#i do it... just to do it and that's good enough for me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

adieutristana · 2 days ago

Text

nsfw headcanons; arcane women x fem!reader

still new to writing this kinda stuff yall dont kill me. anyways, here's some general headcanons. again, i'm open for nsfw requests, just please read through the new section in my rules post!

summary; general nsfw headcanons with arcane women and their girlfriend.

characters included; jinx, vi, mel, sevika, caitlyn, lest

tags; nsfw, fluff, everything is done consensually, some aftercare (full aftercare headcanons here), fingering, cunnilingus, strap-on use, strap-on referred to as dick, degradation, rough sex, nipple play, light bdsm (sevika, lest), anal (sevika, lest), public (mel), jinx being a brat, vibrator use (jinx, caitlyn) gun play (jinx), period sex mention (jinx), usage of words like ‘slut’ and ‘whore,’ sloppy shit, p in v (lest), dacryphilia (jinx, caitlyn), wax play (lest), breeding kink (vi), orgasm denial (mel, caitlyn), thigh riding (sevika, caitlyn), blowjob (lest), shimmer (jinx, lest)

men and minors dni.

jinx;

✧.* the way i interpreted it at least, what jinx received after the fight on the bridge was a sort of shimmer infusion. she's got that stuff running in her veins, and jinx is basically 50% shimmer at this point.

✧.* i bring this up because the amount of shimmer in jinx's system gives her certain.. perks. such as her stamina being that of twenty women combined, how fast and hard she can go. she'd have fun increasing the speed, fucking you harder and harder while you're a writhing mess beneath her and can only think of the pleasure she's giving you.

✧.* even while receiving, jinx can go all night if she wanted to. she won't, because you're not as energetic as she is and she needs to let you rest (as much as she wishes you could go all night). the girl would be so damn overstimulated, but still, she'll demand that you make her cum again, and again, and again. she can keep going; she can take it.

✧.* a tit girl. she doesn’t care how big or small your boobs are, as long as she gets them in her hands and mouth! it’s probably a result of how damn sensitive her own are- jinx will be whimpering mess just from you pinching her nipples a few times.

✧.* she’s a switch, and what position she takes at what given time is just dependent on her mood. jinx is always unpredictable, always keeping you on your toes. she isn’t much different in bed.

✧.* so fucking noisy, and the dirty talk is downright filthy. it's bad enough that at times, you worry your girlfriend might lose her voice. jinx is very unfiltered in general, so you'd expect no less from her in the bedroom. she sees no point in holding back. you're making her feel good, why should she hide that?

✧.* "oh, fuck! ngh, just like that, you're fucking my pussy soooo good," she'd babble, taking every inch of your strap with impressive resolve. her lips are parted, swollen and red from just how hard she'd kissed you. obscene squelching noises filling the room while you pound into her, her legs pressed to either side of her body. "y'hear it? do you? that's me, fuckin' dripping for you. need your dick, ineeditineediti need it-"

✧.* SIZE QUEEN. jinx is a petite girl, shorter and thinner than most. yet she'd insist on you fucking her and stretching her with dildos that looked monstrous next to her. she's a whiny, squealing mess as you ease each inch into her aching pussy, but she always takes it so well. there's nothing quite like the feeling of being pried open to jinx.

✧.* along with that, she's pretty flexible so you can get creative with positions. she'll let you press your knees to either side of her body, not wincing once or growing tired.

✧.* jinx does enjoy a variety of positions- doggystyle, reverse cowgirl, the like, her favorite positions are any where she can see your face. not only does it give jinx a rush to see your flushed, fucked-out expressions, but it also gives her that sense of connection to be able to look at you while you pleasure each other. she's the type to hold eye contact with you the entire time she eats you out, and to bore her gaze into yours in missionary.

✧.* she'd be riding you, arms wrapped around your chest as you piston the strap into her. she's whimpering and squealing louder and louder with each thrust, but her eyes never would leave yours. you're fucking her at an unforgiving pace, plastic tip kissing her cervix, but she still feels so at ease and cared for.

✧.* i feel like jinx would say 'i love you' at least once every time.

✧.* a munch. jinx loves it when you sit on her face, and she's the type to be downright offended if you don't put your full body weight on her. she'd tug you down by your hips before plunging her tongue deep into you without warning, earning sharp cries from you. every time she hears those noises, her ego grows bigger, and damn. you'd allow her that.

✧.* also loves to eat you out from under her workbench. seeing you in her chair, under her desk, in her space, so willingly submissive to her- it's thrilling to her and she can't quite explain it.

✧.* "fuck yes, toots," she'd grumble, pulling back from your wet heat for just a split seconds. "you taste so damn good. so fuckin' sweet and needy f'me."

✧.* a damn brat when she wants to be. she loves to rile you up, it's like a game to jinx. not so amusing for you when you're trying to fill out paperwork and jinx is groaning, taking your pen from your hand and holding it out of your reach while she tells you to just fuck her already.

✧.* "come on! that stuff is so boring, and here i am, soaked for you," she'd pout, her knees parting more beside you on the couch. "you always have to be so responsible, and it's irritating. you could be putting those hands to better use, but noooo."

✧.* or something along the lines of, “i can’t feel anything! are you sure you’re fucking me? come on, do something!”

✧.* not so mouthy when your face is buried in her cunt, that's for sure.

✧.* very into marking. placing her claim on you. almost every time, without fail, you’ve got a new array of hickeys splayed across your neck, chest, hips, and inner thighs. also very into writing on you, with permanent marker. she’d write ‘JINX’ right above your pubic bone, draw little hearts around your nipples, draw an arrow on your inner thigh pointing to your cunt that reads ‘JINX WAZ HERE!’

✧.* a crier, especially when you overstimulate her and when she orgasms. she gets embarrassed every time and tries to explain it away, but it’s just her body’s way of processing all of those sensations. poor girl can’t hold it in :(

✧.* being with jinx, it's gonna be either her tongue, a strap, or a vibrator pleasuring you, unless you can convince jinx to cut her nails. not likely, since she takes pride in their length. sorry :(

✧.* jinx isn’t afraid to get messy. she’ll be rubbing her sticky cunt against yours, having already squirted twice- her lips swollen from your kisses, thighs and lower stomach covered in sweat and cum. but she just can’t stop grinding against you, it feels so damn right.

✧.* along with that, jinx is definitely into period sex. the first time was a whirlwind, with jinx insisting she doesn’t mind and eating you out anyways. if anything, you being on your period makes jinx want to please you more so that you forget about those pesky cramps.

✧.* squirter, and her juices are tinged pink from the shimmer running through her body.

✧.* oh, you already know the prosthetic finger vibrates. she wouldn’t tell you the first time she used it, just say something like, “i’ve got somethin’ special for ya toots! what is it? well, i can’t say just yet! but you’ll love it. i know you will.”

✧.* the way you gasp as soon as you feel the vibrations against your clit and buck your hips into the metal gives jinx all that she needs.

✧.* definitely into gun play as well. seeing your pussy stretch to accommodate the barrel of her gun, the way your eyes widen and you gasp when her finger brushes over the trigger… oh, it’s art. jinx could fully get addicted to it.

vi;

✧.* A MUNCH.

✧.* it probably sounds far-fetched, but vi could cum just from eating you out. from tasting your sweet juices, the scent of your heat, the way your face contorts in pleasure, the trembling of your thighs in her hands, the obscene noises that spill from your lips, how it feels when you cum in her mouth- vi gets lost in it every single time.

✧.* it gets to a point some nights where you’ll almost have to pry vi’s face from between your legs.

✧.* likes to switch and doesn’t have a preference when it comes to top or bottom. i take her as the type who would do both during most sessions to balance things out, she gets some and you get some!

✧.* dirty talk is crazy when she’s domming, but when vi is subbing she can barely string together a coherent thought, especially not a full sentence. she tries to talk to you, tries to let you know how good you’re feeling, but it comes out more as a choppy string of moans and ‘please’s.

✧.* “oh, that feels so- haaaah, please, mm-”

✧.* vi is strong, stronger than most. meaning she can pick you up, fuck you while holding you up against a wall, or she could use that strength to slam your wrists into the mattress above your head while her free hand works at your heat. the possibilities are endless!

✧.* not necessarily loud, but she doesn’t hold back when it comes to noises either. always some form of grunting, groaning, heaving. or whimpering, when she’s on bottom.

✧.* her tits are so sensitive. she’ll try to act like it’s nothing when your hands brush over her hardened nipples, but oh gods when your lips form a seal over one and you start to swirl your tongue around it, vi loses her mind. she’s threading calloused fingers into your hair, trying to push you impossibly closer to her.

✧.* loves giving strap- she likes to receive too, but she’s more partial to giving when it comes to strap-on usage. it just gives her a rush, being on top of you, making you take her. it’s a bit of a power trip for vi.

✧.* “yeah, fucking take my cock- ngh… such a good girl for me, such a good slut.” she’s a panting mess, pounding into you from behind. your asscheeks are sore from the swats she’s given them, and you can feel vi filling you to the brim with every thrust. yet it’s intoxicating.

✧.* vi is just so smitten with you, she’ll do almost anything if you ask nicely. any position, any toys, any kink you want to try out. she’s a lover girl at heart, and aims to please above all else. all you have to do is say the word.

✧.* due to her sweet nature, vi would be so attentive during rougher sex with you. even as she’s tossing you around, coaxing what must be your fourth or fifth orgasm out of you, calling you pathetic and needy, she’d be looking out for you. one second she’s degrading you, the next she’s asking if you’re okay and if you need a break. additionally, she does internally wince when she talks down to you, though she tries to hide it. she knows you know she doesn’t actually think of you like that, but she does hold back because she can’t bear the thought of going too far with it.

✧.*despite liking to be rough from time to time, especially if she knows that you like it and you ask for it, vi also does enjoy slow, sweet lovemaking to keep things balanced. she likes being able to pleasure you, to worship you, show you exactly how much you mean to her through her touch.

✧.* “shh, baby,” she’d whisper, kissing down the valley between your breasts, towards your sternum and stomach. “i’ll make you feel good. so good. just lay your pretty self back and take it. can you do that for me, love?”

✧.* her favorite positions are probably doggystyle and 69. doggystyle gives her room to manipulate your body, a prime angle to pound into you, room to pull your hair and force you to look back at her while you’re coming undone on her dick. 69 is ideal for eating you out, but you both get off, so it’s even better. she’d be trying to stifle moans while her tongue is lapping at your clit, sending vibrations through your core when she can’t hold back anymore.

✧.* one orgasm is never enough when it comes to vi. she wants to give you more, and more, and more. her hand would be soaked and her fingers beginning to prune from just how much you’ve already given her, but she still swears you can give her one more (those words are almost always a lie).

✧.* creamer, and there’s SO much of it. the first time you made her cum you didn’t say anything, but you questioned to yourself whether this is a normal amount. but you quickly grew to love it- seeing vi make such a mess, shaking and whining.

✧.* can somebody say BREEDING KINK. no, it’s not scientifically possible for a woman to get another woman pregnant. but vi will be damned if she doesn’t try.

✧.* pistoning her strap into you while she has you folded into a mating press, grunting and panting with her hands on either side of your head. “gonna fill you up just right,” she’d say, breathless. “please, vi-” “shh. i’ll give it to you, you’ll be such a pretty mama, fuck- take it. take it all.”

✧.* while she enjoys getting her tits played with, i definitely see vi as more of an ass girl when it comes to you. she loves eating you out from behind, slapping your ass during sex, even slapping your ass in public when you’re just trying to pay the poor street vendor. she just can’t get enough of the feeling of plush skin in her hands. the shape, the sensation.

✧.* a head pusher. practically shoves your mouth into her pussy while she’s bucking into your face, groaning and panting while your tongue laps up everything she’ll give you. the proximity does something for her, but she also just… can’t help it. it’s reflex at this point. you hit just the right spot, and her strong hand is flying to the back of your head to push you even further.

✧.* RIDE HER ABS. that’s all i’ll say.

mel;

✧.* such a devoted and sweet lover. also a switch, and she truly doesn’t mind what position she takes at what moment. usually mel lets you decide, she trusts you and the pace you set.

✧.* she’s devoted to your pleasure, but she also won’t deny herself any; not by a long shot.

✧.* however, there are times when she’s had a frustrating day at work. the councilors wouldn’t listen to her, her ideas weren’t getting anywhere, she felt a mental block growing stronger with each passing second. every minute she was in that room was like torture, and all she wanted was to get home.

✧.* so the second she does, she’s asking you to lay down so she can lower her pussy onto your face and lose herself.

✧.* “please, love, make me forget- oh, shit! aah!”

✧.* mel doesn’t really curse much, so a good signifier that she’s feeling good is when you hear her swearing. she’s always so poised, so refined in the way she speaks. careful to converse in a manner becoming of a councilor, of a medarda. so when she’s making those pretty sounds, laid back with three fingers deep inside of her and you hear her swear, you know you’ve got her.

✧.* “right there, hah, mm…” she’d moan, grabbing at one of her breasts to anchor herself. “that feels so- fuck! oh, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

✧.* she’s not necessarily loud either, just the right volume to assure you that she’s feeling good.

✧.* mel’s stamina is pretty average. she knows how to pace herself, so it’s really up to you and how long you want to go for.

✧.* she prefers lovemaking and being doted on in the bedroom rather than rough sex and being denied. that’s not to say she’s opposed to trying out something more hardcore, but generally, she prefers to feel cared for in the moment. touch her, love her, worship her.

✧.* however, when she’s topping, she could deny you for hours. it’s something to do with the power she’s holding over you.

✧.* “mpph, please, just let me come, aaah.. i’ll be so good, mel.” you’d whimper, writhing beneath her touch. “shh. you’ve been so good already, but you can hold out a bit longer, can’t you? that’s my strong girl.”

✧.* partial to body worship. take your time with her, slowly removing her clothing to tell her every little thing you love about her body. her soft skin. the swells of her breasts, her lean muscle and smooth thighs. she’ll be gasping, petting your hair and praising you, letting you know what feels right. every touch from you feels like a promise, and you’ll do damn right to keep it.

✧.* TRIBBING. she especially loves being on top when it comes to scissoring, so that she can set the pace and get both of you off just right. it checks off all of mel’s boxes- proximity, close connection, being able to see your pretty face, and the fact that you both get pleasure from it.

✧.* “oh, gods, love,” she’d grunt, grinding her wet cunt into yours. strings of arousal connecting the two of you, rutting into each other. “don’t stop, unngh- that’s so good, so fucking good.. faster. faster.”

✧.* although she’s refined and poised, mel is not above fucking you in public. you’d be at a gala together, champagne glass in hand and trying to converse with others; some of the most important figures and families in piltover. yet all you can focus on is mel, the way the white dress she chose hugs the curves of her hips just right, and the slit that runs up the side. you try to be subtle, but mel is observant. she notices. and this is one of the few times where she’s a bit more rough.

✧.* “just couldn’t wait?” she’d ask, her fingers pounding into you in an empty room just outside of the crowded hall. “almost struck a deal, a good one, before you started undressing me with your eyes. it’s distracting, love.” “i’m sorry, baby,” you’d whimper, so fucking close to your peak. “sorry isn’t going to cut it. but you’re so pretty… so wet, too. i’ll be merciful.”

✧.* mel likes to set the mood. candles, maybe some soft music crackling over a stereo as well. as i keep saying, she’s a romantic! she wants you to see the effort she’s putting in for you, to know just how much she cares. all of this is worth it to her, you’re worth it.

✧.* just one is rarely enough for mel. if you’re more the one-and-done type, she won’t try to coax more orgasms out of you- but for her, she can go several rounds. back to back to back, coming undone on your fingers and mouth and strap and loving every second.

✧.* always holding onto you somehow. her arms wrapped around your shoulders while she rides you, one arm around your waist to steady you while she fingers you against a wall, the like. however, mel’s favorite is holding your hand, interlacing your fingers together. it just feels so intimate, so loving. it’s also grounding in a way, she can squeeze your hands as the sensations grow stronger, or as a silent support while you teeter over the edge of climax.

✧.* aside from times like i mentioned earlier, mel isn’t really a fan of quickies. there are some exceptions, but she prefers to take it slow within the confines of a place she knows is safe. she wants to take her time to truly appreciate you, and she can’t do that if she’s got a time constraint.

✧.* says she loves you every time, probably multiple times. the intimacy of it all overpowers her. some people may think that saying ‘i love you’ over and over makes it lose meaning, but on the contrary, mel means it more each time she says it.

✧.* “oh, oh, gods… mm, i love you, right there…”

sevika;

✧.* have fun trying to move at all after sleeping with sevika.

✧.* she’s a top-leaning switch. she won’t deny pleasure herself, but she won’t ask for it either. she’s more than happy to just fuck you again and again, her pleasure being derived from the sight of your head thrown back in ecstasy and the sound of your pleasured screams.

✧.* sevika loves just about anything, but she’s partial to the strap. it gives her a rush of power, being able to split you open and fuck you so deep, so right. definitely gets one of the biggest dildos she can find to insert into the strap, just so she can make you lay there and take it.

✧.* rough, experienced, and doesn’t hold back when it comes to degradation. she’d pull her cock almost fully out of you, just leaving the tip- before slamming back in, drawing a borderline pornographic moan from your lips. “fuck, doll, you sound filthy. can’t even talk right now, can you? fuckin’ slut, losing her mind already.” she’d drink in all of your noises, your labored breathing and the way your eyes roll to the back of your head. “gods. i’ve never been with someone this fuckin’ desperate. i almost pity you.”

✧.* can and will manhandle you. she’ll be pushing your chest further into the mattress while fucking you from behind, yanking your hips into hers as she thrusts into you. smacking your ass so hard the sound nearly echoes through the room. she’ll flip you on your back, nearly throwing you down on the bed just to continue her relentless rhythm. she wants to absolutely ruin you. so let her.

✧.* she wants to leave you sore and tired for the next day, so that every time you try to even take a step you’re reminded of exactly what, or who put you into this position.

✧.* sevika’s stamina is admirable. exhaustion weighs heavy on her during the day, her work cut out for her. running around handling zaun, tying up loose ends silco left, and making sure jinx doesn’t get herself into too much trouble wears her out quickly. but somehow she still has so much energy when it comes to fucking you. she could go all night if you allowed her, without so much as yawning.

✧.* she’ll grab your chin to force you to look at her, holding direct eye contact while she fucks you. she wants to see every expression of yours, she wants you to see her face while you cum.

✧.* “who’s makin’ this pussy feel good?” she’d demand, grunting as she grabs a fistful of your hair. you’d yelp at the sensation, your voice breathy and bordering on whiny. “aahh! you! you, mmph- sevika, you’re making it feel so good…”

✧.* also lowkey (highkey) really into anal… being able to please your tight asshole and feel you clench around her fingers as she keeps rutting into your cunt. yeah

✧.* it’s not often that she does, but sevika likes to have you tied up. your wrists tied to the headboard of her bed, the wood creaking while she rocks into you and holds your thighs apart. it’s picturesque almost, you look so damn perfect and pliant. and all for her.

✧.* the ropes are rough and frayed, something similar to what would be used on a ship. it’s not much, and they look like they’ve been used before- they’ll definitely leave marks on your wrists once you’re done. not to worry, sevika already has ointments for once you’re done, and she makes sure to space things like this out. she loves the sight of you bound for her, but not enough to over exert your poor skin.

✧.* she loves hearing those gorgeous sounds you make for her, but sevika does have neighbors and she’s not above shoving your discarded shirt or panties into your mouth if she feels that you’re being too loud. “hush. gonna wake the whole neighborhood at this point, doll. or is that what you want?”

✧.* when she does allow you to top, she’s pretty quiet. a stark contrast to how breathy and gruff she is while pleasing you, but she’ll still make noises! just at a low volume. yet her words do still hold some of that domineering edge.

✧.* your tongue would be delicately splitting her wet folds, teasingly licking up her slit before it brushes right over her clit. a shiver runs up her spine and she groans, a breathy noise that only serves to motivate you more.

✧.* “shit, baby, like that…” she’d breathe out, her chest beginning to heave up and down. “faster, baby. more. like you mean it.”

✧.* creamer, but she’ll squirt if you coax enough orgasms out of her. when you first found this out, she was on the edge of her fifth orgasm, panting and grunting before her walls clenched around your tongue. you then felt a wet warmth splash onto your face, and your gaze flickered. something downright predatory awoke in you, making you desperate to see that again and again.

✧.* “come on, sevi, just gimme one more, mm… that was so fucking hot,” you’d murmur, bringing your face close to her glistening cunt yet again. “another? i think- aah, i’ll break,” sevika breathes out. “good.”

✧.* RIDE HER THIGH. she didn’t even know she was into it at first. you’d be kissing her, panting into her mouth as you strip her of her shirt- before pulling away. “i wanna try something,” you’d say, before lowering yourself onto one of her bulky thighs. beginning to rock your hips, your clothed clit bumping against her thigh while a sharp gasp is pulled from you.

✧.* sevika’s eyes are opened to a whole new realm of possibilities. her hands are flying to your waist to help guide you along on her thigh, feeling your arousal leak through the cotton of your panties. “fuck, dove, you really are a whore.” she says, a low chuckle following. “i wouldn’t have thought of this, but you’re just too damn eager… look at you, soaking me. you’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

✧.* before you know it, sevika is asking you to ride her thigh regularly!

✧.* sevika’s neck is her weak spot. kiss up the expanse of it, suck dark marks into her pulse point, and she’s a damn mess. she’s tilting her head back so you have easier access, melting from you just touching her neck. it’s kind of adorable, honestly.

✧.* switches up the second you’re done- is so sweet and loving during aftercare. making sure that you’re okay and taken care of before she even thinks of doing anything for herself, making sure she didn’t go too far and you’re not too wrecked.

caitlyn;

✧.* switch with a slight preference for topping. she’s been in control most of her life, usually having the upper hand and hardly ever not getting what she wants. she doesn’t expect much less in the bedroom- that, and she loves seeing you fall apart beneath her, knowing that she’s the one responsible.

✧.* caitlyn has long and strong fingers, perfect for reaching all the spots that you’ve never been able to reach yourself. the second her middle finger brushes against that spongy spot that makes your vision blank, her eyebrows shoot up and her mouth is open in a ‘ah, gotcha!’ expression.

✧.* “yeah, darling? you like that? should i keep going, hm?” you’d nod frantically, panting and flushed beneath her. “then keep being good for me. you can do that, can’t you?”

✧.* BRAT TAMER. you might be able to get away with being mouthy with others, but never with cait. she’s a patient woman, but you learn after a while of being with her how to push her buttons just right. wearing that very patience thin with every word and sway of your hips. you’re giggling, until caitlyn is pushing you against a wall and clawing at your clothing, ordering you to spread your legs.

✧.* “i thought this was what you wanted? what you were begging for, not even a minute ago?” she’d grunt, slamming her purple strap into you at an alarming pace. ragged gasps and moans are pulled from your parted lips, and hot tears begin to stream down both of your cheeks. caitlyn would let out a low chuckle, tutting. “what, you’re crying now? come on, it’s not that bad. just a little lesson for you.” she’d coo.

✧.* there’s also been several times when you haven’t been able to behave yourself in her workplace, and she’d whisk you to her office to bend you over the hard wood of her desk, fucking you right then and there.

✧.* part of caitlyn delights at the sight of your tears. it’s exhilarating, in a way. seeing you so desperate, so wanton, knowing it was her who took you apart so expertly. seeing you so bared and vulnerable for her is a moment she wishes she could frame every time.

✧.* caitlyn can be such a temptress. she’s beautiful, anyone can see that- and she uses that beauty to her advantage. you’d come home from a long day of working harder than you ought, to be greeted by your girlfriend in white lace lingerie that leaves very little to the imagination. she knows you can’t resist, and she’s internally celebrating the moment you pounce on her.

✧.* “how was work, love?” she’d ask, voice low and smooth. “you look like you’re starving. maybe i can do something about that?” she’d muse, fingers teasing under one of her thigh garters.

✧.* when subbing, caitlyn is loud. she’s not screaming out in pleasure, but she doesn’t hold back any noises. she wants you to know how good you’re making her feel, to hear it on her lips and in her choppy words.

✧.* likes clitoral stimulation best, i think. don’t get me wrong, she thoroughly enjoys the feeling of penetration- but something about having her pretty clit played with until she’s an aching mess is just better.

✧.* also likes to be praised when she’s on bottom. tell her how beautiful she is, tell her that you’re taking her just right and she sounds so pretty right now. not only does it provide an ego boost, but it makes caitlyn feel so loved.

✧.* she’s a bit embarrassed to admit it, but she likes being on the receiving end of orgasm denial. so fucking close, her body strung thin like a bowstring. each nerve ending nearly on fire. but she can’t cum, not until you give her the green light, and it drives her insane.

✧.* “please, i’m losing my mind,” she’d cry out. “i need- mmf- i need to cum, pleasedarlingillbesogood,”

✧.* not opposed to quickies, but doesn’t opt for them. however, there are occasions where she’ll steal you away just before you have to leave for work, her fingers working as quickly as she possibly can to get you off- giving you something to think about the rest of the day.

✧.* something about your hips draws caitlyn in. maybe it’s the plush skin against them, the way they’re perfect for her nails to dig into, the feeling she gets when they rut against her, the rush she gets from gripping them to guide you as you grind against her thigh, or the way they sway when you walk. she can’t quite pinpoint it, but she also doesn’t care to.

✧.* “fuck, darling, keep moving,” she’d breathe out, gripping the tops of your hips as your wetness spreads over her thigh- folds glistening, head tilted back as lewd moans fill the room. “you look beautiful like this. so damn perfect, like you’re made for my viewing…”

✧.* she enjoys pet names a lot, but i think one of caitlyn’s weaknesses would be just addressing her by her name. especially if you usually call her by pet names outside of the bedroom. it feels so intimate, so personal.

✧.* “such a good girl for me, caitlyn,” you’d whisper, holding a bullet vibrator to her wet clit. “look at this pussy, so desperate for me. i can’t get enough.”

✧.* her favorite places to have sex are her bed and her desk. simple, but they work- her bed is a sanctuary, and it’s comfortable. optimal. her work desk serves many purposes, but her favorite is pleasuring each other.

✧.* caitlyn’s eyes are hypnotic, her gaze piercing. she’s big on eye contact during sex, demanding that you look at her the entire time. even as you’re fighting to not let your eyes snap shut or roll to the back of your head, the commanding tone in her voice keeps you grounded. it’s an ego boost, but it’s also a way of connecting to you.

✧.* gets rough when she’s especially stressed, which is often. she’s an enforcer and one of piltover’s most powerful figures; caitlyn is basically a walking manifestation of stress. slapping your tits, grabbing your chin, degrading you, shoving her fingers into your mouth and down your throat to shut you up.

✧.* that’s not to say that she doesn’t enjoy gentle love making from time to time- she absolutely does. she loves those nights where you take your time with her, truly conceptualize your affections for her. just how much you love her. she just gets carried away in the moment more than she’d like to admit.

lest;

✧.* switch with a preference for subbing. she will dom you if you ask her to, but most of the time, lest likes to lay back and bask in the feeling of you touching her. the scent of incense thick in the air, hair freed from her scarf and fanned around her as she lets out soft moans.

✧.* her voice is so smooth, so calming. the kind of voice you could fall asleep to. lest isn’t necessarily loud during sex, but she gets pretty vocal. and her noises, her words sound almost heaven sent.

✧.* “oh, keep doing- aahh!- that, darling…” she’d breathe out, her tone soft and buttery with desperation. “i need it, i’m so close-”

✧.* lest is definitely experienced, so she knows well and good what gets her going. she’ll tell you as well, guiding your hands to exactly where she needs them and describing in vulgar detail what she wants you to do to her.

✧.* “play with my tits with one hand, stroke me with the other,” she’d breathe out, placing your hands over both her perky breast and twitching cock. “pinch my nipple, hard, run your thumb over the tip- oh, fuuuuck…”

✧.* the tip of her dick is easily the most sensitive part of her body. it’s so sensitive, it’s almost comical- but lest can’t help it. you know how to pleasure her exactly the way she needs. as soon as you take it into your mouth, teasing your tongue over the head before taking her full length, she’s already fighting the urge to buck into your mouth. it draws sharp gasps from her throat, her fingers gripping at the bedsheets.

✧.* but her tits aren’t meant to be neglected, either. plump and soft, sitting so pretty on her. her nipples are definitely pierced, usually adorning gold bars with dangling chains. play with them, suck on them, place clamps on them. she’ll eat all of it up, praising you all the while.

✧.* definitely enjoys being tied up during the act, and she’d likely want to try shibari at some point. she has the nice ropes: purple woven silk, soft against her wrists and ankles. the feeling of being bared open before you, completely powerless and at your mercy can’t compare to anything else.

✧.* i think lest is really into wax play, but can’t participate as much as she’d like to because wax is a pain in the ass to get out of fur. she’ll gasp at the feeling of hot, sticky wax on her tits and stomach, a shiver running through her body involuntarily. you like to indulge her from time to time, relishing in her every reaction. again, it just can’t be as often as you’d both like because of the aftermath :(

✧.* lest can’t exactly finger you since she uh… has claws. but she’s so skillful with her mouth, the thought of what you might be missing doesn’t even cross your mind. she’d take your clit between her lips, teasing over the bud with her tongue before sucking. brushing her silky hair over her shoulder and angling her jaw so she has even more access to you, drinking in every sound you make.

✧.* “you taste amazing, darling,” she’d murmur. “stay still, mm.. you want to cum, don’t you?”

✧.* lest could grow addicted to just eating you out. the feeling of your release on her tongue is a high she never wants to come down from. she’ll draw orgasm after orgasm after orgasm from you on just her tongue.

✧.* praise her!! tell lest how good she’s doing, how beautiful she looks between your thighs and how lucky you are to have her. it only makes her more eager to please you.

✧.* “gods, you’re beautiful,” you’d whisper, “that feels amazing, you’re amazing, you’re perfect-” before feeling her tongue slip from your clit to your wet hole, prying you open.

✧.* LOVES to be pegged. she’s also partial to cowgirl, but lests’s absolute favorite is doggystyle. she craves the sensation of you slamming into her hole, gripping her plump asscheek with one hand and yanking on her tail with the other. she’d let out a sharp yowl, her chest almost collapsing into the mattress at the feeling. but it feels so fucking good, even though it’s sending pain up her spine.

✧.* “oh, yes, yesyesyes,” she’d babble, so bravely taking every inch of your strap. “don’t stop, go harder- fuck, ow!” she gasps, her soft tail in your grasp as you pull. “sorry,” you’d wince, slightly loosening your grip. “no. keep holding it, it- aahh! feels damn good.”

✧.* she cums pretty quickly when you strap her down. she’s a bit embarrassed about it, but she just can’t help it. your strap rubs against her g-spot so perfectly, your rhythm is exactly what she needs and you fill her up just right.

✧.* alternatively, lest loves when you ride her. seeing your face while you’re on top of her, claws digging into your hips while she bounces you up and down on her length… oh, it’s gold. and the sight of your tits bouncing is always a welcome bonus.

✧.* sometimes lest will have her pipe with her while you ride her, in which case she’ll allow you to shotgun hits. your breaths mingling with one another and lips almost touching as magenta smoke is passed between the two of you. it only serves to further heighten your senses, bringing you even greater pleasure.

✧.* “you’re divine,” she’d breathe out, hips rocking into you with fervor. “take it. take everything, just like i know you can. you’re a damn work of art.”

#jinx x reader #vi x reader #mel medarda x reader #sevika x reader #caitlyn kiramman x reader #lest x reader #arcane x reader #jinx smut #vi smut #reader insert #arcane x you #sapphic

671 notes · View notes

lesbiassoon · 1 day ago

Text

Someone please talk with me about the Uncle Sam parts of the Super Bowl performance because oml I fucking loved it

Starting out with the “this is the Great American game” which like feels like it’s referring to the Super Bowl and football in general, until you get to the next interjection:

“No, no, no. Too loud, too reckless, too ghetto—Mr. Lamar, do you really know how to play the game? Then tighten up”

This is the great American game — trying to contort yourself into white culture and cutting out everything that makes you Black aka being “loud” and “reckless” and “ghetto” to survive

And you’ve always gotta tighten up!! You’re never going to be good enough because you’ll never be white, but you’re supposed to keep trying anyways!!!!

So for Kendrick to just go “fuck it” and be authentically Black in front of the entire country?? Hell fucking YES

#bassoon honking #kendrick lamar #samuel l jackson #I’m probably stating the obvious but broooo I just really loved it

710 notes · View notes

mythalism · 16 hours ago

Text

genuinely curious how the writers and larger dragon age audience would treat thom rainier if instead of being appropriately* repentant and putting himself in prison he blew up a major orlesian government building to instigate a chevalier rebellion or tried to have someone do some necromantic blood magic ritual involving uncertain danger and possible sacrifices to bring the innocent children he ordered killed back to life

#*appropriately as in showing the expected amount of remorse in the appropriate way in a society founded on guilt and shame #i think blackwall actually tells us a lot about how dragon age's writers conceptualize justice and deservedness of punishment #im glad we get the option to forgive him but why do we get the option when anders is exiled at best?#and later characterized as a villain by dai #when solas is willfully imprisoned at best and trapped in a horrifying psychological torture chamber at worst?#blackwall gets a full redemption happy ending if inky so chooses #and im not saying he shouldnt #i forgive him every time #but its so interesting to me that narratively speaking #he seems to earn his happy ending through submission to punishment via imprisonment #as does solas but blackwall is portrayed far more sympathetically overall #there isnt the same meta-level narrative slander and clear agenda on behalf of the writing to make you feel a certain way about his crimes #as there is with anders and solas #why? whats the difference? what did he do to buy himself that narrative goodwill?#put himself in prison? why do the writers love carceral punishment so much lmfaooo #mine #if you wanna screenshot these tags and add them to the reblog feel free #im realizing i prob just shouldve put all of this in the post but its too late now #i think theres actually a strong argument that thom does not do nearly ENOUGH to right his wrongs #where is his effort to reform the orlesian military? where is his criticism of orlesian imperialism?#how does serving in the inquisition have a direct impact on the people he harmed? it doesnt #when you compare him to someone like roy mustang #yes im comparing him to roy mustang this is my blog and you are never going to escape roy mustang comparisons here #roy's political ambitions following his war crimes are directly related to those war crimes #and his goals directly benefit the same group of people he harmed #their ancestors and family members literally #meanwhile blackwall just kind of does vague “good” deeds and gets a full redemption #he really does not make much effort to repatriate the harm he did as a soldier #he just moves on #which again.... no shade to blackwall. my inky forgives him

183 notes · View notes

moonriizing · 3 days ago

Text

urs | p.sh (18+)

You weren't supposed to want more, but you did. What started as a casual fling became more complicated when you found yourself caught between your desire and the reality that Park Sunghoon's heart belonged to someone else.

Genre: college au, situationship, smut Pairing: Park Sunghoon x afab!reader Warnings: mature themes, explicit sexual content (18+), NOT PROOFREAD. I'll come back to do that when I can lol. Notes: 10k words. Listening to urs by NIKI. My first Sunghoon fic and it's written on a whim! lol. I wrote this instead of working on my overdue wip lol. I hope you like it! Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know them personally nor claim they would ever behave in real life like they were portrayed in this story. ALSO, if you see a similar story from a different blog for a different idol, that is me. xoxo, cal.

Enjoy~

You first met Park Sunghoon at a frat party you had no real interest in attending. It was the first night of the semester, the music was good, the drinks were flowing, and the energy was exactly what you needed. It was the kind of night that made you feel young and invincible, where bad decisions were just part of the fun. And tonight, you were on a mission: hook up with a hot guy.

It was a promiscuous mission, you knew that. And you would be lying if you said you weren’t that kind of girl because you were! But you weren’t the reckless, messy type. No, you were the smart kind of promiscuous. The kind who could have fun without losing control. You were practical about it—always sober enough to make sound decisions, always keeping your boundaries clear. Simply put, you were the best type of promiscuous.

As a college girl with ambitions, you couldn’t afford to get tangled in romance and all that commitment nonsense. Too much work. But you had needs, and fulfilling them meant nights like this—scanning the crowd for a guy who could tickle your fancy, no strings attached.

That was how you spotted him.

Tall, handsome, but oddly out of place. While the rest of the party thrived on the chaos, he stood by himself in a corner. He had a cup in his hand, but it wasn’t like he was enjoying it. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—his posture slouched just enough to suggest he wasn’t a part of this. He had that bored, almost irritable look on his face, the kind that made you wonder if he was only here because someone dragged him along.

You were not the type to hesitate, so you didn’t. You’d done this enough times to know exactly what you were after, and right now? You were after him.

“Is this your first frat party, or are you just too cool for it?” you asked, leaning in just enough to get his attention.

He glanced at you, his eyes flicking over your face for a second before landing on your lips, then back up to your eyes. Up close, he was even more good-looking—long lashes, sharp features, lips that curled just slightly at the corners like he was already amused by you, and a couple of beauty marks on his face that made him even more striking.

He was definitely your type.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” you added, taking a sip of your drink, not breaking eye contact.

“That obvious?” he asked, his voice low, almost melodic.

You smirked, liking the way his voice was as perfect as his looks. “You look miserable,” you pointed out, still grinning.

He chuckled lightly, amused but not exactly thrilled. “What about you? Having fun?”

You shrugged. “I wasn’t. But right now, I think I might be…” You let your gaze wander, deliberately slow, from his face to the exposed skin of his chest where a few buttons were undone.

Sunghoon smirked, his gaze trailing over you in a way that was appreciative without being too obvious. “Well, that makes two of us,” he replied suggestively.

He flirted right back!

“I’m Sunghoon,” he said, offering his hand for a shake. You took it and gave him your name.

Your eyes locked with his—now more curious, sizing him up. For a few seconds, it was just the two of you staring each other down, trying to gauge each other’s thoughts with your hands still joined. Then you saw a flicker in his eyes that made you come to an agreement with your own intuition.

You tilted your head, eyes still locked with his. “Do you wanna have sex with me?”

His eyes widened slightly, his brows lifting in surprise—visibly caught off guard by your suggestion. His grip on your hand loosened, though he didn’t let go completely. You kept your gaze steady, showing no hesitation and letting him know you were serious. A few seconds of silence passed where you almost thought he’d say no, but then he exhaled a soft laugh.

“Are you always this forward?” he asked, amused now.

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Only when I see someone I like.”

He tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And you like me?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.”

With that, his smirk widened, and before you could second-guess yourself, he set his cup down. “My place or yours?”

And just like that, you were out of the party and heading to whatever the hell came next. No strings, no pressure. Just the way you liked it.

You didn’t know it then, but that was when the tsunami that would come crashing in began to take shape.

You didn’t mean for it to happen again. It was supposed to be a one-time thing—fun, uncomplicated. But he was phenomenal, so it happened a second time. And a third. And eventually, you just lost count.

Maybe it was because, other than the fact that he was really good at it, he was also easy to be around. He wasn’t like the others—the ones who got clingy after a night or acted like they were doing you a favor by sleeping with you. Sunghoon was different. He never overstayed his welcome, never asked for more than you were willing to give, but he wasn’t distant either. If anything, he was… nice.

Not in a fake, trying-too-hard way. Just nice. Made you feel comfortable, always made sure you finished before he did, and never left without saying something witty that made you roll your eyes. He had this way of being detached but not cold, like he had mastered the art of keeping things casual without being an asshole.

“You know,” you mused, sprawled across his bed, still catching your breath, “my first impression of you was that you were boring and miserable. Turns out you know how to make a girl have fun.”

Standing by his closet, Sunghoon threw you an amused glance as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head. “Yeah? I aim to please.”

You smirked. “That sounds like something a guy who thinks he’s good in bed would say.”

He let out a soft laugh, running a hand through his hair before turning to you, looking almost too put-together for someone who had just spent an hour between your legs. “And? Am I not?”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. You’re alright.”

He scoffed, tossing a pillow at you, which you barely dodged. “You’re a bad liar.”

You grinned, stretching lazily. “Well, I can’t have you getting a big head, can I?”

Sunghoon shook his head, his lips curling into that infuriatingly charming smirk. “Too late for that.”

It was easy. Too easy. Maybe that’s why you let it keep happening.

Behind closed doors, there was no restraint. It didn’t matter if it was your place or his—once the door was closed, your hands were on his neck, his lips found your skin, and clothes barely made it past the foyer before being discarded.

Sunghoon was incredible in bed. He was controlled, precise, yet somehow still desperate when he kissed you, when he pressed you against the mattress, when he groaned your name like it was the only thing keeping him from spiraling. And you? You had mastered the art of making him unravel.

You knew exactly what made him weak, how to turn his composure into incoherence, how to make him grip your waist a little harder or breathe your name in a way that made your stomach flip. It was exhilarating, effortless—two people who just fit perfectly when it came to this.

But outside? You were mere acquaintances.

A nod in the hallway. A fleeting smile across the quad. If you happened to pass each other at a party, he’d tip his cup in your direction, and you’d lift a brow in acknowledgment. No one knew. No one suspected a thing. And you liked it better that way. You were both civil and could control your urges.

Except for when you couldn’t.

Like now.

You were leaving class when Sunghoon caught your wrist, pulling you into an empty lecture hall.

“What—”

He kissed you before you could finish, his hands already gripping your hips, pressing you against the nearest desk. The kiss was hot, urgent, like he had been holding back all day.

“Wow, I think you missed me a little,” you teased when he finally pulled away, breathless.

Sunghoon scoffed, but his fingers traced the sleeve of your dress like he wasn’t done with you yet. “You should wear this more often.”

You smirked. “What? Hoon, you did not pull me in here just because I’m wearing a dress.”

“It’s a really nice dress,” he grinned, leaning in to kiss you again.

You kissed him back, snaking your arms around his neck. His hand slipped under your dress, squeezing your thighs firmly. When the familiar warmth started creeping up your chest, you held his hand to stop him.

“This is not a good idea,” you told him, smiling at the puppy-like look on his face.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he regretted his own impulse. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in again, his lips brushing yours like he couldn’t help himself.

And then you heard the sound of voices just outside the door.

In an instant, Sunghoon stepped back, running a hand through his hair like nothing had happened. You casually adjusted your dress. When the door creaked open, and a couple of students poked their heads in, you and Sunghoon were already on opposite sides of the room.

“Is this Professor Smith’s class?” one of them asked just as you spotted the same name written on the board in front.

“It is,” you said smoothly, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you strode past Sunghoon without so much as a glance.

Outside, in the open air, you felt his presence behind you, his steps easy and unhurried. As you reached the main path to the quad, he finally passed you, his shoulder brushing yours just slightly.

“See you around,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

You smirked, not looking back. “See you around.”

But even with all of that, you could tell he was drawing a line between you. He didn’t have to say it. You could see it in the way he never texted first, the way he kissed you like he meant it but pulled away too quickly after. The way he made you laugh but never let the moment linger too long.

And maybe you should have done the same.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You really didn’t. But it was hard not to when, in between the sneaking around and the mind-blowing sex, Sunghoon was just... Sunghoon. Nice and thoughtful in a way that made it almost impossible to keep things casual.

Like when the lightbulb in your room went out, and he arrived at your place with a new one, climbed on a chair, and replaced it himself.

“I was gonna do that, you know,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against the wall, watching him screw the new bulb into place. “I’m just a little busy these days.”

He climbed down, dusting his hands off. “Yeah, but can you even reach that high?”

You rolled your eyes, but when he patted your head like you were some kid, you didn’t swat his hand away. Instead, you found yourself watching him as he moved around your space so easily.

Or the way he always refilled your bedside tumbler before he left your place. You didn’t even notice it at first, but one morning, you woke up, throat dry, and reached for it instinctively—only to realize it was full. Ice-cold. Like he had just topped it off before slipping out.

And then there was the night you were cramming for an exam, drowning in highlighter ink and frustration, when your door swung open, and Sunghoon walked in like he owned the place.

“I’m about to become your favorite person in the world,” he announced, dropping a thick stack of papers on your desk.

You blinked up at him. “What is this?”

“My old notes,” he said, ruffling your hair before plopping onto your bed like he had all the time in the world. “They’re neat. Better than whatever middle school doodles you have going on.”

You flipped through them, and he wasn’t lying—his notes were immaculate. Organized, highlighted, complete with diagrams. You stared at them, then at him, sprawled out on your bed like he had no idea what he’d just done.

“You didn’t strike me as a guy who took his studies seriously,” you teased, although you didn’t really think that way about him.

Sunghoon smirked, turning his head to look at you. “Why? Did you think the only thing I knew how to do was make your legs shake?”

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t stop the warmth creeping up your chest. “Be real, Hoon. You’re not that good.”

“Liar liar, pants on fire,” he lilted, his eyes shifting back to his phone.

You fell for him because hookups weren’t supposed to be this thoughtful. Hookups weren’t supposed to linger after sex to fix your lightbulb or make sure you stayed hydrated. They weren’t supposed to look after you in ways so small, so casual, that you almost missed them.

You caught yourself wondering. Did he care about you more than just a hookup? Or worse—did you want him to?

You were at a café with your friends when his name came up.

It started casually enough—half-listening to the conversation while stirring the melting ice in your drink, until one of them, Lily, suddenly said, “Oh, by the way, I saw Sunghoon at your apartment complex the other day. Didn’t know you guys were neighbors.”

Your hand stilled, heartbeat picking up pace at the sudden mention of his name. You blinked once, twice, before mustering up an easy shrug. “Huh. Neither did I.”

Lily laughed, oblivious. “Right? He was coming out of your building. I was gonna say hi, but he looked like he was in a hurry.”

Across the table, Tammy tilted her head. “Maybe he was visiting someone? From what I know, he lives with Jake in a different neighborhood.”

“Maybe,” Lily mused, sipping her drink. Then, as if the thought just occurred to her, she added, “Oh! You and Jenna are neighbors, right?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know any Jenna.”

“Jenna! The girl who won the poll for prettiest student last year!” she explained, her expression turning conspiratorial. “She’s Sunghoon’s ex.”

Your heart sank to the pit of your stomach.

Lily went on, oblivious. “Guess he’s still hoping she’ll take him back.”

The words landed like a slap. You almost asked her to repeat herself, but the way Tammy nodded in understanding told you that you heard right.

“Yeah,” Tammy said. “They were together for two years. I heard he was really sad when they broke up.”

Lily clicked her tongue. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if they did get back together. They were that couple, you know?”

That couple. The ones who belonged together. The ones who had history, real history—not just stolen moments behind closed doors.

You swallowed, forcing a small smirk. “Didn’t know you guys were keeping up with Sunghoon’s love life like this.”

Lily nodded. “Jenna and I used to hang out when I was still in the council.”

Then she started rambling about their history, how Jenna broke Sunghoon’s heart, how he never really moved on. You nodded along, pretending to listen, but your mind was stuck on every moment you spent with him. The way he pulled you closer in his sleep, how he never let you walk home alone, the way he looked at you sometimes—like maybe you were something more special to him.

But you weren’t. You weren’t the one he wanted. You never were. And just like that, the guessing game was over.

He didn’t want you like you wanted him. You were genuinely just a fling.

Still, you smiled, made some joke that had your friends laughing, and sipped your drink like nothing was wrong. Like your stomach hadn’t just dropped to the floor.

Later, when you saw Sunghoon again—when he let himself into your apartment with that lazy smirk, hands already reaching for you—you didn’t hesitate. You let him touch you, let him kiss you like nothing had changed.

Because for him, nothing had.

And if he didn’t know the difference or couldn’t see the shift, then you sure as hell weren’t going to show him.

Does it make sense to want your ex back and exclusively sleep with someone else? NO.

It was stupid. Sunghoon was stupid. That was what you told yourself every time the thought crossed your mind—every time you caught yourself comparing.

You never voiced it out loud, though. Not to your friends, because Sunghoon was popular, and they’d pry if they knew you were sleeping with him. Not to him, for obvious reasons. And mainly because you had pride. You were the one who said you wouldn’t get attached—the one who laughed at girls who caught feelings for a fling.

But knowing better didn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in.

His ex was his senior, a fine arts major. Pretty. Smart. Talented. One of those girls who just had it. The kind people didn’t get over easily. You told yourself it didn’t matter. If he wanted her back, that was his problem, not yours. It wasn’t like you and Sunghoon were anything.

And so the days with him continued to be easy and light.

You spent more time together, and the more you did, the more you noticed his quirks—his own brand of annoying charm. Like how he always picked up your keys instead of his whenever he left your apartment, or how he liked to roll his sleeves and ruffle his hair absentmindedly.

One evening, lying side by side on your bed, you scrolled through your texts, absentmindedly opening your chat with him. A dozen images filled the screen, almost all of them mirror selfies. Some in elevators, some in his room, one even in a convenience store.

“You like yourself a little too much, don’t you?” you mused, tilting your phone so he could see.

Sunghoon barely glanced at it. “What?”

“These,” you said, scrolling through. “Almost every picture you send me is just you.”

He smirked, resting his head on his arm. “What, you don’t like them?”

You huffed. “You’re hot and you know it, is that it?”

He let out a breathy laugh, rolling onto his side to face you. The glint in his eyes was naughty and suggestive. His next words, even more so: “Would you rather I send you something else?”

He was looking at you like he knew exactly what he was doing, but you weren’t about to let him have the upper hand.

“Maybe,” you said, feigning deep thought. “Like a cat picture. Or, I don’t know, an interesting rock.”

Sunghoon snorted. “An interesting rock?”

“I like rocks.”

“You’re weird.”

“And you’re a narcissist.”

He only grinned, as if he didn’t mind the label. You shook your head, rolling onto your stomach, but your lips twitched when your phone vibrated a second later.

A picture. Of a rock.

You bit back a smile, and Sunghoon, watching you, caught it anyway.

“What?” he asked, amused.

“Nothing,” you said, tossing your phone aside.

You had never once felt insecure about what you had with Sunghoon, but after what you heard from your friends, you started to notice the little things. It almost seemed like outside the four walls of your apartments, you were nothing to each other.

You used to think he was just a lazy texter. His replies were always short, sometimes delayed, sometimes just emojis. But knowing what you knew now, you wondered if he just wasn’t interested enough.

The thought crept under your skin, making you overthink the things you once brushed off.

Before, when you texted him to come over and he said he couldn’t, you didn’t think much of it. But now? Now, you wondered if he was with her when he wasn’t with you. If he looked at his phone, saw your message, and made a choice.

Yet, you kept crawling back for more.

You were an intelligent woman. You knew this was foolish. You knew how it made you look. But it was fine, because no one else knew how you felt—not your friends, not even Sunghoon himself. It was fine because you were foolish only in your own eyes. There was no need for anyone else to know.

Despite the foolishness of it all, you were happy. You were content enough to be able to spend time with him, to be touched and worshipped by him, to know you had the power to tease out a part of him that not everyone had the privilege to see.

“Sunghoon,” you sighed, fingers pressed against your temple as you looked out of the car window. “We’ve been circling this block for ten minutes.”

You had tagged along with Sunghoon on a quick trip to pick up some pieces for his department’s upcoming art exhibit. It was unplanned. You were outside the campus after class when he spotted you and asked if you wanted to join him. Since you didn’t have anything planned for the day (and because you could never say no to a chance to hang out with him), you got into his car and let him drive without even asking where you were going.

But Sunghoon, as it turned out, had a terrible sense of direction.

“I swear it was supposed to be around here,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping aimlessly at his phone.

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

He shot you a glance, sheepish. “Well, I meant it twenty minutes ago.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned back in your seat, stretching your legs. The map app on his dashboard kept recalculating, rerouting him to roads that either didn’t exist or led straight to nowhere. And when he finally admitted defeat, pulling over to rethink his next move, you both stepped out and realized something.

The ocean was right there.

Waves lapped lazily at the shore, the sky was clear, and the sun was warm but not overbearing—the kind of day that practically begged to be wasted at the beach.

“…Screw the errand?” you offered.

Sunghoon stared at the water for a moment before shrugging. “Screw the errand.”

And just like that, the detour became the destination.

The day unfolded spontaneously. You bought overpriced street food from a vendor by the shore, eating as you walked, laughing when Sunghoon scrunched his nose at the spicy kick of the sauce. He had an annoyingly specific taste in food and the smell, but he still let you shove a piece of yours into his mouth.

You found a little souvenir stand and tried on ridiculous sunglasses, taking pictures of each other in frames shaped like hearts and palm trees. Sunghoon snapped candid shots of you when you weren’t looking, and though you pretended to be annoyed, you never asked him to stop.

At some point, the tide crept in, and you played a round of rock, paper, scissors and dared the loser to get into the water. You weren’t even surprised when you lost. You sucked at this game.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” you grumbled, kicking your sandals off. “By myself, no less.”

“Hey, it’s a game. We both agreed to this,” he retorted, stepping back. “And I can’t go in there. I’m wearing jeans.”

“And I’m wearing a skirt,” you countered, already wading in, your hem darkening as the waves reached you.

Sunghoon exhaled through his nose, probably wondering if you were actually sulking over a punishment you’d happily agreed to before you lost the game. Of course, you weren’t, but it was fun to tease him and see what he’d do.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said after the scowl never left your face. In a moment of impulsive surrender, he walked straight in after you, the water soaking up his pants. You’re actually unbelievable,” he added, shaking his head as the chill hit him.

You grinned triumphantly, making him brush his hair back in playful exasperation. Then, shaking his head in defeat, he said, “I knew it. It was a farce. You knew I was gonna give in!”

“You fell for it,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes playfully. “Don’t blame me,” you added, flicking water at him.

Sunghoon blinked at you, unimpressed, before flicking some back with just the tips of his fingers.

“Oh, come on,” you taunted. “Is that the best you can do?”

His eyes narrowed slightly—just enough of a warning before he sent a full splash your way, drenching your arms. You gasped, stumbling back with a laugh.

“Oh? So that’s how it’s gonna be?” you shot back, scooping up water with both hands and throwing it right at his chest.

He retaliated, sending another wave toward you, and suddenly it was war. One splash turned into another, then another, until you were both breathless, clothes sticking to your skin, hair a mess.

Sunghoon pushed his dripping bangs back with a huff. “This is your fault,” he said, smiling his usual warm and blinding smile—the smile that made his eyes crinkle, the smile that revealed dimples carving deep into his cheeks, the smile that could make anyone think Sunghoon had never forced a grin in his life.

He was beautiful, and you could feel yourself falling deeper and deeper, with no way out. You were falling so deep that it made your heart ache a little—the way you liked him, the way you wanted him to be yours, the way you wished today could last forever.

As the sky started to turn amber, you collapsed onto the sand, watching the sun lower itself into the horizon.

The waves rolled in, steady and endless, curling at the shore. The air smelled of salt, and the golden glow of the sunset painted the world majestically. You sat side by side, talking and laughing about random things, content to share the warmth of a single jacket.

Then, somewhere between the soothing sound of the waves and the silly jokes, the conversation drifted deeper.

You talked about things you never had before—about college, about dreams and ambitions, about the way people always say you’ll just know when something is right.

“How do you know for sure that that’s what you wanted to pursue?” he asked while you were tracing idle patterns in the sand. “What if you think you know, but when you get to the end of it, you realize it was the wrong choice?”

You looked out into the ocean, tilting your head slightly, considering. “I didn’t really know it was the right choice. I don’t think anyone ever really knows,” you admitted. “Not in the moment, at least. Maybe you just choose something, and later, that choice becomes the right one.”

You turned to look at him only to find out he already had his eyes on you. The admiration in his gaze was subtle, but it was there. Seeing that made your heart trip over itself, it made you forget, for just a second, that this wasn’t real.

And when he leaned in, when his eyes flickered to your lips and your breath caught, you stopped thinking. You knew what was coming. You knew he was about to kiss you, but somehow, for some reason, this time felt different. Like this kiss was gonna determine a major point in your relationship.

But before anything could happen, Sunghoon’s phone rang, jolting you both out of the trance. You both looked away in embarrassment, clearing your throat like you’d caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t. Which was ridiculous because you’d done nothing but kiss him in the past few months.

Sunghoon cleared his throat as he picked up his phone on the sand then answered the call with a quiet, “Yeah?”

It was the committee for the exhibit and you watched him talk on the phone for the next few minutes, explaining what had happened and why he couldn’t finish the errand. By the time he hung up, the sky had darkened completely, and the air had turned crisp.

“It’s late,” he said, brushing sand off his hands. “You okay with crashing at my place?”

You blinked. “Your place?”

“Our old family house. It’s not far from here.”

You hesitated for a moment, but then shrugged. “Sure.”

The car ride was quiet, thick with the tension that had been ignited by the near-kiss at the beach. Neither of you spoke, but your gazes met every now and then—quick glances, fleeting and heated, before darting away like you hadn’t been caught.

Sunghoon was the first to break. His hand drifted from the wheel, finding your thigh in the dim glow of the dashboard, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. He squeezed, testing, and when you didn’t stop him, he grew bolder, pushing the hem of your dress up just enough to feel the warmth of your skin. His fingers traced your skin with slow, deliberate strokes, inching higher into your inner thighs and lightly brushing your sex.

The heat of his touch burned through you. While you sat there feeling hotter as your heartbeat hammered wildly in your chest, he remained composed and quiet, his face unreadable save for the occasional twitch of his jaw. He kept his eyes on the road, but the way the car gradually picked up speed as he stepped harder on the gas told you everything you needed to know.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter until the car rolled to a stop in their driveway. He exhaled sharply, as if regaining control of himself before stepping out and opening the door for you like nothing was out of the ordinary.

The lock to their house’s main entrance clicked, the door creaked open, and the second you stepped inside, all restraints snapped.

You barely had a moment to take in the house before his hands were on you, pulling you in, mouths crashing in a kiss that was desperate, needy, and greedy. He backed you into the foyer, hands mapping the curve of your waist, and the shape of your hips.

Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling, tugging, holding on for dear life as the heat of his touch woke something primal in you. He barely broke the kiss as he guided you further inside, not caring where you ended up as long as you got there together. You went past the foyer and the living room, but all you felt was the press of his body, the way he kissed you with the kind of hunger that made your head spin.

He pushed a door open, urging you inside but you hesitated, pulse hammering.

“Sunghoon,” you breathed between kisses, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “Your parents—”

“They’re not home.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes burned through yours.

You barely had a second to process before he kissed you again, silencing every last doubt as he pushed you inside the door he had just opened. When he clicked the lights on, the glow of a bathroom light flickered on, reflecting off the tiles and the mirror above the sink.

“Figured you’d hate the taste of the sea on my skin,” he murmured, grinning as his fingers grazed your hip. You were suddenly reminded of the saltwater clinging to your skin, and the sand on your legs, remnants of the day you’d spent together.

You swallowed, nodding. But the moment he lifted the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion, you knew washing up wasn’t gonna be the only thing happening in here.

You shamelessly ogled him—his bare skin, damp from sweat and seawater, and his lean build with well-defined muscles that you’d seen several times before but still found alluring. He caught you staring and smirked, stepping closer, close enough that his fingers found the buttons of your top.

“Did you know I’m good with buttons?” he asked softly, making you giggle.

“Yeah. I’ve seen your skills,” you said, watching him.

His fingers were deft, undoing your buttons slowly, teasingly. When he was done, he gently tugged it off, letting it fall on the floor. His hands didn’t leave you, though. They skimmed down your arms, and your waist, examining every curve like he had it memorized and wanted to see if anything was different.

The next thing you knew, warm water was cascading over your bodies, steam enveloping you in the small space. The spray soaked your hair, trailing down your spine, but you barely noticed because Sunghoon was there—his hands smoothing over your skin, his lips brushing against your shoulder, your jaw, his canines grazing your skin ever so slightly.

“We’re supposed to be washing up,” you teased, though your voice was breathless.

“We are,” he murmured, his fingers sliding down your stomach, inching lower. “Just making sure we’re doing it thoroughly.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but it faded into a sigh when he pressed you back against the cool tiles, his mouth finding yours again. He didn’t stay for long, lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, all the way to your chest where his kisses turned a little more intense. He sucked and squeezed, sending a pleasant ripple through your body that made you arch forward for more. The water drowned out the sound of your quiet moans, the warmth of his mouth making every touch feel more heady, more intoxicating.

When did he take off his pants? You didn’t even notice until he pressed his body against yours and you felt his manhood pulsating against your torso, hot and raging. He kissed your lips again, shoving his tongue inside as his breathing turned rougher.

“Turn around,” he rasped in your ear, and you obliged, finding yourself face-to-face with your own reflection.

You pressed your hands against the glass, your entire body tingling with anticipation as he positioned himself behind you. He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, kissing the side of your neck as you felt his tip prodding your pussy.

“Look at you,” he whispered, biting your ear. “Do you have any idea how you drive me crazy all the damn time?”

You were about to respond when he pushed himself inside you, making you let out a throaty gasp instead. Sunghoon stayed still, shushing you gently and kissing your shoulder.

“It’s alright. We’ve done this before,” he chimed and you could see him smirking in your reflection.

“You’re used to this, right?” he asked, moving delicately so you could properly adjust to his length and girth. “Right, baby?” he asked again, and the lilt in his voice made you close your eyes and nod.

“That’s right. You said you love it, didn’t you?”

You could only let out a deep sigh, tilting your head back. “Yes, Hoon. I love it,” you whispered back.

“Good. I know you do,” he chimed, gently bending you forward. “I know you’ll love this too,” he added before his hands settled on your waist and he started thrusting into you.

His pace was urgent, with enough force to make your knees weak each time he slammed into you. You didn’t even bother to stifle your moans anymore, letting them out completely, not caring if there were neighbors nearby who might hear you. You were lightheaded with lust, spiraling into the titillating euphoria that Sunghoon never once failed to deliver. Your entire being came alive and you were so caught up in it that you didn’t even notice your knees buckling underneath your weight.

Sunghoon’s grip tightened as he helped keep you up, pulling out to give you a quick break and to turn you face-to-face with him again. His grin was unmistakable, pleased to see your fucked-out expression. “So so beautiful,” he said, sweeping your hair out of your face.

He pressed you against the cool tiles, his lips crashing onto yours, urgency overtaking everything else. You gasped when his hands gripped your thighs, lifting you against him. The water poured over his shoulders, down your back, as he moved with reckless need, his breath ragged against your ear.

“More, Hoon. Please, more,” you pleaded, as if he wasn’t already ramming mercilessly into you making every nerve in your body dance in pleasure.

“You’re so horny for me,” he murmured against your lips, his fingers gripping your thighs as he lifted you against him. “Can’t even wait till we got to the bed, huh?”

Your breath hitched as he pressed into you, the heat of the shower only amplifying the sensation. “This was your idea,” you whispered, but it came out shaky, wrecked.

He chuckled, low and deep. “I know. But you want this too, don’t you?” he said, voice smooth as his lips traced down your throat. “You want me so bad. You’re begging me for more, isn’t that right?”

You didn’t answer—not in words, at least. But when you tightened your grip around his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin, he took it as confirmation.

“That’s it,” he groaned, rolling his hips into yours. “Come on, baby. Let me hear you.”

You whimpered when he hit a delicious spot, holding onto him tighter. “Hoon, you fuck so good.”

He grunted, spurred on by your admission. He was fast, desperate—like he couldn’t get enough, like he had to claim every inch of you right then and there. When he finally tipped over the edge, dragging you down with him, he held you through it, his lips pressing on your temple as your body trembled in his arms.

The moment was fleeting, but the desire didn’t leave just yet. You could still feel it in his touch even as he set you back on your feet. The moment you stepped out of the shower, Sunghoon grabbed a towel, barely bothering to dry you properly before he lifted you off your feet, carrying you out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and into what you only assumed was his bedroom.

This time, there was no rush.

He laid you down, his hands smoothing over your skin, his touch softer now, more reverent. “Look at you,” he murmured, eyes tracing over every inch of you, dark with something more than just lust. “So pretty. So perfect for me.”

Your breath came uneven as he leaned down, pressing slow, lingering kisses along your collarbone, down your chest, lower—each one dragging a gasp from your lips.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered against your skin.

“You,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

A knowing smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah?” He kissed the corner of your mouth, teasing. “Then take me,” he added, just before he filled you up again.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t urgent, or desperate. It was slow, deep, and overwhelming in the most delightful way. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, breath warm against your face, whispering in between kisses.

“That’s it… just like that, baby,” he murmured, moving languidly. “You feel so good. You’re taking me so well.”

Every whispered praise sent shivers down your spine, made you cling to him even tighter, and made the pleasure build until it was unbearable.

The night was young and it was not gonna end just yet. And so the hours blurred into moments of euphoric highs, fleeting clarity, and intense need to ravage and be ravaged. His name was the only thing you could say—over and over—until you were both left breathless, tangled together in the sheets, completely undone.

In the morning, you probably wouldn’t remember every detail of tonight, but you’d remember this—remember the way his hands felt on your skin, the way he whispered your name like a prayer. In the dim glow of Sunghoon’s bedroom, your fingers tangled in his damp hair, lips swollen from too many kisses, you let yourself forget. Forget the rules. Forget that this was never supposed to feel like more. Just for tonight, he was yours, and you were his.

The morning light streamed in through the sheer curtains, hurting your eyes a little. You blinked awake, momentarily disoriented, until the scent of Sunghoon’s shampoo on your skin and the warmth of the bed beneath you reminded you where you were.

You turned over to find him already awake, his arm tucked behind his head as he looked at you with a lazy smile. “Morning,” he murmured.

“Morning,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His fingers skimmed down your arm. “You’re cute when you sleep.”

A slow blink. Then, a scoff. “Liar.”

“It’s true.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering as his gaze flickered down to your lips. “You drool a little, though.”

You smacked his arm. “I do not.”

His laughter was low and teasing, as he caught your wrist then tugged you closer. His body was warm against yours, and his breath was even warmer as he kissed the curve of your neck.

“We should get up,” you said, but neither of you moved.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his soft kisses trailing down to your shoulder. “In a bit,” he added before reaching to cup your cheek and kiss your lips.

One thing led to another and suddenly, you were underneath him again, his body pressing into yours like he couldn’t bear to be apart.

The morning air was cool, but his hands were warm as they skimmed down your waist, his touch slow, and smooth.

“You’re insatiable,” he murmured against your lips, smiling when you shivered under him.

“So are you,” you whispered back, running your fingers through his hair.

He hummed, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. “Guess we’re even, then.”

His hands slid over your bare skin, his touch reverent. He kissed you deeply, guiding you through the lazy tangle of limbs and soft gasps, dragging it out like he had all the time in the world.

By the time you finally got out of bed, Sunghoon had already dug through his closet, tossing you an old hoodie and some sweatpants. You pulled them on and followed him down the quiet hallway.

The house felt still—too still. Only then did you notice the dust gathering on the bookshelves, the faint scent of time in the air.

“This place has been empty for a while now,” Sunghoon said casually from behind you when he noticed you looking around. “My family moved a few months ago to take care of my grandparents.”

Your brows lifted. “So no one lives here?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I come by sometimes. I technically still live here, I'm just not here often.”

That made sense. There was something about the house—it felt untouched, frozen in time, like stepping into a memory. You walked further into the hall, your fingers grazing along the walls and stopping at the framed photographs hanging there.

You studied them, tilting your head. Sunghoon as a kid, bright-eyed and grinning, a missing tooth on full display. A younger version of him on a skating rink, mid-game, frozen in motion. Another picture—him and his family, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, and several of him in a skating rink, different poses, taken in the middle of a routine.

“You skate?”

Sunghoon smiled, standing beside you and looking up at the photos. “Used to. I was in the national team for a while.”

“Why did you stop?” you asked glancing up at him and seeing the reminiscent look on his face.

He simply shrugged. “I had to be realistic. I enjoyed the sport but I couldn’t see myself doing it for a long time.”

You bit back a smile. “You were kind of adorable.”

Sunghoon scoffed, stepping up behind you. “I still am.”

“Debatable.”

He tugged at your hoodie—his hoodie—pulling the hood over your head before nodding toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

The drive back to the city was uneventful, the radio playing softly in the background. Sunghoon’s hand rested on the wheel, his other lazily draped over your thigh, tracing absentminded patterns through the fabric of his sweatpants that you were still wearing. You were talking, laughing, stealing quick glances at him between songs on the stereo.

At some point, he cleared his throat. “So… what are you doing later?”

“I have a group project.” You groaned, leaning back against the seat. “I’m meeting up with my classmates later.”

“Right. Group project.” He nodded slowly, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Sounds boring.”

“It is,” you huffed. “Why’d you ask?”

“No reason.” His eyes stayed fixed on the road, but you caught the way his grip on the wheel tightened just slightly. A second passed before he spoke again, this time even more nonchalant. “What about tomorrow?”

You tilted your head. “Tomorrow? I’m not sure. Just classes, I think.” You turned to him, raising a brow. “Why?”

“Do you wanna grab lunch with me tomorrow?”

You stared at him for a moment, then grinned teasingly. “Are you asking me out on a date, Park Sunghoon?”

His ears turned the faintest shade of pink, but he scoffed like the idea was ridiculous. “I’m just saying we should get lunch.”

“Mmm.” You pretended to think. “Sounds like a date to me.”

“It’s not a date.”

You scoffed in playful exasperation. “Dude, I was naked on top of you last night and a couple of other nights before. Surely we’re way past shy invitations for lunch dates?”

“I’m asking you to eat.” He paused, then added with a tilt of his head, “But if you wanna call it a date, that’s fine too. Labels are overrated.”

You hummed, pretending to think about it. “Hm. I guess I’ll allow it.”

Sunghoon chuckled, shaking his head. “Good. It’s settled then,” he said, stopping at a red light.

He leaned over to kiss you, catching you off guard but only for a moment. You kissed him back, albeit a little confused. When he pulled away, he was wearing a proud smirk on his face and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he asked, shifting the gear as the light turned green again. He reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers and bringing it to his lips.

One hour later, you reached your apartment complex, but had to you stay a few more minutes in his car because he couldn’t seem to get enough of you, kissing and touching right there in the parking lot. You had to forcefully push him away and remind him that you had classes and important stuff to attend to. Even then, he was reluctant to let you go.

After a dramatic goodbye that had him pouting as he drove away, you climbed up the building with a sickening grin on your face. You unlocked your door, stepping inside with a lightness in your chest, breathing in the familiar smell of your home.

The past few days had been a rollercoaster for you, with all the guessing and expectations and disappointments. But now, you were feeling much lighter, much happier. The good days with Sunghoon were all you could think of, playing back in flashes—the sound of his laugh in your space, the weight of his arm over your waist in the morning, the smell of his skin at night, the way he always left the bathroom mirror fogged up because he took ridiculously hot showers.

Tossing your bag onto the couch, you leaned against the door for a moment, smiling to yourself. Sunghoon was nice, but he always drew an invisible line. Not this time. You could tell by the way he held you this morning, the way he was reluctant to part from you, and how he’d asked to hang out with you for lunch—outside, in public. It felt like, for once, you both wanted the same thing. No second-guessing, no mixed signals—you were finally moving the same direction.

Your gaze drifted to the hoodie he’d left draped over the chair, his specs on your nightstand, and the half-empty tumbler beside it—subtle proofs that he’d started leaving pieces of himself behind. You wondered if he even realized it.

And more than that, you wondered where this would go next.

The next morning, you woke up too early. Way too early.

You groaned into your pillow, rolling onto your back as you stared at the ceiling. It was ridiculous. You’d seen Sunghoon plenty of times before—hung out, spent nights together, and shared more than just passing glances. But the idea of today, of a proper lunch date, had you wide awake before the sun was even fully up. Maybe it was because, for once, you weren’t just meeting up in the comfort of your apartment or his. It would be something different. Something real.

You giggled at the thought, covering your face with your blanket and then flailing your arms and legs.

Admitting that to yourself felt embarrassing, so you dragged yourself out of bed and decided to be productive. If you were going to be up this early, you might as well make the most of it.

A jog around the neighborhood. A quick stop at the store. And before you knew it, you were back in your apartment, unpacking groceries and deciding, on a whim, to actually cook breakfast. When was the last time you did that? You couldn’t even remember.

By the time you arrived on campus, you were still riding the high of a morning well-spent. Your good mood didn’t go unnoticed—your friends picked up on it immediately, teasing you about the extra bounce in your step. You brushed them off with the excuse of getting enough sleep, but they weren’t wrong. Everything just felt lighter today.

Even classes didn’t seem so unbearable. You participated. You took notes. You weren’t counting down the minutes to leave—well, not exactly. But the closer lunchtime got, the more restless you became, checking your phone every so often even though you knew you were the only one keeping track of time this obsessively.

Then, just as you were leaving your last morning class, your phone buzzed.

Sunghoon: Hey pretty. Something came up. I can’t do lunch today. I’m sorry. Sunghoon: I’ll make it up to you later tonight, okay?

Your steps slowed, but you kept moving, staring at the text longer than necessary.

Bummed. That was the best way to describe it. You weren’t mad—plans get canceled all the time, and at least he let you know ahead of time—but disappointment still settled in the pit of your stomach. You took a breath, shook it off, and responded with a simple, It’s fine. See you later.

Lunch with your friends helped a little. You laughed, caught up on random gossip, and even let them drag you to a café afterward. You weren’t dwelling on it. Really, you weren’t.

Until you stepped out of the café and saw him. Sunghoon, standing outside the campus gates. And he wasn’t alone.

Jenna was with him.

You stopped in your tracks, heart lurching in a way you hadn’t felt before. It wasn’t just that he was there, but the way he was standing close to her, the way she was talking, nudging his arm like she had every right to be in his space.

Sunghoon must have felt someone staring at him because he glanced your way and saw you. His eyes brightened in recognition, and he greeted you casually, like nothing was out of the ordinary. But you didn’t even know how to react. Your body moved before your brain could catch up. You walked past him, barely sparing a glance, pretending as if you weren’t close. As if he was just someone you barely knew.

Your friends who saw that were confused, following behind you after quick greetings to both Sunghoon and Jenna.

Tammy caught up to you, nudged your arm, and asked, “Where are you running off to after ignoring Sunghoon like that?”

“I wasn’t ignoring anyone,” you muttered.

“You totally were,” Lily chimed in, linking arms with you as she leaned to speak in a quieter voice. “That’s so fishy. What’s going on?”

You didn’t respond, your mind too muddled to even try and come up with a good answer. As you rounded the corner, your phone buzzed a second later.

Sunghoon: Hey. What was that?

You ignored it, as well as the other messages that followed.

The rest of the afternoon slipped through your fingers in a haze of self-pity. You curled up on the couch, aimlessly flipping through movies, but nothing got your attention. The voices blurred together, scenes passed without meaning. You weren’t devastated. You weren’t heartbroken. You were just... mad. Annoyed that after everything, after how good things had been, this was what it came down to. But getting worked up wouldn’t do anything. So, you forced yourself to let it go.

Or at least, you tried. It was impossible when he kept creeping into your thoughts—his voice, his touch, the way he looked at you just yesterday—like he wanted this as much as you did.

You didn’t even realize you had dozed off until the sound of your phone ringing jolted you awake.

You blinked against the glow of the screen. Sunghoon.

For a moment, you stared at his name, your heartbeat loud in the quiet of your apartment. You could ignore it. You could let it ring out and pretend you were still asleep. You could put an end to this charade, to tell him you were done and sick of it. But you didn’t.

You answered. His voice was gentle, cautious. “Can I come over?”

You should say no. You should end this here and now. Enough is enough. But… “Yeah. Of course,” you said, trying your best to sound normal.

Half an hour later, he was in your apartment, hands on you, lips on yours, familiar and desperate. And, as always, you let him in—physically, emotionally, despite knowing better. You let yourself believe that maybe, for just a little longer, this could be enough.

Afterward, you slipped out of bed, padding into the bathroom to wash up. By the time you returned, the room was dark, the only source of light was coming from Sunghoon’s phone on the nightstand. He was already asleep, his breathing even, his body sprawled across your sheets like he belonged there.

You reached for the blanket to pull it over him when his phone buzzed, the screen glowing against the dim light. Your gaze flickered to it, drawn by instinct.

Jenna calling...

Your chest tightened at the name. For a moment, you just stood there, watching the name flash across the screen before it faded into darkness. You could answer it. You could see what she wanted, hear her voice, and confirm everything you had been trying so hard to ignore.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you climbed into bed, curling up beside Sunghoon, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. You knew what you had to do. Knew that when he woke up, this had to end for good.

But not yet.

For now, while he was still yours—warm, close, familiar—you let yourself have this one last moment. You closed your eyes and pretended everything was okay, even though you knew exactly what tomorrow would bring.

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed. The space beside you was cold.

It was over.

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut. You had spent the night convincing yourself that you were ready for this, ready to end things, but the second you woke up to find him gone, the ache in your chest became unbearable.

Tears welled up before you could stop them. You curled into yourself, pressing your face against the pillow, sobbing into the fabric as if that could somehow muffle the sound. This wasn’t supposed to hurt. You weren’t supposed to grieve something that was never really yours. But you did.

You let yourself fall apart, mourning what could have been, whispering prayers into the silence that it didn’t have to end this way.

And then the door creaked open. You gasped, jolting up, eyes red and blurry as Sunghoon stepped into the room, holding your tumbler in his hand.

His brows furrowed at the sight of you, eyes widening in alarm. “What’s wrong?” he asked, rushing to your side, setting the tumbler down before cupping your face and wiping the tears off your cheeks. “Hey—why are you crying?”

You shook your head, unable to form words. He pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around you as you sobbed against him. He didn’t ask any more questions. He just held you, rubbing your back, shushing you gently even though he didn’t understand what had you so upset.

After a long moment, you finally managed to choke out, “I thought you were gone.”

Sunghoon pulled back slightly, blinking at you in confusion. Then, to your utter annoyance, he started laughing.

“What do you mean, gone?” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I literally just went to shower and get you some water.”

You smacked his arm, your face burning. “Don’t laugh at me, you jerk!”

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, though he was definitely still laughing.

Something about his amusement made you snap. Maybe it was the pent-up emotions, or maybe it was the fact that you had nothing left to lose—but suddenly, everything came spilling out.

You confessed it all.

How you weren’t supposed to catch feelings, but you did. How you tried to push them down, to ignore them, but they never really went away. How you had spent so long pretending to be fine with this casual arrangement, knowing deep down that you weren’t. How much it crushed you to think that he was trying to win Jenna back, how much it hurt when he canceled on you, and how stupid you felt for letting yourself get so attached.

Sunghoon stared at you, utterly dumbfounded.

You sniffled, swallowing back the last of your tears. “Well? Say something.”

And then, to your horror, he started laughing again.

Your stomach twisted. “Are you kidding me right now?”

But before you could shove him away, he grabbed your face and kissed you. Hard.

Your breath hitched, but you melted into it, gripping his shirt as he kissed you like he had been waiting for this moment all along. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice quieter now. “I like you,” he admitted. “A lot.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going. “You’re fun, you don’t take my shit, and you get me in a way that most people don’t. I’m always looking forward to seeing you. To hearing whatever sarcastic thing you were gonna say next. To just… being with you.”

“Then why—”

“I wasn’t with Jenna because of what you think.” His hands slid down to hold yours, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “There was an accident with the exhibit setup, and I had to be there. She just happened to walk out with me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And the part where you’re trying to get back with her?”

Sunghoon made a face. “Where did you even hear that?”

You hesitated before mumbling, “A mutual friend.”

He huffed. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“I don’t know!” You did, but you weren’t about to admit that you didn’t want to seem like you were expecting too much from him—like you were demanding something that was never part of your deal.

Sunghoon sighed, squeezing your hands. “I don’t know where you got that idea, but I only have eyes for you.” His lips quirked. “Yeah, maybe I didn’t realize how much I liked you at first, but ever since we started this, I haven’t thought about anyone else.”

Your heart stuttered.

Then he smirked. “I thought we had an understanding. Did we really need a label for it?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Right. Labels are overrated.”

Sunghoon kissed you deeply, and this time, you returned it with the same amount of sweet abandon. Then he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“I’m all yours, baby,” he murmured. “And right now, I’m wondering if you’d wanna be mine too.”

You let out a sharp breath, your chest tightening at his words. For a second, you just stared at him—his dark eyes searching yours, his expression completely open, completely vulnerable.

Then you scoffed, shaking your head with an exasperated laugh.

“For fuck's sake, Sunghoon.” You squeezed his hands, tugging him just a little closer. “I’m already yours.”

His lips crashed into yours before you could say anything else, stealing the last of your breath, and this time, you didn’t hold anything back.

[fin]

#sunghoon x reader #sunghoon smut #enhypen smut #sunghoon x you #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon x female reader #enhypen x female reader #enhypen fic #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen fluff #park sunghoon #sunghoon enhypen #sunghoon #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen au #enha x reader #enhypen

653 notes · View notes

icaruspendragon · 1 day ago

Text

in order to be “jest like yer deddy” (the redneck father’s daughter), one must grow up glued to their father’s side.

my father was a redneck and i was glued to his side. which means i’ve done a whole lotta redneck bull hockey and tom foolery in the name of spending time with dear old dad.

i spent a lot of my october and november weekends sitting on an upturned five gallon bucket watching my breath fog while waiting for the sun to come up so i’d have enough light to read whatever book my dad bought me to keep me quiet.

and he needed me to be quiet because he was dove hunting and i was seldom ever not in his line of sight, so i’d tag along and he’d indulge me and buy me stories even though i had no interest in the hunt.

i’m sure there’s an irony in my loving my dad so much i’d sit in the cold just to watch him kill things, but that’s not the point of this.

anyway. the sun would come up, i’d be placed a good ten feet behind all these men and their guns, my dad would make sure my earplugs were secure and my nose wasn’t too cold, and then they’d open fire.

once a bird was shot, they’d go and get it. i can’t remember what they did with them. that part doesn’t matter.

but what i do remember is after the safeties were on and the shotgun barrels were pointed skyward, my dad would “let” me run out and get the birds for him.

i say “let” because when i was a kid i thought bird fetching was a very important and serious job.

he died a few months ago and our relationship got complicated in the way they’re bound to do when daughters realize pain is something they inherit from their fathers.

when i was writing his eulogy i was thinking of happy childhood thoughts and i remembered the “hunting trips.” and how big and important i felt being the one who went to get the birds.

he’d shoot. i’d fetch. he’d tell me to sit. and we’d do it over and over and over again. and that’s when the revelation came.

i was the fucking bird dog.

#rip joe #you would loved knowing we took you to the cemetery tow-strapped to the back of your bass boat #fun fact #you don’t have to use a hearse if you don’t want to #you can put your dead dad on his boat and listen to free bird on blast

619 notes · View notes

mommyownsmee · 3 days ago

Text

Good girls don’t whine.

But you do, don’t you? You whimper, you beg, you fall apart so easily beneath me. I love it. Love breaking you down, love watching you come undone, love knowing I’m the only one who can do this to you.

I press my palm against your throat, not tight, just enough to make you focus, to make you feel how completely fucking helpless you are beneath me. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, your lips trembling as you stare up at me—desperate, overwhelmed, fucking beautiful. My thumb brushes against your jaw, and you shudder, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You love this. Even when you pretend you don’t. Even when you try to hold back.

I tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet my gaze, and when you do—fuck.

I grin. That’s it. Now, be a good girl and take it.

462 notes · View notes

wearysparrows · 3 days ago

Text

Cyanide in my Seeds

ao3/masterlist

Summary: While visiting Caleb at his college, you convince him to practice kissing with you. It escalates.

cw(18+): female reader, reader is mc, Pseudo-Incest. Kissing, Grinding, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pet Names, Minor Angst, Mirrors, Texting, Not Beta Read, Coming In Pants, Pre current timeline 5K

Caleb:

paging pip. what’s your 20 ∠( ᐛ 」∠)_

9:31AM

Me:

Train was a little early. I’m in your dorm already. Your roommate let me in on his way out lol

9:31AM

Caleb:

him getting to see you before me in my own room is crazy work. im on my way, be a good girl and wait for me ;)

9:32AM

You lay back on the bed of Caleb’s dorm, setting your phone down next to you. You had intended to meet up with him directly when you arrived, but had run into his roommate, Gideon, on your way. Your train had arrived surprisingly early, and Caleb was still finishing the last of his morning workout in the campus gym. Gideon kindly led you back to their dorm so that you could wait patiently for your brother. Well, your boyfriend, as everyone on campus knew him. Caleb’s little stunt had worked wonders to fend his many admirers off. It was obvious to anyone who looked that you were close, though you tried not to read the comments on Caleb’s university’s social media that wondered at why Caleb was dating a girl with quiet eyes, and a blank face that gave nothing away to match. You weren’t Caleb’s shadow anymore – but you were still in the darkness, comparatively. He cast a long shadow, for all of his light. Still, it was impossible to not love Caleb for his radiance, and you were no exception. He excelled in everything – and that included the boyfriend act.

It was almost too good. Caleb treating you the way you had long wanted him to treat you – well, it could be hard on the heart. But you were selfish, too. You’d accept the facsimile of the thing if it wasn’t reality. You’d drink it in before he found someone he truly cared about. Someone he didn’t have to pretend with. Someone he was in love with. Someone he would fill up with all of himself. Someone who wasn’t his sister. Someone who wasn’t you. The thought made your insides twist around themselves, and a small wave of nausea washed over you. Images of Caleb standing next to the nebulous form of someone else flashed in your mind's eye. You swatted at them in the real world, as if the motion would coax them to leave you alone.

The sound of the door handle turning blessedly interrupted your musings. Caleb stepped in, looking flushed and unfairly handsome. He was still in his gym clothes – a tight white tank top, and grey exercise shorts that hugged him in all the right places. He was still covered in a soft sheen of sweat, and his chest rose and fell quickly, like he had been running just moments before. Your body was standing before you had a chance to tell it to do otherwise, walking towards him. He grinned at you, pretty purple eyes full of unadulterated mirth in your direction. Your walk quickly turned into a run, and you leapt at him. Caleb caught you easily, just as you knew he would. As he always had, since you were children. Your brother’s strength had never once faltered. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck. He held you with one arm around your back, the other easily supporting the span of your ass. A chuckle left him as you made contact with his body.

“Should I take this as you saying you missed me?”

You buried your face in his neck, and inhaled. The familiar smell of his sweat, of the outside, of his warmth. You melted into him. It was like being kissed by your own personal sun. You could feel the quickness with which his heart beat under your touch.

“Caleb,” you managed. It was enough for him to understand.

“Hi, baby. I missed you, too.”

Caleb walked with you as you clung to him in the direction of his dorm bed. You knew it was coming, that he was going to release you, but you would have rather crawled under his skin and lived inside him. He set you down on the mattress, hand slipping out from under your ass. You released your hold on him reluctantly. He knelt in between your knees, his big hands spreading your legs wide apart to make room for him. A bolt of shyness shot through you, but you did your best to ignore it. Had he looked down between your legs, he would have seen everything. You were in a skirt, after all. But his gaze stayed respectful, even when you didn’t want it to.

“You’re gonna get my sweat all over your cute little clothes. I need to shower before we hang out. You got here before I could make myself all pretty for you. I stink.”

You leaned towards him and sniffed with intention. He didn’t stink. He smelled like sweat, cotton, clean laundry – the ever tranquil scent of your brother. You still buried your face in his pillow back home, trying to catch what was left of it, even months after he was gone. He had caught you, once. You had expected him to tease you, but he said nothing, staring at you hugging his pillow with an unreadable expression on his face. Neither of you mentioned it, afterwards. Things went on as usual.

“You don’t stink. You smell good. Suit yourself, though.”

A funny look came over Caleb’s face, along with the slow rise of a deeper blush to his already red cheeks and ears. The corner of his mouth turned up, like he was trying to keep another expression in check. His hands drifted further up your legs, until he was squeezing your bare thighs. Any closer, and he could have touched you between your legs.

“You’re messin’ with me. Here,”

He removed one hand from your thigh, and you momentarily mourned its absence. He produced his phone from his pocket, and put it face down on your leg. It was cold and heavy, dead weight. Nothing like his warm hand. It was something that belonged to him, though. You would accept it as recompense for his missing touch. He tapped the back of his phone with a finger.

“You can play with my phone while you wait, if you want. It still has all the games you downloaded last time. I’ll be quick.”

You didn’t want to be apart from him for any longer than you had to. You had so little time together as it was. Even just a few minutes sounded like an age to your ears.

“Okay. But if you aren’t fast enough, I’m going to hide all your stuff from you. You’ll never find your fancy compass again.”

Caleb stood, and his groin was momentarily level with your face. You didn’t have the strength to avert your eyes. Every part of him was big. Those stupid shorts of his left nothing to the imagination. Not that you didn’t already know. He reached out, ruffling your hair. Then, as if thinking better of it, he smoothed it back into place with his palms. The pleasant sensation of his touch made your lower back prickle.

“Instead of playin’ hide and seek with my stuff, play with me instead when I’m done.”

Caleb dropped his hands as he spoke and turned from you. As he stepped away, your hand reached out and grasped his shorts. You stared at it as if it had acted on its own accord. Caleb tilted his head at you, smiling.

“What, you wanna shower with me?”

You dropped your hand, feeling your face warm at his teasing. What would he have done if you said yes?

You shook your head instead of saying yes, I do want to shower with you. Just like when we were kids, I want to do everything you do, I want to do everything with you, I want you–

“Just make it quick. I’m only here for a day.”

Caleb nodded, his expression turning into one of mock resoluteness. He couldn’t keep it up, though, and it morphed back into a warm smile.

“Ten-four. Give me five minutes, angel.”

With that, Caleb disappeared into the adjacent restroom. The dorm was small, which meant you could hear every movement he made in the shower. Instead of straining your ears to catch his sounds, you laid back on the bed, and picked up Caleb’s phone. You didn’t have to guess at his password – it was your birthday. It had been for as long as you could remember. His wallpaper stared you in the face. More accurately, your face stared at you in the face, because his wallpaper was a brightly smiling picture of you, leaning over one of Caleb’s home cooked meals. Your stomach flipped. Not wanting your own eyes to continue to look back at you, you opened the first app your fingers touched – his camera roll. It wasn’t your intention to pry – but then again, Caleb didn’t really seem to mind, either. He never tried to hide his phone from you. There was nothing out of the ordinary – it was mostly slides from presentations and complicated diagrams of flight paths that you couldn’t decipher. There were some recent photos of you and Caleb together. Strangely, there weren’t any pictures of Caleb with his friends, as you would have imagined. Puzzled, you scrolled down to the groupings at the bottom.

The little blue letters of the folders glowed faintly back at you. ‘Hidden’ seemed to stand out among them. You debated setting the phone down, letting Caleb keep his privacy. He was an adult man, and surely there were parts of himself he kept hidden, even from you. But your desire to peel him open and connect yourself to his insides got the better of you. You clicked it, and it unlocked with your face ID. You had no idea what to expect, but it hadn’t been this.

The first visible rows were almost entirely pictures of Caleb. Shirtless, in nothing but his boxers. In the mirror. You held your breath, as if you were hiding from something that would be able to hear your intake of oxygen. You clicked on one, your adrenaline racing through you, all the way into the tips of your thumbs. In it, Caleb stood in his boxers, phone in hand. He flexed his right bicep. The lighting was such that his muscles were deeply accentuated by dark shadows on his lovely tanned skin, the ripple of his abs moving down, down, turning into a line of dark hair that disappeared into his boxers. The outline of his dick was clearly visible in the soft spandex, suggested by the veins in his lower abdomen, too. The necklace that you gave him sat neatly in between his big pecs. Your mouth suddenly felt very, very dry. You forced yourself to swipe away from the image – but not before it had been permanently burned into your mind. You ached for him. Your brother, and Caleb. Whatever it was that was in between the two. You scrolled up and up through the hidden folder, and it was like watching the progression of Caleb turn into a man. He grew visibly taller, bigger. More tanned. His body fat shrank into virtual nothingness, until the striations of his muscles were visible under his skin.

Amongst the sea of Calebs, one photo stood out to you. It wasn’t Caleb at all. It was marked as a favorite, too. You clicked it, and the image of your sleeping face appeared on the screen. You were sleeping on Caleb’s bicep, wearing his shirt. It fell from your shoulder, revealing the smooth slope of your collarbone. You checked the date on the photo. It coincided with the last time Caleb had come home to visit. You had been so tired from studying the Hunter’s exam that you had fallen asleep on him. Questions sprang into your mind, rapid fire. Why did he have a photo of you sleeping, of all things? And why was it this deep in his hidden folder, if it was so recent? And why was it favorited? Your body felt uncomfortably hot.

Was this really something he wanted to keep from you?

The sound of Caleb clattering open the bathroom door suddenly reached your ears. You had been so absorbed in your snooping that you hadn’t heard him cut off the flow of water. You threw his phone onto the bed, where it landed with a dejected thump. You crossed your hands awkwardly over your lap. Caleb padded over to you, rubbing a towel over his still wet hair. He was, of course, in nothing but a pair of sweats. You stared down at his bare feet instead of up into his face. Guilt dug into your ribs, rendering you unable to look up at him.

“What were you up to, pipsqueak? What’s with that weird posture? Doin’ something bad again?”

Caleb’s warm hand, still slightly damp, nudged your chin up so that you were forced to look up into his handsome face. There was a stray droplet of water on his neck. You wanted to lick it off.

“No,” you answered levelly. Or what you hoped was levelly.

“Just…meditating.”

This earned a brow raise from Caleb, and he snorted, his eyes crinkling up with laughter. Obvious disbelief rang in his voice.

“Riiight. And I’m the Dali Lama.”

You rolled your eyes at him. Internally, you desperately searched for something to redirect his line of questioning away from you ogling at the partial nudes on his phone. After an agonizing moment of mental scrabbling, it came to you. You tugged on the leg of his sweats.

“Let me dry your hair, Caleb. You’re dripping everywhere.”

Caleb blinked owlishly, and then looked more pleased than ever. He nudged your arm with his hand.

“Wow, the prince treatment from you? You really did miss me.”

Caleb wandered back into the bathroom for a moment, and reappeared holding a rather beaten-up looking hair dryer. It was nothing like the nice, expensive one he had wired you money for that you had at home. He plugged it into the power strip adjacent to you, and put it in your hands. You held it, and its weight somehow felt awkward in your grip. More peculiar guilt rang its bells in your ears. He sent you money every week, but couldn’t get himself a better hair dryer? You made a mental note. Even if it was with his money, you could still get him a better one. You shook your head.

“You’re so popular, you basically are a prince around here. You don’t need me for special treatment.”

Caleb sat between your legs, and looked up at you. The violet of his eyes reflected the light that was cutting in through the small window of the dorm. You didn’t share his blood, but sometimes, inexplicably, you looked at him and saw some aspect of yourself looking back. What aspect it was, though, you didn’t know.

“But you’re the only one who I want special treatment from. Besides,”

He leaned his head against the inside of your knee, and pressed a chaste kiss there.

“That makes you my princess, right?”

You opted to ignore his question, as well as the kiss, and turned the hairdryer on, instead. You could only handle so much of his vague insinuations about the nature of your relationship without crossing any lines. Caleb leaned his head down obediently as you worked your fingers through the softness of his dark hair. The heat and the successive whirr of the dryer lulled you into a pleasant state of relaxation. Caleb’s eyes were closed, his head bowed. You brushed your fingers through his hair again and again, a makeshift comb. His hair was quick to dry, and it seemed as if he had cut it just recently. You clicked off the hairdryer, and set it aside. Caleb didn’t rise. He was still sitting in between your legs, head low to his chest. One of his hands had found a firm grip around the back of your ankle. It traced your Achilles heel. You dragged your nails through the hair on the back of his neck. It was cropped short, and had a fine texture that tickled your palms. Caleb’s body shuddered, and he made a little sound like a whine in the back of his throat. You paused your movements, concerned.

“Caleb? Did I hurt you?”

He looked up at you, a slow raise of his head. His face and ears were flushed red – from the heat of the dryer, you figured. He licked his chapped lips.

“No, baby. Don’t worry. Your hands were just makin’ me feel really good.”

His words went right in between your legs. Your mind conjured images of your hands in other places, making him feel really good. You retracted your hands, and put them in your lap, lest they try something else. You were reminded that someday, likely soon, someone else would be making him feel good. You averted your eyes from him. Caleb tilted his head, putting himself back in the line of your gaze.

“What’s going on in that noggin’ of yours? First you treat me like a prince, then you go all shy on me.”

You bit at your lip between your teeth, weighing the value of telling him the truth.

“I was just thinking that,”

You shuffled a socked foot against the ground.

“Someday soon, you’ll find someone. You know, a real girlfriend. And we won’t be able to do this kind of thing anymore. You said I could practice having a boyfriend with you, right? So maybe we should...”

You stared at your hands in your lap. The pictures of Caleb half-naked swam in your mind. Maybe they were intended for someone. Maybe someone had already seen them. Someone who wasn’t you. Your hands felt heavier than ever.

“Practice before you can’t anymore.”

Caleb was quiet for a long moment. Too long. You opened your mouth to brush it off, ask him to pretend you hadn’t said anything, you were just kidding around – but Caleb was back to spreading your thighs apart, still kneeling between them. His hands were much closer to your hips, now. Too close. He squeezed, hard.

“You know I won’t date anyone else. I’ve told you that.”

You tried not to let his phrasing give you false hopes. Anyone else, he said. As if you were actually dating.

“What if I start dating someone, then? You won’t help me practice?”

You nudged his thigh with your foot.

“Or should I get someone else to do it?”

It was a low blow, but one you knew would work on him. You weren’t an idiot – you knew Caleb’s possessiveness ran deeper than the still waters he tried to make it appear as. Even if his feelings weren’t romantic, he was still your brother in every sense but blood. You could push his buttons just as easily as he could yours.

Caleb’s eyes were hard, but he was still smiling up at you. He stood without a word, and you were lifted off of the bed from underneath your armpits, like you weighed nothing to him. He switched your positions – he sat on the bed, and you were deposited in his lap, your back against his broad chest. He leaned his head over your shoulder, big hands on your waist. You realized, then, that you were directly across from the dorm room mirror – the image of yourself sitting between your brother’s legs, wide eyed, staring back at you. Caleb’s voice was soft in your ear. You watched as his lips almost brushed the shell of it in the mirror.

“Sure, I’ll help you practice. Why don’t you start by introducing me as your boyfriend? Go on.”

Caleb gestured to the mirror. You had introduced yourself to others as Caleb’s girlfriend boundless times, at this point. But introducing him was something else altogether – nevermind while faced with your own reflection in the mirror. As you watched, Caleb watched you, too. You could feel him slowly harden underneath your ass as he eyed your reflection. His sudden bullying incited you to do the same to him. You nodded, as if you were going along with his whims.

“Okay,”

You took a breath, as if winding up for it. He stroked your sides with his thumbs. His skin practically brimmed with his verve.

“Hi, everyone. I’d like to introduce you to my big brother, Caleb…”

Caleb’s dick twitched underneath you. His lips set into a hard line. He nosed your ear delicately, despite the look on his face.

“Be nice. Don’t make me say it. Why don’t you be a good girl and try that again? Otherwise, I’ll have to put you in the air for a minute as punishment.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his threat. It was hardly a punishment at all to be suspended in the safe net of his evol, surrounded by the weightlessness of his very life force. You started again.

“Okay, okay. Hi everyone. I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Caleb…”

Caleb twitched underneath you again. His hands squeezed at your waist, rubbing up and down the span of your ribcage and hips. You squirmed, because it tickled. Caleb tried to hold you still, to little avail. His voice teased your ear.

“Was that so hard?”

You pretended to try to escape his firm grasp. His voice lowered to a dull rasp. It cracked over his curse.

“Don’t squirm around so much. Shit.”

And then you were lifted into the air, not by Caleb’s hands but by his evol. It set you down next to him on the bed, instead. You blinked at him, crossing your legs over each other. He chuckled, a little breathless, but he didn’t speak. He rubbed his hands over his muscular thighs, like he had energy that had nowhere to go. You nudged him with your foot, and he took it into his lap. Right next to his obvious hard-on. You resisted the urge to press your foot against it, to see him react to you like you wanted him to, instead of pushing you away. He squeezed the arch of your foot, rubbing it absently. To your eyes, it seemed as if he had momentarily forgotten the point of all of this.

“I don’t just want to practice introductions, Caleb.”

You flexed your foot in his grasp. He turned his head to look at you, and tilted it, questioning. There was something barely restrained in his gaze. An appetite, starved.

“What are you tryin’ to say, baby? Use your words.”

You scooted closer to him, feeling emboldened by his earlier reactions to you.

“There’s other things real couples do, right? Like…”

You trailed off, struggling to make the word kissing come out of your mouth. Instead, you pressed your index finger against Caleb’s full lips. His eyebrows rose a fraction, and then another. He grasped your wrist, and pressed a kiss to the side of your finger before pulling it from his mouth. His fingers wrapped all the way around your wrist, easily.

“Liiike…?”

He was going to make you say it, wasn’t he?

You felt yourself losing steam. Maybe his lack of acknowledgement was an out for the both of you. Maybe you were an idiot for thinking he might actually kiss you – even just for practice. You drew your foot and wrist away from his grasp, and Caleb’s hands hovered in the air in their absences. You backed up against Caleb’s pillow, and supported yourself against it. Caleb’s body followed after yours, crawling on his hands and knees until he was hovering over you, his knees on either side of your hips, supporting himself by his hands next to your head. He was so big, especially like this. There was nowhere to escape to. He leaned down, and spoke into your ear again.

“Were you going to say that you wanted to practice kissin’ me? You want me to kiss you. Like I’m your boyfriend. I’m right, right?”

You shoved your hands against his chest, trying halfheartedly to dislodge him from your personal space. He didn’t budge, not even a fraction. His necklace hung between you. It clinked with your efforts, like some sort of consolation prize for trying. You scowled at him.

“Stop screwing around, Caleb. You’re obviously not taking this seriously.”

Caleb’s face above you had become serious, along with his tone. His eyes darted around your face, like he was committing something memory.

“I’m not screwing around. If you were my girlfriend,” his knuckles drifted over your jaw, his touch feather-light.

“I’d be very serious about you. I am serious about you. So,”

His face hovered closer to yours. You felt his breath fan over your face, smelled the heat of its sweetness. His voice lowered to a rough whisper.

“Want me to kiss you?”

You lay very still. Your body felt heavy, like if you moved anything besides your head, the moment would shatter, and be lost to you forever. Caleb would change his mind, and you would never get this chance again. You nodded, almost imperceptibly. Your nose brushed against Caleb’s. Not a moment after you had given your silent permission, his lips were on yours. It was soft at first, firm but gentle. You hardly had the wherewithal to react, initially. But his mouth insisted, and you gradually met him in kind. Caleb was breathing hard through his nose, and he leaned in closer to you, bending at the elbows. Emotions you normally ignored bubbled up in your chest. Emotions you shouldn’t have towards your brother. Slithering, crawling things that wouldn’t scatter no matter how much you chased them away.

Your hands naturally found their way to his bare chest, feeling the warm planes of his pecs, and sliding down to his abs. He tensed underneath your touch, and moaned softly into your mouth. The sound made heat curl tightly in your belly, and you lifted your stomach up against him, where his dick was hard in his sweats. His hand slipped behind your head on the pillow, and fisted your hair. He pulled your mouth away from his, and lifted his face. His chest heaved, and his lips shone with the mix of your saliva.

You thought he was about to say something, but he merely looked for a moment, before he switched your positions. The gentle caress of his evol lifted you into the air, and he lay down underneath you, setting your body neatly down across the large span of him. You propped yourself up on your palms, and straddled him. His dick pressed hard in between your legs, underneath your skirt. You hardly had a moment to get your bearings, because his big hand was pressing on the back of your head, fisting your hair again, guiding you back to his mouth. His free hand had a too-firm grip on your hip, his thumb hooked underneath the waistband of your skirt. You wanted him to pull it down, to pull it off of you. To put his dick inside of you, instead of just against you.

Caleb’s tongue was in your mouth, teaching you the feel of him, imprinting his taste on you. You knew, then, that you never wanted to taste anyone else. You had already known. Caleb sucked your tongue into his mouth, and then offered you his to do the same. You lapped at it, then sucked. Caleb’s hands pressed you hard against his body, roaming everywhere except where you wanted him. He rutted up against you as he sucked, and his body shuddered underneath you. A strangle of a groan came out of his throat, and he cursed into your mouth. Then, he was still. You pulled back from him, and peered into his face, confused.

There was no misconstruing what was unsaid in his gaze. Want radiated from his eyes, from his swollen lips and red face. He chased after your lips once more, kissing you again, and then on the side of your mouth, your cheek, your ear. His palm swatted your ass gently.

“Get up for just a sec. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

You peeled yourself off of him, feeling yourself deflate at his unceremonious leave. You sat up on the bed, and Caleb hurried with an unusual quickness to the restroom. The sound of the faucet covered whatever other sounds he was making. You stared blankly at your own face in the mirror across from the bed. You were red to your ears, your hair a mess from Caleb’s grip on it. Your clothes were rumpled. You quickly averted your eyes, and adjusted yourself back as best you could. Caleb returned not a moment later, and sat back onto the bed. He pulled you into his arms, not giving you the option of going elsewhere. His embrace was near crushing, and he looked down at you.

“Sorry, baby. I didn’t want to leave you, even for a second. How do you feel? Was it fun to practice with me?”

You struggled to find your voice, and cleared your throat. Caleb’s thumb was tracing over your lips. He tugged at them, and appeared to be inspecting your teeth. The reasoning for his short disappearance trickled into your mind, and you felt your face become hot all over again. Momentarily, you debated teasing him for it, but thought the better of it. The thought that you had elicited such a strong reaction from his body was something you tucked away for later. You spoke around his touch with some difficulty.

“It wash fun. I like prachticing with you. Can we…prachtice some more?”

Caleb chuckled, a funny, strained sound. He tugged at your lip with his thumb once more before releasing your face. The air felt cold on your teeth.

“As long as you promise I’m the only one you’ll practice with, we can do it whenever you want. Promise me.”

His voice had a tinge of strained helplessness that you couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of. Caleb lifted his pinky, and you lifted yours in kind, wrapping it around his much larger one. His finger squeezed yours. You swore you could feel his pulse, there. Maybe it was just your own.

“I promise. Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

#love and deepspace #caleb #caleb x you #caleb x reader #caleb x mc #lads x reader #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #idk bro

458 notes · View notes

goldfades · 1 day ago

Text

who else decodes you? / who's gonna know you, if not me? / and who's gonna hold you like me? / no-fucking-body / so tell me, who else is gonna know me? | joe burrow⁹ (part one)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had been inseparable since LSU, with him promising you everything—a dream home and a life together. everything felt perfect during your golden days, but as time passed, things shifted, and the cracks began to show in your once-perfect relationship

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst... just straight up angst. asshole-y joe, lots of fighting, reader being a trophy wife, just real sad things im sorry i wrote this yall. NO happy ending in this part, part 2 will have a happy ending dw guys!!!

You met Joe Burrow before the world did.

Before the Heisman, before the draft, before his name carried weight outside of Athens, Ohio. Before the sleek suits, the Cartier glasses, the endless debates about whether he was the next great quarterback of his generation. Before all of that, he was just Joe. Your Joe.

The one who texted you goodnight from his twin bed in his childhood home, the one who took you to McDonald’s after late-night practices because that’s all he could afford. The one who kissed you in the front seat of his beat-up truck, hands a little rough from lifting weights but gentle when they held your face.

You were there for it all.

Through the transfer to LSU, when he was just a backup with something to prove. Through the championship season, where he turned into a legend overnight. Through the draft, when you held his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, waiting for the moment his name would be called. Through the move to Cincinnati, where you learned the ins and outs of being an NFL girlfriend—then an NFL wife in everything but title.

You never needed the ring to prove your place beside him. Not at first.

Because when you love someone for that long, when you’ve been there since day one, you assume you’ll be there forever. You assume that one day, when the time is right, you’ll walk down the aisle and he’ll be standing at the end of it. That the same boy who once promised you the world in a whisper under Louisiana stars would eventually make good on it.

But love isn’t always enough.

And timing? Timing has a cruel way of making a fool out of you.

Before the waiting, before the uncertainty—there was LSU.

The golden days.

The kind of love people wrote songs about, the kind that burned so bright it felt untouchable, invincible. You and Joe had been through the trenches of college life together—cheap dates, sleepless nights, long drives in his old truck where he talked about the future like it was already written in the stars.

Joe had always been a planner. He didn’t just dream—he mapped things out, broke them down into plays, like a game he knew he would win. And in every version of the future he spoke about, you were in it.

“I’m gonna make it,” he told you one night, lying in the back of his truck, staring at the Baton Rouge sky like it held all his answers. The air was thick with humidity, cicadas singing in the distance, but neither of you cared. You were twenty, wildly in love, and the world hadn’t touched you yet. “I don’t care how long it takes, or how many people doubt me—I’m making it to the league.”

You smiled, running a hand through his hair. “I never doubted that.”

Joe turned then, propped himself up on an elbow, his sharp, determined eyes softening as he looked at you. “And when I do, I’m gonna give you everything.”

It wasn’t just a promise. It was a declaration.

Not just any ring—a rock. One that would catch the light from across the room, the kind that would make strangers do a double take. Not just any house—your dream home, the one you’d always wanted but never thought possible.

You had told him, once, in passing, the kind of house you loved. You were scrolling on your phone, lying with your feet in his lap, showing him a picture of a home that looked straight out of a magazine.

“That,” you had said, tapping the screen. “That’s the dream.”

White exterior, big windows—floor-to-ceiling in the living room, so the sunlight would pour in every morning. A wrap-around porch, because you always loved the idea of sitting outside with a glass of wine on summer nights. A kitchen with the biggest island imaginable, because you loved to cook, even if Joe barely trusted himself to make toast. A cozy sunroom, filled with mismatched chairs and overflowing bookshelves. A clawfoot bathtub in the master bath, where you could soak for hours after a long day.

Joe had barely glanced at the picture before he said, “Done.”

You laughed. “Joe, that house is like… five million dollars.”

“So?” He had smirked, cocky and confident in that way only he could pull off. “Give me a couple years.”

You shook your head, amused, but deep down, you believed him. You believed him because when Joe Burrow set his mind to something, it happened.

And when you asked, jokingly, what kind of dog he wanted, he just scoffed.

“Dogs? No. We’re gonna have like, eight cats.”

You snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He stretched out, hands behind his head, already painting the picture in his mind. “They’ll have dumb names, too. Like, I don’t know… Fettuccine. Or Tuxedo. Or—oh—Larry.”

“Larry?”

“Yeah. Larry’s gonna be the ringleader.”

You shook your head, laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joe just grinned, pulling you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You love me.”

And you did. God, you did.

You loved him through the highs—the Heisman win, the national championship, the night he got drafted when you held his face in your hands and told him this is it, baby. This is everything you worked for.

You loved him through the lows—when he tore his ACL his rookie year and sat in silence for hours, devastated, gripping your hand so tight it went numb. When the pressure of the league weighed heavy on him and he retreated inward, needing space, needing you to be his anchor without him ever having to say it.

You loved him because he was Joe.

Because he was the boy who once whispered about forever under Louisiana stars, who promised you a rock, a dream house, and eight cats named Larry and Fettuccine.

Because you believed, back then, that promises were made to be kept.

It started small.

A casual comment, barely even a question, when you were knee-deep in cardboard boxes in your new Cincinnati apartment. You’d been together for years by then, had already lived together in Baton Rouge, but this—this felt different. More permanent. He was the face of a franchise now, the golden boy of an entire city. And you? You were the woman who had been by his side through it all.

So when you held up a framed photo—one of the two of you from his LSU days, his arm wrapped around you, both of you grinning like you had the whole world ahead of you—you said it without thinking.

“Guess we’ll need some wedding pictures to put up soon, huh?”

It was light, teasing, the same way you’d joked about it a hundred times before. But this time, Joe didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile.

He just exhaled through his nose, set down the box he was carrying, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m still adjusting to all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the apartment, the city, the new life he was stepping into. “Let’s just… settle in first.”

You told yourself it made sense.

Joe had always been slow to process change. He liked routine, predictability. He had just gone from college quarterback to the number-one draft pick, from playing in front of thousands to playing in front of millions. If he needed time, you’d give it to him.

And so you did.

You poured yourself into the role of supportive girlfriend, the unwavering presence behind the scenes. You went to every game, wore his jersey, kept your social media lowkey even when the WAGs of the league started reaching out. You made sure home felt like a safe haven for him—a place where he wasn’t Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, but just Joe.

Months passed. Then a year. Then two.

And still, nothing.

You tried to be patient. You tried not to compare. But it was impossible not to notice when guys who had been in the league half as long as Joe were proposing to their girlfriends. When you went to team events and saw wives flashing diamond rings, their hands resting on their husbands’ arms like they belonged there. When your own friends started getting married, settling down, building the life you always thought you and Joe were working toward.

You weren’t the kind of girl who begged for a ring. That wasn’t you. That wasn’t why you loved him. But you also weren’t stupid.

So, one night, after a Bengals win, when it was just the two of you curled up on the couch—Joe half-asleep, his head resting on your thigh—you ran your fingers through his hair and asked,

“Do you ever think about it?”

His eyes cracked open slightly. “Think about what?”

“Marriage.”

The word hung in the air between you, heavy in a way that made your stomach tighten.

Joe didn’t sit up, didn’t tense. But he also didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the ceiling, his fingers drumming lightly against your leg.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think about it.”

That was it. No elaboration. No follow-up.

And maybe it was the years of knowing him, of reading between the lines of what he didn’t say, but something about his tone sent a cold prickle down your spine.

You swallowed. “And?”

Joe sighed, shifting so he was looking up at you fully. His face was tired, drawn, the way it always was after a game.

“I love you,” he said first, because Joe always led with love, even when he was about to disappoint you. “I just don’t know if I’m… ready for all that.”

All that. Like marriage was some heavy, unbearable thing. Like it was a burden, instead of the only thing you’d ever wanted with him.

But you didn’t push. You never pushed.

You just nodded, kissed his forehead, and told yourself that he just needed more time.

You’d already given him years. What was a little longer?

For every golden memory, there was a night that ended with you crying into your pillow, your chest aching from the weight of words left unheard.

And Joe was never the type to yell.

That was the problem.

You could scream, slam cabinets, cry until your eyes were swollen, beg him to just say something—but Joe would sit there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on some invisible point in the distance. Silent. Stone-faced. Like he was waiting for a storm to pass rather than standing in the middle of it with you.

And when he was done listening, when he decided he had nothing to say, he’d just walk away.

No slammed doors. No cruel words. Just an exhale through his nose and the slow, deliberate sound of his footsteps leaving the room.

Then came the silence.

Hours, sometimes days, where he wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge the way you curled up on your side of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself because if he wouldn’t hold you, you had to do it yourself.

It always started the same way.

Joe had never been a selfish person—at least, not intentionally. He loved you, worshipped you in his own quiet way. But he was also a man who had spent his entire life being taken care of.

First by his parents. Then by his coaches. Then by you.

At first, it hadn’t bothered you. You wanted to take care of him, because loving Joe Burrow meant making sure he ate real meals instead of surviving off protein shakes and granola bars. It meant picking up after him when he left his clothes on the floor, washing his jerseys so they always smelled like fresh detergent instead of sweat, keeping your home together while he threw every ounce of himself into football.

But over time, something shifted.

The gestures that had once been acts of love started to feel expected. You would spend hours cooking his favorite meal, only for him to eat in front of the TV without so much as a thank you. You’d clean up after him like clockwork, while he’d scroll through his phone, oblivious to the way you were moving around him like a ghost. You handled the small things—the groceries, the laundry, the appointments—so he never had to think about them. And the worst part? He didn’t think about them.

He didn’t think about how exhausting it was to pour so much of yourself into another person and get nothing in return.

One night, after a long day where you’d cooked, cleaned, and ran errands while Joe came home from practice, showered, and immediately planted himself on the couch, something in you snapped.

You had been standing in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes, while Joe sat in the living room, watching game film, oblivious to the way your hands were trembling from frustration.

“Joe,” you called, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hummed, eyes still on the screen.

You turned off the faucet, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Do you even see me anymore?”

That got his attention. His head lifted slightly, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Do you see me?” you repeated, voice shaking now. “Or am I just here? Like some… unpaid assistant who cooks your meals and cleans your shit and waits around for you to remember I exist?”

Joe blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion. Frustration. A bubbling anger that had been simmering for months. “I do everything for you. And I never ask for anything in return. But you don’t even appreciate it, Joe. You don’t see it. You don’t see me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus, babe. I—look, I didn’t ask you to do all that.”

Your heart sank.

There it was. The knife, twisted so deep you almost doubled over from the pain of it.

You swallowed, eyes stinging. “You shouldn’t have to ask for basic effort.”

Joe exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from the couch. “I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

And then, just like always, he walked away.

The silence stretched for days.

No matter how loud you got, how many tears you shed, it never mattered.

Because Joe didn’t scream.

Joe shut down.

The restaurant was dimly lit, the kind of place where the wine was poured before you even asked and the waiters moved so seamlessly you barely noticed them. It was a Bengals event—one of those exclusive, high-end dinners meant to bring players and their partners together, a little PR, a little networking, all wrapped in the illusion of luxury. Normally, you didn’t mind them.

But tonight? Tonight, Joe was off.

He had been for weeks. Ever since the injury, ever since he had to watch his team play without him, it was like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders and refused to budge. You had tried, God, you had tried—to comfort him, to give him space, to be exactly what he needed. But no matter what you did, it felt wrong.

He barely talked. Barely looked at you. And when he did, there was something in his eyes you couldn’t place.

Resentment?

Disappointment?

You didn’t know.

So you sat at the table, plastering on a smile, sipping your wine, pretending everything was fine as the conversation buzzed around you. Ja’Marr and his girlfriend, a few of the other guys, their partners. The usual crowd.

The joke started innocent enough.

“You’re literally the dream NFL WAG,” Ja’Marr’s girlfriend said, laughing as she leaned over toward you. “Like, you do everything for him. Cook, clean, go to every game. You’re basically the gold standard.”

The table chuckled.

You laughed, too, but there was something hollow about it. It wasn’t that the statement was wrong. It was just that… for the past few months, being Joe’s girlfriend hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt like an uphill battle, like loving him was a test you were always on the verge of failing.

But before you could say anything, Joe scoffed.

Loudly.

The kind of sound that cut through the easy, playful atmosphere and made everyone shift in their seats.

You turned to him, confused, but Joe wasn’t looking at you. His jaw was clenched, his grip tight around the base of his glass.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, sharp, edged with something you couldn’t name.

The table went quiet.

Your stomach sank.

“Joe,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm, but he pulled away, shaking his head.

“I need air.”

And just like that, he was on his feet, pushing back his chair, striding toward the exit without another word.

You barely hesitated before following.

The moment you stepped outside, the cold air hit you like a slap. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few blacked-out SUVs and a couple of lingering staff members. Joe was already a few steps ahead, his hands on his hips, breathing hard like he was trying to keep himself together.

You didn’t care. You weren’t going to let this go.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, heels clicking against the pavement as you caught up to him.

Joe exhaled sharply, tilting his head back toward the sky. “I don’t wanna do this right now.”

“No. No.” You grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t get to humiliate me in front of everyone and then walk away like nothing happened.”

Joe turned then, eyes flashing with something you had never seen before. Rage.

“You think I don’t know?” His voice was louder now, cutting through the night air, his face twisted in frustration. “You think I don’t fucking see the way you take care of everything? How perfect you are? How much you do for me?”

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t the first time you’d fought, not even close. But this was different.

This was Joe shouting.

He never shouted.

“You think I don’t know how much you’ve sacrificed? How much you’ve had to deal with while I sit on the fucking sidelines, watching my team play without me?” His hands were in his hair now, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You think I don’t feel like a goddamn failure every second of every day? That I don’t fucking hate myself for it?”

Your chest tightened. “Joe—”

“I get it, okay?” His voice was hoarse, his breathing heavy. “I get it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve any of this.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

Then, finally, you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I never said that.”

Joe looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you saw it.

The exhaustion. The fear. The guilt.

And underneath it all, something else. Something raw and painful and impossible to ignore.

“I can’t do this,” he said suddenly, shaking his head, stepping back. “Not tonight.”

Your stomach dropped. “Joe.”

But he was already turning away.

Already leaving.

And for the first time, you didn’t go after him.

Time, though, has a funny way of making fools out of people.

Because a little longer turned into another year. And another.

And soon, you weren’t just the girlfriend who had been with Joe since before the fame. You were the girlfriend who was still waiting. The one people whispered about at games, in comment sections, in DMs you tried not to read.

Why hasn’t he proposed yet? If he wanted to marry her, he would’ve by now. She’s been with him forever. That’s kinda embarrassing.

You weren’t stupid. You heard the whispers. You ignored them, brushed them off, laughed about them with Joe like they didn’t sting.

But deep down, they did.

And then, one night, you cracked.

It wasn’t planned. You weren’t trying to pick a fight. You were just lying in bed beside Joe, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, when an engagement post popped up on your feed. Another NFL couple. Another ring. Another reminder.

You set your phone down. Turned toward Joe, who was staring at the ceiling like he always did when he couldn’t sleep.

“Joe,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, eyes still fixed upward.

“Are you ever going to marry me?”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t bitter. Just quiet. Tired.

Joe closed his eyes. Let out a slow breath. And in that moment, you already knew the answer.

Not yet. Not now. I need more time.

The same thing he’d been saying for years.

But this time, you weren’t sure you could keep waiting.

It didn’t happen in one moment. It wasn’t a clean break, a single conversation where you both sat down, acknowledged the inevitable, and walked away like two people who had outgrown each other.

No, it was ugly. It was heartbreaking. It was loud.

It started in the living room, the place that had once been your sanctuary. The place where you curled up on the couch together after long days, where you laid your head on his lap while he absentmindedly played with your hair, where he kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But tonight, it was a battleground.

You stood near the coffee table, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to keep from falling apart, while Joe paced in front of the fireplace, his hands tangled in his hair. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his entire body radiating frustration. But under it—under the anger, the exhaustion—was something else.

Defeat.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Joe muttered, voice low but strained, like it physically hurt him to say it out loud.

Your stomach twisted. “Doing what?”

“This!” He gestured between the two of you, his voice louder now, raw with emotion. “The fighting, the tension, the constant feeling that no matter what I do, I’m letting you down.”

You flinched, because that wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t letting you down—he was shutting you out. Pushing you away, piece by piece, until you barely recognized the man standing in front of you.

And yet, despite it all, you still wanted to fight.

You needed to fight.

“Joe, you haven’t even tried—”

His laugh was hollow, sharp. “Tried? Are you kidding me?” He shook his head, running a frustrated hand down his face. “I have been trying for months. Trying to be what you need, trying to hold this shit together while I feel like I’m losing everything.”

Your throat tightened. “I never asked you to hold it together alone.”

He looked at you then, and the pain in his eyes nearly brought you to your knees.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “And that’s the worst fucking part.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, you saw it—the breaking point. The moment where all the fights, all the silences, all the nights spent lying in the same bed but feeling miles apart had led to.

This was it.

You swallowed, hard. “Joe… don’t do this.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how to be what you need anymore.”

“I don’t need you to be anything—I just need you to try,” you choked out, hot tears spilling over your cheeks.

“I am trying!” His voice cracked, his hands gripping his hair like he was barely holding himself together. “But I’m not enough for you! And I don’t think I ever will be!”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Your breath hitched, and for a second, everything blurred—your vision, your thoughts, reality itself. Because how could he say that? How could he look at you, after everything, and think he wasn’t enough?

He had always been enough.

He had been everything.

Your chest heaved, your heart splintering, but you forced yourself to take a step forward, reaching for him like you had so many times before.

But this time, Joe stepped back.

Like touching you would break him completely.

Like it already had.

A sob ripped through your throat. “Joe, please—”

His eyes were glassy now, his own tears threatening to fall. But his face was set, his hands shaking at his sides.

“This isn’t working anymore.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through you like a blade.

And just like that, the world tilted.

You had imagined a lot of worst-case scenarios over the past few months—imagined nights where he would sleep on the couch, imagined him needing time apart, even imagined him telling you he wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

But this?

This was never supposed to happen.

He was supposed to fight.

He was supposed to love you enough to stay.

But instead, Joe exhaled shakily, like this was killing him too, and took another step back.

Like he had already made his decision.

Like he was already gone.

And then, through the unbearable tightness in your throat, through the tears blurring your vision, you said the only thing you could.

“What about everything you promised me?”

His face broke. Just for a second.

And then, softer than you’d ever heard him, he whispered, “I meant every word.”

And still, he turned away. Still, he walked to the door, grabbed his keys, and hesitated for only a second before pulling it open.

And you stood there, frozen in time, watching as the love of your life—the boy who once promised you forever under Louisiana stars—walked out of your life like he had never meant to stay.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was deafening.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Your legs gave out before you even realized you were falling. You collapsed onto the couch, hands clutching your chest as if that would somehow stop the pain, as if pressing hard enough could keep your heart from shattering.

But it did.

Piece by piece. And Joe?

Joe was gone.

Joe wasn’t sure when it started.

The feeling had been creeping up on him for months—slow at first, like a whisper in the back of his mind, something he could ignore if he kept moving, if he kept winning.

But then he got hurt.

And suddenly, there was nowhere to run.

No game to prepare for, no film to study, no Sunday nights under the lights where he could lose himself in the only thing that had ever made him feel like enough.

He had always known you were out of his league. Everyone did.

You were a force—bright and untouchable, the kind of woman who could walk into a room and have everyone wrapped around your finger without even trying. You were loved in ways Joe had never been. Not because of what you did, not because of your talent or your career, but just because of who you were.

And Joe?

Joe was… Joe.

He had worked for everything. Clawed his way to the top, gritted his teeth through every setback, played with a chip on his shoulder so sharp it could cut. He had spent his entire life proving people wrong, showing them he was worth it, and still, sometimes it felt like it wasn’t enough.

But not with you. At least, not at first.

At first, you had looked at him like he was someone special—not because of football, not because he was Joe Burrow, but because he was yours. And for a while, that had been enough.

But then the marriage thing came up.

Then the quiet expectation that he was supposed to take the next step, that he was supposed to be ready.

And fuck, he wanted to be.

He wanted to put a ring on your finger, wanted to build a life with you, wanted to buy you the house you dreamed about and fill it with all the stupid cats he promised you back at LSU.

But the more you pushed, the more it felt like he was already failing.

You deserved the world, and he—he wasn’t sure he knew how to give it to you. You had grown up with love. Joe had grown up with pressure.

Your family adored you, your friends would kill for you, strangers on the internet called you an angel, and the worst part? They were right.

You were perfect. You were kind, and patient, and you gave so much of yourself without ever asking for anything in return—until, eventually, you did.

Until you started looking at him like you needed something more.

And maybe that’s when it started.

The resentment. The guilt.

The way he began shutting down because every time he looked at you, he saw someone who had given him everything, and all he could do was hold it in his hands and wonder when he was going to drop it.

So he pulled away.

And then he got injured. And then it got worse.

Because for the first time in his life, Joe had nothing to offer.

Football was gone. He was stuck on the sidelines, watching his teammates play without him, watching the world move forward while he stood still. And every time he came home, there you were—beautiful and untouchable and looking at him with so much love, and God, it made him want to rip his fucking hair out.

Because you weren’t supposed to love him like that.

Not when he was like this. Not when he felt like nothing.

And so, he made himself nothing to you.

He let the silence stretch between you, let the fights spiral into something he couldn’t control, let the guilt eat him alive until the only option left was to let you go.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he didn’t love you.

But because he loved you too much to keep being a disappointment.

Because you were everything. And he was just him.

Joe barely remembered the drive to Ja’Marr’s house.

The roads were dark and wet from rain, the city quiet in the way it only got after midnight, and yet everything inside him was loud. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles were white, and his breath came in short, uneven bursts, like his body was still trying to catch up to what had just happened.

He had left.

He had actually left.

The second Ja’Marr opened the door, his easygoing expression dropped. “Shit.”

Joe must have looked as bad as he felt.

Ja’Marr didn’t ask questions, didn’t crack a joke or act like this was nothing. He just stepped aside, letting Joe in without a word.

Joe walked past him, straight to the couch, sinking down like his body couldn’t hold him up anymore. His hands were still shaking. He stared at them, trying to steady his breath, but the more he tried to push it down, the worse it got.

He felt like he was imploding.

Ja’Marr sat across from him, elbows on his knees. “You good?”

Joe huffed out something that was supposed to be a laugh but came out broken.

“No,” he admitted.

And then, just like that, the weight of it all came crashing down.

He broke.

For the first time in years, maybe ever, Joe let himself feel it.

His shoulders caved, his head fell into his hands, and before he could stop himself, a sob tore through his chest. It wasn’t quiet, wasn’t controlled—it was raw, guttural, the kind of grief that sat heavy in his ribcage and made him feel like he was drowning.

Ja’Marr swore under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Damn, man.”

Joe couldn’t respond. He could barely breathe.

Because he had spent so long trying to convince himself this was the right thing—that letting you go was necessary, that it was better for you, that one day you’d understand—but now, sitting on his best friend’s couch, in a house that wasn’t his, without you, it hit him.

You weren’t in the next room.

You weren’t waiting for him to come back.

You weren’t his anymore.

And for the first time since he met you, since you were just a girl in his corner, since he was just a college quarterback with a dream—he was alone.

—

The house was silent.

The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but hollow.

You stood in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, staring at the front door as if it would swing open at any second, as if Joe would walk back in, apologize, say he didn’t mean it.

But the house stayed empty.

You should’ve done something—gone to bed, taken a shower, moved—but you couldn’t.

Your body felt detached, like you were floating just outside of yourself, watching as the reality of what had happened settled into your bones.

He was gone.

You sucked in a shaky breath, your eyes darting around the room, landing on all the pieces of him he had left behind. His hoodie draped over the back of the couch. His sneakers kicked off near the door. The blanket you always fought over, still crumpled where he had last used it.

Your throat tightened.

It felt wrong.

How was it possible that someone could just leave, and yet everything still looked the same? How was it possible that the world hadn’t just stopped?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulling it into your chest, clutching it so tightly your fingers ached. It still smelled like him—like his cologne, like home, like everything you were supposed to have forever.

A sharp, broken sob tore through you.

Your legs gave out.

You sank onto the floor, your body curling in on itself, gasping for air between sobs that didn’t seem to end.

You had imagined a million worst-case scenarios for your relationship, but you had never imagined this.

A fight, maybe. A bad one.

A few nights apart, maybe even a week.

But not this.

Not a house that suddenly felt too big, too cold, too wrong without him in it.

Not a silence that felt like it would swallow you whole.

Not an ending that you weren’t ready for.

Not Joe—your Joe—leaving, and not coming back.

Joe didn’t tell his parents right away.

He had gone weeks pretending it wasn’t real, pushing it down, acting like if he ignored it long enough, it wouldn’t hurt. Like the breakup was just another fight, another rough patch, and any second now, you’d come home.

But then spring rolled around, and he found himself back in Athens for a few days, sitting at his parents’ kitchen table, pushing food around his plate while his mom chatted about some wedding she had gone to.

He barely heard her—until she said your name.

“I just know she’ll look so beautiful at her own wedding one day,” Robin said, smiling like the thought made her happy. “Did she ever decide on a dress style? I remember she showed me a few options the last time we talked.”

Joe’s fork clattered against the plate.

His parents looked up.

The room suddenly felt too small. The walls too close. The weight in his chest unbearable.

“She’s not picking a dress,” he said flatly.

His mom’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

Joe exhaled sharply, staring at the table. His throat felt tight, his hands fisting in his lap. “We broke up.”

Silence.

Not the kind he was used to. Not the easy kind.

His dad was the first to speak. “When?”

“A while ago.” His voice was hoarse, his jaw tight.

Robin looked like he had just slapped her across the face. “Joe… what?”

She sounded hurt.

Like he had broken her heart, too.

“You didn’t tell us?”

Joe swallowed. “I didn’t know how.”

His mom was still frozen in shock. “But—why? What happened?”

Joe should have had an answer. He should have been able to give them some logical, concrete reason why the only real love he had ever known had just… ended.

But there wasn’t one. Not really.

So he just shook his head. “I wasn’t enough for her.”

His dad exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Joe—”

Robin’s eyes filled with tears, and that—that was what finally did it. That was the moment it hit him, the moment the denial shattered and left nothing but cold, brutal truth in its place.

You were gone.

Not just for a few days.

Not just waiting for him to fix it.

You were gone.

Joe scraped his chair back so suddenly it screeched against the floor.

“I gotta go,” he muttered, standing up, hands shaking.

“Joe—”

“I just—I gotta go.”

And then he was out the door, out of the house, into his car, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

His vision blurred. His chest caved in.

He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to hold it together.

It didn’t work.

That was the moment Joe decided he needed a distraction.

A new game plan. A new something—because if he let himself sit in this pain, if he let himself really feel it, it might consume him completely.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He threw himself into excess.

He spent money like it was nothing, like it was oxygen, like keeping the spending going would somehow fill the empty space inside of him. New cars, new watches, expensive nights out where the bill was triple what it needed to be. If someone wanted a round of shots? Joe was covering it. If his guys wanted to go to Miami for the weekend? No problem.

And the women.

That was the easiest distraction of all.

They were everywhere—at the clubs, at the restaurants, at the parties where he never used to go but suddenly needed to be. They touched him like they wanted him, smiled at him like he was the most important man in the room. And for a few hours at a time, he let them.

He let them run their hands over his chest, let them whisper in his ear, let them follow him back to hotel rooms or his new penthouse in the city.

He let them treat him like he was whole.

But then morning would come, and the illusion would shatter.

Every single time, he’d wake up next to someone who wasn’t you.

Someone whose perfume didn’t smell like yours. Someone whose touch didn’t feel like home. Someone who would roll over, press lazy kisses to his skin, and call him baby in a way that made his stomach twist.

Because you used to call him that.

And now you never would again.

It was supposed to feel good. It was supposed to be freeing, making up for lost time, for all the years he had spent as the devoted boyfriend, the one-woman man, the guy who turned down numbers and shut down flirting because he only wanted you.

But none of it worked.

None of it made him feel better.

Because at the end of the day, he was still Joe.

And you were still gone.

It took one of his teammates pulling him aside one night to finally say what he couldn’t.

“Bro,” Sam said, hand on Joe’s shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Joe blinked, pulling his attention away from whatever girl had been whispering in his ear at the bar. “What?”

Sam gave him a look. “You’re not this guy.”

Joe let out a sharp laugh. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Joe didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

But he wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

So he just exhaled, forced a smirk, and lifted his drink. “Don’t worry about me, man.”

But Sam was worried.

And deep down, Joe knew why.

Because no matter how many nights he spent surrounded by people, no matter how much money he threw at the problem, no matter how many women climbed into his bed—

The only thing he ever felt anymore was hollow.

The day you packed your bags and left Cincinnati, you didn’t cry.

You had done enough of that.

Your best friend had offered—begged, really—for you to come stay with her in Columbus, and after weeks of waking up in a house that no longer felt like a home, you finally said yes.

It wasn’t running away.

It was survival.

Joe had been your world for so long that, without him, you weren’t sure where to stand. Your entire adult life had revolved around him—his schedule, his dreams, his highs, his lows. You had built a life inside of his. And now, that life was gone.

So, for the first time in years, you weren’t trying to be somebody’s something. You weren’t trying to be the perfect girlfriend, the supportive WAG, the woman who held it all together.

You were just trying to be you.

Whoever that was.

—

Columbus was different.

It wasn’t Cincinnati, where every street corner reminded you of Joe. Where the grocery store held memories of early-morning runs before his games. Where your favorite restaurant was the place he took you after he signed his first big contract. Where you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a billboard with his face plastered on it, a cruel reminder that he was still Joe Burrow, still untouchable, still larger than life—just not yours anymore.

Columbus was quiet. A fresh start.

Your best friend had a cozy apartment near downtown, and the first night you arrived, she didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She just ordered takeout, opened a bottle of wine, and let you sit in silence.

That first week, you didn’t do much.

You slept too much, or not at all. Some nights, you laid awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Joe was doing the same. Other nights, exhaustion won, and you crashed so hard you barely dreamed.

The dreams were the worst.

Because in them, he was still yours.

You still woke up to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, still felt the weight of his arm draped over your waist, still heard his voice murmuring morning, baby in that slow, sleep-rough tone he always had.

But then morning would come, and none of it was real.

So, you started over.

You got a cat.

It wasn’t planned—you had just gone to the shelter one afternoon, thinking you’d look, thinking maybe it would distract you for a few minutes. But then you saw her.

Small. A little scrappy. White with a black spot over her eye, looking at you like she had already decided you belonged to her.

The name came easily.

“Larry,” you told the adoption worker, lips twitching into something like a smile. “Her name is Larry.”

Joe would’ve laughed at that.

Joe would’ve—

No.

This wasn’t about Joe.

Larry was yours.

So you took her home, bought her the stupidest, most ridiculous toys you could find, and let her curl up on your chest at night, purring so loudly it drowned out the silence.

You learned how to French braid.

You had never bothered before—your hair had always been something he liked, something he ran his fingers through when he was half-asleep on the couch. But now? Now, you spent hours watching tutorials, standing in front of the mirror, fingers twisting and looping until, finally, you got it right.

It was small, stupid even. But it was something just for you.

You started reading.

At first, it was just a way to pass the time—something to do instead of scrolling through Instagram, instead of wondering what he was doing. But then you fell into it, deep. You found yourself curled up on the couch for hours, lost in stories, letting yourself escape into other people’s lives.

Romance novels were hard at first. Because love still felt like a wound, like something sharp and raw and too close to home.

But one day, months after the breakup, you found yourself reading a love story and not feeling like your chest was caving in.

That was progress.

You cooked for yourself.

You had always cooked for Joe—his favorites, his comfort foods, the meals he requested after long practices. But now, you cooked what you wanted. You tried new recipes, bought ingredients you had never used before, made dishes with no one else’s preferences in mind.

It was weird, at first.

But then, one night, you sat at the table, eating something just for you, and it didn’t feel lonely.

It felt… peaceful.

You went on long walks, alone, with no one to check in with. You bought flowers for yourself. You started journaling, writing down things you had never let yourself think too hard about.

You let yourself exist.

And one day—on a random, unremarkable afternoon—you realized something. It had been weeks since you last thought of him.

Not that he was gone.

Not that it didn’t still hurt, sometimes, in quiet moments when you weren’t expecting it.

But for the first time, in a long, long time—

You felt like you. Without him.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joey burrow #nfl imagine #joey b #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow bengals #jb9 #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow imagine #joe shiesty #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow x you

613 notes · View notes

thebarneschronicles · 1 day ago

Text

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit.

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.”

—

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader smut #bucky fanfic #sebastian stan

629 notes · View notes