad." June raised an eyebrow. "Down bad?"
William groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Jag hatar det här." The second William left the room, Macklin and Will lost their minds.
"This is the best day of my life," Will announced. "I have never seen Eky lose his cool like that."
June, still confused, took a sip of her coffee. "So what you're telling me is..." She pointed toward the door William had just fled through. "That guy just had a meltdown because of me?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"A hundred percent."
June frowned. "But why?" Will grinned. "Because he's so in love with you." June choked on her coffee. "EXCUSE ME?"
Macklin nodded seriously. "It's true." Will gestured toward the hallway. "I mean, did you see that? You literally broke him Junie."
"That was not normal behavior," Macklin agreed. "Oh," Macklin said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "This is gonna be fun."
⸻William was dying.
He had locked himself in the players' lounge, pacing back and forth like a man on the verge of a crisis. Which, to be fair, he was. He had completely embarrassed himself. He had made a fool of himself in front of June. He was never going to live this down. And the worst part? He still hadn't said an actual sentence to her. Instead, he had just... malfunctioned. Because apparently, his brain stopped working whenever June was around. This was a disaster. A complete, total disaster. And William had no idea how he was going to survive the rest of the season.
⸻June Johnson wasn't the type to take things personally. She had thick skin, a sharp sense of humour, and enough patience to deal with Macklin and Will on a daily basis. But even she had her limits. And right now? She was absolutely convinced that William Eklund hated her. It started immediately after their first meeting. At first, she chalked it up to coincidence. Maybe he was just busy. Maybe he had a lot on his mind.
But by the third day? She noticed. Because every time she set up her camera for a TikTok, William suddenly disappeared. And it wasn't subtle. It was full-on, "I see June and immediately turn and walk in the opposite direction" avoidance.
Like today. She had just finished setting up her phone for a new round of "Question of the Day" when she spotted William across the room. She raised a hand to wave. His eyes went wide. And then? He turned and booked it. Like, actual Olympic-level sprinting.
June blinked. "...Did he just run away from me?" Will, standing beside her, cackled. "Oh yeah," he said, grinning. "He totally did." June frowned. "Okay, what is his deal?" Macklin, sitting nearby, hummed in amusement. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," June gestured vaguely toward the door William had just escaped through, "he keeps avoiding me." Will snorted. "Yeah. And?"
"And—!" June huffed. "What did I do?" Macklin and Will exchanged glances. Then they grinned. "Oh," Macklin said innocently. "I'm sure it's nothing."
It wasn't just the dodging. No, because apparently whenever William couldn't escape in time, he had another reaction. He turned bright red. It happened constantly.
The first time, June had genuinely thought he was overheating. She had run into him near the locker room, and the second they made eye contact, his entire face flushed. She had even been concerned for a second.
"Are you okay?" she had asked.
William, visibly struggling, had muttered something under his breath and immediately turned on his heel and left. At first, June didn't think much of it. But then it happened again.
And again.
And AGAIN.
Any time their eyes met? Boom. Red. And yet, somehow, she was the only one confused about it. Macklin and Will? They were having the time of their lives.
"Oh my god, this is so funny," Will had whispered after William once again fled the scene. Macklin nodded. "He's actually suffering."
June, arms crossed, frowned. "Do you guys know something I don't?" Will just smirked. "Maybe." June narrowed her eyes. "I don't trust you." Will patted her shoulder. "That's fair."
By the time a full week had passed, June was convinced she had done something wrong. Because who avoids someone this hard if they don't hate them? She finally snapped during morning skate. She had been setting up her camera when William walked into the room—only to immediately turn around and leave.
June had had enough.
"Okay," she said, turning to Macklin and Will. "Be honest. Does he hate me?" Macklin choked on his water. "What?" Will, looking way too entertained, laughed. "Oh, June." June crossed her arms. "No, seriously. Did I do something?"
Macklin wiped his mouth, still grinning. "You really think Eky hates you?"
"Yes?" June threw up her hands. "He literally refuses to be in the same room as me!" Will, barely containing his laughter, shook his head. "Oh, Junie. You're so, so wrong." June frowned. "Then what is it?" Macklin grinned. "Oh, he doesn't hate you," he said. "Not at all." Will smirked. "If anything, it's the opposite." June blinked. "What?"
Macklin leaned back in his seat, looking way too smug. "June," he said slowly, like he was explaining something obvious. "The guy has a huge crush on you."
June froze.
She stared at them. "What? Absolutely not. You're lying." Will nodded. "Oh yeah." Macklin shrugged. "It's actually kind of pathetic."
"...Wait." She shook her head. "You're telling me that he's been avoiding me because he likes me?" Will beamed. "Exactly." June frowned. "That makes no sense." Macklin snorted. "No, it makes perfect sense."
Will nudged her. "Think about it. He literally panicked when he first met you." Macklin nodded. "And he turns bright red whenever you look at him." Will wiggled his eyebrows. "He's smitten."
June, suddenly replaying every single interaction she had with William, felt her stomach drop. No. That can't be it. This is just Mack and Will pulling on her leg. Shoving Macklin and Will away, she walked away, mumbling about how they're a bunch of idiots that don't know what they're talking about.
⸻William Eklund had one goal today. Survive.
Media day was supposed to be easy. It was literally just a few hours of posing for headshots, recording promo videos, and answering basic questions for the Sharks' social team. Simple. Routine. No stress. Except for one problem.
June was there. And not just there. She was practically running the entire thing. Which meant William was now trapped in a room with her for hours, forced to interact, unable to escape like he usually did. He was so screwed.
The media room was buzzing with activity. Bright studio lights were set up along the far wall, cameras positioned at different angles, with a backdrop featuring the Sharks logo. A handful of team staff were already filtering through, prepping the players for their photos and coordinating the shoot schedule.
And in the center of it all?
June.
She was checking over the camera setup, giving quick instructions to the photographer, her clipboard tucked under one arm. Completely in her element. William watched from a safe distance, praying she wouldn't notice him. He had almost convinced himself that he could get through this without incident—until he made the mistake of glancing toward the schedule board.
PLAYER ORDER:
1. Logan Couture
2. Henry Thrun
3. Mario Ferraro
4. William Eklund
William Eklund.
FOURTH? NO TIME TO PREPARE. His stomach dropped. "William!"
His head snapped up just in time to see June waving him over. Oh.
Oh no.
She was smiling at him. Why was she smiling at him? Why did she have to be so effortlessly cool and put-together and—
"Come on," June said, gesturing toward the backdrop. "You're up next."
William's feet refused to move. He was frozen—fully paralyzed—as his brain scrambled for an escape plan that didn't exist. June tilted her head, confused. "You good?" He nodded way too fast.
"Y-yeah! Yes! Of course! I am—good. Very good." Oh my god. What was that? What kind of response was that? He sounded like a robot. June blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Okay... cool. Just step into the frame, and we'll get started."
William swallowed hard. This was a nightmare. He forced himself forward, his legs moving stiffly as he positioned himself in front of the camera. "Alright," June said, adjusting the lighting. "Just look straight ahead."
William tried. He really did. But the problem? June was standing right next to the camera. Which meant that every time he looked forward, he was also looking directly at her. And holy shit. That was not helping.
He could feel it happening. The dreaded blush. It started creeping up his neck, warming his face, and no matter how hard he tried to fight it, it just kept getting worse.
He was going to die.
Meanwhile, June—completely unaware of his suffering—was focused on her job. "Alright, now turn a little to your left," she instructed. William nodded too fast again. "Okay. Yes. Left. I can do that."
Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking.
He adjusted his pose, feeling like an actual idiot. "Perfect," June said, tapping something on the screen. "Now just relax your shoulders a bit."
Relax? Relax?!
How was he supposed to relax when she was literally standing right there, looking at him, analyzing him, judging his every movement— "Eklund," June interrupted, giving him a look. "Breathe."
Oh.
Right.
Breathing.
That was a thing he should probably do.
He forced himself to inhale, feeling like a malfunctioning robot. After what felt like years, the photographer finally finished. William was seconds away from sprinting out of the room when June held up a hand. "Wait," she said. "One more thing."
He froze. "What?" She handed him a mic. "You need to record a quick intro for the season promo."
...Oh no.
Oh no.
Talking? In front of June?! This was worse. This was so much worse. But he had no choice. So he took the mic, cleared his throat, and—
"Hi. I mean—hello. I'm William Eklund. And you're watching—" He stuttered. "No. Wait. That's Disney Channel. That's not right."
OH MY GOD.
A beat of silence.
Then—
June snorted. Like, actually snorted.
"Dude," she said, trying (and failing) to hold back laughter. "Are you okay?"
William felt himself combusting. "I—uh—I don't know?"
And then, because his embarrassment reached an all-time high, he did the worst thing possible. He cursed in Swedish.
Loudly.
June immediately caught it. "That was Swedish," she said, grinning. "What did you just say?"
William's soul left his body. "Nothing!" he blurted. "It was nothing! I—uh—I should go." And before she could stop him, he turned and speed-walked out of the room. The second he escaped, he slumped against the nearest wall, running a hand through his hair.
That was a disaster.
An absolute disaster.
He could not handle this girl.
Not her smile. Not her teasing. Not the way she effortlessly made him look like an idiot. He was so doomed.
And the worst part? He still had to see her every single day. There was no way he was making it through the season in one piece.
⸻ June Johnson had watched NHL games before. She had grown up watching them on TV, sometimes in the stands, cheering alongside packed crowds. But standing on the ice, just feet away from the players, camera in hand, feeling the energy of the arena before puck drop?
This was different.
This was insane.
And, for the first time since starting this job, she fully grasped the magnitude of what she had walked into.
The arena was electric. The SAP was packed, fans decked out in teal and black, waving rally towels as the pre-game light show illuminated the ice. The music boomed through the speakers, matching the pulse of the anticipation hanging in the air. From ice level, it felt ten times louder.
June had her phone in one hand, her camera in the other, capturing clips for TikTok and Instagram. Players skated by, locked in, the sound of their blades carving through the ice mixing with the deep bass of the arena soundtrack. She turned, scanning the crowd through her lens, before shifting her focus back to the bench.
And that's when she saw them. Macklin and Will.
They were standing by the boards, both trying (and failing) to act like they weren't completely freaking out.
It was their first NHL game.
The real deal.
And June, despite all her focus on capturing the perfect shot, could see the nerves written all over them. She lowered her camera and walked over, nudging Will's shoulder. "You good?"
Will grinned way too fast. "Yeah! Totally! Super fine! Not nervous at all!" Macklin, standing beside him, snorted. "He's lying." Will shot him a look. "Dude, you're literally shaking."
"I am not."
"You so are."
June rolled her eyes. "Okay, both of you need to chill." Macklin exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I mean... it's a lot, right? The lights, the crowd, the pressure." Will nodded. "Kinda feels like I might throw up." Macklin grimaced. "Yeah, please don't do that."
June, watching them closely, softened. She had been so focused on the media side of things, she had almost forgotten that this was just as much a huge moment for them as it was for the fans.
Their first NHL game. Their first time skating out to their names being announced in front of thousands. Their first real taste of the league they had dreamed of playing in since they were kids.
And the fact that they got to do it together? That made it even more special.
June shifted, nudging Macklin first, then Will. "You guys know you belong here, right?"
Will blinked. "Huh?"
"I mean it," she said, looking between them. "You guys worked your asses off to get here. And yeah, it's scary, but you're not alone. You've got each other. And," she added with a smirk, "you've got me."
Macklin snorted. "Oh, lucky us." Will grinned. "Yeah, what would we do without you?" June crossed her arms. "Exactly. Now stop freaking out and just play. You'll be fine."
They didn't say anything for a moment, just exchanged a glance—one of those silent, best friend conversations where nothing needed to be said.
Then Macklin smirked. "Alright. Let's do this."
Will nodded. "Yeah. Let's go."
Before heading toward the ice, they both turned back at the same time and, without warning, pulled June into a quick hug. It was so fast she barely had time to react before they let go and skated off, leaving her standing there, completely caught off guard.
She blinked, watching them go. Then, with a small smile, she raised her camera and hit record.
This?
This was going to be a hell of a season.
⸻ June Johnson was not prepared for how emotional this game was going to make her. She had spent the past few weeks fully settling into her role with the Sharks, getting used to the chaos, the media responsibilities, and—most of all—her new dynamic with Macklin and Will. She knew how much this night meant to them. But standing here, watching it all unfold in real time, she realized she had drastically underestimated just how much it meant to her too.
The hug wasn't planned. It had been impulsive, a quick, wordless exchange that lasted no more than a few seconds before Macklin and Will skated off, leaving June stunned on the bench.
But apparently? Everyone noticed. Not even five minutes later, her phone buzzed with a notification.
@/SharksMedia: A special moment between our three "rookies" before puck drop. 🦈💙
She clicked the video, watching the moment play back in real-time. The clip wasn't even high quality—just a quick, shaky recording taken by a the other social media crew. But that almost made it better. The three of them huddled together, Will grinning, Macklin looking focused but excited, June laughing as she nudged them before they pulled her in for a fast, almost instinctive hug.
It was so small, so simple—but it had everyone melting. The replies were already flooded with comments.
@/freshprinceofchestnuthill02: STOP THIS IS TOO CUTE 😭
@/miami101: not the sharks making me emotional before the game even starts
@/willmack7102: the way they just pulled her in like it was nothing 🥺
June groaned. "Oh my god." Then, it was time. The lights dimmed. The music swelled. The energy in the arena built to a fever pitch.
And then—
"Starting at center, making his NHL debut... MACKLIN CELEBRINI!" The crowd exploded.
June felt her chest tighten with pride as Macklin took the ice, his first NHL solo lap, carving through the rink with ease, the lights reflecting off his jersey.
Then came—
"Starting at forward, making his NHL debut... WILL SMITH!"
Another huge roar from the crowd. Will skated out, grinning ear to ear, pumping his fist as he took his lap. And June? She was so damn proud.
Her boys. Her stupid, chaotic, lovable little brothers were in the NHL.
She held up her phone, capturing every second. She wanted to remember this. She wanted them to remember this.
The game itself was a blur of fast-paced action, adrenaline, and a ridiculous amount of yelling from the bench. But the moment that would live in her brain forever?
Macklin's first goal.
She had barely processed what happened.
One second, the puck was dropped.
The next? Macklin had it. And before anyone could react—
HE SCORED.
On his first shot. The puck hit the back of the net, and the entire arena erupted. The goal horn blared. The bench exploded. Macklin threw his arms up in disbelief, eyes wide before he was immediately swarmed by his teammates.
June? June was losing her entire mind. She practically shoved her phone into the air, recording as she jumped up and down, screaming.
"Oh my god! OH MY GOD! MACKLIN!" She didn't even care if it was professional or not—she was screaming her lungs out. The guys on the bench were laughing at her, but she didn't care.
She could feel her eyes watering, could barely hold the camera steady, but she kept recording, capturing the pure, unfiltered joy on Macklin's face as he skated past the bench. When he spotted her?
He pointed.
Directly at her.
Like he knew she was freaking out. Like he knew this meant just as much to her as it did to him. She covered her mouth, grinning like an idiot, heart bursting with pride.
June barely remembered the final buzzer, too wrapped up in the chaos of celebration, but the moment the game ended, she was already on the move. She didn't care about decorum, didn't care about looking professional—she just sprinted down the tunnel, camera forgotten, shoving past staff and players until she finally found them.
"MACKLIN!"
Macklin barely had time to turn before June crashed into him, throwing her arms around him in the biggest hug imaginable. Will, laughing, barely had time to react before she grabbed him too.She held onto both of them way too tight, face buried in Macklin's shoulder, because she was so proud she didn't even have words.
"You guys," she choked out, voice muffled. "You guys are—ugh! I'm so proud of you!" Macklin laughed, squeezing her back. "June, you're literally crying." She pulled back just enough to wipe at her eyes, sniffling. "Shut up, I'm not."
Will smirked. "Oh, she totally is." Macklin nodded. "Big time." June groaned. "I hate you both." Will grinned. "Love you too."
Macklin slung an arm around her shoulder, still smiling. "Thanks for being here, Junie." June sniffed, rolling her eyes. "Where else would I be?"
Because honestly?
There was nowhere else she'd rather be.
⸻ William Eklund was already down bad. But after tonight?
It was getting worse.
William was still coming down from the high of their first win when he took a moment to breathe, slumping back against the bench as the final cheers from the crowd echoed through the arena. That's when he saw her. June.
She was still in the tunnel, grinning like an idiot, her arms wrapped around Macklin and Will like they had just won the Stanley Cup. The way she smothered them, pulling them in, eyes bright with pride—it was so genuine, so soft, so full of love that it actually made his chest ache.
And the worst part? The look on their faces.
Macklin and Will—who normally acted like two little menaces—completely melted.
Macklin let himself be squeezed half to death, grinning through it.
Will actually laughed into her shoulder, nudging her playfully but not pulling away.
They just... let her love them.
And William? William realized he wanted that too.
He wanted her looking at him like that. He wanted her throwing her arms around him, laughing, telling him she was proud.
God, he was so screwed.
Later, in the locker room, Macklin leaned against his stall, arms crossed. "Okay," he said, tilting his head toward William. "We need to do something." Will, peeling off his tape, raised an eyebrow. "About what?" Macklin scoffed. "Are you serious?"
Will followed his gaze toward where William was sitting, fully staring at June from across the room, looking like a lovesick puppy. Will smirked. "Oh. That."
Macklin rolled his eyes. "Dude, it's getting embarrassing." William was barely trying to be subtle. June was just talking to Ferraro, completely oblivious, but William was staring at her, practically drooling.
"I mean, come on," Macklin continued, nudging Will. "Look at him. He's helpless." Will snorted. "I bet if she even looked in his direction right now, he'd combust."
Macklin smirked. "Wanna test that theory?" Will grinned. "Oh, absolutely."
"Okay, hear me out," Will said, leaning in. "We make him jealous." Macklin raised an eyebrow. "You think that'll work?" Will nodded. "Dude. He's already in the deep end. We just gotta make him feel like he's actually losing her."
Macklin hummed, considering. "And how do we do that?" Will grinned. "I'll flirt with her."
Macklin immediately started laughing. "Oh, that's evil."
Will shrugged. "Gotta do what we gotta do." Macklin smirked. "Alright, let's see if this works."
_
The next morning, June was walking through the facility, minding her business, when Will suddenly appeared beside her.
"Good morning, gorgeous," he said smoothly.
June almost tripped. "...What." Will grinned. "Just appreciating beauty when I see it."
June narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"
"Nothing," Will said way too innocently. "Can't a guy just compliment his favorite person?"
Okay.
Weird.
But this was Will. So instead of overthinking it, June just rolled her eyes. "Right. Sure."
Will patted her shoulder. "Looking forward to spending the day with you, sweetheart."
And then he just... walked off.
June blinked.
What.
The.
Hell.
William witnessed the entire thing. And immediately malfunctioned. Will had barely touched her, had just thrown a few dumb compliments, and yet William felt actual, physical heat crawling up his neck.
Why was Will talking to her like that?
Why was June smiling at him like it was normal?
WHAT WAS HAPPENING?
He was so busy panicking that he didn't even realize Macklin had been watching him the whole time.
Macklin smirked. "Something wrong, Eky?" William blinked, still staring after June and Will. "Huh?"
Macklin grinned. "You look... distracted." William scowled. "Shut up."
Macklin snorted. Oh yeah. This was gonna be fun.
If William Eklund thought things couldn't get worse, he was very, very wrong. Because Will Smith was escalating.
And William? William was losing his mind.
It started the second June walked into the practice facility. She had barely taken two steps before Will was right there, flashing his biggest, most ridiculous grin.
"Junie," he greeted smoothly. "You're glowing today."
June, already skeptical, blinked. "I... what?"
Will placed a hand over his heart. "It's true. You brighten this entire place."
Okay. What the hell was going on? June narrowed her eyes. "Alright. What do you want?" Will gasped, offended. "I'm just being nice!"
"You're being weird."
"I'm being appreciative." June sighed. "Of what?" Will smirked. "Of you, obviously." June stared at him for a solid five seconds.
Then?
She just shook her head and walked away.
Weird. But again—this was Will. So she didn't think much of it.
William, however? William was dying. He had been right there, watching the whole thing, and holy shit. Will was so obvious.
The way he tilted his head just right, the stupid smooth tone of his voice, the way he just kept smiling at her like she was the best thing in the world— William was going to explode.
And the worst part? June didn't even seem fazed. She just rolled her eyes and kept moving, like Will flirting with her was normal. Like she was used to it.
William hated that. Macklin, standing beside him, smirked. "You good, bud?" William gritted his teeth. "I'm fine."
Macklin snorted. "Right. Totally believe that." Macklin just patted his shoulder. "Whenever you're ready to, you know, actually do something about this, let us know."
William groaned, running a hand through his hair. Yeah. That wasn't happening anytime soon. If William thought Will was done for the day, he was so wrong. Because later, when they were in the gym, stretching before practice, Will decided to take things a step further.
June was standing by the benches, scrolling through her phone, completely minding her own business.
And Will? Will casually walked over, plucked her phone out of her hand, and sat beside her. "Hey," he said, grinning. "You look a little tense." June frowned. "What—"
And then? Will reached out and started massaging her shoulders.
William almost had a stroke. June froze. Then, slowly, painfully, turned her head to look at him.
"...What are you doing." Will, completely unbothered, kept massaging. "Just helping you relax."
June stared at him. "Dude."
"What?"
"This is weird."
Will sighed dramatically. "See? You never let yourself be taken care of." June pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh my god."
But she didn't immediately push him away, just let out a long, exhausted sigh before finally grabbing his wrists and prying his hands off.
"Okay. Enough." Will smirked. "You love me."
"I tolerate you." Will winked. "Close enough."
William Eklund needed help. William had been watching all of this from across the room, barely holding it together. He felt like his brain was on fire.
What was Will doing?!
Why was June letting him?!
WHY WAS THIS HAPPENING IN FRONT OF HIM?!
His jaw was so tight he thought his teeth might crack. He didn't even realize how tense he looked until Ferraro passed by and gave him a knowing look.
"Something wrong, Eky?" he asked, amused.
William, glaring at Will, muttered, "Jag ska döda honom." Ferraro snorted. "Don't need to speak Swedish to know what that means."
William groaned, dropping his head back against the bench. He was never going to survive this.
⸻June Johnson had way too much in her hands.
She had one camera bag slung over her shoulder, a stack of memory cards tucked in her arm, and an iced coffee balancing precariously in her grasp.
She was one wrong move away from disaster. And, of course, that's exactly what happened.
She had been power-walking down the hallway toward the media room, fully convinced she could make it without incident. And then?
She bumped into someone. Her elbow knocked against them just hard enough, and—
One of the memory cards slipped from her grip, tumbling toward the floor. She cursed under her breath and immediately went to grab it. What she didn't realize was that the person she had bumped into—William Eklund—had done the exact same thing.
And just like that—
Their hands collided.
It was barely anything.
Just a quick brush of fingertips, warm skin against warm skin, but it lingered for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. June barely had time to process it before William yanked his hand back like he'd been electrocuted.
Her brow furrowed. "Woah." William, visibly flustered, refused to look at her. "Sorry."
June grabbed the memory card and straightened, eyeing him. "It's fine. You okay?"
William cleared his throat, still avoiding eye contact. "Yes. Fine. Totally fine."
June narrowed her eyes.
Weird.
So weird.
But before she could push it further, William mumbled another quick apology and walked away. She watched him go, shifting the equipment in her arms.
"...Alright."
She had no idea what just happened. But one thing was becoming very clear.
William Eklund was acting really, really weird around her. And for the first time, she actually wanted to figure out why.
⸻ William Eklund had a problem.
And that problem?
June Johnson.
Because somehow, without realizing it, he had spent the entire night keeping an eye on her. The night had started like any other team outing. The Sharks were in Canada, celebrating a win in one of the liveliest bars in the city. The place was packed, the music loud, drinks flowing, and the energy electric.
June had arrived with Macklin and Will, just like always, falling into her usual spot between them like they were an inseparable trio. And William? William shouldn't have cared. He should have been focused on his own night, drinking, laughing with the guys, letting loose after a good game.
Instead?
His gaze kept drifting. Not intentionally—at least, not at first. But every time she laughed at something, every time she leaned against Macklin's shoulder, every time she flashed that stupid, perfect smile, his brain short-circuited. And then, when Macklin and Will got distracted, when she was off talking to someone else, he found himself checking on her.
Was she okay? Was she having fun?
Who was she talking to?
He had no reason to be watching her this much. No reason at all. And yet, there he was.
Sitting at the table, barely hearing what Ferraro was saying, because he was too busy making sure June was good.
And that? That's how he noticed.
He had been watching her—not intentionally, just subconsciously, scanning the bar like always—when he saw it.
A guy.
Too close.
June tense.
William sat up, spine snapping straight. At first, it was just mild concern.
Maybe she knew him. Maybe she was fine.
Then—
The guy reached for her.
Something in William's chest snapped. Before he even thought about it—before he even processed what he was doing—he was moving. It was pure instinct.
One second, he was at the table.
The next?
He was right there.
His hand landed on June's wrist, and in a flash, he pulled her behind him. The second he did it—the second he put himself between her and the guy—his brain switched off.
No nerves.
No hesitation.
No overthinking.
Just pure, protective instinct. And for the first time ever, he wasn't flustered around her.
Because right now? She needed him. And that? That was the only thing that mattered.
"Back off." His voice was low, sharp, and dangerously calm.
The guy, clearly drunk, scoffed. "Relax, man. We're just talking."
William didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't budge an inch.
"She's not interested," he said coolly. "Walk away."
The guy rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but after a moment, he made the right choice and left.
It wasn't until the guy was gone that William's brain started functioning again. And that's when he realized—
He still had his hand on June.
Oh.
Oh no.
The protective instinct that had taken over? Gone.
Now?
All that was left was panic.
He turned to check on her, his heartbeat still racing, and the moment their eyes met, it hit him all at once.
How close they were.
How his hand was still gripping her wrist.
How she was looking up at him with wide, unreadable eyes.
His brain completely melted.
Before he could let go, apologize, or run away forever, June suddenly smiled.
Soft.
Grateful.
And then?
She kissed his cheek.
William stopped breathing.
It was so fast—barely a second, just a light press of her lips to his skin—but it destroyed him.
The warmth.
The softness.
The casual, effortless way she did it—
William was dead.
Actually, physically deceased. And then? She just patted his chest, smiled like nothing happened, and said—
"Thanks, Eky." Then she walked back to the table like it was nothing. He stood there, completely frozen, hand still hovering in midair like an idiot.
His face was on fire.
His brain was empty.
And then—
"Ohhh my god."
A voice.
A voice that sent pure fear down his spine.
William turned, and—
Macklin and Will. Watching the whole thing. And losing their minds.
Will was gasping for air. Macklin was halfway to the floor, wheezing. "Oh my god," Will repeated. "DID SHE JUST—"
"Oh, he's so gone," Macklin choked out. "Look at him. LOOK AT HIM."
William's ears were ringing.
He needed to leave.
Right now.
Immediately.
But he couldn't.
Because he was still standing there, still feeling the ghost of her lips on his cheek, still trying to process that June Johnson had just kissed him.
And worst of all?
He had no idea what it meant.
⸻ June Johnson had made one mistake tonight. And that mistake? Thinking she could get through the rest of the night without being interrogated.
By now, it was common knowledge around the team that Will, Macklin, and June always shared a hotel room.
It was ridiculous—they were literal NHL rookies, not kids at summer camp. But somehow, every single road trip, they managed to convince the team staff to let them bunk together.
Why? Because they couldn't function without each other. (Also because Will and Macklin were man-children who needed supervision, but June wouldn't admit that out loud.)
So when they got back to the hotel after the bar, she should have known what was coming.
The moment June walked in, Will threw himself onto the bed, dramatically sprawling out like he had just run a marathon. Macklin, meanwhile, plopped onto the couch, cracking open a water bottle.
And then—at the exact same time—they both turned to her. And grinned.
June froze. "What." Will wiggled his eyebrows. "Sooo..." Macklin smirked. "How's Eky?"
June's stomach dropped.
Oh, god.
They knew.
She forced herself to act casual, dropping her bag by the dresser. "Uh... fine?"
Will snorted. "That's all you're gonna say?"
June narrowed her eyes. "What are you two getting at?"
Macklin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Oh, I don't know," he said casually. "Maybe the fact that you kissed him."
June instantly turned red. "It wasn't a kiss."
Will gasped, clutching his chest. "IT WAS A KISS."
June groaned. "It was barely anything. It was on the cheek."
Macklin smirked. "Did your lips touch his skin?"
June hesitated. "...Yes?"
Will sat up straight. "DID HE TURN BRIGHT RED AFTER?"
She huffed. "Obviously."
Macklin grinned. "Then it counts."
June covered her face. "Oh my god, you guys are so annoying." Will kicked his feet like an excited child. "So, tell us everything. How was it? How did it feel? Was it soft? Did he smell good? Did he—"
"STOP," June groaned. "It wasn't a big deal."
Macklin scoffed. "Oh, it was a huge deal."
Will nodded aggressively. "Eky's probably still in shock. You fried his entire brain."
June sighed, throwing herself onto the bed. "You guys are making this so much bigger than it was."
Macklin raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you just go around kissing people on the cheek all the time?"
June glared. "I WAS THANKING HIM."
Will grinned. "Sure. Sure."
Macklin smirked. "You know he's in love with you, right?"
June froze. Her stomach did something weird. She sat up quickly. "He is not."
Macklin and Will exchanged a look. "Oh, she's in denial," Will whispered.
Macklin nodded. "Big time."
June crossed her arms. "He doesn't like me like that. He's just... shy."
Will snorted. "Junie. He literally worships the ground you walk on."
June's face heated up.
Macklin shrugged. "Honestly, I'm kinda impressed with you." She frowned. "What?"
Macklin smirked. "You broke him. I've never seen Eky that flustered before. He might actually be in a coma right now."
June groaned. "You guys are the worst."
Will flopped back onto the pillows, grinning. "Face it, Junie," he said. "You're in trouble."
And, for the first time, June was starting to think he might be right.
⸻ Tyler Toffoli had played in the NHL for a long time. He had seen a lot. He had been on championship teams, endured chaotic locker rooms, and witnessed some of the most ridiculous bets ever made between teammates.
But somehow?
Somehow, this might be the dumbest one yet.
They were on the road, heading into Buffalo for the next game on their trip. The usual post-practice bus chatter filled the air—guys talking about dinner plans, chirping each other about bad drills, and overall just keeping the mood light. Tyler was sitting near the middle, scrolling through his phone, when a voice from behind him made him pause.
"Alright," Will Smith said, loud enough for half the bus to hear. "Let's make things interesting."
Tyler sighed. It was never good when Will started sentences like that. Henry Thrun, sitting near the front, barely turned around. "This ought to be good."
Will grinned. "If Mack, Toff, and I all score against Buffalo, then Toff has to—" He turned dramatically. "Join our legendary sleepover."
Tyler blinked. "...Your what?"
Macklin Celebrini smirked. "Oh, he doesn't know." Mario Ferraro snorted. "Dude, they have a whole routine."
Tyler, confused, looked between them. "You guys still do sleepovers?"
Will grinned proudly. "Hell yeah, we do."
"I—" Tyler shook his head. "Why?"
June, sitting two rows ahead, barely glanced up from her phone. "They're codependent." Will ignored her. "It's tradition. And you can't really talk, you're a part of it."
Tyler rubbed his temples. "Okay, but why me?"
Macklin smirked. "Because we need to test your loyalty." Tyler scoffed. "And what are the chances all three of us actually score?"
Will shrugged. "Low."
Macklin nodded. "But if it happens, you're in."
Tyler rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Not gonna happen anyway."
It did, in fact, happen.
Will scored in the first period, skating past the bench with a cocky grin, pointing at Tyler. Then Macklin tipped one in on the power play. And then, because the universe hated him, Tyler sniped one in the third.
The bench erupted.
But instead of normal goal celebrations, Tyler was met with immediate chirping. "Ohhh, Toff," Thrun teased. "You're in trouble now."
Will and Macklin bounced on the bench screaming "Sleepover! Sleepover!!" Tyler groaned. "Oh my god."
By the time they got back to the hotel, Tyler was praying everyone had forgotten.
They did not. Because the coaching staff got involved.
David Quinn, standing in the hallway post-game, grinned when he saw Tyler. "So, Toffoli," he smirked. "You ready for your sleepover?"
Tyler stared. "Coach, please." Mario Ferraro walked by, dying of laughter. "Gotta follow through, bud."
And just like that?
Tyler had no way out.
When Tyler finally showed up to their hotel room, dragging a stupid rollaway cot behind him, he had one thought.
What the hell did I just get myself into?
Because what he expected was a normal setup.
What he got was a full-fledged system.
• Will and June were in one bed.
• Macklin was in the other.
• There was a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk on the bedside table.
• And a stupid spot was set up at the foot of both beds for his cot.
Tyler blinked. "You guys are unreal."
Will beamed. "Welcome to the fam, Toff."
Macklin smirked. "Did you actually think we were joking?"
Tyler exhaled. "I was hoping."
June, casually scrolling on her phone, snorted. "Well, you're here now."
"Okay," Will said, pulling out his phone. "Photo time."
Tyler groaned. "Is this really necessary?"
Macklin grinned. "Oh, 100%."
They took the stupidest, most ridiculous photo possible—Tyler lying stiff on his cot, looking miserable, June and Will grinning like gremlins, and Macklin flashing a peace sign from his bed.
June shook her head. "This is absurd."
Will grinned. "It's tradition."
At first, Tyler thought, Okay. Fine. We'll go to sleep now. It was 3am, what else were you supposed to do.
Wrong.
Because Macklin and Will would. Not. Shut. Up.
They talked about everything. The game. The best goal celebrations. Some random inside joke that made zero sense.
June?
She just sat there on her phone, occasionally chiming in like this was completely normal. Tyler turned to her. "How are you just... ignoring this?"
June shrugged. "You get used to it."
Tyler sighed. "I don't think I will."
And then—
Mid-sentence, Will just stopped talking. Tyler frowned. "What the—"
He looked up—Will was just... asleep. Out. Like a light.
Macklin didn't even react.
June, without missing a beat, just sat up, pulled the covers over Will, then rolled over and fell asleep too.
Tyler stared. "What," he whispered. "The hell just happened?"
Macklin yawned. "It's just how it is."
Tyler frowned. "What do you mean?"
Macklin shrugged. "Will has a hard time sleeping alone. He started bunking with June because it helped. And somewhere along the way, I joined too."
Tyler stared.
Slowly, it started to make sense. It wasn't just some dumb rookie sleepover.
It was... routine. A weird, chaotic, ridiculously wholesome routine. And June? She wasn't just their friend. She was their person. Their family. Their everything.
The one who made everything easier, lighter, better.
Tyler shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.
This was insane.
But also?
Kind of perfect.
Before turning over to sleep, Tyler pulled out his phone. He stared at the stupid photo they had taken earlier. Then, before he could overthink it, he posted it to his Instagram.
Caption: "Reporting for duty 🫡"
He tossed his phone on the nightstand and settled in.
Yeah.
This team?
This team was something special.
⸻ William Eklund had survived a lot in his career.
Gruelling practices.
Hard-fought games.
The relentless chirping of his teammates.
But this? This was worse than all of that combined. Because June Johnson was flirting with him.
And she was doing it on purpose.
William had been suffering in silence for months, convinced that June saw him as nothing more than a teammate, a coworker, a friend of a friend.
He had resigned himself to his quiet, torturous little crush. And then, out of nowhere, everything changed. It was like a switch flipped. Because suddenly, overnight, June started acting... different.
Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But he noticed.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. The way she started standing closer to him in conversations. The way her fingers would brush his wrist when she handed him something. The way she'd lean in, just slightly, when they were talking, like she was completely comfortable in his space.
And then came the comments. The too-casual, too-smooth compliments that made his entire brain malfunction.
"Looking good today, Eky," she had tossed out casually, winking as she walked past.
Or worse—after practice, when she'd toss him a water bottle and say, "Stay hydrated, pretty boy."
PRETTY BOY.
William had fully choked on his own spit.
Ferraro had had to thump him on the back to save him.
June?
She had just grinned and walked away. She was doing this on purpose. He was sure of it now. And it was killing him.
Unfortunately, William was not subtle.
The team picked up on it immediately. They watched as June slowly turned up the heat, adding more teasing, more touches, more deliberate moments that left William looking completely fried.
And the guys?
They were thriving off his suffering.
"Eky, man," Hertl grinned one day. "You look stressed."
"Yeah," Ferraro added. "Everything okay? You seem a little... distracted."
William, completely red, grumbled, "I'm fine."
The worst part?
June had heard the whole thing. And instead of saving him, she had just smirked. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.
It finally reached critical levels one afternoon after practice. William had spent the entire day dodging her, avoiding eye contact, trying to survive.
And then—
She cornered him.
It was just the two of them in the media room, the door clicking shut behind them.
William's heart was already racing, just from being alone with her.
And then—
She leaned against the table, crossed her arms, and smirked.
"So," she said casually. "When are you going to ask me out on a date?"
He stopped breathing.
His brain shut down.
She just—
She actually—
WHAT.
She was looking at him, waiting for an answer, and oh my god.
She knew.
She had known this whole time.
And now?
Now she was messing with him.
William opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
His face was so red, he could actually feel the heat in his skin.
June tilted her head, amused. "Eky?" she teased. "You good?"
No.
No, he was absolutely not good.
He was broken.
And June was loving it.
⸻ William Eklund had been barely holding himself together for weeks.
But this?
This was a new level of suffering. And it all started with a movie night ambush.
William had no idea what he was walking into. Will and Macklin had texted him earlier:
Will: Movie night at ours. Get here ASAP.
Macklin: We got snacks.
William, thinking it was just the three of them, didn't hesitate. But when he walked in, he realized immediately—
He had been set up.
Because sitting on the couch, curled up in the coziest, most unfairly cute outfit imaginable, was June.
William was done for.
She wasn't in her usual media attire. She wasn't wearing her Sharks press pass, or running around with cameras, or giving him heart attacks by casually calling him "pretty boy."
No.
She was wearing sweats, an oversized Sharks hoodie (probably Will or Macklin's), huge glasses, and a messy bun.
And William?
William short-circuited on the spot.
She looked so soft. So effortless. So perfect. She looked so different from the sharp, witty, always-in-control June he was used to. And somehow, that made it so much worse.
She looked like she belonged here.
William could not stop staring.
"Eky," June greeted, smiling up at him. "Didn't know you were coming." William forgot how to speak.
Because her voice was so soft.
And she was hugging a pillow to her chest.
And she was wearing glasses.
And oh god.
He was in so much trouble. Will and Macklin, of course, noticed immediately. Will barely suppressed a grin. "Yeah, we... forgot to mention June was here."
Macklin smirked. "Hope that's cool."
William, still completely malfunctioning, just nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, totally. Cool. Fine."
Will snorted. "You sure, bud?"
William forced himself to sit down, taking the safest possible spot—the chair across from the couch, as far from June as possible.
Macklin and Will exchanged a look.
Oh, this was gonna be fun.
The next night, the team had a bonding event planned. Bowling. Which should have been normal, fun, low-stress. But of course, that was before June decided to completely ruin William's life.
"Alright," Couture called out. "Pair up, let's get the teams set."
Before William could even think about what was happening, June appeared right next to him. She looped her arm through his, looked up at him with a sweet, innocent smile, and said,
"Me and Eky are a team." William's brain immediately malfunctioned. The guys immediately noticed.
"Ohhh," Toff grinned. "Interesting choice."
Will, barely containing his excitement, leaned over to Macklin. "This is gonna be so good."
Macklin nodded. "Eky's gonna combust."
And honestly?
They weren't wrong.
It started small.
She made little touches—brushing her fingers against his when she grabbed the bowling ball, nudging him when she laughed.
Then, it got worse.
She fixed the collar of his hoodie, totally casual, completely unaware of how William's soul left his body.
And then, when he went up to take his turn—
She stood way too close behind him. She leaned in and whispered, "No pressure, but I expect a strike."
And William?
William bowled the worst shot of his life.
The ball went straight into the gutter.
And the team?
Lost their minds.
"Oh my god," Will howled, actually falling onto the seats.
"Eky," Mario teased. "What the hell was that?"
William had no words. He just turned, fully red, looking at June. She was smirking. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.
And then, like she hadn't just completely ruined his night—
She patted his back and said, "You'll get 'em next time, pretty boy."
William wanted to scream.
At this point, William was barely hanging on. And Macklin and Will? Decided to help. Which, of course, made it so much worse.
They started pushing William toward June at random moments. They wingmanned him so hard it was embarrassing.
"Oh, you guys look good together," Macklin said loudly.
"Right?" Will grinned. "Power couple."
William wanted to die.
June?
June just laughed and played along.
"Oh, totally," she smirked. "We make a great team." William was one second away from actually combusting.
⸻William Eklund had reached his breaking point. For weeks, he had been tortured. June had been flirting relentlessly, finding every possible excuse to touch him, tease him, ruin his entire existence.
And worst of all? She knew exactly what she was doing.
Then, the other night, she had straight-up asked him when he was going to ask her out.
And William?
William had said nothing. He had just stood there buffering like a broken computer.
Pathetic.
Which is why, today, he was done. "What if I mess up?" William asked, pacing back and forth in the locker room.
Zetterlund leaned against his stall, arms crossed. "Eky, buddy, you've already messed up."
William groaned. "Okay, but—"
"No. No more 'but,'" Zetterlund cut in. "You're asking her out today."
William ran a hand through his hair. "I had a plan." Zetterlund raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?" William nodded. "I was going to wait for the perfect moment."
Zetterlund sighed. "Dude, you had the perfect moment. She literally asked you when you were going to do it."
William groaned again, covering his face. "I KNOW."
Zetterlund clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Listen to me, okay? Just keep it simple. 'June, go out with me.' That's it."
William took a deep breath. He could do that.
Right?
The plan was simple. June did her "Question of the Day" segments every morning. All he had to do was wait until she finished, walk up, and ask her out.
He had it all rehearsed—every word planned out perfectly in his head.
But then...
He saw her.
She was standing in the hallway, smiling, laughing, looking unfairly beautiful, and—
His brain turned to static.
Before he even knew what was happening, he was walking toward her.
And then—
Words started falling out of his mouth.
"H—hey, um, I was wondering if, uh—well, you see—what I meant was—um—if you, like—wanted, um—go, uh, eat—dinner? With—me? Or something? At some point. Maybe. I don't know. No—I mean, I do know. I mean—I want to. Do you want to?"
Silence.
Absolute.
Painful.
Silence.
June just stared at him.
William wanted to jump into the nearest trash can.
Then—
She smiled.
And oh god.
She was blushing.
"Are you asking me out, Eky?" she asked, tilting her head. William, fully malfunctioning, just nodded.
June's smile grew.
"Then yes," she said softly.
William stopped breathing.
Then, as if she hadn't just completely ruined his life, she leaned in—
And pressed a kiss to his cheek.
But not just anywhere. Dangerously close to his lips.
William was dead.
June pulled away, grinning at his stunned expression. "Pick me up at seven?" she asked.
William, still not functioning as a human being, just nodded wordlessly. June gave him one last teasing look before walking away. Leaving William standing there, completely frozen.
That's when he felt two hands clap onto his shoulders. "Ohhh buddy," Macklin wheezed.
Will, barely holding it together, patted his back. "You okay, champ?"
William said nothing. He just stared into the void.
Macklin and Will looked at each other. Then—they burst out laughing. "Oh, this is too good," Will gasped.
Macklin shook his head. "She broke him."
William, still completely stunned, just whispered "What just happened?"
Will grinned. "You got a date, Eky." Macklin smirked. "And a near-kiss." Will waggled his eyebrows. "She's bold, huh?"
William was still buffering. Macklin clapped him on the back. "You're so screwed, dude."
And honestly?
He was.
⸻ William Eklund had never been this nervous in his entire life.
Not for his NHL debut.
Not for a shootout attempt.
Not even for post-game interviews where he had to answer questions in English instead of Swedish.
This?
This was worse than all of that combined.
Because tonight? He was taking June Johnson on a date.
When William pulled up to June's place, he felt like he was going to be sick. His hands were clammy, his heart was pounding, and he could already feel the team's chirps echoing in his brain.
But then—
She stepped outside.
And William?
William almost forgot how to breathe.
She looked stunning. Her hair was in natural curls, bouncing with every step she took.
Her eyes were bright, glowing, filled with excitement.
And her smile?
Her smile was going to kill him.
She was wearing something simple—jeans, sneakers, a cozy sweater—but she had never looked prettier.
William actually felt his jaw drop.
"Oh," he blurted before he could stop himself.
June raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"
William, still short-circuiting, cleared his throat aggressively. "You look—uh—really, really, really—"
Stop saying 'really'—
"—really pretty."
June laughed, eyes crinkling. "Thanks, William."
Then—as if she hadn't just melted his entire brain—she stepped forward and hugged him.
And to make things so much worse for him?
She kissed his cheek.
Again.
William fully blacked out.
June pulled away, grinning. "Are we ready?" William, still struggling to recover, just nodded. "Yeah. Uh. Yep."
He quickly thrust the bouquet of daisies toward her. "These are for you."
June's face softened immediately. "Daisies?" she murmured. William rubbed the back of his neck. "They're your favorite, right?"
June blinked.
Then—to his complete horror—her eyes started glistening.
"I can't believe you remembered that," she whispered. William panicked. "Did I do something wrong?" June laughed, blinking away tears. "No, you idiot. You just did something really sweet."
William, already red, opened the car door for her. "You deserve sweet things."
June stared at him. William immediately felt like he said too much. But before he could freak out completely, June smiled, slipping into the car. Then—just as he was about to close the door—she reached out and grabbed his hand.
"William..." He froze.
June squeezed his fingers gently. "You don't have to be so nervous," she said softly. "I like you, okay? A lot. And I'm glad we're going on a date. Let's just focus on that."
William's chest tightened.
How was she so effortless?
How was she so easy to be around?
He swallowed, nodding. "Okay."
She smiled. "Good."
And just like that, he felt himself relax.
⸻ By the time they got to the arcade, William felt significantly less like he was about to throw up. And after about ten minutes, he was actually having fun.
Because June? June was competitive.
"I hope you're ready to lose, Eky," she said, cracking her knuckles as they approached the basketball hoops. William smirked. "I play hockey, not basketball. You should win this one." June grinned. "We'll see."
The timer started.
Balls flew.
And to William's surprise—
June was actually good.
Like, weirdly good.
"Okay, what the hell," he muttered, watching as she sunk shot after shot with perfect form. June laughed. "You didn't know I played in high school?"
"No!" William gawked. "You were actually an athlete?" June smirked. "What, did you just think I was some media nerd?"
William grinned. "Yes." June gasped, feigning offense. "You take that back."
William laughed.
And for the first time all night, he felt like himself.
⸻ The rest of the night was filled with games, teasing, and ridiculous bets. William beat her at air hockey. June destroyed him at Dance Dance Revolution. He got way too competitive during Mario Kart. She giggled every time he muttered Swedish curses under his breath when he lost.
And somewhere along the way?
June realized something.
She was so, so smitten.
Because William Eklund?
Was the absolute sweetest.
He was a gentleman—opening doors, making sure she was warm, letting her pick the games.
He was hilarious—constantly chirping her, making her laugh until her stomach hurt.
And most of all?
He was so, so easy to be around.
This wasn't just a date. This was fun. June didn't want it to end.
As they left the arcade, June nudged him. "So," she teased. "Was this so bad?"
William grinned. "No." She smiled. "Good."
They reached the car. And then—
Before William could open the door for her, June turned and tugged on his hoodie.
William froze.
"William?" she murmured.
His pulse skyrocketed. "Yeah?"
She looked up at him, eyes soft. "I had fun tonight," she said.
William swallowed. "Me too." June bit her lip. "We should do it again."
William's stomach flipped. "Yeah?" he asked. June smiled. "Yeah."
Then—because she clearly wasn't done torturing him—
She leaned in. And kissed his cheek.
Again.
But this time? It lasted just a second longer. And it was way too close to his lips.
William actually forgot how to breathe. By the time he snapped out of it, June was already grinning at him.
Oh, yeah.
He was so in trouble.
⸻William Eklund had never felt this happy in his entire life.
As he drove home from June's house, his fingers tapped against the steering wheel, his heart still racing, his mind replaying every second of the night.
The laughs.
The way she looked at him.
The way she kissed his cheek—so close, so soft, like she was waiting for him to do something.
And suddenly—
He couldn't take it anymore. His pulse skyrocketed as a wave of pure confidence rushed through him. Without even thinking, he slammed the brakes, threw the car into reverse, and sped back toward her place.
June had barely made it inside when the doorbell rang. She frowned.
Who the hell—
When she opened the door, she was met with William. Breathless. Wild-eyed. Looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire world.
"William?" she blinked, confused.
He didn't answer.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't think.
He just moved.
One second, she was standing there, trying to process what was happening.
The next?
His hands were cupping her face, his body was stepping forward, and his lips were crashing into hers.
June was frozen for a second.
But then—
She melted.
The kiss.
It was desperate. All of tension unraveling in a single moment.
His hands were firm, holding her like he was afraid she'd disappear.
His lips were soft, warm, urgent against hers.
And his body—
God.
His body was pressed so close, she could feel his heartbeat racing as fast as hers. She barely had time to react before she was gripping his hoodie, pulling him closer, kissing him back with everything she had.
Because this?
This was what she had been waiting for. And the way William was kissing her? Like he had been dying to do this. Like he had been waiting just as long. It sent shivers down her spine.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. June, still gripping his hoodie, stared up at him. William, face flushed, chest heaving, stared back.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them needed to. Because in that moment? Everything was finally clear.
William exhaled a laugh, still looking at her like she was unreal. "I, uh..." He swallowed. "I couldn't stop thinking about you."
June's lips curled into a soft, dazed smile.
"Good," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. "Because I couldn't stop thinking about you either."
Macklin Celebrini is focused, he thinks about hockey and when he’s not thinking about hockey he’s usually sleeping. What he doesn’t expect is to be sidetracked by his work dad’s wife’s little sister. And Macklin Celebrini doesn’t know how to act when suddenly all he can get is her attention.
he fell in love with her and her little one, even though she wasn't his
SUMMARY
Family can be different and for a long time, it was just Ainsley and Freya her two-year-old daughter. She never thought that someone would want her with a child, but when she meets Nico there's something different about him. He actually likes her for who he is, and when he finds out she has a daughter it doesn't scare him, he even falls in love with the little princess who calls him 'grizzly Nico'.
DISCLAIMER
if you have any thoughts, blurb ideas, questions, scenarios, or Instagram post ideas for this AU my asks are open. Thoughts for this AU can be found under this tag the swiss love charm au & pictures on this Pinterest board
FICS
THE WORST AND THE BEST DAY - Ainsley and a few of her friends decide to go to a party after a long day at work. A few drinks later, she’s dancing with some guy, who drugs her drink. When her friends find her, she’s in a bad state.
DEVILS VS CANUCKS - Ainsley meets Nico for the first time at the game Canucks play against the Devils.
SECRET SANTA - Where is Nico invites Ainsley and Quinn to their Christmas party at his apartment. And instead of a normal Secret Santa, he comes up with a better idea. Handmade gifts.
LONG DISTANCE GESTURES - Nico arranges for a Vancouver bakery to deliver Valentine’s cake to Ainsley and Freya. Freya insists on calling Nico to thank him, and during the call, Ainsley feels the undeniable pull of his charm, even from thousands of miles away.
FIRST DATE - Nico finally gets the courage to invite Ainsley on a date, as she is in the city for the Hughes’ Bowl.
BACK IN VANCOUVER - Back home, Ainsley is slowly admitting the feelings she has towards Nico, even though she is afraid.
MEETING THE HISCHIER'S - Ainsley and Freya’s first summer in Switzerland at Nico’s parents’ house.
SWEET WISHES, DANDELION - Ainsley and Quinn celebrate their birthday down in New Jersey with their family and Nico.
BLURBS
New Year Wishes
I am so hungry I could eat…
Mother's Day
Quinn being drafted to Minnesota
No Hughesbowl
Where is daddy
Happy Birthday Gwizzly
Freya no. 1 fan
IMPORTANT AU THOUGHTS
the swiss love charm au basics
meet ainsley hughes
⬅︎ navigation
Caitlin @catie-pinterestwhore - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
