#Luka Dončić | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goldfades · 16 days ago

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first dates, proposals and injuries | DONCIC

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | a summary of their timeline!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | majority fluff! mentions of injuries, but nothing else:)

FIRST DATE ┈ AUGUST, 2019

The argument starts before you even sit down, before the waitress can take your drink order, before Luka can flash that signature, lopsided grin that’s already been getting under your skin in ways you are absolutely not ready to admit.

It starts because of course it does. Because you’re you, and he’s him, and whatever cosmic force put the two of you at the same restaurant table in late 2019 had to have known what it was doing.

“You’re insane if you think Jokic is better than LeBron,” you say, resting your forearms on the table as you glare at him across the candlelit setting. “Like, actually unhinged. Are we watching the same league?”

Luka scoffs, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world to deal with your slander. He drags a hand down his face like you’re exhausting him, like he wasn’t the one who brought up basketball in the first place. “You’re just a LeBron fan because you grew up watching him dominate,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t appreciate real basketball.”

You gasp, placing a dramatic hand over your chest. “Excuse me?”

Luka leans in, eyes alight with that sharp, competitive glint you’ve only ever seen when he’s talking about basketball. “And Jokic sees it five steps ahead. Maybe ten.” He shrugs, easy and infuriating. “Longevity, dominance, IQ. It’s not even close, pčelica.”

You jab a finger at his chest. “Not even close? Luka, Lebron is redefining the center position! You—”

“I what?” He smirks, tilting his head. “I actually play against both of them?”

Your jaw drops. He did not just pull that card.

Luka laughs at your expression, all warm and boyish, like he’s already celebrating the win. The sound would be cute if you weren’t two seconds from throwing your napkin at his head. “That’s wild,” you mutter. “You really just—”

“I really just,” he teases, mimicking your tone. Then, softer, “But I like this. I like you like this.”

The words settle between you like a shift in gravity. You pause, blinking at him, and suddenly it’s not about LeBron or Jokić anymore. It’s about the way he’s looking at you—like he’s discovered his new favorite thing in the world, and it’s you, sitting here, all fired up over basketball takes.

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real malice there. You don’t know it yet—not in this moment, with your heart pounding and your competitive streak flaring up like a supernova—but this is the moment Luka Dončić falls for you. Hard. It’s not the way you clean up so well off the court, though he’s definitely been trying not to stare. It’s not even the way you tilt your head when you challenge him, eyes sharp, lips pursed, like you live for the fight.

No, it’s the way you don’t back down. It’s the way you push right back, toe-to-toe with him, chaos-to-chaos, meeting his fire with your own.

Luka exhales, running a hand down his face like he can’t believe it. Then he grins, slow and sure. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

Your breath catches.

And just like that, the argument is forgotten.

The early days—before the flashing cameras, the headlines dissecting your every move, and the courtside dramatics that would come to define you two—were sweet. A kind of sweetness neither of you had expected, like finding extra syrup at the bottom of your plate when you thought the pancakes were already perfect.

It was late 2019, the golden stretch of your first season in New York, and Luka was deep into another MVP-caliber run in Dallas. But in between the road games and the time zones, you found each other in moments so soft they barely made a sound—late-night FaceTime calls where he’d prop his phone up while brushing his teeth, lazy Sunday mornings tangled in each other’s hoodies, the quiet thrill of knowing you had something before the world even knew to look.

And then there was Slovenia.

He took you home that first offseason, back to the red rooftops and winding streets of Ljubljana, where the pace of life slowed down and the world shrank to just you, him, and the people who made him who he was. You weren’t prepared for how much it would mean—not just to Luka, but to you.

His mother, Mirjam, was warm and whip-smart, teasing Luka in a way that made your heart squeeze. His grandmother fussed over you in rapid Slovenian, hands on your cheeks, nodding approvingly when Luka translated: She says you eat well, that’s good. You’ll need it to keep up with me.

(You had bumped him with your hip for that one, and his grandmother had cackled like she’d just won a bet.)

You met his childhood friends, walked the streets where he first dribbled a ball, saw the court where he learned to play. And one night, wrapped in a blanket on his childhood home’s balcony, you told him about your own messy road to the WNBA—about the nights you doubted yourself, the injuries, the sacrifices. Luka had listened, eyes steady on you like he was memorizing every word.

“You’re the best player I’ve ever known,” he’d said after a long pause, voice quiet but sure. “Don’t let anyone tell you different. Not coaches, not media. Not even me if I ever say something stupid.”

You’d laughed, then kissed him slow—because for all the trash talk, for all the arguments over LeBron and Jokić, Luka Dončić saw you. And maybe that was when you knew.

Maybe that was when you both did.

The injury came out of nowhere. One wrong step—just one—and your entire world shifted beneath you.

It happened during a game in early 2020, a regular-season matchup that should’ve been just that: regular. You’d driven hard to the basket, planted your foot, and felt something go horribly, sickeningly wrong. The pain was instant, a searing-hot bolt that shot up your leg and dropped you to the hardwood before you even realized what happened.

The arena noise blurred into a dull roar. Your ears were ringing, hands gripping at your knee as trainers rushed in. You swore you could hear your own heartbeat, frantic and uneven.

But the worst part? The moment they helped you up, and you knew.

You weren’t the type to cry. You’d played through sprains, bruises, busted lips—you prided yourself on being the one who never let the pain show. But as they helped you off the court, as you saw your teammates’ faces tight with concern, something inside you cracked.

And when the MRI confirmed what you feared—when the doctors started talking about “recovery timelines” and “patience” and “one step at a time”—you broke.

The moment Luka found out, he was on the next flight to New York. No hesitation, no I’ll see you soon. Just a single text before takeoff: I’m coming. Don’t argue.

You hadn’t planned on crying. You really hadn’t. But when Luka walked through your apartment door, still in the sweats he left Dallas in, eyes scanning you like he wasn’t sure if he should hold you or let you be—you lost it.

Tears welled up fast, thick and hot, and before you could fight them back, Luka was there. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you in like he could physically hold you together. You gripped his hoodie, buried your face into his chest, and sobbed.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you choked out. “Luka, I don’t know if I—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured, voice firm, steady. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his hold tightening. “You will. And I’ll be here the whole time.”

You wanted to believe him. But right then, all you could do was shake your head, because the fear was so much louder than his reassurance.

“This was supposed to be my year,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I worked so—” A sharp inhale. “I worked so fucking hard for this, Luka.”

“I know.” His hand found the back of your neck, grounding. “I know you did, pčelica.”

You hated this. Hated how weak you felt. Hated that he had to see you like this—messy and hurting, nothing like the fierce, unstoppable player he fell for.

But Luka didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, letting you cry, letting you be this version of yourself without shame.

And later, when the tears finally slowed and your breathing evened out, he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “I need you to hear me. You are not alone.”

You searched his face, and for the first time since the injury, the panic in your chest loosened just a little.

Luka wasn’t going anywhere.

The world found out about you two before you were even ready to say it out loud yourselves.

At first, it was just whispers—background noise on social media, the occasional courtside shot of you at Mavericks games, still in your knee brace but animated as ever. Then came the clips. The way you’d leap up after a Luka step-back three, how you’d mouth off at opposing teams like you were the one running the offense, the sideline moments where Luka would glance over at you mid-game and smirk like he had a secret no one else knew.

And, of course, the video.

You hadn’t even realized you were being filmed that night. It was a tight game, a chippy one, and Luka was already one technical deep when he started laying into the refs. You, standing courtside, were simultaneously barking at a six-foot-four forward who’d said something slick—doesn’t even matter what. The footage was grainy, but the energy was unmistakable: two people, completely separate yet perfectly in sync, talking mad shit in stereo.

The caption read, simply: Soulmates. It went viral within hours.

That season, the one you spent on the sidelines in Dallas, was supposed to be the hardest of your career. And in a lot of ways, it was. You weren’t built to sit still. Watching your team fight without you, stuck in street clothes while your knee slowly, painfully healed, made your skin itch. But Luka never let you fall too deep into your own head.

He’d drag you to Mavs practices, challenging you to free-throw contests on one leg (you still won most of them). He’d let you dissect film with him, lying on the couch with your knee propped up while you both debated pick-and-roll coverage. And on the bad days—the days where you felt like a ghost of the player you used to be—he didn’t try to fix it. He’d just pull you close, let you be angry, and remind you that you weren’t alone in this.

You were still you. And you weren’t going anywhere.

Neither was he.

Luka had known for a long time. Longer than he probably should have, if you asked anyone else.

Two months into dating—before the headlines, before the injury, before the world knew your name alongside his—he bought the ring.

It had been impulsive, maybe, but not reckless. Luka wasn’t a reckless person, not when it mattered. He just knew. Knew in the same way he knew when to release a step-back three, when to fire a no-look pass. It was instinct, muscle memory, like he’d been waiting for you his whole life without realizing it.

So, he bought the ring. Kept it tucked away, first in a drawer, then in a safe, then in his travel bag because he didn’t like the idea of being too far from it. He never rushed it. He just waited—waited for the right time, for the right moment.

And then, one night in late 2022, standing in the kitchen of your shared home after one of your WNBA games, he realized the moment was already here.

It wasn’t some grand, orchestrated thing. No cameras, no big speeches, no dramatic buildup. Just you, standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan while Luka leaned against the counter, rambling about the game.

“You should’ve seen the way they were doubling you,” he said, his accent thickening the more excited he got. “It was ridiculous. Like, bro, do you not know she wants you to do that? And that steal in the fourth—”

“Luka,” you interrupted, amused. “Are you gonna help, or just talk my ear off?”

He grinned, completely unfazed. “I am helping. I’m being moral support.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t really mind. You liked this—him, talking basketball while you cooked, the way he was just there in your space like he belonged.

And that’s when it hit him.

This was it.

This was everything.

His chest got tight, his hands a little clammy. He didn’t plan this. Didn’t have a speech prepared. But the ring was in the drawer down the hall, and he wasn’t waiting any longer.

The food was done, plated and set on the counter, when he stepped behind you and tapped your shoulder.

You turned, brows furrowed. “What?”

And then your breath caught.

Because Luka was on his knee, looking up at you with something raw and sure and devastatingly real in his expression.

He hadn’t rehearsed anything, so he did what he always did when he was nervous—he talked.

“I, uh—I bought this forever ago,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Like… way too early. Probably crazy early. But I knew. I knew when we spent that whole night arguing about LeBron and Jokić. I knew when my grandma said you eat well and that meant you’d keep up with me.” A breath, a small, breathless laugh. “I knew when you got hurt, and all I wanted to do was be where you were.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes burning.

Luka swallowed hard, thumb fidgeting against the box. “I don’t need headlines, or cameras, or some big fancy thing. I just need you. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been.”

The world knew everything about you two. But this? This moment?

This was just for you.

Luka took a steadying breath. “So, pčelica,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Will you marry me?”

Your whole body locked up.

For once in your life, words failed you.

Your heart was pounding—actually pounding, like you’d just hit a game-winner at the buzzer. The kitchen, the food, the entire damn world faded, and all you could see was Luka, on one knee, looking at you like he had never been more sure of anything in his life.

You weren’t a crier. You never had been. But your throat was tight, and your eyes were stinging, and you knew—you knew—if you so much as blinked too hard, you’d lose it.

Luka was still talking, still rambling because he was nervous.

“I mean, obviously you don’t have to say yes right away,” he rushed out. “Like, I don’t want to pressure you or anything. I know it’s a big thing, a lifetime thing, and we can—”

“Luka.”

He stopped.

You dropped your hands from your mouth, inhaled deeply, and let yourself really see him.

His shoulders were tense, his free hand fidgeting against the ring box. He was always so damn confident—on the court, in life—but this? This was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him.

You let out a shaky exhale, your lips curling into something between a smile and a disbelieving laugh. “You’re a dumbass.”

Luka blinked. “What?”

You grabbed his face.

Your hands framed his cheeks, fingers pressing into the stubble that had grown in after a few days without shaving. His skin was warm, a little flushed, his breath uneven under your touch. His lips parted slightly, his eyes wide, and then—then—you kissed him.

You kissed him hard, like he’d just won something, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. And maybe, right then, he was.

Luka made a startled sound in the back of his throat before sinking into it, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to ground himself. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, or maybe that was yours, or maybe it didn’t even matter because you were saying yes—yes—in every way except words.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, and you whispered, “You really thought I’d say no?”

Luka let out a shaky laugh. “I mean, I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“You knew I wouldn’t.”

His smile was soft, teasing, and so damn him. “Yeah. I did.”

You huffed, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill. “Then put the damn ring on me already.”

Luka’s whole face lit up, the pure, boyish joy in his expression nearly knocking the breath out of you. He fumbled with the box, hands a little unsteady as he pulled out the ring—the one he’d carried around for years, waiting for this moment.

And when he slid it onto your finger—when it settled there, snug and perfect like it had always belonged—you felt it deep in your bones.

This was it.

This had always been it.

Luka surged up, wrapping his arms around you so tightly he lifted you off the floor. You let out a startled laugh, gripping onto him as he buried his face into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“I love you,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “Like, so much.”

Your chest ached with it—with all of it.

“I love you too, Luka.” You carded your fingers through his hair, held him a little tighter. “Now put me down before you drop me and I end up in another knee brace.”

Luka snorted but obeyed, setting you back on your feet. You barely had time to steady yourself before he was kissing you again—softer this time, slower, like he wanted to make the moment last forever.

And maybe, in a way, it would.

The wedding planning process was pure organized chaos—which, honestly, was the only way it could’ve gone.

You got engaged in July, right in the middle of your WNBA season, and by the time the reality of it settled in, you and Luka had exactly two months before he had to report for training camp in October. There was no drawn-out, year-long engagement, no excessive deliberation over venues or flower arrangements.

You both looked at each other one night, sprawled out on the couch after a road trip, and Luka simply said, “Let’s do it before my season starts.”

And that was that.

There were no second thoughts, no overcomplications—just a joint agreement that you didn’t want to wait. You wanted to be married, simple as that.

The next few weeks were a blur.

Luka, in true Luka fashion, was entirely too chill about it all. “We just need a place, right?” he’d say while you were knee-deep in vendor emails, half-listening as he tossed a basketball up and down from the couch. “A place, some food, and someone to say the thing. Easy.”

You’d nearly thrown your laptop at him.

(But, to be fair, he did step up when it counted—securing a stunning venue with just a few calls, thanks to the fact that everyone in Dallas would do anything for Luka Dončić. Still, you made him suffer through at least one flower-sample meeting as payback.)

The guest list was intimate—family, close friends, teammates. No press, no media spectacle. Just the people who truly mattered.

The wedding date was locked in for late September, just weeks before Luka had to report for camp. It was fast, hectic, and the kind of timeline that would make any wedding planner cry, but it was yours.

And that was all that mattered.

For all the chaos leading up to it, the wedding itself was… perfect.

Not in a scripted, fairytale kind of way—no, there were little mishaps, tiny stumbles that made it yours. Luka nearly forgot his shoes at the hotel. Your niece spilled juice on her flower girl dress ten minutes before the ceremony. Someone (probably one of Luka’s teammates) started a drinking game at the reception that got way out of hand.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the way Luka looked at you when you walked down the aisle, like he was seeing you for the first time and falling in love all over again.

What mattered was the way his hands shook slightly when he held yours, how his thumb traced absent-minded circles into your skin because even under the brightest lights, you were the thing that kept him steady.

What mattered was the vows—spoken low, just for each other, though you were sure the raw emotion in Luka’s voice could be felt by everyone in the room.

What mattered was the I do, the way he kissed you like he was never letting go, the way your wedding bands felt right—like they’d belonged there all along.

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, music, and too many shots. Luka spun you around the dance floor, his grin wide and unfiltered as he pulled you close, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured against your lips, voice teasing but eyes so damn soft.

You smirked, looping your arms around his neck. “I’ve been stuck with you, Dončić.”

And really, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

#luka doncic #luka dončić #luka doncic x reader #luka dončić x reader

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goldfades · 18 days ago

Note

i love crash out series and thanks for your service queen 😭 i had an idea for like a fight and then make up between them with smut? a lil longer too if you don’t mind

hi baby! i hope you enjoy this!!

warnings: NSFW under the cut, minors pls dni! i feel like i forgot how to write smut so PLEASE give me some feedback

The door barely clicks shut before Luka exhales, sharp and frustrated. You don’t look at him.

You haven’t looked at him since dinner.

Your coat is already halfway off when he reaches for you, fingers just grazing your wrist before you pull away, stepping into the kitchen like he’s not even there. Like the whole ride home hadn’t been thick with tension, the air between you stretched thin, fraying at the edges.

Luka leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with narrowed eyes. You don’t acknowledge him.

He hates it.

Hates the way you move around the kitchen like he’s invisible. Hates the way your lips are pressed into a tight, unyielding line. Hates the silence, because god, anything is better than this. You could be yelling, cussing him out, shoving at his chest with all the fight you have in you—and he’d take it. He’d welcome it.

But this?

This cold, calculated ignoring? He feels like he’s losing his mind.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks, voice clipped.

Nothing.

Luka clenches his jaw. Pushes off the counter. Takes one step closer.

“Seriously? You’re just gonna act like I’m not here?”

Silence.

You open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, twist the cap with a little more force than necessary.

He watches. Seething. His patience, already thin, finally snaps.

“Oh, my fucking god.” Luka drags a hand down his face. “Can you just say whatever you need to say? Yell at me. Call me an asshole. Something.”

You take a slow sip of water. His eye twitches.

“You’re such a brat,” he mutters under his breath.

That does it.

Your head snaps up, eyes blazing, shoulders tight with irritation. “Excuse me?”

Luka smirks. Oh, now you want to talk.

He shrugs, leaning against the counter again, arms lazily folding across his chest. “I said,” he drawls, tilting his head, “you’re a brat.”

Your nostrils flare. He bites back a grin. He knows he shouldn’t be pushing you, shouldn’t be stoking the fire—but at least now you’re giving him something.

You slam the bottle onto the counter, stepping closer. He can see the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers curl into fists at your sides.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“There she is.” Luka grins, infuriating and smug, but there’s something else beneath it—something restless. Something hungry. His voice dips lower. “I was starting to miss you.”

Your pulse jumps. But you’re still pissed. Still fuming.

And Luka?

Luka loves you like this—fierce, unrelenting, all fire and defiance. But he loves breaking you down even more.

You glare up at him, chest rising and falling with each sharp breath. Luka is standing so close now that you can feel the heat of him, the way his broad frame crowds you in, making the kitchen suddenly feel smaller.

His smirk is lazy, but his eyes—his eyes are dark. Heated. He’s enjoying this.

And that pisses you off even more.

“You are such an asshole,” you hiss, pushing at his chest.

He doesn’t budge.

“Am I?” His voice is all silk and steel, infuriatingly calm, like he’s barely restraining a laugh. “For what? Wanting you to actually talk to me instead of acting like a little kid?”

Your jaw tightens.

“You think I’m acting like a kid?”

“I think you’re acting like someone who wants me to lose my patience.” He steps even closer, and you take an automatic step back—until your spine meets the edge of the counter. Luka leans in, bracing a hand beside you. “And you know what, baby?” His voice drops, low and thick. “It’s working.”

Heat pools low in your stomach.

You hate how easily he gets to you.

How his presence, his voice, his everything makes you feel like you’re standing too close to the edge of a cliff, toes curling against the drop. But you’re still mad. And you’re not about to let him just bulldoze over that.

“You embarrassed me,” you say, voice tight.

Luka’s brows knit together. “How?”

You scoff, shoving at him again—harder this time. He lets you. “At dinner. The way you were talking over me, making fun of me in front of everybody—”

“I wasn’t making fun of you.” His voice is firmer now, the teasing edge fading.

“Yes, you were.” Your fists tighten. “You always do this. You always think it’s so funny to push my buttons, and I know you don’t mean anything by it, but sometimes—sometimes it’s not funny.”

Luka exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. He watches you for a long moment, his gaze flickering over your face. Then, finally—

“Shit,” he mutters. “I didn’t—fuck, baby, I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

Your anger is still there, but it softens, just a little, at the raw sincerity in his voice. You cross your arms, looking away. “You’re an idiot.”

Luka huffs out a laugh, his hands settling at your waist. “I know.” His thumbs stroke slow, deliberate circles against your hips. “But I’m your idiot.”

You bite your lip. “That’s not a good excuse.”

He dips his head, lips brushing your ear. “No?” His voice is low, dangerously smooth. “Then let me make it up to you.”

Your breath catches. Luka presses closer, his body warm and solid against yours. His nose drags along your jaw, his lips just barely skimming your skin.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

He notices, then smirks.

“C’mon, baby.” His voice is pure sin, rough and coaxing. His hands slip lower, gripping your thighs. “Let me fix it.”

You shouldn’t give in this easily. You should stay mad. But Luka—your Luka, with his infuriating smirk and teasing touch—knows exactly how to unravel you.

And right now?

You’re about to let him.

The tension between you crackles like static in the air, thick enough to choke on. Luka's hands are still heavy on your hips, thumbs dragging slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of your dress. He’s waiting—for you to push him away, for you to tell him off, for you to fight back.

But you don’t. Instead, you stare up at him, lips parted, breath coming just a little too fast. He notices. Of course, he does.

“Say the word, baby,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your jaw. “And I’ll stop.”

You don’t say it.

His smirk is slow and satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

You should still be mad. You should still be fuming, pushing him away, making him work harder for it. But Luka knows you too well. Knows the way your pulse is racing, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like they want to grab him but your pride won’t let you. Knows exactly how to break you down.

“Luka,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.

He moves.

His hands slide down, gripping your thighs, hoisting you up onto the counter like you weigh nothing. You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair as he steps between your legs, pressing his body against yours, trapping you in.

“You gonna let me fix it?” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your throat, sucking just hard enough to make you shiver.

You hate him for this. Hate how easily he gets under your skin, how he turns every fight into something else entirely, something heated and breathless and dangerous.

And you hate even more that you love it.

“You’re such a menace,” you whisper, nails scraping against his scalp.

He grins against your skin. “You love me.”

And god help you, you do.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to make him groan. His hands squeeze your thighs in response, his control slipping, his breath warm against your lips.

“I’m still mad at you,” you tell him, but your voice is shaky, betraying you.

Luka smirks, pressing his forehead against yours. “No, you’re not.”

You glare at him, opening your mouth to argue, but he doesn’t give you the chance. Instead, his lips crash against yours, and everything else melts away.

The fight, the tension, the anger—it all disappears the moment his mouth moves against yours, the kiss hot and needy and just a little desperate. His hands are everywhere—sliding up your thighs, gripping your waist, pulling you closer.

Your legs wrap around his hips, anchoring him to you, and Luka groans, deep and low in his throat. He breaks the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, his breath ragged.

“I hate when you ignore me,” he mutters against your skin. “Drives me fucking insane.”

You smile, tilting your head to give him better access. “I know.”

His teeth scrape against your pulse. “Brat.”

You tug at his hair, making him growl. “Cry about it.”

His laugh is dark and breathless, and before you can say another word, he’s lifting you off the counter, carrying you towards the bedroom with purpose.

“You wanna play games, baby?” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerous. “Let’s play.”

And just like that, the fight is forgotten. Because Luka may hate when you ignore him, but he knows just how to make you beg for his attention.

Luka's steps are measured, each one echoing through the hallway as he carries you effortlessly in his arms, the sheer power of his body on display. The air around you crackles with an electric current, every brush of his fabric against yours sending jolts of desire straight to your core.

The bedroom door swings open with a soft thud behind him. Luka sets you down gently on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours, burning with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. He leans down, his hands planted firmly on either side of your head, caging you in with the strength of his arms.

“You sure you can handle this?” His voice is a low drawl, teasing, yet laced with an edge of seriousness. He knows your games, the push and pull of your resistance, but tonight, the unspoken challenge hangs heavy between you.

Without waiting for your response, Luka’s lips find yours again, more forceful this time. His tongue slides against your lips, demanding access, which you willingly grant. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of mint and something uniquely Luka that makes your head spin.

His hands roam downward, finding the hem of your dress and pulling it up slowly, tantalizingly, until it bunches around your waist. Cool air hits your skin, causing you to gasp into his mouth, a sound that seems to drive him even further. His fingers trace up your thighs, light yet firm, mapping the skin he’s claimed so many times yet still can't get enough of.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. His gaze is fixated on your exposed skin, as if memorizing the sight before him. His fingers hook around the edge of your underwear, teasingly pulling them down as he locks eyes with you, his intentions clear as his lips curve into a smirk.

The fabric slides off with ease, leaving you bare before him. Luka’s breath hitches slightly as he takes in the sight, the raw desire in his eyes enough to make your heart race. He dips his head, pressing kisses along your inner thigh, inching closer to where you want him most—but deliberately avoiding it, driving you crazy.

You squirm beneath him, trying to guide him where you need him, but he gently pins your hips down with his strong hands. “Patience, baby,” he chides lightly, his breath hot against your skin. His refusal to satisfy your needs makes every touch feel like both a punishment and a promise.

Finally, he relents. His mouth moves directly on your pussy, his tongue masterfully invoking sensations that leaves you writhing beneath him. Each lap sends waves of pleasure crashing through you, intensified by the sheer anticipation he's built. His name falls from your lips in a helpless mantra, echoing around the room, filling it with the sound of your pleasure.

Luka's hands grip your hips tighter, a silent command to stay still under his ministrations. But it's a tall order when every flick and swirl of his tongue draws whimpers from your throat. Just when you think you can’t take anymore, his fingers join the play, sinking into you with a precision that sends another jolt of pleasure coursing through your veins.

The room is thick with the heat of your bodies, every breath, every moan mingling in the charged air. Luka’s movements grow more urgent, more focused on your clit, as he senses your climax building. His name becomes a litany, a plea, a declaration as you teeter on the edge.

With a few more skilled movements, you cum all over his tongue, waves of pleasure rolling over you in a relentless tide. Luka slows his pace, riding it out with you, his own heavy breaths a testament to his satisfaction at your unraveling.

As you float back down, he crawls up your body, his weight a welcome pressure. His lips find yours again, kissing you deeply, passionately, sharing the taste of you. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers against your lips, a smile in his voice, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection.

Luka's gaze holds yours, intense and fiery, as he shifts his position. You can feel the solid weight of his bulge pressing against your thigh, a promise of what's to come. He trails one hand down the center of your body, a teasing path that makes every nerve stand on alert.

When he reaches the junction of your thighs, he pauses, his fingers playing at the entrance that beckons him. His other hand braces beside your head, his thumb caressing your cheek softly, a stark contrast to the hunger in his eyes.

Without waiting any longer, he aligns his cock at your sopping pussy. With a slow, firm push, he slides home, filling you completely in one smooth motion. You gasp at the sensation, a perfect stretch, a perfect fit, as Luka pauses for a moment, allowing you both to savor the moment and adjust.

Then, the restraint vanishes. Luka sets a pace that is both relentless and passionate. His hips snap forward with precision, each thrust driving him deeper, eliciting moans from deep within you. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a rhythmic beat that drives the intensity of the moment.

Luka’s face is a mask of concentration and raw pleasure as he watches the effects of his movements reflected in your expressions. His name spills from your lips in a crescendo of sound, each utterance a spur to his motions. His hands roam over your body, one settling to anchor your hip, the other reaching up to pull your leg around his waist, changing the angle of his thrusts to delve even deeper.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, his voice rough with desire. His movements become even more targeted, designed to hit all the right spots within you. The change sends sparks of pleasure zipping through your veins, your back arching off the bed as you meet him thrust for thrust.

The intensity builds, a coiling heat in your belly that signals the rushing approach of your second climax. Luka senses it too, and his motions become even more focused, desperate, as if he’s chasing his own release that's tethered to yours.

"Cum for me, baby," he urges, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck, his breath scalding against your skin. His words, spoken in that commanding tone, pierce the fog of pleasure and tip you over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he pushes you both past the brink.

Your climax shatters through you, waves of intense pleasure washing over you in relentless surges. Luka follows closely behind, his own release claimed in the tight clasp of your body, his name a prayer on his lips.

The room is warm, hazy in the golden light spilling through the curtains. Your skin hums, still tingling from him, from everything.

Luka collapses beside you with a heavy, satisfied groan, one arm flung over his face, the other instinctively reaching for you. His fingers find your waist, tracing absentminded circles against your damp skin. He’s still catching his breath, chest rising and falling, a lazy grin stretching across his lips.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice hoarse, wrecked. “You’re actually tryna kill me.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, turning to face him. His cheeks are flushed, hair an absolute mess, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead.

“You deserved it,” you murmur, dragging a teasing finger down his chest. “Brat.”

Luka cracks an eye open, fake-offended. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You smirk, shifting closer, your lips grazing his jaw. “You love pushing my buttons.”

He sighs dramatically, rolling onto his side to look at you properly. “I don’t mean to,” he says, quieter now. His big hand finds your cheek, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “I just love messing with you.”

You arch a brow.

“Okay—” he amends quickly, lips twitching “—sometimes I go too far.”

You hum in agreement, stretching your legs against his under the sheets. “Yeah, you do.”

Luka groans, grinning as he buries his face against your shoulder. “Shit, you’re really making me work for this apology, huh?”

You bite back a smile. “You should suffer a little.”

“I’m literally dying.”

You laugh, carding your fingers through his messy curls. “You’ll live.”

Luka leans into your touch, all soft now, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder. “I really am sorry,” he murmurs between kisses. “I never want to embarrass you, baby. Ever.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach flip.

You nudge your nose against his, letting the last remnants of your irritation melt away. “I know.”

He exhales, relieved, and then—because he’s Luka—grins. “Sooo... am I officially forgiven? Or do I need to go another round to prove how sorry I am?”

You roll your eyes, smacking his arm. “Go to sleep.”

Luka laughs, grabs you, and pulls you against his chest with a satisfied sigh. “Mmm. Fine. But only ‘cause you wore me out.”

You tangle your legs with his, feeling warm, sated, and impossibly content. Luka’s arms tighten around you, and for a long moment, neither of you speak—just breathing in sync, just existing together.

Then—

“Still think you’re a brat, though,” Luka mumbles sleepily against your hair.

You pinch his side.

He yelps.

Then, he laughs.

#luka doncic #luka doncic x reader #luka dončić #luka dončić x reader

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