#he just wants someone to fucking play with and laugh with and FEEL FUCKING WARM WITH

[formulafanfics13]

Thoughts:

Lando with extremely famous dance choreographer who is friends with Lewis. They meet at a race and it’s love at first sight for Lando with him aggressively flirting and she plays cold and hard to get. Before revealing at the end of the night shes into him too and smut ensues.

Rhythm - LN4 🔥

Masterlist

summary: he spots her in the paddock like a comet — sleek sunglasses, sharp nails, skin that glows, and an aura of untouchable power. the world's most in-demand choreographer, lewis hamilton's best friend, and the one woman lando norris knows will never give him the time of day. but he can't stop. he flirts. he grins. he tries everything. she stays ice-cold all night... until she doesn't.

warnings: dom-ish reader energy, softsub!lando vibes, public teasing, aggressive flirting, high status reader, power dynamic tension, smut, unprotected sex, praise kink, fingering, explicit language

She walks into the paddock like she owns it. And maybe she does.

The cameras don't swarm her, not yet. But the glances? Immediate. Drivers nudge each other. Engineers pause mid-step. Someone mutters something in Italian. Lando turns his head and sees her. Black sunglasses. Hair slicked back like sin. A ribbed tank top that clings just enough, paired with trousers that do nothing to hide how absurdly good she looks. He doesn't even clock the name until he hears someone whisper it near him.

World-renowned choreographer. Creative director to the stars. Viral tour mastermind. Lewis Hamilton's best friend. And suddenly, she's walking right toward them. "You're Lando, right?"

He grins. "Only on weekdays."

She doesn't laugh. Just lowers her sunglasses a fraction and raises a brow. "Bold."

"Gotta be," he shoots back. "Can't let the grid think I'm soft."

Her lips twitch, just barely. "You do look soft, though."

"Ouch."

She steps closer. "But in a good way."

He's already bricked up. He doesn't leave her alone all night.

At the post-qualifying party, she's talking to Lewis, some PR reps, and Anna Wintour, Anna fucking Wintour, and Lando's still hovering. Offering drinks. Making her laugh once every third joke. Trying not to seem too eager and failing completely.

"Persistent," she says around 10 p.m., sipping something pink and cruel.

"You make it hard not to be."

"You always this obvious?"

He smirks. "You always this impossible?"

Her grin is feline. She leans in, not close enough to kiss, just close enough to burn, and whispers, "I don't give it up to just anyone who can turn a wheel, baby."

Lando's jaw tightens. "Good thing I don't fuck like just anyone."

She walks away with a smirk. He nearly follows her into the fucking wall. 

It's close to midnight when he finally gives up. Slouches back against the bar, frustrated and aching. Watches her laugh at something Lewis says. Watches her mouth wrap around a cherry stem and tie it in a knot.

And then, she turns. Walks to him. Grabs his wrist. And leans up to whisper, "Room 917. Five minutes. Don't be late."

He's breathless when he knocks. She opens the door in nothing but a robe and a smirk.

"Took you six," she says.

"I nearly ran."

She pulls him in by the collar and kisses him like she's had enough of pretending. The bed is soft, the lighting low, and Lando is panting under her like a man coming undone.

"You're gonna ride me, aren't you?" he gasps, hands on her thighs, watching her hover above his cock like a fucking goddess.

She hums. "Is that a problem?"

He shakes his head, frantic. "No. God, no. Please."

She lowers herself slow. Watches his head tilt back. Watches his mouth drop open.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans. "Warm- shit- you feel so good-"

She sets a rhythm that makes him moan with every thrust. "You wanted this all night," she murmurs, leaning down to press her lips to his jaw. "And now you're whining already?"

Lando's eyes roll back. "I can't help it- fuck- you're perfect-"

She rides him harder. Watches his hands clutch the sheets. Watches him unravel. "You gonna cum, sweetheart?" she purrs. "Gonna fill me up like a good boy?"

He's babbling. Nodding. "Yes-yes, please- god, please- "

"Beg for it."

"Please, fuck- let me cum- need to cum inside you- please, I've never wanted anything more, please-"

She moans at the desperation in his voice. Grinds down, hard, and he cums so deep, so hard, he's shaking under her. She keeps riding. Slow now. Cruel. Making sure he feels it.

"Next time," she whispers, kissing his temple, "don't underestimate how into you I really am."

Lando's still gasping, wrecked and full of awe. "I think I'm in love with you," he blurts.

She just smiles. "I know."

[heesmiles]

I’ve been looking forward to reading one of Yun’s fics for a while now and i had some time tonight to read so i thought why not choose this one!! It intrigued me and ofc it’s beomgyu so here we gooooo!

Beomgyu tried to play it off—he really did. He kept up his flawless cocky attitude with his friends and strangers alike. He laughed too loud, flirted shamelessly, tossed casual remarks like he hadn’t just been wrecked in a way he never saw coming. - typical gyu

Because every time he licked his lips, he swore he could still taste you.- EHEHE GIGGILING stopppp

Because right in the middle of it all, you stood with your flawless stance of a shooter, arm extended, trigger steady. Your aura alone was completely indecipherable, just like last night. He was sure if he got closer, your expression would be too. - hot af tbh i’m living for this

"So," he drawled as he took position in the station next to you, tone light like he wasn’t trying to crawl under your skin and twist, "was last night just an experiment? Or were you trying to teach me a lesson?" - THID BANTER PLS HES SO HOT

i’m loving the way reader has bite, she’s not taking any shit from beomgyu and she’s bantering right back. Beomgyu is so fucking hot but reader is MATCHING HIS ENERGY and i’m living for that. she’s not some weak little mouse for him to push around and play with. No, she’s got just as much fight in her and i think the match is one made in heaven for sure.

Your head tilted, eyes glinting with quiet satisfaction as you turned to face him fully, your expression unreadable except for the faint uptick of one brow. “I do enjoy a challenge.” - SEE WHAT I MEAN. she’s such a badass god i love it

“You talk big,” he murmured, voice dipping just enough to send a slow, curling heat through your stomach. “Wonder if you’ll hold up when the tables turn.” - and i’m betting she will

The other two snorted, and even the manager laughed. Your gaze flickered toward Beomgyu. The light from the window caught in his hair. The soft glow making him look almost golden. Ror a moment, you wondered how could someone so insufferable also be so… maddeningly charming? - the absolute best way to describe him for real

Then there were the fleeting touches. Fingers that brushed against each other as you reached for the same silver tray. A fleeting press of his foot beneath the table, one that made contact and then vanished as if it had never been there. When you finally rose from your seat to excuse yourself, murmuring something inconsequential about fresh air, Beomgyu leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against his glass, eyes never once leaving your disappearing body in the crowd. - THE YEARN I FEEL PLS THE YEARN.

Even now, the image returned too vividly. It stirred something warm and unwelcoming in your chest, creeping lower to your stomach. You exhaled sharply, as if the motion alone could dispel the feeling, almost scoffing at yourself. You wiped your hands clean and tossed the paper towel into the bin without looking. - JUST TOUCH EACHOTHER ALREADY

"Caught you," he murmured. - ok…yeah, um yeah ….

“Satisfy me.” - FUIIFXUIYTDUUOOBCDEYY. i’m nonchalant

Beomgyu was a pretty man - well yes

“How else do you want me to look at you?” he murmured, voice raw, almost pleading. “Because I don’t know how to look at you any other way.” - oh i’m on my knees. you got me

Beomgyu gaped at you. For a heartbeat, he looked as though you had spoken a foreign language, and he was trying to translate the meaning behind every syllable. He barely restrained the smile that followed. You saw the way he bit down on it, the way the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself. - he’s so cute i need him so bad.

Stop, i loved this omfg. like i mentioned before i love the way the reader bit back. even in the smut she wasn’t letting beomgyu have complete control it was like a game of cat and mouse except there was no mouse and they’re were both cat’s hissing and bitting at eachother. It was hot, and intense and god i loved it omggg.

give me 10 of them thank you!

Just a Game? || Choi Beomgyu

Beomgyu wasn’t one to be caught off guard, wasn’t one to lose control of the game.

But you? You’d rewritten the rules entirely.

Choi Beomgyu x afab!reader

⊹₊⟡⋆ 11k

[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, kissing [lots of it lol], sexual tension, enemies/rivals to lovers type shit, slight body worship, kinda switch!beomgyu, kinda switch!reader, oral (fem receiving), fingering, multiple sex positions, unprotected sex (not huzzah!), pull out method [probably missed some]

RE-WRITTEN VERSION. This is a continuation of Beomgyu's part from my Seven Minutes In Heaven fic! So I suggest reading it for better understanding of some of the context of this fic. A BIIIIIIIIIIIG THANK YOU TO THE LOML @dawngyu for beta reading this fic and also hyping me up through over 40 comments <3 Reblogging/feedbacks will be much appreciated!

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

The moment you walked out of that closet, you disappeared like smoke.

Beomgyu spent the next ten minutes searching for you. He wove through the party, scanning every corner, every group of people, every possible place you would have slipped away to. But you were gone. Completely vanished into the crowd, leaving him restless, his pulse still erratic from what had just happened.

Beomgyu tried to play it off—he really did. He kept up his flawless cocky attitude with his friends and strangers alike. He laughed too loud, flirted shamelessly, tossed casual remarks like he hadn’t just been wrecked in a way he never saw coming.

But he was failing miserably.

Because every time he licked his lips, he swore he could still taste you.

And every time he closed his eyes, he could still feel the way your fingers had tangled in his hair, the way your lips had moved against his—languidly yet so achingly dominating, so different from anything he’d ever experienced before.

Then what did you do? You’d left him in there, standing like an idiot, and he hated—no, loathed—that you’d managed to slip away before he could say or do anything.

Despite his tremendous effort trying to act normal, anyone paying attention would’ve noticed how his gaze flickered to the door every few minutes. How his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh. How the phantom feeling of your lips against his refused to leave him alone, haunting him like a ghost. His mind replayed it in loops like a broken cassette player, and he kept dissociating more than once throughout the rest of the night. All he could think of was the way you had pushed him, the way your mouth had claimed his, the way you had left him breathless and pathetically undone.

Beomgyu wasn’t one to be caught off guard, wasn’t one to lose control of the game.

But you? You’d rewritten the rules entirely.

It wasn’t until the next day at practice that he saw you again.

The scent of gunpowder greeted him the moment he stepped into the arena. Muffled voices murmured from the observation area, barely audible beneath the rhythmic crack of gunfire. Targets flipped back and forth, fresh paper replacing the perforated ones, scores lighting up on the monitors. Beomgyu couldn't give a damn about all that today.

Because right in the middle of it all, you stood with your flawless stance of a shooter, arm extended, trigger steady. Your aura alone was completely indecipherable, just like last night. He was sure if he got closer, your expression would be too.

Beomgyu exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw ticking with the effort to keep his composure. There was no universe where he was letting this go. Not after the way you had walked out of that closet like you hadn’t just scrambled his entire nervous system with a kiss that still burned behind his eyes.

He took his time to close the space between you. He knew you felt him and it filled him with a twisted kind of thrill. You were giving him exactly what he wanted; he wanted you to sense him approaching before he even spoke, even if you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around.

"Didn’t know ghosts practiced here," he said, voice pitched just above the noise of the shooting range.

You didn’t so much as even pretend to acknowledge him beyond the next squeeze of your trigger. "Didn’t know sore losers did either."

His lips curled. There it was—that fire, that grit, that spark you always threw back at him like a glove to the face. He lived for this. For you. For the way you gave as good as you got. He craved that bite from you like a shameless man.

"So," he drawled as he took position in the station next to you, tone light like he wasn’t trying to crawl under your skin and twist, "was last night just an experiment? Or were you trying to teach me a lesson?"

You finally turned to face him, expression perfectly composed, except for the ghost of a smirk at the corner of your lips. “Does it matter?”

It mattered more than he could say without ruining the game. 

Oh, you enjoyed this. It drove him insane. He wanted to wipe that smirk off your lips—wanted to see just how far he had to push before you cracked.

Beomgyu clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Let’s make a bet.”

He lifted his pistol, the barrel pointing straight at the target ahead. From his peripheral he could see the slight tilt of your head as if you couldn’t catch up to his implications. Seriously, you knew how to drive him insane, didn’t you? Was it on purpose to piss him off or not, Beomgyu unfortunately could never decipher you.

You turned back to face your own lane. “I don’t take bets I can’t win.”

“That’s funny,” he shot back, tilting his head, “neither do I.”

Your fingers flexed around your gun. The challenge was bait, and you’d both taken it before. He knew you wouldn't resist. Not when there was a challenge in front of you. Especially not when it was him offering it.

“Alright,” you said finally, shifting your grip. “What’s at stake?”

He stepped in, closer now, until he was just inside your periphery. "If I win," he said, his voice dipping low, almost coaxing, "you owe me a redo."

The slightest hitch of your breath and Beomgyu swore he caught it. He saw the way your lips parted slightly, the way your shoulders tensed for a split second before you masked it just as quickly, expression back to obscure.

“And if I win?” You shot back coolly.

Beomgyu leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, just enough to set your pulse alight. “Then I’ll do whatever you want.”

Your eyes locked onto his. You’ll let him have his fun. The corners of your mouth twitched before you nodded lazily. “Deal.”

Beomgyu's smirk deepened, pulling tight across his face, brimming with anticipation. His fingers curled around his pistol, knuckles flexing as he straightened to his full height. "Try to keep up, then."

The crack of his first shot split the air. It took you a heartbeat to answer. Sly bastard didn’t even bother to give a head start. Shot for shot, neither of you faltering. Beomgyu heard the murmurs of onlookers, the suffocating tension as the scoreboard lit up after each round. The room may as well have disappeared—it was just you and him, locked in a battle of ego and thirst for control.

“You’re good,” Beomgyu admitted, lining up his next shot. “But not that good.”

You barely blinked as you fired again, your bullet slicing through dead center. “You sure about that?”

His eyes flicked to the scoreboard. His jaw clenched. The scores were neck and neck and neither of you were willing to give ground. Heat prickled down his spine, each round sharpening the tension until it coiled in his chest like a loaded spring. He adjusted his grip, rolled his shoulders, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, and inhaled through flared nostrils. 

You were good. No—you were better than good. Worse was that you were absolutely certain of it.

Final round.

Beomgyu inhaled slowly, steadying himself. His shot landed just shy of the perfect mark. He exhaled through his nose, rolling his wrists. One last chance for you to slip up.

You took your shot right after he did.

Bullseye.

The scoreboard flashed. Your score eclipsed his.

Beomgyu’s grin faltered for just a second before he let out a slow chuckle, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his long hair, pushed it back as he looked at you. "Well, damn."

You turned toward him, your smirk a mirror of the one he’d worn earlier, only more taunting. "Guess I won."

His gaze raked over your face, trying and failing to school the chaos flickering behind his eyes. There was heat there, and frustration, along with admiration that twisted low in his stomach. He swallowed it all with another shake of his head. "Guess you did."

You stepped in close, voice dropping just enough to make his stomach tighten. “Looks like you owe me now.”

With that you turned away, leaving him behind with the echoes of the match still ringing in his ears. He stayed there, gun slack in his grip, breath caught between a laugh and a curse, staring after you like he was utterly at your mercy.

He let out a breathless laugh, hands settling on his hips. His heart was still pounding. His pride was bruised. And his grin—God, his grin stretched wide now, teeth flashing as he watched you disappear behind the doors of the arena.

He was so, so screwed.

And he wanted nothing more than to chase you down and lose again.

The locker room was nearly silent, save for the occasional rustling of curtains and the distant mechanical hum of ventilation overhead. You were alone, until the door creaked open behind you slowly, the sound dragging like a fingernail against concrete.

“You really think you can just walk away after that?”

His voice licked a ripple down your spine. You didn’t turn to face him. Instead, you adjusted the strap of your bag, letting the silence stretch just a second longer before responding.

“You seemed fine last night,” you remarked, tone as cool as ever. Since you’ve already had the upper hand from winning the match, why shouldn’t you twist the knife a little deeper? “Figured you moved on.”

Beomgyu scoffed, the sound punctuated by the definitive click of the door closing behind him. “Not even close.”

Your lips curled slightly. “That’s a shame.”

Beomgyu stayed where he was. His gaze burned with a fire so intense that it engulfed the space between you before he even reached you. It didn’t matter if he was a few paces away—he was already in your orbit, drawing you in whether you wanted it or not.

“You really don’t care, do you?”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Should I?”

Oh, you were enjoying this.

He could see it now—the nasty flicker of amusement in your eyes when you finally glanced over your shoulder. You weren’t avoiding him.  You were waiting to see what he’d do next.

Beomgyu let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You caught me off guard,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I’ll give you that.”

Your head tilted, eyes glinting with quiet satisfaction as you turned to face him fully, your expression unreadable except for the faint uptick of one brow. “I do enjoy a challenge.”

His gaze darkened. He took another step, the last bit of distance between you almost closing. “Then you won’t mind when I return the favor.”

You had no time to react. With a single long stride Beomgyu caged you between him and the locker. The cool metal of the lockers pressed against your back, the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint trace of sweat from practice invaded your lungs like smoke from a fire you’d set yourself.

His hand came up, fingers splayed against the locker beside your head. He wasn’t even touching you but you felt his body heat radiating in yours easily through this silver of distance. His other hand rested on his hip, posture casual, but his eyes darkened and locked onto yours told a different story.

“You talk big,” he murmured, voice dipping just enough to send a slow, curling heat through your stomach. “Wonder if you’ll hold up when the tables turn.”

Your smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened by the adrenaline now beginning to burn beneath your skin. “That depends,” you mused. “Are you actually going to do something this time, or are we playing the same game again?”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment he seemed to chew on the edge of his irritation, a wry expression tugging at the corner of his mouth as his tongue poked the inside of his cheek. It was almost as if he dared you to cross a line while making it clear he’d already redrawn it.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You merely shrugged in response, refusing to look away. Neither of you were yielding. The eye contact between you was a challenge all its own—steel against steel, neither one of you willing to be the first to look away. The tension was hot and volatile, ready to combust any moment.

Your smirk however threatened to falter when he lifted his fingers, his knuckle grazing the edge of your jaw. It wasn't even a proper skin to skin contact, but enough to make you crave for his touch.

“What you did.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, meant just for you. His gaze drifted, almost dazed, like he was following a phantom memory. “Did you enjoy it?”

Your pulse leapt, but your face remained impassive. “Enjoy what?”

Beomgyu clicked his tongue, tilting his head like he was debating his next move. He dragged his knuckle just a fraction lower, tracing the column of your neck, his gaze locked onto yours. There were goosebumps on your skin.

“You know what,” he said simply.

The memory of your last encounter flickered between you like a live wire.

You could taste the sweetness of his mouth whenever you closed your eyes. The sounds that escaped him when you touched him. His dumbfounded, dazed face when you pulled away just before he could regain control.

Your eyes dropped to his lips. He was biting the lower one again, smiling that smug, ruined smile. And when your gaze snapped back to his, it was already too late to pretend otherwise. You could easily take advantage of this distance and grab him by the collar. You could easily crash your lips against his again, taste him again, drink him in to quench your dry throat now.

But the faint sound of voices echoed from the hallway outside snapped you out of your trance.

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, as he stepped back at the last possible second, his frustration evident in the slow drag of his tongue across his lower lip. You wanted to do that for him, drag your tongue over them and over every inch inside his mouth until nothing of him would be left unexplored.

His gaze swept over you one last time, orbs dark with something illegible in them. You were sure your gaze matched his intensity too.Then, with a low chuckle, he turned and walked away, tossing his voice over his shoulder like a loaded promise.

“Guess we’ll have to continue this later.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you there against the lockers, heart pounding like a fist against bone.

Damn him.

Because this time, he knew he’d gotten to you.

It had been a week. A full week since you’d left him standing in that dark closet. You hadn’t expected the moment to shake him so much. It was just a game, right? A well-placed tease. But something in the way Beomgyu had looked at you, wide-eyed and speechless, made you realize you’d done more than just fluster him.

You’d challenged him.

He wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge.

He played his part pretty well. Most of the time around people, he was the same as always; loud and testing, pushing your buttons whenever he could. During lunch hours he showed up at your table and stole your fries, still challenged you to one-on-one matches during practise, and still threw his arm around your shoulders in front of your friends as if you were just a friendly rival to him.

But you knew better.

It was in the way his eyes lingered on you a little too long. The way his hand accidentally left a touch on your skin before pulling away during every conversation. The way his voice dipped just a little lower when he said your name.

Choi Beomgyu was waiting.

And, maybe—just maybe—you found that endearing.

"Alright, guys!"

The warm voice of your team manager drew your attention. You, Beomgyu, and two other elite shooters from your club sat around the table of the meeting room.

He set down four sleek black envelopes in the center. "I have exciting news!" His eyes glimmered with enthusiasm as he slid the envelopes toward the group. "You four have been invited to a high-profile dinner event. It’s an exclusive gathering for the top shooters in the country! Big names, big opportunities."

Your fingers brushed the cool envelope as you picked it up, reading the elegant gold lettering embossed on the front. The bubble of excitement was beginning to form in your chest. It was indeed a big opportunity.

"It’s a formal thing, of course, so be on your best behavior. Not that I’m worried." He chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re all professionals. Just go, enjoy yourselves, and make a good impression."

Beomgyu hummed beside you, tapping the edge of his invitation against the table. "A fancy dinner, huh? You think they’ll have steak?"

The other two snorted, and even the manager laughed. Your gaze flickered toward Beomgyu. The light from the window caught in his hair. The soft glow making him look almost golden. Ror a moment, you wondered how could someone so insufferable also be so… maddeningly charming?

You shook the thought away before it could settle.

Beomgyu, on the other hand, turned to you with that knowing grin. While the rest got engaged in a conversation, he leaned toward you. "What do you say? Think you can handle a night of keeping your hands off me?" he lowered his voice just enough for you to only hear.

You sighed, slipping the envelope into your bag. "I don’t think that’s the real question here."

Beomgyu only laughed, standing up and stretching his arms above his head lazily. But when he turned to leave, he tossed one last glance at you over his shoulder. One that lingered just a second too long, before his eyes narrowed.

Game on.

The evening of the event was the epitome of sophistication. Golden chandeliers dangled from the vaulted ceiling, their light pouring down in syrupy amber hues that bathed the grand ballroom in a warm, resplendent glow. The murmur of polite conversation blended around seamlessly with the delicate notes of a live string quartet. A high-profile dinner for elite shooters, a gathering of class and discipline, where everyone carried themselves with courtesy.

You and Beomgyu were no exception.

From the moment you arrived, you slipped flawlessly into the roles expected of you. You exchanged nothing more than formal nods, casual acknowledgments and comments in passing. To the outside world, you were simply two competitors; colleagues bound by skill and reputation, neither particularly concerned with the other beyond professional courtesy.

There was no reason to assume there was anything beyond that. And yet, every glance, every sidelong look, every well thought out brush of proximity was executed with the care of a sniper setting their sights.

At the dinner table, you sat across from each other; engaged in separate conversations with your tablemates. Not once did your gazes lock for too long; never more than a passing glance, never more than coincidence. But you didn’t miss it when his eyes stuck to you when you lifted your wine glass, the minute tug at the corner of his lips when your sharp tongue laced through a particularly bland comment made by someone beside you.

Then there were the fleeting touches. Fingers that brushed against each other as you reached for the same silver tray. A fleeting press of his foot beneath the table, one that made contact and then vanished as if it had never been there. When you finally rose from your seat to excuse yourself, murmuring something inconsequential about fresh air, Beomgyu leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against his glass, eyes never once leaving your disappearing body in the crowd.

Not once did either of you slip. No one suspected a thing.

The dinner transitioned into an afterparty. It was a more relaxed affair, where the guests mingled freely, laughter breaking through the previously restrained atmosphere. People gathered in small clusters, drinks in hand, the tension of formalities dissolving into lighthearted chatters among peer groups and acquaintances.

You saw Beomgyu before he saw you. He was by the bar, speaking with a few others, one hand in his pocket. But you could tell his attention was elsewhere.

He was searching for you.

A slow smile tugged at your lips as you made your move, slipping between guests, weaving through the crowd. You took your time doing so and didn’t so much as glance back. Just like before—just like that night in the closet—you vanished before he could catch you.

Only this time, Beomgyu wasn’t about to let it slide.

The moment he realized you were gone, his jaw twitched.  His drink was long forgotten on the counter. He was on his feet, already moving in between the guests.

Enough of this.

He wasn’t going to lose sight of you again. It had always been like this. It always felt like you were one step ahead of him. What sort of satisfaction did you get from playing with him like this? You were being so cruel, yet Beomgyu desperately craved this.

The truth was, you’d always driven him insane.

From the moment you stepped into the club a year ago, he hadn’t been able to look away. Not because of the way you looked, though that had certainly caught his eye—a composed figure standing tall among the newest recruits. No, it was the control. Back then, he had only looked, only watched. Maybe he hadn’t realized it at first—how his gaze always found you, how your name always stayed somewhere in the back of his mind but it had been there. It was really simply curiosity at best in the beginning.

And then, you weren’t just a presence. You became a contender.

You started rising through the ranks. One by one you surpassed the ones he thought wore the crown with a relentless determination that awed him, that thrilled him. You chased mastery like it owed you something. You always made sure to challenge your own limit, always making yourself your biggest opponent.

But what drove him insane was that you weren’t just good. You were the one who became untouchable.

And now, tonight, you were testing him again. Always pulling just out of reach like you were always one step ahead. It was as if the world moved at your pace, like you were always in control. Even now, as you slipped away into the crowd, it wasn’t in retreat.

Beomgyu had no intention of letting this become a pattern.

His pace quickened as he pushed through the guests, his eyes sweeping corners and alcoves and literally everywhere. He was going to make sure he matched your pace. He wanted to shatter your unbreakable image.

He wasn’t going to let you win.

You slipped away meticulously, the soft chime of the elevator signaling your quiet escape. You stepped out as the doors opened on the eighth floor. It was where the suites were reserved for the elites. The sound of your high-heeled boots clicking against the polished marble echoed in the empty corridor. The only other presence there was a lone floor butler who passed you whom you acknowledged with a polite nod before making your way to the restroom.

Inside the restroom, beneath the low glow of the wall scones, you looked at the woman staring back at you. You took a moment to really look at yourself. The evening had demanded your best, and you had delivered. Your eyeliner adorned eyes, the sleek lines of your outfit, and the careful touch of color on your lips; you looked good. Of course you did. 

People noticed. The lingering stares that kept returning, the thinly veiled advances from men who thought they stood a chance. You should’ve felt satisfaction but none of it mattered. None of them mattered. Because in the end, only one gaze had truly mattered to you tonight.

A quiet laugh escaped you, almost self-deprecating.

Beomgyu.

A tsk nearly followed the name in your mind. He was pretty, no doubt about it. His prettiness was at odds with the bastardized side of him which clearly pissed you off. Yet here you were, washing your hands as if that could cleanse the memory of the way his lips had tasted when you kissed him first.

You shook your hands free of water and reached for a paper towel, and as you did, you wondered—just how long could he play this game? How long could you?

You hadn’t meant to entertain him that night. When the bottle pointed, and the room went still with the thick anticipation that people dressed up as fun, you weren’t thinking about games. You hadn’t even considered closing that distance and letting the moment happen.

But he was so close that even in the dark, you could see him properly. You stared at him as if you were seeing him again for the first time.

In that split second—just one look at his face up close—something in you wavered, and you gave in.

Even now, the image returned too vividly. It stirred something warm and unwelcoming in your chest, creeping lower to your stomach. You exhaled sharply, as if the motion alone could dispel the feeling, almost scoffing at yourself. You wiped your hands clean and tossed the paper towel into the bin without looking.

This was a game. That’s all it was. That’s all it would ever be.

To him, and to you as well.

With that thought settling like a quiet resolve, you turned on your heel. You pushed the door open and stepped out, ready to return to the afterparty.

The moment you turned the corner, Beomgyu was there, leaning against the wall like he’d been expecting you; like he knew exactly where you’d be.

Your steps faltered. Heart catapulted to your throat as you took a step back. The look in his eyes was different this time. There were no traces of the mischievous mask he wore when he played the back-and-forth game with you. No, it was like he was savoring something before taking his first bite.

You didn’t get a chance to speak.

One stride, that’s all it took. Beomgyu was in front of you, and in the next breath your back hit the wall with a thud softened only by the fabric at your shoulders. Your hands twitched, not in surprise but in instinct, caught in a dilemma between pushing him away and pulling him in.

The golden lighting caught the sharp lines of his suit, the deep black fabric sculpting his frame in a way that felt almost unfair. You wished it was how well he wore his suit that froze your senses but no it was the look in his eyes. They looked empty but brimmed with emotions at the same time.

He lifted a hand and let it settle against the wall near your head, fingers grazing the cold surface of the wall. His other hovered close to your hip, a mere touch away, purposely letting you feel the absence. He was doing everything to make you break first.

"Caught you," he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

You tilted your head, arms at your sides though your hands had curled into fists without you realizing. “Is this payback?” you managed, though your voice lacked the steady confidence you wished it had.

“Aww, I don’t know.” Beomgyu tilted his head, a slow smirk curling his lips. You couldn’t recognize this man in front of you. He didn’t look like the Beomgyu who’d piss you off over trivial matters. He looked like a man far more patient. “What do you think?”

The hallway felt too narrow. Every little sound seemed to amplify; the faint rustle of his jacket as he shifted, the soft thud of your heartbeat against your ribs, the near-silent pull of breath between his lips. You realized soon what he was doing. Beomgyu was playing the game using your tactics. He didn’t look like he was going to rush. He was going to make you beg.

Your pulse pounded. “You took your time,” you said, forcing your voice to sound nonchalant.

His gaze dipped to your mouth for the briefest second, but that was all it took to make your stomach flip. “Had to make sure you’d feel it.”

Feel what? The tension? The heat curling in the space between you? The way your chest tightened every time he breathed a little closer?

His fingers dragged along the wall beside you before they stopped just near your shoulder. He leaned in achingly slowly until his lips were just at the shell of your ear. His breath ghosted over close enough to draw a shiver from the base of your spine.

“You had your fun,” he whispered, “won’t you let me have some of it too?”

You swallowed, a shaky breath threatened to spill past your lips. 

He hadn’t even touched you yet. And still, you felt scorched by the space he took up.

Beomgyu exhaled a soft chuckle and then, just as easily as he had cornered you, he stepped back. Stepping away like he was already done with you; like he’d gotten what he wanted. The absence of his warmth sent a sharp contrast through your senses, but the moment felt almost comical—like he thought he could just walk away after that. Oh. He was taking revenge.

Well, Beomgyu has always been a fast learner. 

Your lips parted in disbelief, a breathless laugh slipping past before you could stop it. Was that it?

Just as he turned, you spoke in a low, taunting voice. "Is that all you've got?"

That stopped him dead in his tracks.

You leaned back against the wall, arms folding across your chest in mock nonchalance. A lazy smirk tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. "Sorry to say, you're growing to be a bit predictable."

For a second, he didn't react. He stood with his back turned to you in complete stillness and silence. When he turned to face you again, there was no trace of that earlier grin. It seemed as his eyes glowed for the briefest second. His lips parted slightly, only to curl languidly into something far more dangerous than his usual smirk.

Predictable?

In a blink, his fingers curled into your hair, gripping at the back of your head as he yanked you forward. A startled gasp barely left your lips before they were swallowed by his own.

It was all heat and hunger, all months of games and tension and near misses snapping at once, and your mind went blank with the sheer intensity of it all.

The force of it sent you stumbling, your balance thrown completely off. His grip tightened, steadying you, but not gently—he was pulling you closer, demanding all of you. Your feet barely found their place before you realized you had to rise—had to step onto your toes just to meet him.

He held you there, both hands cupping your jaw, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needed to feel you under him, like he couldn’t get close enough. The downright intensity of it sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could so much as breathe, he pushed you against the wall.

A sharp gasp escaped into his mouth from you and he greedily devoured that sound. He only pressed deeper, trapping you between the wall and the solid heat of him. The absolute urgency of it had your footing slipping again, your fingers finding his waist, gripping onto him as if he was the only thing keeping you standing. Maybe he was.

This wasn’t careful. This was reckless. He’d been holding back for far too long and finally let himself break.

It was beginning to feel like you weren’t just a game to him anymore.

But still, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was really him, or if this still was just another game. Either way, you didn’t care. You couldn’t bring your mind to weave together sane thoughts right now. Not when his kiss felt like fire.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough and teasing.

A shiver ran through you, but you refused to let it show. It felt like he caught it anyway because he was already so impossibly close. He was holding you like he had no plans of letting go. You tried to bite back because you never let him have the last word but the moment your kiss-bruised lips parted, he stole the breath right from you.

His hands no longer cradled your jaw. They slipped lower, fingertips skimming down your neck, tracing the curve of your waist before pressing firmly against your hips. You fought against the broken whimper that threatened to leave you when you felt him pressing against you, drawing you in like he was savoring every reaction you gave him.

You could feel it in the way his lips curved against yours, the slow drag of his mouth against yours, the way his hands traveled back to the sensitive parts of your skins whenever your breath stuttered.

He pulled back only for a moment, and you took that chance to gasp in a much needed breath to stabilize your heart. He didn’t even have the decency to give you space, his lips trailed the line of your jaw then lower until they hovered just over the pulse hammering at your neck.

That’s when he smirked, his voice rich with satisfaction. "That felt pretty real to me."

His teeth grazed over the pulse, followed by a feathery brush of his tongue before he latched his lips there. You flinched at the sensation and grabbed his shoulder, palms pushing him away but he didn’t budge. He caught your wrists instead, fingers pressing to remind you he wasn’t done yet.

But neither were you.

You tilted your head, enough to shift him back, just enough to meet his eyes—those eyes, darker now, glinting with an intensity that seemed to pulse with heat. It was there, written plainly across his features that whatever this was—this pull, this provocation—you weren’t the only one caught in it.

Your mouth curved into a smirk. “I think I’ve hit a nerve.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. "You think so?"

The space between you vanished again in a second. One moment he was looking at you like he could devour you whole, and the next he proved it exactly right; his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, rougher, like he couldn’t bear another second of restraint. Your back hit the wall with the unrelenting pressure of his body closing the last of the distance, his knee shifting between your legs locking you in place. His hands—one cradling the back of your head with a possessive urgency, the other clutching your hip like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull you closer or pin you exactly where you were.

He was chasing your words back into your throat. Your defiance had only lit him up further, like whatever control he’d tried to hold onto had just been shattered and scattered beneath your feet. The drag of his mouth against yours was relentless, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to make you squirm in his hold.

A low sound rumbled in his chest, feral and satisfied. His hand slid from your waist to your arm. "We should take this somewhere else, yeah?"

The words barely had time to settle before he was already moving, his grip firm as he guided you through the dimly lit lobby lined with doors reserved for only a select few. The golden numbers on each one glowed under the dim lighting, but your focus narrowed when he stopped in front of the one meant for you.

"Card?"

The single word sent a slow shiver down your spine, not because of what he asked, but because of how he asked it. Expectantly, like he already knew you’d hand it over.

You sighed, fingers dipping into your pocket. The second you pulled out the card, he took it from you, slipping it into the scanner with a swift motion that sent another rush of heat through you.

The scanner beeped. The green light showed as the door unlocked.

Before you could so much as step inside, he did it for you. One hand at your waist as he walked you backward into the darkened suite. His other hand caught the frame behind you, arm caging you in as the door shut behind with a muted thud.

Just as Beomgyu leaned in to claim the space again, you stopped him. You pushed him back, palm resting flat against his chest. 

Beomgyu halted instantly, dark eyes flicking down to where your hand rested against him. His heartbeat was erratic beneath your touch. The way his jaw tensed just slightly told you he hadn’t expected the pushback.

Your fingers splayed just a little wider, the silk of his dress shirt smooth beneath your palm. Slowly, you met his gaze, tilting your chin ever so slightly. Your eyes steady like his touch hadn’t just unraveled you moments ago; while his had a flicker of intrigue beneath the hunger, his lips parting slightly before curling at the corners.

Beomgyu’s hands fell back to his sides as he watched you step past him, your black boots clicking softly against the floor. You didn’t spare him another glance as you just shrugged off your light coat along the way, letting it slip from your fingers and pool onto the chair beside you.

His gaze burned into your back as you walked.

A black turtleneck, tucked into tailored formal pants that hugged your frame just right. Boots that gave you an air of cool detachment. You looked like you belonged in a painting.

And Beomgyu loved it.

You sat on the edge of the bed crossing your legs in an elegant motion, hands resting on your knee. You finally met his gaze again.

With a languid smirk, you said, “You seem tense.” You let him have his fun. It was about time you took back control.

Beomgyu exhaled a breathy chuckle, pushing back his hair with his hand. His fingers briefly rested at the nape of his neck. His head tilted, gaze narrowing as though trying to decipher you all over again, before the sound of a scoff broke the silence between you. “You love pissing me off, don’t you?”

Your smile didn’t waver. “I love winning.”

He blinked. Then realization flickered in his eyes, followed by a groan. It only deepened your smirk.

“The bet.”

“The bet,” you echoed, tilting your head.

You had beaten him fair and square in that game, outmaneuvering him at his own strategy, and he knew it. The terms were clear—whoever won had carte blanche. And you walked away with the game winning.

Beomgyu ran a hand through his hair again, exhaling a laugh before shifting his gaze back on you. There was a trace of something delighted in his gaze.

“Okay,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I’m a man of my word.”

Your fingers drummed lightly against your knee as you regarded him, gaze dark. 

“Satisfy me.”

He stopped mid-step, lips parting soundlessly at your demand. You watched him absorb it, watched every flicker of thought pass over his face. Huh, whatever this game was, you were beginning to truly enjoy it. You found yourself thriving off of the reactions he gave you to feast on. Then oh so devastatingly slowly, Beomgyu grinned.

What a good boy.

A low hum left his lips as he dropped to one knee before you, his hands trailing up your calf. His fingers found the hem of your pants, slipping just beneath, teasing against your warm skin. His eyes flicked up to yours, ravenous.

“Why, of course,” he smiled, like molten molasses. “I’m a gentleman.”

Your lips curled, mirroring his game. “How charming.”

Beomgyu held your gaze, fingers brushing along the boot. His hand slid higher, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly against the leather of your boot before curling just beneath it. You didn’t rush him. You merely watched, one leg still crossed over the other as he slowly—agonizingly slowly—reached for the zipper along your ankle. A hum left you as he pulled it down, the sound barely audible over the sharp click of the metal teeth separating. He slid the boot off your foot with care, as if savoring the motion.

His fingers trailed back up, this time under the hem of your pants, warm against your skin. And yet, you didn’t react—not the way he wanted. Beomgyu hated how much you got to him. The control was yours, and you held it with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power there was in patience. The way you sat there, perfectly composed, lips quirked in something between amusement and indulgence, it was like you already knew how much he wanted to ruin you, and you loved making him wait.

You tilted your head, eyebrows raising in mock concern. “Something wrong?”

His eyes snapped up to yours, and the laugh that spilled from him then sounded rawer. “Oh, you’re cruel.”

Beomgyu dipped his head forward with a slowness that felt almost sinful. The first kiss was barely there, a tender touch of warmth against the arch of your foot. A touch that shouldn’t have felt as reverent as it did.

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

His fingers traced idle patterns along your calf, as if memorizing the shape of you, as if grounding himself before his lips found you again; this time at the inside of your ankle. His breath lingered against your skin before he pressed another kiss there; slower, deeper. Worshipful. He wanted you to feel every second of it the way he felt it.

You inhaled, just the faintest hitch of breath, and Beomgyu caught it. His senses were hyper aware of you; just you and only you. His lips curled against your skin, the ghost of a smirk before he trailed another kiss even higher. Your body shuddered at the feeling.

“You like this, don’t you?” he rasped. Dark eyes looked up at you through pretty lashes. 

His hands smoothed over your calf, fingers dragging slow and firm, pressing just enough to leave a lingering fire in their wake. His lips followed, ghosting over your skin with the kind of patience that wasn’t restraint but was indulgence.

Your fingers twitched against the sheets, the only betrayal of what simmered beneath your skin. Then, in a motion so swift he barely registered it, you uncrossed your legs, lifting the pointed toe of your remaining boot and tilted his chin up with it.

Beomgyu froze. His breath caught, eyes snapping up to meet yours.

Your foot pressed just enough to tilt his head back in a clean swift motion. Beomgyu’s lashes fluttered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His lips were parted, breath coming quick and shallow. A flush crept up his neck, his skin glowing under the dim light, a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple. He looked wrecked.

Despite that, that bastard had the audacity and gall to smirk. 

"Careful," he rasped, voice wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. "I might start thinking you like having me on my knees."

You exhaled, soft and languid. You felt a swirl of pride having him like this infront you, watching the way his chest rose and fell like he was barely holding himself together.

"Who says I don’t?"

Beomgyu’s smirk twitched, faltering just slightly, but his eyes—his eyes maniacally darkened, pupils blown wide, heat simmering beneath the surface like a storm about to break. His fingers flexed against your calf before tightening in an unforgiving grip. Then before you could process the shift—his hand wrapped around your ankle, heat searing into your skin, and he yanked you forward.

A startled gasp left you as you slid closer to the edge of the bed, legs spreading as Beomgyu placed a hand on your thigh. His grip on you was controlling, but not overbearing.

You could stop him if you wanted to, but you didn’t.

Your breath came out a little heavier as you stared down at him, still on his knees before you, still holding your leg like he was deciding just how much he wanted to ruin you. It was getting excruciatingly hard to ignore the ache between your thighs.

“Say it again.”

“Say what again?”

Beomgyu’s grip tightened just slightly, just enough to make you aware of his strength. “That you like having me on my knees,” he rasped, eyes narrowing as if daring you to agree with him. Oh you were getting the thrill back. Adrenaline coursed through your veins and it itched you to piss him off even more.

“Why?” You let your voice drop, teasing. “Do you want to hear it that badly?”

Beomgyu huffed out a laugh, the sound short and strained, like it cost him. His hands slid higher, fingers brushing the backs of your knees, the warmth of his skin burning even through the fine fabric of your slacks. He was breathing harder now, and you could see the tremble in his restraint, the twitch of his jaw, and in the way his tongue darted over his lower lip.

“I must warn you,” he muttered, almost too low to hear. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

He looked so desperate and so, so pretty, kneeling before you. Your gaze wandered, drinking him in. The slope of his nose, the way his lips—plush and kiss-bruised—parted ever so slightly with each uneven breath. The faint sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, trailing down the curve of his throat, catching at his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Beomgyu was a pretty man.

You reached out, your hand brushing his forehead, sweeping the damp strands from his brow. His lashes trembled with the contact and as your fingers dipped further, threading through his hair, his whole body seemed to shift like he couldn’t help himself. He leaned into your touch, eyes slipping closed as if savoring the warmth of your palm.

Your nails scraped lightly across his scalp, drawing a low breath from deep in his chest, and that was the moment you felt the balance tip again. He was unraveling right there at your feet.

"Well," you whispered, leaning in a little. "I'm still not satisfied."

His eyes snapped open, and you caught the flash of surprise just before it melted into hunger. He had expected a drawn-out game, a slow torment; something that mirrored the way you always liked to push him to his limits, to take your time drawing out every reaction until he was barely holding himself together.

You gave him none of it. Instead slowly, you sank back into the mattress, legs uncrossing with elegance that bordered on cruel. Beomgyu didn’t breathe for a full second, as though the air had caught in his throat the moment he saw you recline before him like that with every intention written across your body.

You had given him permission. Beomgyu never wasted an opportunity.

Two deft fingers worked their way with the button of your pants, pulling down the article of clothing in one swift motion down your legs, the remaining boot getting tossed aside along with it. His hands slipped up to your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed.

A quiet curse left his mouth at the sight of your dampened panties, translucent from the slick pooling in between your thighs. His eyes briefly flitted to your face—you were looking down at him with steel eyes yet they brimmed with anticipation behind them. It drove him insane how little reaction you showed despite the sight of your arousal in front him.

Beomgyu placed a soft kiss over your clothed clit. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine and you had to bite your lips from making any sound. He continued to pepper kisses all over you before finally hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling your panties down. 

Your head spun when you felt his hot breath over your sopping core, shaky fingers finding residence into his hair again. The first lick over your clit was slow, torturous—as if he was deliberately waiting to see you fall apart. You hissed, tugging on his hair and it made him chuckle.

He gazed up at you through his lashes. “Patience, darling.”

Then without wasting another minute, he dived back into you, his tongue licking a long stripe along your folds, lapping up your arousal with a low, deep hum. “Fuck… you taste divine.” His voice muffled against your skin as his lips latched themselves around your clit and sucked harshly.

Your eyes rolled back almost instantly, breath stuttering, slipping further into the ecstatic sensation of his tongue gliding back and forth over your folds. One of his hands slid under your left thigh, putting it over his shoulder while he held the other open. The angle gave him all the access he wanted. He was good—way too good with his tongue as he continued to send you over the edge. 

Your grip in his hair tightened when Beomgyu brought two fingers, nimbly sliding against your folds, rubbing up and down while his teeth caught torturously on your clit. Your legs trembled with pleasure as he dipped his fingers inside you with humiliating ease. 

“Oh god…” you breathed out before harshly biting down on your bottom lip, your head tipped back as he pumped his digits in and out of your core, curling them at the right spot. The heel of your foot dug into his back as you fought to keep your sanity from losing. 

The room resonated with the sound of depraved squelches, the only sound of his plump lips sinfully eating you out, and it didn’t sit right with Beomgyu. Dazed eyes swirling with desire and lips glistening with your juices, he looked up at you—your chest heaving with every deep breath you took, your lips in between your teeth as you refused to make any sounds. 

He brushed his thumb along your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open. “Don’t do that,” he pleaded, his thumb caressing your lip. “Let me hear you… please.”

Your resolve shook at the way he sounded. You wanted to bite out a provoking remark about how he should earn it but before you could do anything, Beomgyu took your words away as he connected his lips onto yours.

He lifted himself from kneeling, hovering above you as he gently pushed you against the mattress. His tongue pushed past your lips, your restraints—it was hot and messy, your juices mixing with your saliva as your walls fluttered around his fingers. The odd sensation of being able to taste yourself made you groan against his mouth. 

The familiar sensation of heat coiling in your lower stomach began to embrace you, however, before it could fully take over your senses, Beomgyu removed his fingers from you. The glaring emptiness almost made you choke out a moan, eyes peering at him with disbelief. But whatever annoyance took over you melted away in an instance as Beomgyu wrapped his lips around his fingers, licking and sucking off your arousal from them. You swallowed, throat humiliatingly dry at the sight. 

And he knew, because the way his lips curled up into the most devilish smirk as he continued to lick his fingers clean, you know he knew.

You eyed the bulge in his pants before using one foot to apply just the right amount of pressure on it. You watched in pure awe as Beomgyu’s cocky demeanor faltered. A strangled moan fell from his lips as his body twitched and shivered from that simple touch from you. His hands found your ankle, stopping you and eyes locked onto yours in a look that screamed nothing short of begging.

“Take it off,” you commanded lowly, sitting up. Beomgyu complied wordlessly, hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. His garments joined the rest on the floor one by one. His hands stilled from unbuttoning his shirt when you climb onto his lap, straddling him. His breath hitching as you took your turtleneck off, hair falling breathtakingly around your face as you were presented with nothing but your black bra in front of him. 

Shirt left halfway unbuttoned, forgotten, his hands found themselves on the curve of your waist. His touch sent sparks of heat through you as you cupped his erection through his boxers. His head fell into the crook of your shoulder with a moan. You guided him out gently, his cock springing back against his belly, precum pooling at the tip.

For a beat, you didn't move, eyes going slightly wide at his size. He was big, bigger than you thought he would be, bigger than anything you’ve taken before and your senses clouded with lust at the realization. 

You were broken from your trance when Beomgyu wrapped his hand on yours, guiding you to his shaft. The heated weight of him in your palm shot another spasm straight to your core. You pumped him gently, feeling your senses dizzying by the pants and groans spilling from him. You let out a shuddering breath, trailing your fingers up to his weeping slit, collecting the oozing pre cum there and smearing it across his tip.

Beomgyu panted against your neck, lips trailing open mouthed kisses on your skin, nipping and sucking on the supple flesh. You take that opportunity to take him by the base of his cock, rubbing the tip against your sopping slit, his arousal mixing with your own. The sudden warmth of your core snapped Beomgyu’s head up, eyes locking with yours.

“Do you really want this?” he asked, voice low, but desperate.

His question made you pause, his tip sliding against your core and resting on your abdomen instead. You looked at him, eyebrows furrowing and you felt your chest tighten because why was he looking at you like that? Like he genuinely wanted this as much as you did? You couldn’t dare yourself to hope. Wasn't this only a game?

“Isn’t it too late to ask that?” you couldn’t look at him anymore, gaze faltering under his intense stare. 

There was a pause. The only sound filled between you was your mixed breathing and erratic heartbeats. Then, Beomgyu moved his hands to your hips as he pulled you closer, his tip brushed against your sensitive cunt, causing you to whimper softly. Your hands found refuge on his shoulders, your heart thumping loudly against your ribcage and in your ears. 

“If it’s okay, then,” his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, “I've wanted you for too long to be satisfied with just once. I need you.”

The depth of his words didn't have the time to settle in your senses when his tip slid inside you, stretching you deliciously. His lips devoured your strangled moan, his hand slipping in the back of your head holding you close to him. You gasped into his mouth at the way he brushed up against every sensitive nerves, slowly bottoming out to the very base. 

“You okay?” he pulled away just a fraction, his hand massaging the soft flesh of your hips, a gesture of encouragement that made your chest swell with warmth. He let you adjust to his girth, muttering praises into your ear and it only made your head spin more. You hated the way he was making you feel. 

You attached your lips to his in a feverish kiss as you lifted yourself up to his tip, then swivelled your hip downward on his length. Beomgyu’s eyes rolled back as his nails dug deeper into your hips, choked gasps and grunts escaping him. 

This position let you take him as deeply as possible. Your senses clouded with pleasure at how his cock pressed into your deepest parts, the drag of his tip making you want to slouch over and succumb to the blinding pleasure. It didn't take you long to set a steady rhythm, your synchronous moans mingled in the small space between your bodies, overlapping with the lewd sound of skin slapping.

"You're doing so good," he murmured against your neck, moaning when your walls clenched around him at the praise. "So, so good, oh my god."

Your breath came out in hot puffs, your thighs aching from riding him, as your movements began to become sloppy. Beomgyu pressed one chaste kiss to your lips and brushed your hair out from in front of your face, then your world spun as you were flipped with impressive speed onto your back, your head hitting the soft pillow with a yelp.

He hovered above you, his thrusts hitting deeper inside you in the new position. Strings of broken whimpers left you with each of his thrusts. All it took was one look at his expression for you to choke on your breath.

He was peering down at you with glazed eyes—eyes full of softness that spilled something like adoration. You swallowed hard, refusing to let yourself believe. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you begged, voice coming out barely as a whisper. 

Beomgyu slowed down his pace, the sensation making you squirm under him, his breath hitched, his brows drawing together like your words had physically struck him. But he didn’t look away. Didn’t laugh it off or mask it with some teasing remark. He exhaled shakily, and let his fingers trail up, the touch was so light and full of devotion, until they cradled your face.

“How else do you want me to look at you?” he murmured, voice raw, almost pleading. “Because I don’t know how to look at you any other way.”

You barely got the first syllable out—“Please”—before the word withered on your tongue. Beomgyu leaned down, tenderly pressed his lips to your forehead. That was it. The last string holding you together snapped.

Maybe you had it wrong all along—maybe Beomgyu’s infuriating arrogance, the way he always pushed and provoked, wasn’t indifference at all. Maybe it was a pull, just as relentless as the one that had kept you shackled to him for so long. And now, here you were, drawn together like Icarus was to the sun, aching to take, to burn, to make this moment last before it slipped through your fingers.

Your breath trembled, your fingers curled into his back, and this time—you didn’t hold your sounds. You sank further, letting the warmth of him consume you whole.

“Beomgyu.”

It was the first time you moaned his name that night. It slipped past your lips as if torn free from the core of you, soft and breathless, laced with a wrecked kind of desperation that carved into him like flame. The sound of his name in your voice shaped by want, by surrender, by the kind of hunger neither of you had spoken aloud until now seared through him devastatingly.

That was all it took. Beomgyu faltered, his hands reacted before he could think, fingers flexing hard enough against your skin to leave reminders behind, clutching at you like he was trying to hold on to something slipping through his grasp. But there was no grip strong enough to keep him grounded now—not when you moaned his name like that; not when you were looking at him like he was the only thing in your world worth falling apart for. You had him. Completely.

A curse left his lips, ragged and desperate, and he surged forward—kissing you like he was chasing the sound, like he needed to hear it again, needed to feel it vibrate against his skin. His hand slipped under your bra and kneaded your soft breast, no patience left, his control unraveling at the seams. His hips spearing into you with newfound energy.

When you moaned his name a second time—oh, he was gone.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he gasped. His fingers push your palm flat against the bed next to you, and then gently intertwine with yours, a jarring contrast to the way his pelvis slammed into you so fervently. 

“You feel so–mngh, good,” you slurred, the haze of ecstasy starting to cloud your consciousness. His thrusts went harder, deeper, at your praises, hitting your g-spot over and over again. The familiar rush of warmth pooling into your abdomen caused you to wrap your legs around his waist, bringing him even closer to you. “I’m close–please,” you screw your eyes shut. “I’m so close.”

His Adam's apple bobbed thickly at the saccharine sound of your pleas. “You’re so beautiful like this–fuck, come for me.”

He thrusted once, twice, and with a final thrust, your walls spasmed around his cock, your back arched into him, his name falling from your lips as a whimper. Beomgyu buried his face into your neck as he sloppily thrusted in your leaking cunt, chasing his own climax. He swiftly pulled out and gave his cock a few pumps before hot ropes of thick, white semen coated your lower stomach and thighs. 

Your bodies heaved in unison. The room was quiet now. The silence wasn’t awkward or empty, but the kind that settled between two people who had nothing left to prove—nothing left to fight.

Beomgyu was the first to move, slipping into the bathroom and returning with a damp towel. He helped you sit up, his touch careful, gentle, as he cleaned you up with a tenderness that felt almost foreign.

You watched him closely. He was too gentle—far too gentle, in fact—and the sharpness in his eyes had dulled into a softer haze.

“You’re being nice,” you deadpanned. “It’s freaking me out.”

You expected a snarky retort, a teasing jab, anything to break the shift in atmosphere. But instead, he just laughed. The sound was warm. And somehow, that laugh only made the fire in your chest burn hotter.

You got dressed in silence. You pulled your coat back on, smoothing out the creases in the fabric, and when you glanced up, Beomgyu was watching you. There was that same look in his eyes from earlier. 

He reached for you before he could stop himself, fingers brushing over your hair, fixing the stray strands with an almost careful kind of touch. His brows furrowed like he was concentrating. The gesture was tender, yes, but it was also searching. Prolonged. It felt as if his hand didn’t quite know how to let go.

Your eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

His hand stilled against your temple. There was hesitation in the line of his mouth, a flicker of indecision you weren't meant to see. He raked the other through his hair, messing it up more than fixing it, a nervous gesture that you’ve come to recognise which betrayed the calm mask he tried to hold. He exhaled a quiet laugh, dropping his hand to his side.

“If I’m being honest," he murmured, voice lower than before, "it was a disturbingly short amount of time between meeting you and wanting to say ‘I love you’.”

Your brows lifted, taken aback not because you were surprised, but because of how unpracticed it sounded. This wasn’t some well-timed confession, something he’d calculated to fluster you. It was an admission that had slipped past his guard before he could stop it.

Beomgyu wasn’t waiting for an answer. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore, just kept running a hand through his hair like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said that out loud.

But you had an answer.

You stepped closer, the space between you vanishing in an instant, and Beomgyu froze when you reached for him. With a touch far lighter than he deserved, you straightened the collar of his shirt, smoothing over the fabric the way he had done to your hair.

"We can work on that," you said softly, glancing away. 

Beomgyu gaped at you. For a heartbeat, he looked as though you had spoken a foreign language, and he was trying to translate the meaning behind every syllable. He barely restrained the smile that followed. You saw the way he bit down on it, the way the corners of his mouth twitched despite himself.

And then he echoed your words, breath warm and disbelieving. “We can work on that.”

He repeated it like he needed to hear it again to believe it. He tested the words on his tongue a few times. Seeing him do that almost made you scoff a fond laugh, but you held yourself back from doing it by biting the inside of your cheek.

His gaze flickered down to your hand resting at your side. His fingers brushed against yours, he hesitated for half a second, as if giving you the chance to pull away, but you didn’t. So he threaded his fingers through yours, his hand folding into yours.

Your heart stuttered.

It was such a simple thing. The way he held your hand—his thumb tracing a small arc across your knuckles, it was really simple, but it didn’t feel so at that moment. His touch felt different. His touch felt like he was worshiping you.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his fingers tightened around yours. “I think I’d like that.”

And this time, when you turned toward the door, you didn’t walk out alone. You didn’t slip away. You didn’t vanish with a parting glance and leave him behind in the silence.

This time, you held his hand.

THE END.

Taglist; @dawngyu @saejinniestar @xylatox @hoefororeo @caratcakemoa @90steele

[cherrypopidol]

"𝓑𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓭𝓸𝓸𝓻 𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓮𝓼" 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 6

𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓍𝓁 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

part 5

in the next day you’re curled up on the couch with a half-finished grilled cheese and a rock magazine you’re not really reading. Axl’s at the tiny table near the window, hunched over a napkin, scrawling lyrics with a nearly-dead pen

it’s been peaceful.

the kind of quiet that makes you forget how broken the city outside is. the kind of quiet that only exists between two people who trust each other enough not to fill the silence

you glance over

his brow is furrowed, lips moving with words he hasn’t said out loud yet. you think about how safe he looked last night— even after that fight— curled beside you like some stray dog that finally found a warm patch of floor

and then—

knock knock knock

BANG.

you jolt. Axl barely flinches. but something tightens in his shoulders

“Who the hell...?” you mutter, setting your plate down

Axl sighs and stands “It’s probably just—”

he opens the door

and chaos spills in

two guys — both chubby, loud, long-haired. one’s wearing sunglasses indoors. the other’s already halfway through a six-pack. they burst in like they’ve done it a hundred times before

“Axllll” the drunker one drawls, arms wide “Dude! You disappeared! Heard you fucked some guy up at The Viper—was it true?”

Axl grins, stepping closer — shielding you from the guys “Uh.. yeah”

you stay seated, stiff

they don’t notice you at first

but when they do, one of them does a little double take “Yo. Who’s this?”

Axl glances at you, almost sheepish “She’s—uh. She’s cool”

the guy with the shades grins, too wide “You’re the reason Romeo doesn't go out with us anymore?”

axl and the other guy laugh at it softly and you just nod, polite but cold “Just his friend”

the guy whistles “That’s not what he said last week when he was—”

“Okay” Axl cuts in fast, voice sharp “Knock it off”

the tension is immediate.

you stand slowly “I should probably get dressed. Let you guys catch up”

Axl looks at you—just for a second—but you see it: guilt. confusion. like he didn’t expect you to feel out of place here. like he didn’t realize that bringing them in would change the air

“Hey” he says, softer, stepping close “You don’t have to go anywhere”

but you just smile — a little too tightly — and brush past him into the bedroom

behind the door, you lean against the wall

their voices rise again in the living room. laughter. beer tabs cracking. axl singing them a random lyric he wrote

you bite your lip

it’s not jealousy. not exactly

it’s just that...

with you, Axl’s quiet. present. almost gentle.

but with them?

he becomes someone else. louder. looser. less real

and suddenly you’re wondering if that boy who kissed you at 4 am, bleeding and breathless, was just a version he wears sometimes — not the truth

the bedroom door creaks open

Axl steps in slow, shutting it behind him like he’s afraid he’ll spook you

you’re sitting on the edge of the bed now, back straight, arms crossed over your chest. the soft golden light from the window hits your face in that late-summer way and he pauses for a beat—just to look

but you don’t look at him

“Can we talk?” he says finally

you shrug

he stays standing. like he’s not sure he’s allowed to sit anymore

“They didn’t mean anything” he starts, hands in his pockets “I mean—they’re just guys I used to play with. Kinda followed me around. I didn’t invite them over to ruin... this”

you glance at him now “But you let them in”

his lips part but nothing comes out

you push on “They don’t know who I am. You barely told them. And you let that guy say all that shit. About last week. Like—like I’m some... phase”

Axl flinches like you slapped him

“I didn’t mean it like that” he mutters “I just didn’t want to explain everything in front of them. You don’t know what they’re like”

you stand now, heart pounding “No, Axl. You didn’t explain anything at all”

he blinks “What are we even fighting about?”

“You kissed me like you meant it” you snap “You curled up in my bed. You ate the food I brought you in the middle of the damn night like you hadn’t had a home-cooked thing in months. And then you let some loser with a beer gut call me a ‘distraction’ and you laughed”

he steps closer now, voice rising “You think I don’t care? I’m trying to do something here—I’m trying to get my shit together, and yeah, sometimes that means dealing with assholes like that because they have a mic I need to borrow”

you blink at him, anger hot behind your eyes

“I didn’t ask for anything, Axl. Just a little respect”

his jaw clenches. you can see the war behind his eyes — the one between running and staying. between being the tough guy who sleeps behind a bar and the boy who whispered “you’re the only good thing I’ve got” when the world was quiet

he breaks first

“I shouldn’t’ve let them talk like that” he says, voice cracking “You’re not just some girl I’m crashing with. You’re—fuck—I don’t even have a word for what you are to me yet, but it’s not nothing”

you stare at him

“Then fucking act like it”

silence

then Axl exhales hard and rubs a hand down his face “I’ll kick them out”

“No” you say “I’m going out”

he freezes

“I need air”

“Wait—just wait—”

but you’re already pulling your boots on

“Axl, I don’t hate you” you say quietly “I just... I don’t wanna feel like I’m temporary”

you leave before he can stop you

the second the door shuts behind you, he knows he fucked up

the apartment feels different without you in it. colder. emptier. like something essential just slipped out through the cracks and now all he can do is sit with the guilt

he tries to go back out to the guys but their voices are too loud, too off-key. the beer’s warm. the room smells like stale cigarettes and regret

so he kicks them out

no explanation. no apology. just a sharp “Get the fuck out”

and then he’s alone

by 8pm he’s pacing

by 11pm he’s sitting on the floor, back against the couch, head in his hands

by 2am, he’s at the table again—only this time not scribbling lyrics. this time, he’s writing you a letter

more crossed-out lines than complete sentences

it’s messy. honest. nothing like him.

at 3am he folds it in half and tucks it into the front pocket of his worn-out jacket

you haven’t slept much as you were crashing at friends couch that night — not to give Axl a lesson but just to give him space to think

your manager’s been on your ass, your feet are killing you and you keep checking the door even though you told yourself you wouldn’t

you’re halfway through making some guy’s fifth whiskey sour when someone steps up to the counter — slow, deliberate and too quiet to be one of the usuals

you look up

Axl

hat off. hair damp from the shower. clean shirt, old boots. and something in his eyes you’ve never seen before

he doesn’t speak right away. just slides something onto the bar in front of you

a folded piece of notebook paper

you stare at it, then at him

“I stayed up all night” he says, voice low “Didn’t know how to say it out loud”

you dry your hands on a rag and slowly pick up the note

“I’ll read it later”

“I kinda hope you don’t” he says with soft smile “I mean—I do, but... it’s probably embarrassing”

you raise an eyebrow “Worse than letting your friend call me a distraction?”

his lips press together and his smile gone “No. Nothing’s worse than that”

you stare at him for a long beat. trying to decide if you trust this. if you trust him

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t real” he says, softer now “You’re the most real thing I’ve got”

your heart thuds once—hard

“I don’t want this to go back to before” he adds “Me, behind the trash cans. You, pretending I’m just some sad case you feel bad for”

you shake your head “I never felt bad for you”

“I know” his voice breaks a little “That’s why I want to do this right”

you glance down at the note again

then tuck it into your apron and nod toward the corner booth

“Go sit. I’ll take my break in five”

and for the first time, Axl does what you ask

he sits

he waits

and he watches you like someone who knows what it’s like to lose everything — and doesn’t want to lose you. especially you.

[edsbacktattoo]

literally all that ed wants is to be a bride, retire in a nice inn where everyone likes him, and to be fucking silly. he just wants to have fun with someone he loves and smile and laugh be warm and feel beautiful. is that too much to ask?

[not-brionnnne]

hey has anyone ever considered doing shinjiro smut for after the fade to black but he lays you across his lap, like has anyone ever considered the canon praise kink with him more—shinjiro who scolds you, calls you trouble and tells you to stay close to him like a "good girl", shinjiro who acts tough, pretends to be fed up with you pushing him around (he loves it, but that doesn't mean you're not gonna hear about it), ignoring what he wants, so two can play that game, and you think, god, he's not holding back anymore, he's going to kiss me, finally, we're going to— but no, he settles on his bed and pats his lap and tells you that you need to "take responsibility" for teasing him like that, messing with his feelings — "be a good girl." remember, you started this.

[kekewrites]

Tw. Insecure/bratty/tsundere reader, dark content, noncon, dubcon, obsession, sloppy blowjob, attempted breakup, manipulation, size kink, overstimulation, multiple creampies, cunnilingus, baby trapping, coercion, aftercare

***

Thinking about dating an angelic guy.

You always wonder why, out of all the pretty and influential girls chasing after him, he chose you. It doesn't help how of a unit he is. Your typical perfect guy, popular, rich, and body that's comparable to a Greek God... and his voice— how you love his gentle and warm voice, there's just something about it that hypnotize you.

He always compliments you, shower you with affection, and be an absolute sweetheart. It gets you pissy. You don't know why you're always in a foul mood around him, he's not even doing anything that could trigger you. He takes a breath and you're already fuming. Grumbling profanities that he would laugh at wholeheartedly, like you didn't curse his entire being.

You hate how perfect he is. Hate how much you adore him. Hate how much you love him, and inside your mind you always question if he genuinely loves you. Maybe he's just playing with you? Waiting for the day he'd humiliate you, telling how you're too idiotic to even believe someone like him could ever love you.

That's probably why you're always cautious around him, you don't believe him enough to love an average girl like you.

***

He can't believe he's dating the cutest in the world. Everytime you scowl, show that adorable pout, he just wants to squish your cheeks together and kiss you plenty. Like a little kitty hissing when you sneer curses at him.

It's adorable really.

You'd say you didn't want to go to the movies he chose. Yet, you arrived earlier than expected, wearing a hint of makeup in that cute dress of yours. Makes him want to crush you. You put in the effort, took the time, even gave him the watch he'd been talking about—his favorite.

He really loves you. Really really loves you but why are you acting like he doesn't? He's confused. Hasn't he done enough to show you, tell how much he adores you? It makes him sad. Don't you know how much he's holding back? There's only so much he could take, you know. He could just take you everytime you run that cute foul mouth of you, shove his cock to make you shut up. But he's so patient with you because he loves you.

So don't push him too much, ok? Or else you might not like it when he finally show you his desire.

***

"You're late," you grumble, sending him a glare. Your arms are crossed, and your foot taps impatiently on the ground.

He chuckles, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I arrived just on time, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. "You're just too excited for our date, no?" His voice is teasing, but his eyes are warm, sparkling with affection.

You huff in response, but you can feel the corners of your mouth betraying you, tugging into a smile. He notices and takes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

"You're just so cute, you know? I really wanna crush— ow!" He hiss slightly as you swat his arm. He pouts a little, "You're strong, you're gonna leave a bruise."

You roll your eyes— as if that's gonna happen. Huffing you tug on his hand, "Let's go. I'm starving."

He smiles, looking at your back, "Ok, sweetie~."

Ah, you really are so cute.

He can't wait to fuck you.

***

"Why're you not eating, sweetie? Is the food not to your liking?"

Your appetite was gone the moment that waitress flirted with him, leaving you empty and bitter. This always happen. You're sick of it, sick of being jealous and feeling shitty for not looking like his girlfriend. Are you really worthless by his side? Do people not see you as his companion?

"Sweetie?"

You didn't want to lash out on him so you remained silent. Too bitter to talk. Even the food turned bitter, leaving you more upset.

He's such an idiot. But you're more of an idiot for being triggered by that stupid waitress, too much of a wuss to tell her he's taken, that he's yours. You're the idiot.

"I don't wanna eat anymore," you bitterly muttered, your face covered by the shadows of your hair, hiding that frown you wore he always seems to love on you.

He gets a sick twisted feeling in his guts, watching how jealous you get whenever some worthless wench tries to get his attention. It satisfies his urge, his sick thoughts hidden by his angelic face. You really love him, don't you? His lips curving into a sweet smile, eyes twinkling with desires. If only you know how much he gets off with you being jealous, you'd never doubted your pretty little self.

So… why are you saying such stupid things?

“Let’s break up.”

“Hm?”

“I said…” You take a breath, steadying your voice. “Let’s break up.”

For a moment, his smile wavers. Just a fraction. His right eye twitches ever so slightly, a crack in the carefully crafted mask he wears. But then, like a master of illusions, he recovers, his sweet facade sliding back into place, though something darker lingers beneath the surface.

“Now, now,” he says, his voice dripping with a saccharine softness that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. “What’s the matter?” His tone is gentle, almost soothing, but there’s a sharp edge to it—a venomous undercurrent that cuts through the air.

You don’t answer immediately, your chest tightening under his unblinking stare. It’s as if he’s waiting, watching every little twitch of your expression, trying to peel you apart without lifting a finger.

“I just think…” you start, your voice faltering as his head tilts slightly, his smile remaining unnervingly intact. “I-I think we’re not… good for each other anymore.”

His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, his gaze sharpens, a predator sizing up its prey. He takes a step closer, the air between you growing heavy. “Not good for each other?” he repeats, feigning confusion. “Sweetheart, where’s this nonsense coming from? Didn’t we promise forever?”

The sweetness in his tone sends a chill down your spine, but you hold your ground. “Forever shouldn’t feel like this,” you say, trying to steady your trembling hands.

It shouldn't make you feel bad about yourself, shouldn't make you anxious, shouldn't make feel... pressured.

For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes boring into yours. Then, his chuckle breaks the tension, soft and low. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. “You’re upset. That’s all. We’ll talk this through, won’t we?”

But his words aren’t a question—they’re a command, wrapped in the guise of concern. And as his smile lingers, you realize leaving might not be as simple as you hoped.

***

Why is this happening?

You thought he would accept and move on.

"Mmm, that's it sweetie. Take it deeper." He coaxes, his grip on your hair tightening. He starts to push forward, forcing more of his thick length past your stretched lips.

So why?

Your eyes squeeze shut tighter as he pushes in deeper, your throat convulsing around his invading cock. He throws his head back with a guttural moan.

"That's a good girl. Mhm, your throat feels so good wrapped around my dick." He grunts, starting to set a steady pace. Fucking into your mouth, using your face like a cock sleeve.

It was gross. He never did that to you.

Lewd, wet sounds fill the office as he picks up speed, his heavy balls slapping against your chin with each rough thrust. Drool escapes the seal of your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your messed up clothes.

He looks down, taking in the debauched sight of you on your knees, choking on his cock. His dick is spit-shined and glistening, streaked with their drool. Shit. The sight makes him thrust harder, faster, chasing his pleasure.

"Look at me," He demands breathlessly, wanting to see the tears and desperation in their eyes as he uses their mouth ruthlessly. He's close, so fucking close already from the intense, vice-like grip of your inexperienced throat. He grunts and curses, slamming forward one last time before pulling out abruptly.

Thick ropes of cum paint your face and hair, marking you as his. Some of it even lands in your eyes, making them sting and water.

"You're so pretty... You look so pretty covered in my cum," he whispers lovingly, smearing the head of his cock across your messy face, pushing the hot seed into their skin like makeup. "The prettiest girl in the world."

You were supposed to break up with him...

How did it escalated to this?

***

It's not like he's losing a lot... you aren't that special. So why is he acting this way? There are a lot of better options for him, prettier, smarter, and richer girls. Someone who can actually match him, who doesn't embarrass him, worthier to stand beside him.

Why is he fucking you like his life depends on it?

Your eyes already hazy and unfocused, breathing hard as you couldn't count how many times you've already come.

One of his hands snakes up your trembling body, finding a soft breast. He squeezes the supple mound roughly, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he kneads and gropes. He finds a pert nipple and pinches it cruelly between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging until it stands stiff and aching in the cool air of the room.

"Hm? Are you already tired? We're just starting," he coo, his hips slamming forward with renewed vigor. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck, sharp teeth sinking into the tender skin. He bites and sucks, determined to leave his mark on you, to claim you as his own. His. He can feel his orgasm building, his heavy balls tightening as he ruts into your abused cunt. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling fill the room, punctuated by the creaking of the bed and your cries. He's close, so fucking close to filling your cunt with his seed.

"Gonna... hngh... fill this pussy..." He grunts between clenched teeth, slamming home one last time. His cock throbs and pulses as he starts to come, thick ropes of hot cum painting your inner walls. He grinds against them, making sure they take every last drop as he marks your womb with his essence.

Finally, with a last shuddering groan, he collapses on top of you, his softening cock still buried deep inside your tender, cream-filled pussy. He pants harshly against the shell of their ear, his hands still groping and fondling your sensitive body.

"Y-You're an idiot..." You sniffle, "Why me? There's a lot of—."

He cuts you off, "You know, I would never cheat on you, right?" He whispers tenderly, kissing your ears as if assuring. "No matter who comes to me, I would never pay attention to them. Never. You're the only one I want." His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his intense, burning gaze.

It was the first time you ever heard his voice to be so... vulnerable.

"The only girl I want... So..." You can hear his voice shake, "Don't break up with me, ok?"

Your eyes glaze with tears, your heart tugging at his words. No, it wasn't supposed to end up like this. You made up your mind a few weeks ago, always nagging at the back of your mind. Ending your relationship would be the best for you two—.

He kisses you then, any doubts in your mind disappearing as his mouth claiming theirs in a brutal, dominating kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, plundering the warm cavern as he grinds his hips forward, rubbing his throbbing erection against your thigh.

Ah, you don't care anymore.

"Don't think anymore, ok? Just let me do it for you."

He starts to rub the broad head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your combined juices. "Tell you what, sweetheart. I'll be gentle like the usual... for now." He promises darkly, his voice rough with restrained lust. "I'll make this first part nice and slow, nice and easy for you."

"H-Huh?"

With that, he starts to push forward, the thick length of his cock slowly sinking into your tight, clutching heat. He has to fight the urge to slam forward, to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. But he resists, forcing himself to go slowly, to savor the exquisite feeling of your walls stretching around him.

"Ah, you're still so tight." He grits out through clenched teeth, his fingers flexing against your hips as he fights for control. "Such a perfect cunt."

"Too soon! I'm still... s-sensitive!" You cried out but he starts to move then, his hips rocking in a slow, sensual rhythm as he fucks into you with deep, deliberate strokes. Each thrust pushes him a little deeper, a little harder, until he's finally buried to the hilt inside you. He pauses for a moment, letting you feel the heavy weight of him, the way he's stretching you impossibly full.

"Hehe, sorry can't help it. Does that feel gentle enough for you, sweetie?" He asks, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, yet his angelic face covers it. "Or do you need me to be even more... careful?" He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust of his hips, grinding his pelvis against your clit.

Your brain short circuit by the overstimulation, all you could think about was him, and his big cock, "A-Ah, you— ish... so good~!"

He snarls in feral pleasure as he feels your pussy clench and ripple around his pistoning cock. The way you are moaning and crying out, begging him not to stop... it's the headiest fucking thing he's ever heard. It makes him want to ruin you, to fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll never forget the feeling of his cock splitting you open.

You came in surprise, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, chest heaving, "C-Can't too much..!"

"You can do it," He growls, his voice a dark, distorted rumble. He can feel his own release building, his balls drawing up tight as he fucks into you with wild abandon, "A-ah~ clench this greedy cunt around my dick, dollface. Milk it for all it's worth.

You never saw this side of him before, a more vulgar side to him. Spouting dirty words that's the opposite of his facade. Maybe, you didn't know your boyfriend that well? He was always gentleman to you in bed, always going with your pace and being mindful about his words but now...

"N-No~ I really ah! Can't!" You shake your head frantically, having enough of the sensitivity.

"Yes, you can! You will, sweetie~!"

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin as he chases his pleasure. He wants to mark you, to leave his claim all over your body for everyone to see. He wants the whole world to know that you belong to him, that you're his to fuck and fill and love as he sees fit. The thought of another man putting his hand on you makes him mad, you're only his and he isn't afraid to take that way for you to be officially his.

"I'm gonna cum, sweetie." He grits out, his hips slamming forward with sharp, brutal thrusts. "I'm gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my seed, gonna breed this fucking cunt until it's dripping with my cum."

Breed?

He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing mercilessly at the sensitive bundle of nerves. "I want to feel you cum on my cock, sweetheart. I want to feel you shake and quake as I fill you with my my child."

Wait...!

His other hand slides up, wrapping around your throat and squeezing lightly. It's enough to make you gasp for air, pulse jumping wildly beneath his touch. It's enough to make you even tighter, body instinctively clenching down around him as he fucks into you with short, vicious thrusts.

Too much!

"Now, sweetie~ cum. Now." He commands, his voice a dark and sinful. And with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself balls deep inside her and starts to cum. His cock jerks and pulses as he paints your insides with thick ropes of his hot seed, filling you up just like he promised.

So full...

You gasp out, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. The room spins around you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as you struggle to catch your breath. Body aches all over, especially between your legs. The feeling of his cum painting your insides is strange, unsettling.

Your vision having black spots, your consciousness fading as you hear him murmur promises to you.

"I'll take responsibility whether we have a child or not, we'll get married and have a cute child."

You feel a warm kiss on your forehead.

"I love you. I love you more than anyone else, I only love you."

[holeforzenin]

Tw - Dad’s bestfriend Nanami, dark content. Taboo elements. Age gap (21, 43), He doesn't want it but he can't help himself :3

Nanami never thought of you that way.

You were his best friend's daughter. He helped change your diapers and drove you to piano lessons when your dad was too busy. He sat through your school plays with a proud smile and clapped louder than anyone else because of how proud of you he was.

To him, you were sweet, silly, sometimes a handful—but never a woman. Never someone to want or lust over. He's a better man than that. A man with morals.

And he still didn't, at least not until tonight?

The house was quiet and lonely with your parents out of town, so Nanami offered to come over and keep an eye on you—just to make sure you didn’t accidentally burn the place down. It wasn’t anything new; he’d been the only one your parents trusted to babysit you for as long as you could remember. By now, you were used to having him around. He was practically like an uncle to you. A second dad.

You’re curled up next to him on the living room couch, laughing at some dumb comedy movie, dressed in one of those tiny matching tank top and shorts set that left way too much of your pretty thighs exposed against his. He tried not to notice how soft and delicate you felt when you leaned into him, giggling with your cheek brushing his shoulder.

It wasn't sexual. It shouldn't be sexual.

So when you climbed into his lap, giggling and flustered, and warm from one glass of wine—he didn't know what to do. He immediately stiffened under you like your touch had burnt him.

“Sweetheart—” he started in a gentle tone, brows furrowed tight as he held his hands up, hovering in the air like he couldn't dare lay them on you.

“I just missed you so much, Uncle Ken” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his neck as you nuzzled in close. “You’ve been so far away and busy lately”

“Y—You shouldnt be touching me like this,” he muttered. “You can't sit here, not like this”

But you didn’t move. You just shifted in his lap, slowly rolling your hips just once—almost innocent, like it didn’t mean anything, but you both knew better. That’s when he felt it—your warmth pressing down and grinding directly over his cock, right through the thin layer of your shorts and of his slacks.

His breath caught. His hands shot to your waist—not to push you off, but to stop you from doing it again.

“Don't,” he said sharply with a low hiss. “Don't do that”.

You blinked at him with that innocent look on your face—that soft, bratty smile curving your lips. “Why not?”

“Because it's not right”. His fingers harshly dug into your sides. “Because I'm supposed to be looking out for you, not—”

But then you did it again—rolling your hips even slower this time, letting him feel the full heat of your pussy through the soft stretch of your shorts. And his words caught in his throat.

His cock was getting hard.

It wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't even thinking about it. He didn't want this. He didn't want to feel how warm and soft you were, how easy it would be to slide one hand between your thighs and feel you. He didn't want to imagine how wet you might be—rubbing yourself all over him and marking him with your arousal like that— like you didn't know better.

But you did know better. And you did it again.

“Kento...” you whispered, and his whole body flinched like someone pointed a gun at him. You'd never called him that when you were on top of him before. It felt so wrong.

“Stop,” he growled, but his grip on you tightened instead of loosening. “This is—fuck—this is wrong”

You were grinding in earnest now, soft little whines in your throat as you rocked yourself against the thick length straining against his slacks. The outline is his cock denting into your clothed folds and giving your hungry cunt delicious fiction. His cock pulsed with every movement, throbbing painfully. He’s too hard and fucking weak.

His cock is throbbing so meanly beneath the fabric like it’s trying so hard to rip it open and release itself—thick and leaking and twitching with every teasing pass of your hips. “I didn't want this,” he said as if he could still convince himself. “I never wanted this”.

But he wasn’t stopping you. Fuck no—he was letting it happen, making it happen. His hands had settled on your hips in a bruising grip, holding you down firmly and guiding your movements even as he pretended to let you take the lead. His head fell back, eyes clenched shut, lips parted with a strained, choked groan.

You could feel the tremble in his fingertips, the way his breath hitched every time your clothed cunt dragged over the aching bulge again and again.

“I thought of you as my own,” he whispered like it was a confession. “I didn't even see you like this until tonight—until you...”

You moaned softly and ground down just right, and that was it.

He completely snapped.

His hand grabbed your ass hard, fingers digging in the flesh hard enough to bruise as he yanked your body further into him and grinding you against him with a rhythm that was anything but gentle. It was filthy and utterly desperate—like something inside him had snapped like he couldn’t take another second of teasing.

His hips rutted up into you with hard, mean thrusts, chasing more friction like a man starved with his cock still trapped in the confines of his slacks.

He needed it. Needed you. Needed the heat of your cunt dragging over him, the wet spot on your panties growing with every grind. The soft, broken noises spilling from your mouth.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, panting into your neck, breath hot and rough like he hated himself for how badly he was shaking. His cock was leaking through the fabric, a thick stripe of pre-cum that smeared every time he eagerly fucked up into your clothed pussy.

“God, forgive me,” he gasped, voice breaking into a moan, “I can't—I can't stop, fuck—what are you doing to me”

But he didn't stop.

Not even when he came in his slacks with your name on his tongue.

[barnesonly]

Yearning

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

word count: 5,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff to smut, insecure!bucky, established relationship, curse words, age difference, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex.

Bucky Barnes is a man out of time, and you’re reminded of it every single day.

Sometimes it’s the obvious things—like how he still squints at his phone as if the apps might leap off the screen and bite him, or how he physically recoils every time you say the word “TikTok.” Sometimes it’s subtler—like the way he insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk, or how he always opens doors for you without thinking, like muscle memory trained from another era.

And then there are the flowers.

Almost every day, without fail, a small, lovingly picked bouquet appears on your kitchen counter. Sometimes they’re store-bought, sometimes hand-picked from wherever he was that day. Always with a little handwritten note tucked beneath the stems. He never says much about it—just a casual “these made me think of you” and a kiss to your temple. But the habit is so consistent it’s become its own kind of love language.

You’re dating Bucky fucking Barnes and that still feels unreal sometimes.

He’s grumpy. He’s anxious. He has whole decades of trauma stacked inside him like old, worn-out newspapers.

But he also loves you. Deeply. Devotedly. You can see it in the smallest things—the way his hand always finds yours under the table, or how he tenses any time someone looks at you the wrong way. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but when he does sleep, it’s usually best when you’re wrapped around him.

You’ve been together for a while now. Long enough to fall into a rhythm. Long enough to know what makes him tick, what makes him laugh. Long enough to feel the unspoken ache between you both.

Because there’s one thing you haven’t done yet.

Sex.

You’ve talked about it—briefly, carefully—but Bucky always brushes it off. Not with rejection, but hesitation. You know he wants to… you can feel that he does. But he’s scared. Scared he’s forgotten how. Scared he won’t be good at it anymore. Scared of what might surface, or what might go wrong.

You’d never pressure him. Never.

But god, you want him. Not just the sex—though, yeah, definitely that—but him. His body, his trust, his pleasure. You want him to feel good. You want him to feel wanted.

You’ve started to think he’s almost ready.

You don’t say it aloud. You don’t want to spook him. But there’s a shift in him lately—like maybe he’s starting to believe he deserves this. Deserves you.

Still, you remember the last time you two got close.

It was a quiet night, nothing special. The two of you were curled up on the couch, some half-watched movie playing in the background. You’d ended up in his lap, legs straddling his thighs, your fingers twisted into his hair, your mouths tangled in a kiss that had gone from sweet to hungry in seconds.

He was so warm beneath you, so solid. His hands rested on your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them, like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. You could feel him, hard through his sweats, pressing up against your center—and the way his breath caught every time you shifted your hips only made you want him more.

You kissed him like he was the last good thing in the world. And he kissed you back like he believed it.

But then—just as your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, just as he let out this low, needy sound in the back of his throat—he pulled away.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like it hurt him to stop.

“Babe…” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was hoarse, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet.”

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes or pull away. You just cupped his cheek and smiled at him—soft and sure and full of love.

“No worries, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “You know I love you, right?”

He nodded, and god, the look in his eyes… like he couldn’t understand how someone like you could be so patient. So kind.

You shifted, slowly climbing off his lap, careful not to make it feel like rejection. Just giving him space. You tucked yourself beside him on the couch, your knee still brushing his, your presence still close. You didn’t say anything right away.

He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down his face. The other stayed loosely resting on his thigh, still balled into a fist like he was holding something back.

“I just…” he started, voice rough. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up. Or that I’ll hurt you.”

Your heart cracked a little, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak. He rarely did. Not like this.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I used to be such a charmer in the ’40s, y’know? Smooth talker. Confident. I had moves.”

You huffed a tiny laugh, not mocking—just warm. “I believe it.”

He glanced at you then, barely a flicker, and smiled faintly.

“But now?” he said, the smile dropping. “Now I feel like I’ve forgotten how to even… touch someone the right way. Hell, half the time I’m afraid to want anything too much, ‘cause what if I screw it up? What if I mess you up?”

His jaw tensed. You could see the war in his mind, the echo of every cruel thing that’s ever been drilled into him—by Hydra, by time, by the weight of his own past.

You reached over, took his hand, gently pried open his fingers from that tight fist and laced them with yours.

“Bucky,” you said, soft but sure, “you’re not going to hurt me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes still on your joined hands.

“And you’re not gonna mess anything up. Okay? Wanting something doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”

He didn’t answer right away. You let the silence settle around you both. Not awkward. Just… honest.

“I want to make you feel good,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to feel… Safe. Loved.”

He turned his head toward you. His eyes were glassy, a little overwhelmed, but you could see it—the crack of light breaking through all the fear.

“I do feel loved,” you said quietly. “Every day.”

You squeezed his hand, just once, then let go so you could reach up and cradle his jaw instead—thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his cheekbone.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or needy. It was soft. Steady. Like a quiet promise whispered between two heartbeats. He kissed you back like he was still learning how, but already knew it by heart.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, your noses brushing, the air between you thick with unsaid things.

“I love you,” he murmured, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. “I don’t think I ever really understood what love felt like until you.”

Your breath caught a little, chest tightening.

He kept going, voice rough and low. “You’ve made my life feel like… a life again. Like I’m not just surviving. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. I didn’t think I deserved to. But then you came along and you just—god, sweetheart, you gave me something I never thought I’d have again.”

You felt yourself melting, your heart a puddle in your chest. His hand came up to rest on your thigh, not to start anything, not to take—it just landed there like he needed to touch you, to feel that you were real.

You leaned your head against his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You trying to make me cry?”

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

You tilted your head to grin at him. “You say one more sweet thing and I’m gonna have to marry you and sign up for bridge night at the senior center.”

He huffed a laugh, and that shy little smile of his—god, it destroyed you.

“I mean it,” he said quietly, “even if you joke your way out of it.”

You reached over, cupped his cheek again. “I know you do,” you whispered. “And I love you back, you old fossil.”

He laughed for real that time—head tilted back, the kind of laugh that cracked through all the walls he’d built. And it made you smile so big your cheeks ached.

That memory still sits warm in your chest—etched there like sunlight caught in glass.

You think about it sometimes. The weight of him beneath you, the kiss that lingered on your lips for hours after, the way his voice cracked when he told you what you meant to him. How you called him a fossil to hide the way your heart was splitting open inside your ribcage.

And now?

Now you’re in the kitchen with him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed on a Sunday morning. The radio’s playing something soft and old—something he probably heard first on vinyl. You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while he hovers beside you, clearly pretending not to be watching them like a hawk.

He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s faded to hell and a pair of sweats low on his hips. You’ve got one of his flannels buttoned over your pajamas. The sleeves are way too long. He tried to roll them up for you earlier but got distracted kissing your shoulder halfway through.

Domestic bliss, Barnes-style.

You pass him the next pancake on the stack and bump his hip with yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say. “Because these pancakes are borderline tragic.”

“They’re not tragic,” he replies, grinning as he takes a bite. “They’re… rustic.”

You give him a look.

He shrugs, chewing. “I like ‘em a little burnt. Adds character.”

You snort and turn back to the pan.

There’s a pause—quiet but easy—until his voice breaks it again. Low. Soft.

“I wanna marry you one day, you know?”

The spatula freezes in your hand.

You blink, heart skipping, and glance over your shoulder at him.

He’s looking at you like he’s thinking about saying it again, just to make sure you heard him right. His eyes are clear. Calm. No panic. No second-guessing. Just… love. Simple and steady.

“I mean it,” he says. “I don’t know when. I’m not gonna rush it. But I do. I think about it all the time.”

You stare at him for a second, and then your lips stretch into the stupidest, softest smile.

You turn back to the stove and flip the pancake onto the plate.

“Well, good,” you say. “Because if you didn’t marry me, I’d have to haunt you for eternity. Like, aggressively. I’d knock shit off your shelves.”

He chuckles behind you, then steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His lips brush your temple.

“You already haunt me,” he murmurs. “Just… in a really nice way.”

His arms stay wrapped around you for a long moment after he says it—forehead resting against the side of your head, his body warm against your back. The scent of syrup and coffee hangs in the air, but all you can feel is him.

„I think I’m ready, doll.” He continues, firmly and with determination in his voice.

You set the spatula down gently, not because you’re finished cooking but because suddenly—this is more important.

You turn in his arms, hands slipping up his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your palms. His eyes meet yours. They’re soft. Honest. A little nervous. But not afraid.

“You know we don’t have to,” you say, voice quiet. “Not today. Not ever, if you’re not ready. I love you exactly like this.”

His hands come up to cradle your face—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb traces your cheek.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. That old ache, the one that never quite leaves. But it’s softer now. “But I want to.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he admits. “Scared that I’d mess this up, or hurt you, or—hell, that I wouldn’t remember how to be with someone like that. But the truth is… I think I just didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love.”

You swallow, eyes stinging.

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now I do,” he says. “Because of you.”

He leans in and kisses you then—slow, deep, tender. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just Bucky. All of him.

When he pulls back, you’re already smiling, breathless and dazed.

“God,” you murmur, forehead pressed to his, “you say stuff like that and I get why girls in the 40s were all over you.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve still got it.”

“Barely,” you tease. “You made a grunting noise getting off the couch last night.”

He groans. “Why would you bring that up now?”

“Because I love you,” you say sweetly.

He’s laughing when he kisses you again—and this time, his hands wander a little. One settles at your lower back, pulling you closer. The other slides into your hair, gentle but firm.

The kiss deepens, lazy but loaded, and it starts to hum between you—want. Warm and steady and mutual.

His lips trail to your jaw, barely there kisses—soft, unhurried.

But then he pauses, nose brushing your cheek. His voice is low, warm, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Let me take you out tonight, huh?”

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Someplace nice. Fancy. White tablecloths, cloth napkins, the whole deal. I’ll put on that stupid tie you like, even if it’s choking me the whole night.”

Your heart squeezes.

“Bucky…”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb trailing down your jaw. His gaze is steady now, sure. “I wanna do this right,” he murmurs. “You’re my girl. A lady. You should be treated like one.”

God, you’re melting.

You’re not sure if it’s the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already undressing you in his mind but still wants to kiss your hand first and open every damn door along the way.

“Okay,” you whisper, your smile blooming full and wide. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

His grin is all boyish charm now—relieved, excited, maybe even a little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, looping your arms around his neck. “Only if I get to wear something ridiculous and make you all flustered.”

His brows lift, amused. “Doll, you could show up in a trash bag and I’d still forget how to breathe.”

You laugh, full and bright, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He catches you before you pull away, stealing another kiss—this one slower, deeper. Like he’s already thinking about later. About what this night could be.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re gonna spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”

His lips curve as he presses his forehead to yours.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

———

The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, all low murmurs and soft clinks of silverware. Candlelight dances on the white tablecloth between you, casting gold on Bucky’s jaw—strong, clean-shaven, way too handsome for a man who claims he “doesn’t clean up well.”

He does. He really, really does.

That tie he promised to wear? Yeah, it’s perfectly knotted, navy blue to match his eyes. And the sleeves of his button-up? Rolled just enough to show a hint of his forearms.

And Bucky?

Bucky’s a goner.

He’s been staring at you since you walked into the room. Like, actually speechless. The moment you stepped out of the bedroom tonight in your dress—tight in all the right places, maybe a little backless, maybe with a slit high enough to kill a man—he made a sound. A tiny, quiet, reverent “fuck” that he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’d just smiled and said, “Told you I’d make you flustered.”

Now, over an hour into dinner, he still hasn’t recovered.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, already sliding his hand across the table toward yours.

You shake your head. “Nope. Perfectly warm.”

He nods, but his hand doesn’t go back to his wine glass. It lingers, then slowly drifts down… under the table.

And then you feel it—his palm resting gently on your bare thigh. Not groping. Not demanding. Just there. Warm. Intentional.

Your eyes flick to him, and he’s sipping his drink like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning slightly over your plate, “this is a very respectable restaurant, Sergeant Barnes.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just gives you a slow, easy smile. Then leans in slightly, voice a notch lower now—just for you.

„I told you, I used to be a charmer.” He shrugs.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, just above your knee now. It’s not obscene. Not yet. But it’s loaded. And the heat in his eyes tells you everything—he’s ready.

Maybe not to take you home and rip your clothes off (well… maybe that too), but to have you. Finally. Properly. To show you how much he wants you in every possible way.

And god, you’ve never felt so desired. Or so fucking loved.

———

The ride home is quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said at dinner. Your hand rests on his thigh, his knuckles grazing your knee as he drives, and the whole way back you can feel his gaze flicking to you at every red light.

When he parks in front of your building, he kills the engine and just sits there a second. One hand on the steering wheel. The other finding yours.

He doesn’t say anything—he just looks at you.

And you nod.

Yeah. You’re ready, too.

Inside, everything is soft.

You kick off your shoes. He hangs up his coat. His tie is already loosened, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that’s not from the wine—it’s from you.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid if he rushes, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay right there.

And when his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, you melt into him without hesitation.

His voice is low, quiet. “You sure?”

You nod again, reaching up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”

He exhales, almost like relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally—finally—he can let go.

Then he kisses you.

God, it’s different now. It’s not frantic or messy. It’s not lust without thought.

It’s slow. Deep. He kisses you like he’s mapping your mouth, relearning how to love someone through touch. His hands stay respectful, still at your waist, not drifting, not rushing. Just there.

You kiss him back, soft and patient, running your fingers through his hair. He shudders when you tug gently—just enough to pull a little sound from him, something low in his chest that makes your knees wobble.

He pulls back, barely, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

His hands finally move then—one gliding up your back, the other brushing along your jaw. His metal fingers are warm from your skin, and when they graze your cheek, you lean into them like instinct.

“I wanna take my time,” he says, voice hoarse now. “Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make sure you know how much I—how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“You do,” you whisper. “You already do.”

But you let him show you anyway.

He leans down, kisses your neck—slow and reverent—and then he starts walking you backward, one step at a time, toward the bedroom.

Your back hits the edge of the bed and Bucky pauses there, standing in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be for someone who’s only kissed you.

But it’s not nerves anymore. Not fear. It’s want.

“C’mere,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

He steps in closer. Between your knees now. His hands find your thighs again, thumbs brushing along the fabric of your dress as if he’s still memorizing the shape of you.

He eases you back onto the bed like you’re made of glass—slow, steady, never breaking eye contact. His body follows, covering yours without pressing you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing the line of your hip with reverence.

He kisses you again, slower than before. Softer. Less lips, more mouths—open and warm and lingering. You part your legs to cradle him, and the sigh that falls from his lips ghosts across your cheek like a prayer.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close.

His fingers reach up to your shoulder, brushing the strap of your dress aside, and he looks at you like he’s asking for permission without even saying a word.

You nod once.

So he slips the strap down. Then the other. His touch is featherlight—almost hesitant—but his hands don’t tremble this time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.

Your chest rises with the compliment. It’s not the first time he’s said it—but something about this moment… the way his eyes are locked on you, the way he swallows hard like he’s overwhelmed just seeing you… it hits different.

He tugs your dress down slowly, letting it fall to your waist, then lower, until you’re sitting there in nothing but your bra and panties. The air between you shifts—warmer now, heavier.

His hands brush your arms, your waist, your hips—everywhere but the places you want them most. But you let him go at his pace. You want him to feel in control.

“Can I…” he starts, fingers ghosting over your bra strap, “…take this off?”

You nod again. “Yeah. Please.”

So he does. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

When your bra falls away, his breath catches.

“Jesus,” he whispers, eyes roaming your chest like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

When he undresses you fully, he does it slowly, dragging fabric down your legs with both hands, his metal fingers brushing over your skin with a tenderness that almost makes you ache.

You lift your hands to the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, Sergeant.”

He huffs a breath, a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pull his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest, the lines of scars, the metal arm, the years carved into him. You trace your fingers over the dog tags that still hang around his neck.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close. His dog tags clink as they fall between you, cold against your bare skin.

He kisses you again, and this time when he settles between your thighs, you feel him fully—heavy and hard, pressing against you.

He settles there like he belongs there—shoulders broad between your thighs, hands gentle on your hips as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he speaks—low, reverent.

“Let me taste you first, sweetheart. Make you feel good.”

And god, you don’t even have the breath to respond. You just nod, breath hitching, thighs already trembling beneath his touch.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. Trails his lips upward, slow, soft, maddening. You can feel the warmth of his breath long before his mouth finds you—feel it ghost over your skin, spreading goosebumps down your spine.

His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. But his touch is tender, steady. There’s nothing rushed in the way he moves. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

And when his mouth finally finds you—lips parting, tongue tasting—

You gasp.

Quiet, breathy, uncontrollable. Your fingers twist in the sheets, one hand reaching instinctively for him. He groans against you when you thread your fingers into his hair, and the sound of it vibrates straight through you.

He’s slow at first. Careful. Testing. Tasting.

Learning you.

But he’s good at learning.

He watches you, listens to your breath, the way your body reacts—what makes your hips jerk, what makes your thighs tighten around his shoulders. His tongue strokes long and slow, then soft flicks, and when he hears the change in your breathing—there, that’s what makes your voice break—he stays right there.

He moans again, deeper this time, and the way he grips your hips tightens just slightly. Like he can’t take it. Like he’s the one unraveling just from the way you taste, the way you sound.

The dog tags still hang from his neck, cool against your skin. His hair’s messy from your fingers, jaw flexing as he works, as he buries his face deeper into you like a man starved.

And all you can do is feel.

The rise of pleasure. The way it blooms low and hot and thick in your belly. The burn of it, the ache. Every stroke of his tongue makes it worse. Makes it better.

Your thighs begin to tremble. Your back arches.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

Not greedily. Worshipfully.

Like he’s not just tasting you—he’s loving you with his mouth. Showing you just how deeply he means it.

And when you finally come—soft and shaking, moaning into your hand, thighs trembling around his head—he stays with you. Rides it out. Holds you through it.

He only pulls away when your body begins to relax beneath him, when your hand goes soft in his hair, when your breath evens out in his ears.

Then he rises slowly, kisses your inner thigh once more, then your stomach, your ribs, your chest.

He kisses you like he’s grounding you.

And when he finally reaches your lips again, he just hovers there, noses brushing.

You smile.

He smiles back—soft, flushed, eyes dark with affection and want.

And then, finally, finally, he settles between your legs again—not to taste you this time, but to be with you. To love you. Completely.

His mouth brushes yours—soft, almost shy. But the hand that cups your face? That’s steady. Grounded. He strokes your cheek with his thumb like he’s feeling it all through his fingertips.

Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking.

And when his hips settle against yours, when you feel the hard press of him, your breath hitches all over again.

He groans quietly—deep in his throat. The sound of it is raw. Barely controlled.

You reach between you, fingertips ghosting over his length. He shudders—actually shudders—and buries his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this. Wants you.

You guide him to you.

And he pauses. Just for a second.

His forehead presses to yours and his voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is low and hoarse.

“…You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Yes.”

When Bucky sinks into you, it’s slow—but the depth? It knocks the air from your lungs.

He presses in all the way, until you feel him everywhere, and he stays there for a second—deep, thick, pulsing inside you while his breath stutters against your mouth.

Your mouth parts. His name catches in your throat. The stretch is deep and full and perfect, and for a moment, all either of you can do is feel.

He stills at the bottom, buried inside you completely. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he pulls back just a a little.

You moan into his shoulder. Fingers gripping the sheets. He groans, too—but it’s quiet, choked, like it costs him to keep this slow.

You’re soaked. Warm and clenching around him. And he groans when you tighten, like the feel of you is almost too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… baby, you feel so good.”

His hips roll—smooth and deliberate—and you arch beneath him with a soft moan. He starts to move then, slow but filthy, every thrust long and deep, like he wants to stay inside you as long as he can.

His hand grips your thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. The shift makes his next thrust hit deeper—you gasp, and Bucky curses low into your neck.

“Shit, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”

The sounds between you are quiet but thick—breath and skin and need. The soft slap of his hips against yours. The low whimper you didn’t mean to let out when he hits that spot just right.

Your nails scrape his back, your heels press into him, needing more—more of his heat, his weight, the drag of him pulling out and sliding right back in, making you stretch and flutter and lose your rhythm

He makes you feel it—every thrust, every stroke, every trembling inhale.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, tilt your hips up, chasing the friction, and his rhythm stutters.

He’s panting now, buried in your chest, hips moving in slow, punishing strokes that leave you trembling.

Every sound you make—every whimper, gasp, broken moan—he drinks it in like it’s what keeps him going.

His hand finds yours above your head. He laces your fingers together. Holds you there.

Grounds himself in you.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice all grit and heat, “so tight around me, fuck—feels like I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You can’t even speak.

Just nod. Moan. Cling to him.

Your body is burning, slick and hot and aching for release again, and he knows. He feels the way you tighten, the way you start chasing his thrusts, hips rolling up against him.

His pace stutters. Picks up. Just a little. Just enough.

“Gonna cum for me?” he pants, his lips at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Yeah? Gonna fall apart on my cock, baby?”

You cry out—soft and desperate—and he loves it. Groans low, grinding into you just right, fucking you through it as your walls flutter and clench, dragging him toward the edge with you.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasps, right against your ear, hips snapping a little harder now. “So fuckin’ perfect, holy shit—”

You’re spiraling again, thighs shaking, breath hitching—

And then you break.

Your whole body arches off the bed as you cum around him, gasping his name, your nails digging into his back.

He chokes on a moan and buries himself deep.

And follows you with a shudder that rocks through him—his hips stalling, cock twitching inside you as he spills with a low, broken growl.

“Fuck—oh my god, baby—”

He holds you tight through it. Hand in your hair. Face in your neck. Heart pounding against yours.

You’re still tangled up in each other, the sheets barely covering you, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin as you catch your breath.

Everything’s warm. His skin, his breath, the way his arms hold you like you’re something he earned.

You shift a little, snuggle closer. “Seriously, James?” you mutter, voice muffled against his chest. “You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe you were actually insecure you forgot how to have sex.”

He lets out a groan—somewhere between bashful and bashful-aggressive.

“Doll…”

“No, like—seriously.” You sit up just enough to look at him, eyes wide and dramatic now. “That was insane. Like, are you sure you haven’t been practicing with a pillow or something while I wasn’t around?”

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, one hand dragging over his face. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin. He’s blushing. This gorgeous, 110-year-old supersoldier with arms the size of your thighs and a tongue that just rewired your soul is blushing.

“I mean, the way you—” You gesture vaguely at your lower half. “You knew exactly what to do.”

He looks like he might implode.

“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

“Oh, baby,” you say, all fond and exasperated. You crawl back on top of him, straddling his stomach, hands on his flushed chest. “That wasn’t luck. That was talent.”

He groans again, letting his head fall back on the pillow—but his hands settle instinctively on your hips, keeping you there like he doesn’t actually want you to stop.

“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, but you can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m genuinely impressed, Bucky,” you say, mock-serious now. “Like, maybe you should’ve been cocky about it.”

He shoots you a look. “I can’t tell If this is your way of mocking me or you really mean it.”

You giggle—hard. Collapse onto his chest and wrap your arms around his middle while he sighs dramatically.

But he’s smiling.

You nuzzle your face into his neck and soften, voice low now, honest.

“You were amazing,” you whisper. “Like… beyond. You didn’t just make me feel good, Buck. You made me feel loved.”

That gets him quiet.

One hand slips up your back. His metal one curls protectively around your waist. He kisses your temple like he can’t help it.

“Only ever wanted to make you feel that,” he murmurs.

And now you’re blushing.

You both lie there a while—grinning, tangled, all warm limbs and wandering fingers.

“…So, round two?” you say sweetly.

He barks a laugh, grabs you around the waist, and rolls you beneath him.

“Bet.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @thatsbucknasty @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125

[dollfacefantasy]

caleb x fem!reader

you and caleb used to play fight a lot, but things are different now that you're older

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, fauxcest, dry humping

a/n: um hehe just a small drabble cause i've been thinking... also i like the pipsqueak thing idgaf kiss me about it. imagine this takes place when she’s staying with him.

"isn't this around the time you'd usually cry mercy, pipsqueak?" he breathes, his smooth voice warming the air next to your ear.

a small grunt escapes you as you try to lift your arm to shove him off. your effort is pointless though. his grip tightens around your wrist, and he brings your limb back down to the floor without much effort.

“caleb, quit it!” you whine.

he just laughs at you. his body doesn’t move away an inch. he stays right where he his, hovering over your smaller frame.

the two of you used to play fight all the time as kids. you’d squabble over the remote or your toys. whiny arguments would morph into a small scuffle, a test of wills. so it felt natural today to lunge at him when he held the book you wanted to read just out of reach. getting physical made sense. you’d been so agitated with him keeping you here, you needed to blow off some steam. it just didn’t feel so good when reality set in as he wrestled you down to the floor like always.

“it’s not funny,” you say and try to jam your knee up into his abs.

he dodges the move and continues to smirk at you. “maybe not to you. but it’s pretty funny from up here. pretty cute too,” he teases.

you scowl, squirming some more. in your younger years, you’d always been able to fight back a little. you’d lose in the end, sure, but victory had been in reach a few times. now, caleb is stronger. he’s bigger, and he doesn’t fight like a scrappy high school kid but rather someone with training. you’re starting to realize you have no chance now, and part of you wonders if you ever did. or maybe he’d been going easy on you.

as if to taunt you, he slides your arms up above your head and grabs both your wrists with one hand. even with his other one free, he keeps you pinned with the same amount of force. it’s fucking humiliating. you feel your cheeks starting to heat up as he drags the back of his fingers along your jaw, cooing at you.

“you always used to get so angry like this too. so frustrated. you’d think you would’ve learned not to start fights you can’t win,” he mocks.

his thumb comes to sweep along your cheekbone, back in forth in slow strokes. he stares into your eyes while he does, almost studying you. it gets you heated for a whole other reason you don’t even want to acknowledge.

“get off of me,” you squeak, your voice much less aggressive now.

“maybe i will if you beg enough,” he taunts, “if you use your manners and say please like a good girl, i’ll consider it.”

“shut up!” you say. you kick a few more times and buck your hips to try and get loose.

in response, he grabs your hip with his free hand and slams it back to the ground. you let out a little growl, assuming you’ll have to restrategize. but then he pushes his pelvis down on top of yours.

you gasp. all the fight leaves you in a harsh blow because now, unlike any of the other times you play fought with him, you feel a solid bulge pressing between your legs.

your eyes widen, and you sputter. you’re sure you look totally stupid right now. but you don’t know what else to do. there’s no question about it. he’s got a boner, and he’s rubbing it right up against you.

“i told you. you’re not gonna win. might as well surrender,” he says. he speaks in a completely even tone, as if nothing is different.

“c-caleb. what are you doing?” you start, “don’t be weird.”

“i’m not being weird,” he defends with feigned innocence, “we always used to mess around like this. what’s got you all shy now?”

you know why he’s asking. because he knows you won’t say it. the answer is so easy, yet you can’t bring the words to leave your lips.

“you know what,” you whine softly.

he chuckles and leans in even closer to your face. “maybe i do. but i don’t think that it’s weird. we’re not kids anymore. you can’t whine and wriggle around like that and expect me not to react,” he murmurs.

your heart beats harder in your chest. you can feel every thump. before you can say anything in return, he grinds his hips again, rolling his hardened length right up against you. and this time, it feels good.

“i- caleb- we can’t,” you whimper, biting your lip.

“we can’t? we can’t what? we’re not doing anything,” he says before grinning at you, “it doesn’t count if it’s over the clothes.”

you want to smack him, but both your arms are still immobile.

“it’s still weird. we’ve never- i don’t see you like this,” you insist, though the last statement is a complete lie.

he tsks and shakes his head before pushing his erection between your legs for another time. this one draws a whine out of you. his hips jump forward at the sound, but he doesn’t let his face show that burst of desire.

“what do you see me like then?” he whispers.

silence fills the air between the two of you as you fail to answer. you know what you see him as. you know your crush on him goes back years. you know what fantasies fill your head at night when you’re alone.

but you also know how you want to see him. what you’re supposed to see him as. what you’ve tried to limit his role to for so long.

“it’s ok,” he finally says, “i won’t make you say it if it’s that hard. but i know you like this. i know you, remember?”

he grinds against you again, but this time it’s not only once. now he sets himself into a rhythm, consistent swings of his hips against your center.

“i know when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you’re ashamed,” he says, “i know when you want something, but you’re too scared to ask.”

ducking in, he kisses your neck. you moan in response, putting no effort into suppressing the noise now.

“that’s right, princess. your big brother knows you better than anyone, doesn’t he?” he coos mockingly.

“caleb!” you whine. you internally cringe at both titles, but outwardly, your face still contorts with pleasure.

“what?” he laughs, “that’s what you were gonna say before, wasn’t it?”

“but i didn’t,” you whimper.

“but you thought it, and it’s all the same to me,” he teases.

he refocuses his mouth on your neck again. his lips move over the column of your throat while his cock continues pressing right on your pussy. it feels better by the second. maybe it’s because he’s kissing your neck too, you’re not really sure. all you know is the hot, sparkling feeling in your stomach is building.

nipping at your pulse point, he then sucks on the skin like he wants to leave a mark. his tongue laves at it for a few moments before he pulls off.

“i’m gonna let go of your arms. you’re gonna behave, ok?” he mumbles against your skin.

“mhm,” you whimper and nod. the overt submission feels pathetic, but losing the feeling of him would be even worse.

“good girl,” he praises.

he keeps his word and releases his hold on your wrists. the air feels cool on your skin that’s all warmed up from his hands. now with his other arm in use, he can snake one around your ass and boost your hips. the new angle allows him to thrust against you harder.

“fuck, baby,” he grunts. you feel his lashes brush your neck as his eyes flutter.

your arms loop over his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. more little mewls spill from your lips. you can feel his stiff length sliding right up against your folds through your clothes. every swipe brings a blissful burst of friction to your poor throbbing clit.

“there you go. i got you. big brother’s got you,” he mumbles mindlessly. he chokes out a moan into your shoulder as his hips move like they have a mind of their own.

your body starts to squirm more. that hot feeling inside is reaching a boiling point. you clutch at his shirt, your nails digging in so hard they threaten to tear the fabric. the constant push and pull of his lower half is nearly hypnotic. it seems like you’ll be under him forever while also on the brink of letting go.

after a few moments more, he pulls back to look at you. his eyelids hang low, heavy with his desire for you.

“god, you’re so pretty. so fuckin’ beautiful now,” he says and presses his forehead to yours. his eyes shut while your breaths mingle. “i knew you wanted this too. just look at you. almost falling apart, and i haven’t even really touched you. i knew no one else could do this better.”

all you can do is whimper softly and cling to him harder. you pull on him as if trying to pull him into your body, to meld your two beings into one. the pressure down below feels dull and muted, but it’s blooming nonetheless.

“yeah… you’re gonna cum all over your pretty panties,” he mutters, “get ‘em all nice and wet so i can have some fun with ‘em later.”

“caleb…” you whine, useful words falling out of your grasp in this moment. one of your hands flies up and laces in his hair. your fingers clench into a fist, giving the strands a sharp tug.

he groans and bucks his hips extra hard. “c’mon. cum for me, baby. let me make my sweet little angel cum,” he murmurs.

it really doesn’t take much to get you there. the friction burn he’s rutting you both into works, and you feel yourself hit the high. euphoria rushes through you. a little breathy whine erupts from your lips. your back arches off the floor, but he keeps you cradled against him securely.

the whole time you’re cumming, he’s still humping you like his life depends on it. it’s when you start to come down, that he finally explodes. he buries his face in your neck, letting out the loudest moan you’ve heard so far. his arms tighten up around your frame as his fingers dig into your malleable flesh.

his hips jolt forward in random twitches now, chasing the last remnants of release while he spills inside his pants.

when he’s done, his breaths are harsh and labored. he nuzzles the crook of your neck before kissing your cheek and receding off your body. his palm runs over his face lazily.

“fuck, i gotta change now,” he says, not bothering to look down at the dark patch at the front of his pants.

without even really thinking about it, you reach forward for the waistline. you’re already craving more of him. but before your hand can get there, he takes your wrist.

“not so fast, pipsqueak. i think you should actually beat me before i let you have the real thing,” he smirks.

[crushmeeren]

ᝰ FIRST TIME FUCKING YOU WITHOUT A CONDOM .ᐟ

⋆ ft. itachi, neji, kakashi, sasuke ⋆

master list link

ᯓ★ dividers created by me.

༝ ᭝ ༝ itachi ༝ ᭝ ༝

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

Itachi is not someone who’d be reckless with this decision.

Sure, his cheeks would turn scarlet when you ask. His head would whip to the side so fast his neck would be in danger of snapping, drawing one leg up as his entire body shifts towards you on the couch. He would slip two fingers into the collar of his t-shirt and tug, desperate for a cool breeze to tame the suffocating heat now creeping down his throat, flushing his chest.

His gaze would flicker across your face, hand resting on your thigh, squeezing once. He’d ask, “You — are you sure? You don’t want me to wear a condom anymore?” His voice would crack on the word condom and his blush would darken. Itachi would take a second to clear his throat, glaring at you without any real heat when you couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“I’m sure, Itachi.” You’d readjust your position, mirroring his, and look up at him through your lashes. “I just, I need to feel you. All of you,” you’d admit, playing with his fingers before lacing them together. The sweet heat building in your belly would remind you of the way it feels to drink a cup of hot chocolate.

Itachi’s lips would part, and you’d be certain you caught his dick jerking in his sweats. He’d make you wait until you’re on some other form of birth control. No surprise babies in this house.

Itachi would hold his breath when he pushed his latex free cock into you for the first time. His eyes would squeeze shut, a shaky exhale of your name spilling from his lips as he bottomed out and fucking came. You’d be able to feel the harsh twitching of his dick as he made you look nothing short of a cream filled donut. He’d be so embarrassed, ready to apologize, but he’d stop short at the fucked out look on your face.

The added slick sensation would turn you on like no other, cheeks hot to the touch as you begged him to keep going. He’d stay as hard as a rock, rolling you both until you’re perched in his lap. He’d draw his knees up, tangle his fingers with yours, and encourage you to “Ride me, sweetheart. C’mon, take what you need. I’ll let you use me until your pretty little pussy is sore.”

Itachi doesn’t have to tell you twice.

༝ ᭝ ༝ neji ༝ ᭝ ༝

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

Neji loves having sex with you, but he’d be a bit paranoid.

Neji’s uptight. From the outside, you’d never be able to tell how pussy drunk he gets. He’s a whiny, breathy mess any time his cock’s inside you.

However, he’d also be hyper aware he could get you pregnant if he’s not careful. He wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of having a baby with you, but he wouldn’t be ready for quite some time. He’d wear a condom, no matter how bad he wants your pussy to squeeze him raw. You’d have multiple conversations about it, convincing him to try just putting the tip in.

He’d be….hooked, to say the least. It’d be by sheer force of will that he doesn’t shove his entire cock in your pussy that first time. But, it’d also be the very next time Neji swears “just the tip”, when things spiral.

The warm ache in Neji’s belly would overshadow his concerns. He’d end up knocking your thighs further apart with his knees, bending forward and planting his elbows on either side of your head, leaving just a few centimeters between you. He’d whine, “Baby, I can’t handle this temptation any longer. Please, can I feel your pussy?”

“Fuck, put it in Neji. As long as you pull out it’ll be fine, I promise.” You’d lift your hips to take more of him before he could regret it, and Neji would oblige. Your pussy would hug his cock better than in his dreams, and Neji’s low, broken moan would light your blood on fire.

Neji would straighten up to sit on his knees, grip one of your ankles and haul your leg over his shoulder, allowing the other leg to hang loosely at his hip. He’d bend you in half to deepen the angle, hands resting by your shoulders. Just to tease you both, he’d pull out halfway and push back in at an agonizing pace.

Neji would fuck you within an inch of your life, long hair becoming a curtain that cuts you off from the world. Your nails would scratch angry pink lines down his chest, and his cock would start to throb as he toed the line of release. You’d smack his chest, reminding him with a desperate plea, “Don’t cum inside me! Neji, Neji, baby — you gotta pull out!”

He’d slip his cock free at the last second, letting your body flop to the bed as he stroked his cock. With three quick pumps he’d cum all over your belly.

Safe to say, this would be Neji’s new favorite way to have sex.

༝ ᭝ ༝ sasuke ༝ ᭝ ༝

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

Unlike his brother, Sasuke is impulsive.

He couldn’t deny the thought would cross his mind every now and then, playing with the idea of fucking you raw and seeing his sticky, white cum cover his cock and spill from your pussy.

Usually when he got the urge he’d jerk himself off. Cool fingers would wrap around his warm cock, shivers running down his spine as he stroked himself slowly. He’d cum in a heartbeat.

It would dull the ache of his desire for a while. Hell, he definitely wouldn’t want to have a baby any time in the near future. But soon enough it’d start to eat at him again. His stomach would clench tight every time you’d have sex, nasty dreams forcing him to wake up hard. That’s why, when you beg him to take the condom off, it’s take zero effort to convince him.

Your face would be buried in your pillow, ass in the air, and one hand would fist the sheets. The other would twist behind to smack against Sasuke’s lean lower belly, pushing at him to wait. He’d be too focused, hands pressing your lower back into a harsh arch, sweat trailing down his temple, over his jaw, dripping onto your back.

“Sasuke,” you’d moan, asking for his attention. “Wait, Sasuke — ah fuck!” You’d dig your nails into his belly until he sucked in a sharp breath. “Take the condom off, please!”

His hips would still, pressed flush to your ass. “What?” He’d ask, already be pulling out. “You want me to fuck you raw?” He’d tease. “So spoiled, princess.”

You’d roll onto your back, cheeks heated, chest heaving. “Just fucking take it off,” you’d demand, reaching to grasp the slippery latex and slide it free. Sasuke would smirk, eyes glued to his dick as it bobs once the condom pops off.

Sasuke’s jaw would go slack once you stroked his cock, the skin soft and slick from leftover lube. He’d fucking whimper, a noise he’d never made before, when he pushes all the way in. Sasuke’s thoughts wouldn’t be coherent after that. He’d put your knees to your ears and fuck you until he’s cum twice and you’re squirting onto his pelvis.

He would panic the next day, going dizzy with relief when you inform him you started getting birth control shots.

༝ ᭝ ༝ kakashi ༝ ᭝ ༝

⇣ ༝ ⇣ ༝ ⇣

Kakashi would be asking you if he could hit it raw.

For your entire relationship, Kakashi would have it known that he’s got a fantasy about giving you a “cream pie”, for lack of a better word. He’d never push you to do something you’re uncomfortable with, no, he’d be more than happy to even role play the act.

There’s no denying that Kakashi would truly want to get you pregnant. He’d love to see your belly round with his baby, but he’d be patient and wait for you to give him the go ahead. However, Kakashi has a loud mouth, and he’d voice his desires at least every other time you have sex.

In the end, the idea would get in your head and become more than appealing to you. When you gave in, it’d be when Kakashi least expected it. It’d be a night when his back is propped up by a couple pillows near your headboard, calloused hands gripping your ass and guiding the slow roll of your hips. Kakashi would be drooling about how well you ride his cock.

Your hands would brace themselves on his pecs, nails digging into his skin, and Kakashi wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut. No surprise there. “Babygirl,” he’d moan, eyes rolling towards the ceiling when your pussy clenches tight. “Look so pretty when you ride me, m’gonna cum so hard. You’ll let me knock you up, yeah? Wanna see you swollen with my baby so bad.”

You’d slap your hand over his mouth to stop the stream of filthy words, cheeks blistering. “Kakashi,” you’d say through your teeth, voice pitching higher. “Take off the condom.”

Kakashi’s eyebrows would shoot to his hairline, jaw dropping open as the words he’d been waiting forever to hear sunk in. There’s no way in hell you’d have to repeat yourself. He’d shove you off his lap and onto your back, settling between your spread thighs as he all but ripped off the condom. He’d stroke his cock a couple times before readjusting his weight, taking his time to slide his bare cock back inside you.

Kakashi would whine in back of his throat, pushing your thighs apart until your muscles started to protest. “Kakashi!” You’d gasp, pushing up to your elbows, fisting the sheets as he railed the shit out of you.

“Sorry, can’t — fuck, can’t help myself,” he’d pant, not sounding sorry at all. You’d catch a glimpse of Kakashi’s sharingan whirling and then he’d be cumming before you realized he’s close.

He wouldn’t stop with one round. He’d wring pleasure out of you until your legs turned to jelly. He’d cum again after that, making such a mess that you’d both end up in the shower.

[botanicsoul]

Eyes Up Here

Aged up | Possessive!Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Reader

-> This one’s for my bigger chested babes🍈🍈

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

It’s sunny, warm, and perfect for walking hand in hand down the street with your boyfriend. You’re dressed for the heat—light denim shorts that hug your hips and a yellow low-cut tank top that gives just the right amount of bounce and peek.

You’d noticed his mood shift about three blocks ago.

He was quiet, more than usual, walking half a step behind you. But you knew Bakugou, and you could practically feel the heat of his glare every time someone else’s eyes lingered on you too long. His grip would tighten around your hip whenever that happened, thumb pressing into the waistband of your shorts.

So naturally, you played it up. A little extra sway in your hips, a stretch when you reached for your drink, a smug little smirk when you heard him grumble under his breath.

“Katsuki,” you sing-songed as you reached a patch of flowers blooming by a café wall. “We need a picture. The light is perfect.”

He snorted, lips curled. “Seriously?”

“Come on, plus you look hot today.” You dragged him in beside you and held your phone up. “Smile, babe. Just once. For me.”

You flipped to selfie mode, adjusting the angle. Your tank dipped low with the way your arm was lifted, giving the camera an unobstructed view of your cleavage. You looked damn good, and you knew it.

But before you could snap the picture—

A warm hand slapped over your chest. Then, in one swift, unapologetic tug, Bakugou yanked the hem of your tank up, covering the curve of your breasts with a grunt of pure annoyance.

“Katsuki!”

“You’re not fuckin’ posting that,” he growled into your ear, hand still fisted in your shirt, keeping it high.

You twisted to glare at him. “It wasn’t even that bad!”

“The hell it wasn’t,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face—then your chest—then the street, as if daring anyone to be looking. “You think I didn’t see that guy over there just now? Mouth open like he was starin’ at a damn dessert menu.”

You burst out laughing. “So what? I am dessert.”

He grumbled low in his throat. “Yeah, but you’re my fuckin’ dessert.”

“Oh my god, Katsuki—”

He leaned in, crowding close, hand still gripping your tank. “You’re walkin’ around with your tits half out like you want people lookin’. You tryin’ to start somethin’? Hm?”

“You’re so dramatic, it’s not my fault their big—”

“I’m serious.” His voice dropped lower, hotter, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t wanna know what I’d do if you actually posted that. let people see what’s mine.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively at the tone, at the way his fingers lingered at the top of your shorts like he was one second away from slipping them in, right there on the sidewalk.

“You’re so possessive,” you whispered.

“You fuckin’ love it,” he replied, smirking when your breath hitched.

And the worst part? He was right.

He let go of your tank only when it stayed put, satisfied with the new, more “modest” arrangement. You snapped a photo anyway, catching the moment: your lips parted in shock, his hand mid-grab, his eyes narrowed like he’d just claimed territory—and dared anyone else to try.

“You’re insane,” you murmured, grinning as you looked down at the photo.

“Keep testin’ me,” he muttered, brushing a possessive kiss to your temple. “Next time I’m makin’ you take the picture with my hand down your shorts so they really know who the fuck you belong to.”

Your breath caught. “Katsuki—”

He shot you a wicked smirk. “Go on, post that, sweetheart.”

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

-> here is one for my smaller chested babes 🍒

[makeitworse]

GOOD ONES

the good ones always go. and when it’s survival over shame— namgyu’s all you can afford.

contains: darkfic. dub/noncon themes. misogyny. harassment. yandere-ish namgyu. smut mentions. suicidal thoughts + attempt (me in the games tbh). 18+

based on a request from @iziiurnamguygirl

you don’t know what it is about you that’s always drawn their eyes. the bad ones.

the loud-mouthed rapper 230 and his rat-faced lackey 124, that is. thanos and namgyu you’ve come to learn. they’ve had their sights leeched onto you since day one in this godforsaken slaughter island. like they were attracted to the scent trail of your fear.

catcalls followed you like a second shadow. 230’s tongue practically slithered out every time you passed by, and 124 just stood there grinning, whispering shit behind his hand as they watched you on the bunks.

it was because of them that you clung to your group: the “marine” men, plus the loony 456 who had supposedly played these games before. you didn’t believe half of the shit he’d spout— but you did believe in strength in numbers. in protection. so that billy and stu over there couldn’t try anything in lights out, crawling into your bunk as you slept.

and then there was also 388— daeho. the ponytailed one, with the kind eyes and warm smile. he insisted that you went to school together— swore he could never forget a face like yours. he was practically glued to you by the hip, and for a while, you let him. even liked him, in some quiet way.

but oh, did namgyu not appreciate that.

you could feel it in the way his gaze seared into your skin across the dorm. in the way his laugh turned meaner when you passed by. how he’d shove his shoulder into daeho passing in the hallway. his hands twitching at his sides like he’s imagining them around your neck or on your thighs— either’s equally possible.

but then thanos dies. and what follows is a blood-soaked ripple of events.

the lights-out murders. the players revolted. your group dropped like flies. your daeho lost his nerve, reduced to a shaking, curled-up mess. protection was gone, danger was nigh.

so stupidly, maybe instinctively, you found yourself drifting to someone whose better interests are keeping you around. namgyu.

because bad men don’t run when it gets ugly. they stand tall, flourish in the gore with a smile. you didn’t need it gentle or genuine or good. you needed to stay alive. and namgyu, for his own fucked-up reasons, could deliver on that.

namgyu’s all teeth and jealousy. suffocatingly obsessive. from the moment you approach him, you have to ignore his crude quips about you finally coming around, not acting like a stuck-up bitch. you have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes, launch your fist at his face, kick your knee into his crotch, whatever. you just nod and smile. let his hands creep up your waist, fingers curl around the back of your neck. because your survival depends on it. because the prospect of fucking you is enough for namgyu to value your life in this next game.

“you’re one of the good ones, you know.” he had murmured, nails digging into the shirt fabric at your hip.

“i’ll change your mind about this—” he flicked a finger at the red cross patch on your tracksuit, snickering. “you’re gonna want to stay.”

he’s basically already fucking you with his eyes. you know what’s in store for you, once the lights dim. he even tells you as much.

“if only i knew where you were hiding…” he smirked, voice low as his fingers walked up your thigh. “i could’ve had a little fun with you.”

he practically corners you as he asks if you and daeho got up to anything— demanding to know if he’s getting some other man’s sloppy seconds.

and then he’s enticing you into popping a pill with him in the next breath.

“it’s fuckin’ crazy,” he crooned, holding out a rainbow-coloured tablet between his teeth.

you don’t take it then. but you don’t turn it down, either.

that night, with the next game looming on the horizon and your insides curled into knots, you caved. it’s far from out of want or trust. you let namgyu touch you, let him kiss you, hands wandering beneath the covers as his body curls around yours like a noose. you let him chew off that little piece of control.

because you needed him docile. needed him asleep.

so you swallow down the bile burning your throat when he stretches you open, hand wrapped around the base of your throat as he fucks into you. he only has his way for a few minutes— it doesn’t take long before he’s collapsing on top of you, panting at your ear.

and then once his breathing slows, lips slackening against your shoulder with a firm arm draped over your stomach, you moved.

carefully, silently, you reached for his necklace. unlatched the tiny silver cross, slipping out the pills tucked inside. four. enough, you thought. he takes two to feel good. four might let you sleep forever.

you held them in your palm, stared for a long time. you listen to his shallow breath beside you.

and you decide that yes— death is better than bedding this maniac just to live another day.

so no more thinking.

you briefly hear the sound of him rousing next to you, but you don’t care— not wasting another second in cupping your palm over your mouth, letting the pills fall onto your tongue.

and then there’s a hand flying out, roughly prying your jaw open.

“yah!” namgyu hisses, fingers intruding into your mouth as he fishes for the pills. one crumbles beneath your molar, bitter. another slides down your throat. he manages to claw the rest out— wet and glistening in his hand, soaked in saliva and shame.

he was on top of you then, straddling your hips. chest heaving with hard breaths. eyes blown wide and furious.

“don’t be fucking stupid,” he growled, snatching a fistful of your hair and jerking your head back. “you wanna break up that bad already?!”

you just gawked at him, heart drumming against your chest as the pills dissolve into your bloodstream.

“is that all this was?” he spits, face hovering over yours. “let me fuck you so i fall asleep easier? so you could off yourself right next to me like some kind of twisted fucking goodbye??”

you don’t answer. can’t.

he shook you by the shoulders. “i picked you, god-fucking-dammit. chose you over every other dog in this place.”

his mouth comes to just below your ear, and you shiver when his lips ghost over the skin.

but then he’s biting down, hard; hand flying out to clamp over your mouth as you thrash beneath him.

“you don’t get to leave me.” he hisses, thumb pressing into the teeth mark blooming onto your neck. a reminder.

“don’t fucking forget it.”

mlist · taglist 〃

@lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @ttturnitup @rafesbunniebby @nicaeno @ferrarifinnick @loveesiren @madebybec @avsarchivez @frontwomann @szonyix6277 @namgyooner @thanosspills

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Bob Floyd X Reader: Drunk words, sober truths.

Summary: After one too many drinks, you drunkenly confess your feelings to Bob. The next morning smut ensues. That it guys, thats the plot.

Warnings: Porn with some plot, Smut, explicit sexual content, kissing, physical intimacy, alcohol consumption, drunkenness , dirty thoughts, consensual sexual activity, drunken confessions, no use of y/n, penetration (p in v), Bob being adorable.

Word count: 3.7K

You weren’t drunk.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

Maybe one glass too many. But hey, that’s okay, because your brain still seemed to be functioning just fine. Unfortunately, the only thought currently echoing inside your head was: dick, dick, dick.

So yeah. Maybe one too many.

In your defense, Bob looked really fucking good tonight. The fucking jeans were teasing you, messing with your brain and begging you to let the crush you’d been harboring for the man for ages slip from your not-so-sober lips.

It hadn’t yet. But the night was still quite young. And you were feeling very comfortable in your skin.

You sat on a stool, sipping on the fifth… wait, no, sixth. Was it the sixth? Whatever. You sipped a beer, watching the crew play pool. You were normally very good, but you were sitting this game out. You weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your balance well enough to score a shot. And you weren’t the type that played not to win.

Your eyes slipped from the pool table to a far more interesting sight.

Bob Floyd’s ass.

It wasn’t your fault that he’d literally placed himself in your line of sight. You barely had to move your head. His ass was just on display for you. You knew it wasn’t intentional—of course you knew that. He was lining up a shot that just happened to be right in front of you.

But you weren’t one to waste the universe’s gifts.

So you let your eyes latch onto Bob Floyd’s perfectly round ass. It was probably obvious to anyone who looked at you that you were staring. Luckily, no one was paying attention to you at the moment.

Well, almost no one.

You heard a soft snicker beside you, head turning slightly toward the sound. Phoenix watched you, a small smirk on her face. She knew all about your major crush on Bob. She had the unfortunate role of being the friend who had to listen as you gushed over the pilot every chance you got. But Phoenix was a good friend, and she knew to stay out of other people’s business.

That did not mean she wouldn’t tease you when the opportunity presented itself.

“You alright there?”

The rest of the crew’s heads turned toward you. Everyone’s gaze had shifted—including Bob’s.

You felt the blush that suddenly coated your cheeks. You could feel Bob’s eyes on you, but yours stayed glued to Phoenix. She just gave you a sly smile, knowing damn well what she’d just done. You were going to make her pay for that one day.

“I’m fine.”

It came out a bit slurred. A bit too high-pitched.

Someone laughed.

You didn’t pay them any mind, gaze still glued to Phoenix as you gave her a small grimace of a look.

And then you felt something warm on your shoulder.

Your head turned to look at what it was. Your eyes trailed up the hand currently resting on your shoulder, searching for its owner.

Your breath nearly gave out when you were greeted by the sight of Bob. His face was full of barely restrained concern, glasses slightly slipping off his nose as he stared at you with kind eyes.

“Hey.”

The word slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

Bob gave you a soft smile, the hand that wasn’t holding onto you moving to push his glasses up. It was such a simple act, but it still made your heart flutter.

“Hi.”

Time seemed to slow down. The sound of his voice was like velvet. You wanted to be buried inside it.

Wanted him to be buried inside you.

Whoa. Okay. Drunk thought.

But a very persistent one. Even in your sober moments.

Luckily, you still had enough control over your brain to not let the thought slip out of your mouth. You just stared at Bob for a moment. Someone had said something, but you weren’t listening. You only noticed because Bob’s head had snapped toward the speaker.

You had a perfect view of his side profile. A glorious sight of his perfect nose.

What would it be like to sit on it?

God, you really needed to get some water in your body. The thoughts were becoming more and more unfiltered with every second. Soon, you’d let something slip. And then you’d die of embarrassment.

You bit your lip, forcing your mouth to stay shut.

“What do you think?”

Bob was talking to you again. You stared at him, confused. What did you think of what?

“Don’t think she was listening, Bob.”

That came from Hangman. Your eyes flitted over to him, catching on the teasing smile he wore. You had the urge to flip him off, but you stayed still.

“Hey.”

Your eyes moved back to Bob’s face as he gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

Maybe that would be best. You were clearly hanging on by a thread. And maybe if you did slip—which you were pretty sure would happen eventually—you’d at least be alone.

Alone with Bob.

You practically shivered at the thought.

Because you couldn’t trust your mouth to open and say anything other than ‘I love you’ , you opted to nod your head.

Bob smiled at you.

“Okay then. Here, hold onto me.”

“Not that drunk.”

But you still held onto him. Because he’d offered. And because it meant he would be closer to you. Bob had said goodbye to everyone. You’d followed with a drunken wave.

And then the two of you were off.

The whole drive home, you stared out the window. If you looked at Bob, you’d start thinking dirty things. And that would make you want to do said dirty things.

But you didn’t want to scare Bob.

So you kept your eyes on the road.

You struggled to get your shoes off at the door. And Bob, being the gentle soul that he was, sank down to his knees to help you out.

You shook your head, trying to keep the dirty thoughts at bay.

It seemed to work pretty well.

Until it didn’t.

Bob had waited outside the bathroom as you changed. When you’d slipped back into the room, dressed in an oversized shirt, Bob came to help you to bed.

He handed you a pill and a glass of water. You took it without question. If you were lucky, you wouldn’t have a hangover tomorrow. But the odds were definitely not in your favor.

You chugged the water down before handing Bob the empty glass. He placed it on the nightstand before moving to tug the sheets over your body.

“Sleep tight.”

Bob moved to leave the room, but you grabbed his hand before he could take even a step away from the bed.

“You okay?”

His face was full of concern. You smiled up at him.

“You’re really sweet, Bob.”

“It’s not a big deal… really.”

You let out a soft hum, not letting go of his hand.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Bob smiled at the question.

“Sure.”

You gestured for him to come closer. He did as you asked, leaning down so your lips were right at his ear. He could feel your breath on his cheek.

“I think you’re really handsome.”

Bob's heart skipped a beat at the confession.

And then you kept going—

“I think about riding you all the time.”

Bob nearly had a heart attack.

You let go of his hand, settling into the sheets and closing your eyes.

Bob leaned back into an upright position, still staring at you with wide eyes.

But you were already fast asleep.

The sun slipped into the room through the curtains. You opened your eyes with a soft groan. Your eyes took a while to adjust to where you were. You rubbed at them, trying to ignore the soft pounding in your head.

Hangover.

Fantastic.

Honestly, it could have been worse. You were sure the headache would leave after some coffee. So you peeled yourself off the bed, feet padding against the floor as you made your way to the kitchen.

Small flashes of last night moved through your brain as you waited for the coffee to brew.

You bit your nails, trying to remember.

You remembered the bar. The drinks. Phoenix’s smug smile. Bob’s hand on your shoulder. His voice. That’s when a hazy memory flickered behind your eyes. A whisper. Something you said.

Something about Bob.

God, had you said something? You weren’t totally sure—but there was that gnawing, sinking feeling in your gut. 

You were startled by a knock on the door. Instinctively, you glanced at the clock. 10 o’clock. Not bad, considering how late you’d gotten in last night. 

But who would be at your door at such a time on a Sunday? You moved to grab your phone to check for messages. And that’s when it hit you.

Your phone.

You’d forgotten it at the bar.

You opened the door, and there he was. Bob Floyd, looking far too good for someone this early in the morning. He had your phone in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“Hey,” he said, a little cautiously. “You, uh… forgot this.”

You reached for the phone, your fingers brushing his just slightly. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

“Thanks. I—yeah. Sorry.” You gave a sheepish smile. “Honestly, I didn’t even realize.”

Bob nodded once, then hesitated.

The kind of hesitation that meant he was thinking about something. The small feeling of dread crept back. Okay, so you’d definitely said something. Because sure, Bob was a shy guy, but this wasn’t his usual shyness. This was something else.

There was tension.

Even if you didn’t remember exactly what you’d said, Bob clearly did. Before you could think too much about it, you moved to the side of the door, allowing Bob to see into your house.

“You want coffee?” you asked. “I just made a pot. And you look like someone who’s already been up too long.”

Bob hesitated for a moment, fingers clenching and unclenching. Your heart raced. What the fuck had you said? But then he looked at you and gave you a soft smile.

“Sure. Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

You let out a soft breath as he walked into the room.

Your hands shook slightly as you closed the door. Bob Floyd was inside your house. Bob Floyd knew something you couldn’t remember. You weren’t sure if you wanted to find out or not.

Bob settled at the kitchen table as you grabbed two mugs and filled them with coffee. His eyes flicked toward you every so often, like he wanted to say something. You pretended not to notice, but your heart raced as you handed him his mug.

“One cream, two sugars.”

Bob’s eyes lit up slightly at your words. You’d remembered how he liked his coffee. He had only told you once, and you still remembered. It made something warm flicker in his chest.

“Thank you.”

You gave him a small smile. “Yeah, well… thanks for, you know, coming back with my phone.”

He nodded, fingers curling around the warm cup.

“Yeah. Figured you’d want it back sooner rather than later.”

You laughed softly, the sound a little too breathy.

“Yeah, definitely.”

There was a pause.

Bob cleared his throat. “About last night…”

Your heart skipped, but you didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “I mean, you said some things.”

Your cheeks heated. “Did I?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. I’m not mad or anything.”

You glanced at him, meeting his gaze for a brief second. “Honestly, I don’t even remember most of it.”

“Me neither,” he said with a small smile.

It was a complete lie, of course. He remembered your exact words. He remembered how you smelled, how warm your breath had been on his neck. He remembered going home and, much to his shame, lying in bed and taking care of his little problem while your voice echoed in his head.

“But I figured, if you’re sober now, maybe we could talk about it?”

You swallowed hard. “I’d like that.”

His smile grew warmer. “Good. Because I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

“No, me neither.”

The tension wasn’t gone, but it had dulled a bit. You were sure you’d be embarrassed by whatever had slipped through your lips. But you also knew Bob wouldn’t hold it against you.

You were adults. You could act like it.

You were not, however, prepared for what Bob was about to tell you. He had struggled for a moment, trying to be as gentle as possible. It was clear from his face that he was flustered. As soon as he told you what you’d said, you were sure you’d just died. Or at least you wished you were dead, because you could not handle this conversation. You were not adult enough for this.

You placed your mug on the table with more force than necessary, hands moving to cover your face as you whispered “fuck” repeatedly.

Bob felt bad. He had expected it to be weird—awkward, maybe. But he hadn’t expected you to almost start sobbing into your hands. He could tell you were having a hard time breathing, so before he could think better of it, he got up. He placed his hands on your shoulders.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You shook your head emphatically, hands still hiding you from his warm gaze. You’d have to quit. That was the only solution. You could not handle looking at Bob every day knowing you’d told him one of your dirtiest thoughts in a drunken daze.

Bob’s hands moved to grab yours. You tried to keep them where they were, but Bob was stronger than you. He pried your hands away from your face, holding your wrists gently together. You bowed your head, staring at the floor.

“Can you please look at me?”

Fuck him. Fuck him and his soft hands and velvet voice.

You lifted your head slowly, expecting to be met with pity or disgust, but that’s not what you found. When you finally looked at Bob’s face, he looked just as out of breath as you felt. He was so close that your noses were practically touching. And his eyes—his big, beautiful eyes—were almost black with desire.

You nearly choked on your own spit.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

You breathed heavily, trying to think of what to say.

“Well, you know the phrase… drunk words, sober thoughts,” you said with a slightly pathetic laugh.

And then Bob’s hands shifted. He let go of your wrists, cupping your face with a speed that made your heart stutter. You barely managed to gasp out his name before his lips were on yours.

The kiss was all-consuming.

Bob’s body moved against yours as he deepened it, his mouth warm and sure. You groaned as your back hit the kitchen counter. Bob tried to pull back to apologize, but you didn’t let him. You tugged his head back to yours, tongue sliding over his lips. He opened his mouth to you, letting you explore. His hands moved to rest on your hips, his body pressing you firmly against the counter.

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your sleep shirt like he was trying to ground himself. You could feel the tension in his arms, the restraint in the way he kissed you—like he wasn’t sure how far you wanted to go. Like he was holding back.

“Bob,” you breathed against his lips, your voice rough, “don’t hold back.”

That was all it took.

He groaned, deep and low in his chest, before lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, pulling him flush against you. You could feel him—hard and heavy through his jeans—and the contact made you whimper.

“You have no idea,” he muttered against your jaw, lips trailing down the side of your neck, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Then show me,” you whispered, fingers already tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Please.”

Bob didn’t need to be asked twice. He tugged the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, and leaned back in to kiss you again—deeper this time, hungrier. His hands roamed, slipping under your shirt and dragging up slowly until your chest was bare to him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, reverent and breathless as he took you in. 

He bent down, mouthing at the swell of your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple. You gasped, arching into him, needing more. You clawed your shirt completely off, whining as Bob continued to suck your breast. Your shirt fell somewhere near his but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Bob. 

Bob and his perfect fucking mouth. 

Your hands fumbled with his belt, desperate to get him out of his jeans. “Bob, I need—”

“I know,” he said, voice wrecked as he reached down to help you. “God, I know.”

You finally got his belt undone, yanking at his jeans until he helped you shove them down just enough to free him. Your eyes dipped down, and your breath caught. God, of course he was big. And thick. And flushed an angry shade of red, already leaking from the tip.

Bob groaned as your hand wrapped around him. It was the prettiest sound you’d ever heard. You just smiled and leaned forward to press your mouth to his neck, dragging your tongue over the pulse there. But then his hands were on your thighs, thumbs dragging over your waistband, eyes dark with heat. 

“Wait,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “Let me taste you first.”

The way he said it—like it was a need, not a want—almost made you give in.

Almost.

Your fingers curled into his hair as you looked him dead in the eyes. 

“Next time,” you whispered. “I need you inside me right now.”

Bob groaned, like the words physically hurt him, but he nodded. 

“Okay. Yeah. Just—fuck, come here.”

He should probably have taken your underwear off entirely. But you were both so impatient and the little bit of fabric wouldn’t affect his skills. So he tugged your underwear to the side with one hand and guided himself to your entrance with the other. 

You were more than ready for him, slick and warm and aching. And when he finally pushed in—slowly, carefully—you both let out a sound that could only be described as relief.

“Holy shit,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You feel—fuck—” Bob gritted out, forehead pressed to yours. “So good. You feel so fucking good.”

He gave you a second to adjust, but you were already rolling your hips, desperate for more. That’s all he needed. He set a rhythm, hard and deep, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go.

Every thrust sent you back into the counter with a delicious thud. Your legs locked around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. His name fell from your lips again and again, each time more breathless than the last.

“Hey,” he panted, causing you to look up at him, brows slightly furrowed with pleasure.

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you a secret?” he rasped, one hand sliding up your back to cradle your head.

He hit your G-spot, making you moan his name before nodding. Bob leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I touched myself to the thought of you last night. Couldn’t stop thinking about you on top of me.”

“Oh, fuck—Bob!”

It was so odd how sweet you found his confession. The entire thing was said in such a dirty manner, made even nastier by the sound of his dick spearing into you with every thrust. But you understood why he’d said it. It was his way of telling you he wanted you too.

Your eyes glossed over, head tilting back as you moaned. Bob latched onto your neck, sucking hickeys into the skin. He shifted his hips slightly, allowing him to hit a deeper angle—and you were fucking gone.

You came. Right there on the kitchen counter, gasping his name, clutching him like a lifeline as the orgasm ripped through you. Bob followed moments later, burying himself deep with a low, drawn-out groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just heavy breaths and the rapid beat of two hearts trying to slow down. Bob’s fingers traced lazy circles along your back, grounding you both in the afterglow. He leaned down, lips brushing softly against your temple. 

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice husky with emotion and something deeper—admiration, maybe even awe.

You smiled weakly, breath still shaky. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

His hand slipped from your back to cup your cheek, thumb tracing over your flushed skin. “I want to take my time with you. Not just tonight.”

You met his gaze, heart pounding all over again. “Me too.”

Slowly, carefully, he helped you off the counter and into his arms, like you were the most precious thing in the world. You let him wind his arms around you, your bodies pressed in a tender hug. The sun shone brightly outside, but you paid no attention to it. You nestled into Bob's body, hearing his heart slow down as you two enjoyed each other's embrace.

“I’m never drinking again.”

Bob chuckled at your words, the vibration rippling through your body.

“I’m glad you did.”

You lifted your head off his chest, gazing into his eyes.

“Glad I got shitfaced and told you I thought about fucking you?”

Bob smiled again, his hand moving to push some hair off your face.

“I’m glad you feel the same way I do about you.”

It was your turn to smile now. You placed a soft kiss on his lips.

“Of course I do, Bob. You’re easy to fall for.”

“And to ride, apparently.”

You gave him a soft slap, but you couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t know. I never got actual experience. I just fantasize about it,” you teased.

“You wanna find out?”

You gave him your cheekiest smile.

“You bet I do.”

His hands found your waist again, pulling you close as a slow, knowing smile played across his lips. The promise in his eyes was impossible to miss, and you matched it with one of your own, full of mischief and anticipation. 

The kitchen, the morning light, even the lingering scent of coffee—all faded away, leaving only the delicious tension between you two, teasing and ready to explode. Whatever came next, it was clear neither of you planned on letting this be the last time.

[lupinqs]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU ━━ paige bueckers x ex-girlfriend!reader

☆ ━ summary: a night out leads you right back to your ex-girlfriend’s bed.

☆ ━ word count: 10.8K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (oral, fingering, strappp, scissoring, pure filth)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: not proofread and basically just porn goodnight

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with Lucas.

You tell yourself that a lot. Not because you don’t believe it, but because you do. You believe it so much, it almost feels rehearsed.

Lucas is easy to love. Easy to explain. He says what he means and he follows through. He’s the kind of person who brings you flowers on a random Tuesday and remembers your favorite kind without needing to be reminded. He holds the door open for you—not in the forced, performative way, but just because that’s the kind of person he is. Thoughtful. Steady. Soft around the edges in a way that makes other people relax just by being near him.

Your friends love him. Your mom keeps saying things like “he’s a keeper” and “baby, he is so in love with you” and it’s not like she’s wrong. He texts back. He listens. He laughs at your jokes, even when they’re not funny. He gets along with your dad. He plays video games with your little brother. He always smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon gum, and when he kisses you, he cups your cheek like he’s holding something precious.

You like that. You like him.

It’s good.

It’s normal.

It’s healthy.

And for the most part, you don’t think about anything else. Not really. You’ve been… training yourself not to. You’ve developed entire routines around the art of not thinking about her—deleting old playlists and creating new ones, watching different shows, changing your route to class, rewriting entire chapters of your day-to-day life just so you don’t trip and fall back into the places where she used to live.

And it’s worked. Mostly.

Until it doesn’t.

Because Lucas will be saying something—something sweet, something thoughtful, something that would’ve made you melt if this were your first relationship—and you’ll feel this tiny flicker of something you can’t name. Not sadness. Not longing. Just… something. A quiet, sinking realization that you should be feeling more than you are. That what he’s saying is right, and hood, and all the things you’ve ever been told to want—but it’s landing in your chest like a feather instead of a thunderstorm.

And that’s the thing. Lucas is feathers. Warm, light, gentle.

But Paige?

Paige was fucking weather.

Not sunshine or softness or stillness, but storms. Paige was thunder and static and lightning under your skin. Being with her felt like leaning too far out of a window just to see what would happen. Like running a red light or driving a hundred miles an hour. Reckless. Stupid. Exhilarating.

Not that you think about her. You don’t.

You don’t think about the way she used to kiss you like it was the last time, even when it wasn’t. You don’t think about the fights that started over nothing and ended with slammed doors and tear-streaked apologies. You don’t think about the 2 AM screaming matches in her car that would turn into the 2:07 AM make-outs that made your head spin and send heat to your core. You don’t think about how being with her made you feel like a live wire—shocking, wild, electric.

Lucas makes you feel like you’re being taken care of. Like your future has clean lines and soft landings. He respects your boundaries. He never raises his voice. He doesn’t make you wait three hours for a reply, only to show up at your window like he’s in a movie. He’s never left you crying in the rain. He’s never made you cry in the rain.

It’s easy, being with him. Comfortable.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe that’s why you said yes when he asked you out, and why you kept saying yes after that. Maybe that’s why you’ve tried so hard to get used to all this normalcy. You wanted someone who didn’t make your heart feel like it was constantly trying to break out of your chest. You wanted someone calm, steady, safe.

Lucas is all of those things.

He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire.

There are no extremes. No chaos. No bruised egos or tearful apologies or scream-raw throats. He doesn’t make you second-guess yourself, and he never looks at you like he’s seconds away from either kissing you or shouting at you. He just looks at you with kindness, with a quiet sort of adoration, like you’re exactly who he hoped you would be.

And still—still—there are nights when you find yourself lying awake next to him, the glow of your phone lighting up the ceiling, and you feel something sharp and shapeless pressing at the back of your mind. Not a memory. Not a name. Just pressure. The kind you used to feel when things were about to go wrong. Or when things were too good to be true. Or when she was around.

You don’t let yourself go there.

You shut it down

Because it’s not fair to Lucas, and it’s not fair to you. You’ve moved on. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

And besides, you already tried loving like that.

You gave everything—everything. You screamed and sobbed and kissed like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into someone like Paige Bueckers and got spit back out with bruises you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t good.

You remind yourself of that whenever your mind drifts.

Lucas doesn’t make you cry.

Lucas shows up.

Lucas texts back.

Lucas doesn’t run hot and cold. He doesn’t storm out of rooms. He doesn’t pull you into closets at parties and fuck you until your legs are shaking, only to pretend like nothing happened the next day. He doesn’t keep you guessing. He’s consistent. Warm. Soft.

You can trust him.

You just don’t burn for him.

And maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to choose what’s good for you over what feels good in the moment. Learning to stay steady instead of chasing the highs and lows of a love that made you lose your mind.

So, no—you don’t miss Paige.

Or, at least, that’s what you’re currently telling yourself.

You’re at Ted’s. UConn’s beloved, grimy, too loud and far too small campus bar. It’s girl’s night out—no Lucas, no boyfriends, just you and your friends. The music is bad, the floor is sticky, and you’ve already had one too many drinks, but none of that is really the problem.

The problem is that she’s here.

Paige fucking Bueckers is here.

Of course she is. Of course she’d pick tonight to show up, like the universe just can’t let you have a single night off. She’s across the bar, flanked by her teammates, posted up like she owns the place. And she kind of does. She’s got that charm, that draw—the one that makes people want to be near her, even if they don’t know why. She doesn’t even have to try.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen her since the breakup—seven months, not that you’ve been counting—but that doesn’t make it easier. The sting hasn’t dulled. The ache hasn’t faded. Every time you see her, it feels like getting burned in the same exact spot over and over again. Your body should be numb to it by now, but somehow it never is.

And worst of all?

She looks good tonight. So good it makes your stomach twist and shrivel.

She’s wearing black cargo id that sit low on her hips and cling just enough to the right places. A white collared crop top, short-sleeved and perfectly fitted, which gives you a detailed fucking display of her biceps and abs—both of which are bigger, sharper, more defined than when you had her. She’s been hitting the weight room hard this summer. You know it. Everyone knows it. She must want that natty bad.

She probably wants it more than she ever wanted you.

You hate how bitter that thought tastes going down, but it’s not like it’s new. That feeling—that doubt—was there the whole time. The fights. The jealousy. The nights she didn’t text back. The way her phone would light up late at night and she’d just turn it face down and mumble something about it being nothing. You wanted to trust her. God, you tried. But it was always like walking a tightrope with her. One wrong move and you’d fall.

She was a fuckboy before you got together, and you’re sure she’s a fuckboy again now. Probably worse. Seven months is plenty of time for her to rediscover all her old habits. You can practically see it written all over her tonight—the loose body language, the flirtatious smile, the way her eyes scan the room like she’s picking her next fuck. She’ll take someone home tonight. You don’t even have to wonder.

Some girl—probably sweet, probably impressionable, probably someone who has no idea what it’s like to be wanted and discarded by Paige Bueckers—will follow her home. She’ll get to experience first hand what all the hype is about.

You try not to think about how that was once you. Try not to think about the way Paige would toss you onto her bed and kiss you like she needed it to breathe. Try not to think about the desperate way she’d strip you bare. Try not to think about the skill her hands and mouth and hips held. Try not to think about the way she used to look at you—like she couldn’t believe she got to have you.

You try not to think about any of it.

You stare at her, hating her and wanting her and hating that you want her. And her hair’s down tonight—down—long and straight and golden under the bar lights. She never wore it down when you were together unless you asked, unless she was feeling soft, unless you were the only one she wanted to impress. She’d preferred it up, out of the way in a bun or ponytail. But now it’s out and shining like a fucking halo or something.

She’s laughing at something KK said, her mouth open and easy and happy, and you hate how good it looks on her. How it makes her shoulders shake just slightly, how her head tilts back, how she glows. She’s got a Dirty Shirley in hand—of course she does—and a devil-may-care look in her eyes like she’s on top of the world. Like nothing, not even you, ever touched her deeply enough to leave a mark.

She doesn’t notice you staring.

Good.

You tear your eyes away with more force than necessary, like dragging a splinter out of your own skin. It leaves you raw. But you want let yourself look again. You won’t.

Your drink is almost gone. You need more. You need to blur this out, soften the corners of the room until her shape doesn’t stand out in it anymore.

You mutter something to your friends and slip away toward the bar. Your legs feel heavy. Your skin too warm. You feel her presence behind you like a heat lamp, burning a hole in your back even if she’s not looking.

You shove through a group of guys yelling about the Celtics and wedge yourself between a couple of juniors who are too busy taking selfies to notice you. The bartender glances at you once, uninterested. You order a shot.

Then another.

Then, one more with your friend who just walked over.

You were tipsy before—now you’re full-on drunk. It’s dangerous and smart for this situation. You needed it, but it could also make things catastrophically worse.

You glance back—just once, just to be sure—

And she’s looking right at you.

Her mouth is still curved in a half-smile from the joke someone made. But her blue eyes are locked into yours, and for a second, just a second, the noise of the bar fades.

And you remember everything.

Every fight. Every fuck. Every late-night apology. Every quiet morning. Every lie you swallowed. Every truth you ignored. Every time she held you like she’d never let go.

And then did.

You break eye contact first.

Not because you want to. Not because you’re strong enough to look away. But because the heat of her stare is too much—it crawls beneath your skin, presses against your throat, makes your chest ache in that way that only she ever could. And you’re too fucking drunk to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Too fucking drunk to pretend it doesn’t burn.

So you look away.

Swallow hard.

And then you turn your back on her, like the coward you swore you wouldn’t be.

Your stomach twists as you push through the crowd, arms bumping shoulders, elbows knocking against glasses. You’re headed for the bar bathroom, and you don’t even care how pathetic it looks. You need a second. You need air. You need to not be near her.

You make it to the restroom, barely missing the girl stumbling out with her heels in her hand and lip gloss smeared against her chin. You shut the door, lean back against it, and exhale hard through your nose.

It’s a shitty little bathroom. One mirror. Flickering light that doesn’t help stop your intoxicated brain from spinning. Peeling poster on the wall advertising Tequila Tuesdays. You avoid your reflection because you already know what you’ll see: mascara slightly smudged, lips parted, that look in your eyes—like you’re unraveling. You can feel it. You’re slipping. The drunk is mixing with the memories now. You’re seeing her hands on your skin again, hearing her laugh against your neck. You’re remembering the way she used to back you into this same wall when the two of you would sneak off here together, tipsy and breathless and stupid in love.

You press your palms to your eyes and mutter, “Fuck,” under your breath.

You hate her.

You hate her so much.

Except… not really.

You swore you didn’t miss her. You swore you over it. You promised everyone, including yourself.

But underneath all the anger and the betrayal and the hurt you still carry in your ribcage like broken glass, you do fucking miss you. God, you miss her. The way she smelled. The way she’d look at you. The way her voice would soften when she said your name. You miss what it was like when it was good—when she let you in, when she chose you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe.

Then—the handle jiggles.

Your eyes snap open.

The door creaks. You forgot to lock it all the way.

And there she is. She slips inside like a shadow and shuts the door behind her, slow and certain. Her eyes are already on you—the same icy blue. You can tell by the look in them that she’s just as drunk as you are. You want to scream at her. You want to melt into her arms.

“You were looking at me,” she says simply. But there’s a rasp to it that makes your skin tingle.

You swallow and straighten your, your reflexes all sharp and brittle. “No, I wasn’t,” you snap, defensive, even though your voice cracks halfway through it.

She steps closer—crowding you, closing the distance in two long strides. You stumble back, spine hitting the cool tile wall behind you, and she plants her palms on either side your head, caging you in.

Her gaze flickers—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. She’s reading you like she used to. And then she’s leaning in, breath fanning against your face as she tells you, “Don’t lie.”

Your breath catches. You look up at her, feeling small beneath her height. She was always good at making you feel that way. She’s still staring at your lips. You try not to stare at hers. “Don’t,” you say, and your voice is small, too small.

But she already knows that “don’t” means “do.”

Her hands find your waist, hot and certain. You should push her away. You should tell her to leave. But you don’t. You can’t. Your fingers curl into the collar of her shirt instead, and then she’s kissing you, and it’s not gentle. It’s rushed and tough and months too late. Her lips crash into yours like she’s staring for you, and you let her take what she wants.

Because you want it, too.

Paige’s hands are everywhere and nowhere, gripping and slipping and dragging fire down your sides. You can feel her breath stutter every time your hips tilt forward just slightly, like your body is trying to remember hers on instinct alone.

You’re both far too drunk, you know that. Her balance is all fucked, her touch a little too eager, a little too messy to be calculated, but she’s trying to make it feel that way. She’s trying to keep control. Her arm is braced next to your head, her body angled so your only exit is through her. She always used to do that. Always made herself a wall. And now she’s doing it again, caging you in like she owns the right to.

And worse—you’re letting her.

You’re letting her and kissing her and grabbing at her like you never want her to leave. You’re cheating. You know that. You know that Lucas is probably asleep at home, completely unaware that you’re pressed up against a bar wall right now with your tongue in your ex-girlfriend’s mouth.

And you should care.

But you don’t.

All you can feel is Paige—her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. All you can taste is her Shirley and whatever shots she’s been drinking and your lip gloss that’s been smeared across both of your mouths.

And beneath that—deeper than the alcohol and the anger—is the hurt. Yours and hers, bleeding through your kisses like you’re both too stubborn to admit how much it still matters. You hate her. You fucking hate her for what she did, for how she made you feel, for the way she stopped calling and let everything rot in silence.

But you also want her.

Desperately. Viciously. Shamefully.

She kisses you harder, lips slotting with yours like she wants to devour you whole. One of her hands drags up your side, long fingers bunching in your tank top until it wrinkles under her grip. Her other hand finds your hip and squeezes hard—possessive, rough, like she’s trying to bruise herself back into you. And you don’t stop her. You tilt your head back when her lips begin to trail downward, dragging along your jaw, your neck.

She sucks there, open-mouthed, like she wants to leave a mark. You gasp. Your fingers tighten on her shirt. Your knees almost buckle, and you’re suddenly very grateful the wall is there.

She knows what she’s doing. Of course she does. She’s always known.

When she gets to your ear, she nips—just the edge, sharp and quick—and you inhale so hard your vision blurs.

Then her hands slide from your hips to your waist and she presses her mouth right against the shell of your ear, voice low and warm and dripping with something that feels way too much like the past.

“Come back to mine, mama,” she whispers, pinching your waist for emphasis. “Let’s leave.”

Your breath catches. Everything slows, just for a second. You hear the music pounding from the other side of the door, the sound of someone laughing in the hallway. You feel her breath fan across your neck, her body flush with yours, her large hands holding you with a firm grip.

And you want to say no. You should say no.

But you’re drunk. And this is Paige.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. Her lips brush your throat again.

“Okay,” you breathe, so quiet you’re not sure she heard it.

But she does.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and pink, face flushed. She doesn’t smile. She just lifts her hand, swipes her thumb across your lower lip and chin, wiping her spit away. And then she grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door.

You stumble out of the bathroom together, the door creaking wide and hitting the wall like a gunshot in the haze of noise and cheap bar lighting. Neither of you say anything—you just look at each other and then move in sync, turning toward the back entrance like it’s muscle memory.

It is muscle memory.

The same hallway, the same emergency exit sign buzzing slightly overhead. You’ve done this before—slipped out together, ducking before your friends could ask questions or try to convince you to stay, walking home in that stupid little bubble where it was just you and her and the fucked-up, magnetic thing that kept dragging you together. It feels like that again. Familiar. Dangerous.

You push the door open, and the rain hits you in the face like a slap. It sobers you up maybe half a percent, just enough to register how soaked the ground already is. You look up in disbelief. The sky is coming down heavy now, full-on pouring—of course. Of fucking course.

Paige lets out this short laugh, all breath and surprise, like she can’t even believe the timing either. “Jesus,” she mutters, throwing one arm around your shoulders, tugging you closer into her side. “We gotta walk.”

You just nod because you already knew that. Her apartment isn’t far—not that you’ve been to the new one, just that you know the building. It’s about ten minutes if you’re sober and walking with purpose. Which, neither of you are right now. You’re drunk. She’s drunk. You’re dressed for the bar, not a rainstorm. And you’re making the worst decision of your entire relationship history, possibly of your life.

But you go anyway.

The two of you start moving down the sidewalk, feet slapping against puddles, your arm wrapped tight around her waist now, because fuck it, she’s warm and solid and familiar. Her shirt is clinging to her by the minute—white cotton soaked through and sticking to her torso, giving you a clearer outline of the muscle she’s been building all offseason. You glance at her abs, now shiny and wet with rain, and immediately look away again. Mistake. Everything about tonight is a fucking mistake.

Still, your body keeps walking.

The rain is cold and heavy, but your skin is buzzing and hot from the alcohol and the adrenaline and whatever this horrible, electric thing is between the two of you. It’s always been like this—heightened. Too much. Like your nervous system doesn’t know what to do around her except overload.

You try not to think. You try not to remember.

But you do.

You remember the last time it was late at night and raining and you were with Paige. Screaming in the middle of the street, voices cracking and soaked to the bone, fighting like it was the end of the goddamn world. And it kind of was. You ended up having angry sex in her car afterward, teeth and nails and hands clawing for something solid, something familiar, even if it hurt. You broke up the next morning.

You remember the heat of her skin, the sting of her words, the way she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to worship you or run from you.

But that’s how it always was.

You and Paige were never soft. You were sharp edges and blood-hot emotions and never knowing whether the night would end in a fight or a fuck. You both went a little insane because of the way you felt about each other—because neither of you ever knew how to not feel too much.

And now, you’re cheating on your boyfriend just to feel it again.

You shove the thought down as hard as you can. Focus instead on the way Paige’s fingers dig slightly into your waist every time you slip a little on the slick concrete. On the way her hair, long and straight and down for once, is starting to curl at the ends from the water. On how your teeth are starting to chatter even though the warmth from her body is leaking into yours, bit by bit.

And then, out of nowhere, Paige just stops walking.

You barely register it at first—your steps carry you half a beat too far until she tugs you back by the hand. You turn to ask what the hell she’s doing, but then she’s already kissing you.

Right there, in the middle of the fucking sidewalk in a downpour. No warning. No buildup. Just her mouth on yours like gravity snapped and she had no other choice. And maybe she didn’t; maybe neither of you do.

It makes sense.

When you were together and she was drunk, Paige always got like this. Clingy. Touch-starved. She’d pull you into her lap at parties, curl up behind you on the couch, mouth against your ear saying dumb little things that would make you blush. Always wanting to be near you, in you, around you, on you—like proximity made it easier to breathe.

That version of her is here now, kissing you like she’s trying to devour you. Her hands cup your face, holding you steady, but her mouth is anything but—urgent, greedy, moving over yours like she’s trying to memorize every part she’s been missing. Her lips are warm and insistent even through the cold, even through the rain that’s coming down heavy, pattering against the sidewalk, running down your neck, getting between your clothes and skin. It’s kind of miserable, but it also kind of doesn’t matter.

Because Paige is kissing you like she’s pissed off. Like she wants to make a point. Like she’s angry she still wants you, and the only way to get it out is kissing you hard enough to bruise.

And God, you feel it. Your body is lighting up from the inside, every part of you buzzing. You can taste the rain between her lips, the mix of it and her chapstick and the alcohol on both of your tongues. Her hands slide into your hair, tugging you toward her harder. It’s enough to coax a gasp out of you, and that only makes her groan and lick further into your mouth.

It’s clumsy and wet and messy, teeth knocking a little, breaths hitching, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for rational thought. And you let it happen. You lean into it. You want to punish her a little, too—want her to feel it like you do. So, you kiss her back just as angrily, like she’s not the only one with something to prove.

But then the chill starts to creep in. You’re soaked to the bone now, both of you only in tank tops, and the wind cuts sharp across your face as it whips through the street. As hot as you feel inside, you’re suddenly aware your body is freezing. Besides, you need to be somewhere inside to satisfy your real need—the one resting between your legs, pulsing and aching with want.

You pull back just a little—your lips slipping away from Paige’s, breath fogging between you—and try to catch your bearings. But Paige isn’t done. She follows you forward, mouth chasing yours like she can’t stand even the smallest bit of distance. Her nose bumps yours, big hands still gripping the sides of your face.

“Okay,” you mutter, voice breathless, dazed, trying to push her back with shaky hands on her chest. “Let’s go, c’mon.”

She stares at you, blue eyes wide and glossy under the streetlight glow, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Needa—apartment,” you stumble, the words coming out in fragments because your brian is still somewhere back in that kiss. “Like, now.”

Paige blinks like she finally remembers where the two of you are. She exhales slowly before nodding quicker, saying, “Yeah. Yeah.”

It doesn’t take much longer to get to her apartment. She’s in a different building now, not the same one she lived in when you were dating. You don’t even get a chance to look around before she’s telling you, a little breathless, “Jana and Allie are both staying at Azzi and Morgan’s tonight. We ain’t gotta worry ’bout none of that.”

You nod. “Good,” you reply, but it’s barely out of your mouth before she’s already closing the space between you once more.

Her mouth crashes into yours with this messy, impatient heat that catches you off guard even though you probably should’ve expected it. You gasp slightly, back hitting the wall with a dull thud as her hands find your hips and press in like she’s trying to fuse herself to you.

She kisses you hot and desperate, tasting like her Shirley and rainwater and you, like she’s been starved for too long and forgot what moderation is. Or maybe she never knew in the first place. Her breath is shallow against your cheek when she pulls back just barely, only to bite at your bottom lip, gentle at first and then not. Your knees buckle a little.

She starts walking you backwards eagerly, quickly. Your shoes squeak faintly against the hardwood floor, and every few steps, she pauses to kiss you again—at your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each one a little sloppier than the last, like she’s trying to leave her mouth on every inch of your skin that’s currently available. You stop for a second to kick your shoes off, Paige doing the same, before her hands are right back on you.

You let her guide you, stumbling slightly but somehow never really tripping, your hands tugging at her shirt now without hesitation. Your fingers find the hem and you push upward, palms grazing the warm skin of her stomach, the firmness of her abs. She lifts her arms to help you, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as the tank top peels off her like a second skin, damp from the rain and sticking to her in places. You toss it aside without even looking where it lands.

She’s gorgeous like this—hair damp and sticking to her temples, broad shoulders gleaming slightly from the rain, eyes half-lidded and wild, white sports bra soaking into her skin. You pull her back in. She lets you, fingertips digging into your waist as she spins you slightly and then walks you back the rest of the way.

The door clicks shut behind you, Paige’s hand still on the lock as she flicks it closed without even looking. You only catch a blur of her bedroom before she’s pushing you, your back hitting her mattress with a dull thud. The bed’s soft, and it dips underneath you as Paige follows right after, crawling on top of you without a second thought.

She kisses you hard the moment she’s close enough. No pretense. Just mouth on mouth, rough and messy and hungry. Her knee slips in between your thighs like it belongs there, and suddenly she’s pressing forward, using the weight of her body to open you up, her hands already sliding up your sides, tugging at the hem of the tiny tank top you wore out tonight.

She’s always been like this—especially when drunk. She got clingy, reckless, possessive. All hands and teeth and sharp exhales against your throat. She never hesitated to take what she wanted. Clearly, nothing about that has changed.

You can barely think. Your brain is cotton. Static. Her mouth moves down along your jaw, biting just a little at your skin as her hands palm over your chest through the thin fabric, rough and eager, hardening your nipples. It’s overwhelming in the same way you remember. Like she’s trying to devour your whole. Like you’re the last drink of water on Earth and she’s been crawling through the desert.

You let her take. You’re not even sure if you could stop her if you tried.

“Paige,” you murmur, just her name because you don’t know what else to say. She hums against your neck, doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t slow down. Her mouth catches your collarbone bow, her teeth scraping skin, and you can feel your tank top sliding further up, her hands bunching it near your ribs.

You try not to think. About anything. Not about where you are. Not about who’s on top of you. Not about Lucas. Definitely not about that.

But your guilt creeps in, just for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You’re cheating on your boyfriend.

You’re actively cheating on Lucas with your sort-of insane ex-girlfriend—who, to be fair, is currently kissing along your body like you’re something deserving of worship. Like she wants to go back to the night you broke up, grab it by the throat, and shake it until it gives you a different ending.

And the worst part is that you want her to.

You want all of this. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy. Even if tomorrow comes and you have to lie through your teeth about where you were tonight.

Thankfully, you’re pulled from your thoughts as Paige’s fingers hook into your tank top, pulling it up over your head in one smooth, urgent motion. It gets caught for a second, snagged under your arm, but she doesn’t even hesitate. Just lets out a breathy laugh and helps you lift your arms the rest of the way, tossing the top somewhere behind her.

She pauses when she sees you.

You’re bare from the waist up—unlike her, you didn’t bother with a bra tonight. The tank top was enough. You shiver slightly, skin still damp.

“Fuck, baby,” Paige mutters hoarsely. Her eyes roam across your chest like she’s recommitting your breasts to memory—which, she probably is.

And then she leans back in, mouth fast and greedy. Her lips graze across the swell of your chest, her tongue flicking out against one of your pert nipples. She sucks, cheekbones becoming prominent, as her hand stimulates the other bud. You arch into the touch, a quiet gasp escaping your lips, and Paige just groans in response.

She moves even lower, trailing wet kisses down your stomach like she’s trying to worship every inch of you in the fastest way possible. Her hair is still wet from the rain. It sticks to her forehead, her cheeks. You reach down without thinking and brush some strands behind her ear, and for a flicker of a second, her eyes spring up to meet yours.

There’s something in them—something messy and unspoken and so achingly familiar it almost knocks the breath out of you. She looks at you like she doesn’t know whether to say “I missed you” or “I’m gonna ruin you,” and honestly, it might be both.

You swallow hard as her fingers slide down your sides, wet palms skimming your hips. She shifts slightly above you, her knee pressing deeper between your thighs, and then she mutters, low and little slotted, “’M takin’ these off.”

It’s not a question, or a warning. Just a statement of fact, like she knows it’s already a done deal. Like she knows how much you want her. It pisses you off, but she’s right. You don’t bother trying to argue; you’re too impatient for that right now. Instead, you lift your hips, giving her room.

The denim peels off in slow, wet scrapes—Paige tugging your jeans down clumsily, muttering something under her breath about how soaked they are. Her hands fumble at your ankles, pulling the cuffs off before she throws the mess of fabric to the floor. Her hands are cold and your skin is goosebumped from the downpour, but somehow it just makes everything feel sharper, more alive.

You watch as her gaze returns to you before stilling. The grin sidles upon her face before she even says anything. Her lip quirks, slow and smug. She blinks once, then twice, like she’s confirming something.

“Well, would you look at that,” Paige murmurs, titling her head. Her voice is thick with amusement.

You frown. “What?”

She reaches out, brushes her fingers over the lace of your underwear before snapping the waistband against your stomach. “You wore these,” she replies matter-of-factly. The way she says it makes your face go hot.

You glance down, your stomach twisting the second you register. Lavender lace. The soft pair she got you when you were still dating, the one that belongs in the set with the bra. Purple is her favorite color. You hadn’t meant to wear them tonight. It just—happened. Bad luck. Or maybe subconscious salvatore. You’re not sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble quickly, but your voice is weak, defensive. You shift your hips slightly, trying to throw her off, but she doesn’t let up.

“Nah, nah,” she says, laughing. “You wore these. Tonight. These.” Her fingers curl just under the waistband once more like she’s framing the evidence. “These are my panties.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Paige just chuckles again—low and smug, the sound all warm breath against your thigh—and leans in. She presses her mouth to the inside of your leg, right above the lace, and bites. Not too hard, just enough to make you gasp, make your hips jerk. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you still as she drags her teeth across your skin again.

You feel her fingers trail up between your legs, teasing, lazy. She doesn’t even go for the waistband. Not yet. Just presses her fingers over the damp lace, at your clothed clit, where she knows you’re already pulsing for her. Her touch is light, maddeningly so. Just pressure, then a slow little circle, then nothing. Then again.

You exhale sharply, a little whimpering escaping before you can stop it.

“Yeah,” she breathes, all cocky and satisfied, rubbing at your pussy through your underwear—her underwear. “You want this, huh?”

You want to roll your eyes. You want to curse her out. You want to tell her to shut up again.

But you also want her hand between your legs, so.

“Obviously,” you mutter instead, shifting your hips closer to her fingers. “Jesus.”

She smirks. “Still so easy for me,” she murmurs, running her thumb in a slow, purposeful drag over your covered clit again. “Still so wet, even with these on. Shit.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way your body is reacting to her—how warm and staticky and shamefully good it feels, even after everything. Especially after everything. It’s fucked yo. It’s so deeply, stupidly fucked up. But the thing about Paige is that she’s always known exactly how to pull you apart, and tonight’s no different.

Her lips move up your thigh again, kisses slower now, mouth more deliberate. She’s still teasing you with her fingers, but at least she’s pressing harder now. Your legs twitch a little under her hands, breath coming faster.

You grab at her wrist. “Paige.”

She hums against your skin. “Mm?”

“Either take ’em off or don’t.”

Another smug little grin. “Bossy,” she mutters, but she finally starts to tug them down.

And you think she’s gonna rip them off just like the jeans and your tank top, quick and careless, like she can’t get them off fast enough. But she doesn’t. She goes slow with it. Real slow. The lace peels off your skin in soft, damp stretches, catching slightly on the curve of your hips, then your thighs, like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s careful with it, rolling them down past your knees, then over your ankles one at a time.

And then, instead of flinging them off to the side like the rest of your clothes, she hesitates.

She holds them, twisting the fabric around her fingers once. She looks at them for a second, like she’s remembering something. And then, without a word, she sets them down—right beside you on the bed, neat and deliberate like she’s placing something valuable. You roll your eyes; you know she’s trying to emphasize the fact that they’re “her” panties.

You watch as her blue eyes trail over you, before settling between your legs. She can see how soaked and slick you are. When she looks back up at you, that teasing edge in her expression is gone. Replaced by something darker. Heavier. Like the sight of you naked knocked the air right out of her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, more to herself than you.

And then she moves.

No more games. No more slow burn or smug comments or smartass remarks. Just Paige, leaning in with a newfound desperation.

The first thing you feel is her breath. Hot and shaky against your cunt, curling over you in waves that make your toes curl. Then her mouth—her lips, soft and plush and open, parting against you like a question she already knows the answer to.

Your hips buck involuntarily and she groans—low and satisfied and a little dizzy—like the taste of you hit her like a shot to the head. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still as she licks a slow stripe between your folds.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Paige doesn’t say anything, but she hums like she’s pleased with herself, and the vibration makes you whimper. Her mouth works steadily, not frantic, not messy, just focused. Eager, but in control. She’s pacing herself like she knows exactly how long it’ll take to make you cum—and plans to stretch it out just enough to make you lose your mind before it.

You feel her shift, settling between your legs like she’s not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. One of her hands slides up, presses lightly over your stomach, while the other stays clamped around your thigh, keeping you open and spread for her. You’re breathing hard already, fingers fisting the sheets, head tilted back against the pillow.

But then she flicks her tongue just right—right there, straight on your clit, the perfect little spot she always used to find without trying—and your whole body goes tight.

“Fuck,” you choke out, hips twitching, hand flying to the back of Paige’s head without thinking. Your fingers tingle in her hair, damp and messy and soft, and she lets you, even leans into the pressure like it spurs her on.

“Mm,” she hums again, mouth still locked on you. Her eyes flick up for a second—just long enough for you to see the heat beneath them—and then she closes them again and gets back to work.

Her pace picks up, beginning to circle her tongue on your pussy with more pressure. Like she’s chasing something now. Like she’s chasing you. And when your hips roll up again, she moans softly like she loves that—like she needs it just as much as you do.

“Paige—” you stumble, her name coming out half-broken.

She pulls back for one second, breath ragged, lips slick and swollen, her nose a little wet too, and murmurs, “I gotchu, mama,” before ducking her head again.

And you know she does—in this position, she always does.

She sucks, lips around your bud, and your legs shake.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Her fingers finally move—trail up your thigh again, then find their way between your legs. Her mouth moves down, tongue finding your entrance, thrusting inside. Her fingers, on the other hand, rub over your soaked clit in slow strokes.

You’re a mess now. Moaning soft and breathless, biting your lip, fucking Paige’s face. It’s too much and not enough.

Paige’s grip tightens. She keeps moving her tongue, rubs her fingers faster. The sounds emitting are obscene. Your whole body is trembling, your thighs clenching around her shoulders, your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear anything else.

You’re about to cum. You’re right fucking there. You know it, Paige knows it too.

And then: she stops.

Just for a second. Just long enough to make you want to scream.

Her mouth doesn’t move far. Her fingers don’t leave. She just slows everything down—lets her tongue go lazy, softens the pressure of her fingers into something more like a tease than an intention. Just enough to cool the fire without putting it out completely. Enough to keep you hovering in that frustrating, impossible space where you can feel your orgasm burning in your gut, but you can’t reach it.

You whimper, pathetic and desperate. “Paige,” you say. It doesn’t even sound like a protest—it’s too soft. Too needy.

And she just chuckles. Low and rough and stupidly smug. “Sweetheart, I know you ain’t think I was gon’ let you finish that fast,” she chastises.

She licks a lazy stripe up your center, just enough to make you shudder, then pulls back again to speak. “Uh-uh.” Her lips brush the inside of your thigh now. “Nah, baby. Not yet.”

You try to buck your hips, to chase the pressure, but her hand flattens against your stomach again, pinning you down.

“Be good,” she scolds.

It’s cruel. So cruel. But it’s not mean. She’s not doing it to punish you—there’s no spite in it. It’s worse than that. She’s doing it because she wants to. Because she likes this. The control, the way she can make your whole body lose itself with nothing but her mouth and a couple fingers.

She starts again. Slow. Gentle. Just lips and tongue at first—no fingers—circling softly, tasting you with this lazy rhythm that makes your whole body ache. It’s good. God, it’s so good. But it’s not enough.

Every time she gets you close—every time your thighs start to tremble and your hands fist in the sheets and your stomach starts to tighten like you’re gonna explode—she backs off again. Pulls away just enough go to keep you right there on the edge. And it happens again. And again. And again.

You lose count around the fourth time. Maybe the fifth.

Your entire body is flushed, sweat beading down your neck and across your chest, your breathing ragged and high in your throat. You’re begging now, pride gone. Just soft, broken pleads slipping from your lips.

“Please,” you whisper, over and over. “Paige, please.”

She hums like she’s thinking about it. “Please what?” she asks, voice all innocent like she doesn’t already know. “Whatchu want, baby?”

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to cum. But mostly, you want her—her mouth, her fingers, her everything. The full weight of her attention. No more teasing. No more games.

“I want—” You can barely get the words out. Your voice is hoarse. “I want to cum. Please.”

She grins into your thigh, and you can feel it.

“Yeah?” she asks. “You want me to let you?”

You nod hard, nearly gasping. “Yes. God, yes, baby, please.”

She takes her time, still. Like she’s filing that away for later—your voice all cracked and pleading, your body practically shaking with want.

But then—finally—her mouth returns, this time with her fingers. Two of them, slow at first, just enough to ease inside, stretch you open at this perfect pace that makes your eyes roll back. And then her tongue follows—firm and fast and focused again.

She doesn’t let up this time.

Her fingers pump deep, curling just right with every thrust. Her mouth locks onto your clit, her tongue flicking and circling, and you feel it. You feel the difference. You feel her let you.

It builds so fast you almost don’t believe it’s happening—like your body can’t trust it yet, like it’s waiting for her to pull away again. But she doesn’t. She keeps going. Keeps fucking you with her fingers and sucking with just the right amount of pressure until you’re moaning like mad. Until your back arches clean off the bed.

And when you finally cum, you really cum.

It hits like a wave—full-body, all-consuming, a rush of heat and noise and sensation that floods your chest and curls your toes and makes your vision blur. You cry out, loud and unfiltered, Paige’s name breaking on your tongue as everything finally snaps.

She holds you through it. Keeps her fingers moving just enough to ride it out, keeps her mouth pressed against you like she doesn’t want to miss a single second of it. And when your thighs tremble and your hips jerk and you try to push her away, overstimulated, and breathless, she only pulls back slowly, letting you come down soft and dizzy and completely gone.

You collapse against the bed, boneless, the sheets twisted beneath you and your skin flushed everywhere. Your chest is rising and falling like you ran a marathon, your eyes fluttering shut, and your lips are parted like you forgot how to close them.

Paige crawls back up your body, slow and smug and glowing like she just won something. Her mouth is shiny, her chin wet, her eyes softer now. She leans in, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then your hip, then right between your ribs like she’s following a map only she can read.

And then she finally kisses you. You taste yourself on her tongue.

“Still alive?” she murmurs, pulling back just barely, her breath fanning over your lips.

You nod tiredly. She grins.

“Good,” she says, nudging your nose with hers. “’Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

“Paige,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut. You can’t, you swear. After all the edging and teasing, you’re fucking spent.

“C’mon,” Paige breathes as her fingers trail back down, teasing light circles on your clit like she’s checking to see if you’re still there. Still dripping for her. Still a mess. You are.

But instead of going soft or gentle—instead of giving you a break—Paige just laughs, low and smug and annoying, leaning closer until her forehead brushes yours. She’s smiling down at you like she’s seen this movie a hundred times before and already knows how it ends.

“You can’t take anymore? Really?” she asks, faux innocent, like she didn’t just spent twenty minutes dragging you to the edge and yanking you back every time you even thought about finishing.

You shake your head, too wrecked to even be embarrassed. Your legs twitch under her, and your breath stutters when she dips her hand again, rubbing faster now, rougher. Quick circles.

Your eyes fly open. “Paige—!”

She’s right there, hovering, looking so calm it’s almost rude. Her voice drops low, warm and coaxing. “You got it,” she murmurs, then leans in, kissing you languidly. “I’mma strap you, ’kay? It’s gon’ feel good.”

You blink at her, heart stuttering. The words hit you like a wave of something—lust, maybe, or memory, or just plain old holy shit, it’s been a while type of adrenaline.

Because, with Paige, the strap is something different. And you remember.

You remember how it used to turn her into almost someone else entirely—more focused, more intense, like she stepped into a role made for her. All that cocky, athletic confidence of hers funneled into every thrust. It used to drive you insane. She’d smirk down at you, hold you steady by the hips, mutter stuff under her breath that made your brain go static. Always so good at knowing when to push, when to slow down, when to whisper something filthy in your ear like she owned you. And, back then, she kind of did.

So, if you already here, already ruined and half-gone and trembling in her bed—you might as well let her finish the job.

You nod, barely, and Paige’s smile shifts into something more serious. Still soft, but hungrier now. Like she knows this means something and she’s not gonna waste it.

“Okay,” she says, voice lower. “Don’t move.”

Then she kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Her mouth is everywhere at once, moving down in quick little bursts of affection like she can’t stop touching you, even for a second.

You hear the drawer behind her open, the soft jingle of the harness. It takes her no time at all. She shimmies out of her cargos and boxers thickly, and fits the purple thing—same color as those panties she got you—to her hips with the same efficiency she’s got on the court.

She climbs back over you, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking in, making sure you’re okay—not just ready, but okay. Her hand slips under your thigh slowly, lifting it gently to drape over her waist.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just runs her fingers down your side again, resting them low on your hip as she settles between your legs. The silicone presses soft against your skin, and you twitch, already sensitive.

“Look at me,” she tells you, quieter now. Not demanding, more like a reminder. You do. You meet her eyes, and she gives you this look—tender, steady, locked in—that makes your stomach flip.

“You still want this?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

You nod. “Yeah. Want you, P.”

Something flickers across her face when you say it. Then she leans down, kisses you once, deep and slow. Her hips roll forward just a bit, her strap dipping into your entrance.

“I’ve got you,” she mumbles.

Then she starts to move.

And—God.

You forgot how good she is at this. How well she reads you. How every stroke is meaningful—hips snapping forward in a rhythm that builds slow, steady, patient. She’s not fucking around anymore. She’s locked into this, onto you.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, fingers digging into her back, her shoulders, whatever you can hold. Your legs fall open wider around her hips, and the air goes thick between you—all breath and skin and sound.

She leans down, forearm braced beside your head, sweat already starting to gather along her hairline. Her voice is right against your ear now, rough and low, saying, “Fuck, missed this. Missed you.”

You gasp, nails digging into her skin.

She keeps going. Her hips rock into you steadily and your head tips back into the pillow. She’s so deep, so good, and your body is still humming from everything before—all that edging left you raw, still twitching and clenching down around nothing, and now she’s filling you. Driving into you with smooth, practiced thrusts.

She moves like she owns you—like this is hers, has always been hers, and you’re just finally getting back to what was supposed to be. You can barely catch your breath. The slick sounds between you, the pressure building low in your stomach, the quiet grunts coming out of her mouth every time she drives back—it’s a lot.

Paige’s body hovers over yours, strong and steady, blonde hair falling a little wild into her face—and yours—as she stares down at you. Her cross chain dangles above you as well. It makes you wet. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s tracking every breath, every twitch. Making sure she’s hitting the spot. Making sure you feel all of her.

You do.

Fuck, you really do.

Your fingers curl deeper into her shoulders, your voice slipping out in little gasps and stuttered moans.

“Shit,” you choke out.

“Yeah?” Paige says, breath warm against your mouth. She’s grinning again, cocky as ever. “That feel good?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “So good. Jesus—”

“Mmm,” she hums, and then she leans in again, nipping lightly at your jaw and throat. Her hips roll deeper, sharper, like she wants to remind you exactly who is doing this to you. “Don’t bring him into this. You know I’m the one that fucks you like this.”

You shudder—because yeah. She is.

And this shouldn’t be different. Theoretically. Mechanically. You’ve been having sex with a man for months now—Lucas, your boyfriend. He has a real dick and everything. And, with him, it’s been fine.

But this?

This isn’t fine. This is Paige. And what she’s doing to you—this focused, obsessive, filthy thing she’s doing with her strap and her body and her mouth and her fucking words—it’s not even in the same universe.

It’s better. So much better.

She’s in a whole different mode now. Not the teasing, soft, cocky Paige from earlier—not even the sweet, grinning, “let me make you feel good” Paige. This version of her? The one who puts the strap on and immediately goes a little feral? You almost forgot about this side of her. Or maybe you blocked it out because of how goddamn dangerous it is.

She moves harder, faster, her rhythm never faltering as she slips a hand under your thigh and pushes it up, opening you more, giving herself a better angle.

Her voice drops again, gravelly and low, lips brushing your ear. “You miss this dick, huh?”

You gasp. “Paige—”

She laughs, all breath and grit. “Yeah, you do. Don’t lie. You’ve been lettin’ him touch you, yeah? That boyfriend of yours.”

You blink yo at her, brain short-circuiting, and she moans when she sees it—the way you clench around her strap, the way your eyes roll just a little. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You let him fuck you?” she asks, still thrusting, her voice starting to get breathless. “Let him hear you make all those sounds you used to make for me?”

You shake your head—not because it didn’t happen, but because that’s not what matters right now. Not when Paige is here, inside you, her hand gripping your thigh tight and her hips snapping forward like she’s trying to make you forget everyone who isn’t her.

She leans down, pressing her forehead to yours, still talking through shallow breaths.

“He ever get you this wet? Huh?” she asks. “You ever beg him like this?”

You’re too far gone to answer. All you can do is whimper, grabbing at her shoulders, your legs shaking with every thrust. Your body—your cunt, mostly—feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” she mutters, more to herself now. “You can let him date you, whatever. But you always come back to me for this. Don’t you?”

You nod. Or try to. Everything’s blurry now—pleasure curling in your spine, building too fast again. The way she’s thrusting, angled to brush against that gummy spot deep inside you every time, it’s criminal. And she knows it. She keeps her hand on your hip, guiding you into her rhythm, using your body like she built it herself.

“Paige,” you gasp. “I’m—fuck, baby, I’m close.”

Her eyes flash, and she slows just slightly, grinding instead of thrusting, pulling out a ragged moan from your chest. “Yeah?” she whispers. “You wanna cum for me?”

You nod fast, begging with your eyes now.

She leans in again, presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips.

“Okay, baby,” she murmurs. “Go ’head. I got you.”

She thrusts—so fucking deep—and your body goes completely out of your control. That pressure builds too fast, too tight, and your thighs shake. You clench around Paige, voice cracking into a high whimper. Your legs go stiff, whole body arching. Paige rides you through it, hips still moving, her mouth catching the sounds you can’t control.

You cum harder than you have in a long, long time. Even harder than the first one tonight.

And Paige—sweaty, wild-eyed, her strap glistening between you—just smirks down at you like she knows.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek again. “That’s my girl.”

She eases out of you slow, careful, knowing you’re tender, and even still, it makes you flinch a little. Your whole body’s buzzing—nerves fried, legs weak, brain a complete blur. And the second she’s out, that emptiness hits you like a gut punch. You sigh, deep and shaky, already missing the weight and heat of her even though she’s right there.

You’re still leaking, thighs sticky, body limp. You don’t move—can’t, really—so you just watch her through heavy-lidded eyes as she undoes the harness and slides it down her legs. She tosses it lazily toward the floor, not even looking where it lands, and then she crawls up beside you, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her pale skin is flushed and glistening. You feel the mattress dip as she pulls herself closer, wraps on long, sweaty arm behind your back, and drags to right on top of her like you weigh nothing.

You don’t resist. You just melt into her.

Her skin is damp and hot against yours, her abs tight beneath your belly, and she lets out a small, winded laugh as you settle in, tucking your face into her neck. Her other hand reaches up, pulls at the hem of the sports bra she’s still wearing. She shimmies it off with some difficulty, then flings it somewhere behind her with zero aim, sighing like she’s been dying to get it off for a while now.

You glance up at her, and she looks down at you, her mouth soft, a little swollen. Then, she leans in and kisses you again—slow this time. Not needy or rushes. Just warm.

You’re so lost in it that you barely notice the way she’s shifting—until her thigh hooks around yours and suddenly her cunt is pressed right against you’re. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. It sends a shockwave through you, makes your breath hitch in your throat and your hips jerk without thinking.

“One more, mama,” Paige murmurs against your lips. “Please.”

You almost say no. Almost.

Because your body is fried. You’ve cum twice—hard, both times. And you’re sore and wrung-out and still trembling in little aftershocks. But then she’s calling you mama in that voice again—sweet and wrecked and a little desperate—and you know exactly what she’s asking for.

She deserves at least once. She’s been so patient. So fucking good to you tonight. You don’t even think she cares about cumming, honestly—she’s always been the type to chase your pleasure more than hers—but still. You want to give her that. Want to watch her fall apart, too.

So, even though your body is screaming at you to rest, you give a little nod. And then another.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. One more.”

Paige kisses you hard this time, all teeth and tongue and gratitude, and then she’s adjusting your hips again, sliding one of her legs between yours and guiding your thigh up over hers. And then you’re there, pressed together, pussy to pussy, and fuck—it’s a lot. There’s no slow build. You’re already soaked and swollen, and so is she, and the friction is fast and immediate and sweltering.

She groans into your mouth as you grind your hips down into hers, and you can feel her grip tighten on your waist.

“God, baby,” she mumbles. “Fuck, you feel s’good.”

You whimper, already teetering on the edge again. “’M not gonna last,” you admit, breath catching. “I’m so—God, P—”

“I know,” she says, not missing a beat. “I know. Just wanna feel you. Wanna cum with you.”

She guides you with her hands, rocking your hips against hers, keeping the rhythm steady when your thighs start shaking.

“You’re so wet, holy fuck,” Paige breathes. “You’re makin’ a mess on me, mama. You hear that?”

You do. That obscene, slick sound where your pussies meet, the wetness mixing and sliding. It makes your cheeks burn, but it also pushes you closer.

You want to finish with her—you really do. You want to hold you, want to grind together until you both cum at the same time, messy and gasping. But your body has other plans. You’re too sensitive, too overstimulated, and it’s Paige. That combination doesn’t give you a lot of room to breathe.

So you finish first—again—your body seizing up on top of her. It’s not big like the others, but it’s sharp and sweet and hits you right behind your eyes, whitening your vision. You let out a breathy little moan and shudder all over Paige, your thighs twitching around her hips, your chest collapsing against hers.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” Paige groans, feeling you cum against her, sliding along her own pussy. She doesn’t stop. She just keeps going, grinding up into you a little more insistently now, chasing her own orgasm.

Her grip on you tightens, essentially manhandling your hips now. She tilts up into you, breath catching, and you feel her tensing under you, her thighs locking around yours.

“God, I’mma cum—shit,” she yelps, one last grind of your pussy sending her over the edge.

Finally, you both go still, the air between you thick and humid and exhausted. You collapse fully on top of her now, cheek smushed against her collarbone, her arms wrapped loosely around your back, her heartbeat pounding under your ribs.

Neither of you talks for a minute. You just breathe.

And then Paige sighs, light and wrecked.

“Fuck,” she curses. “Are we gonna regret this tomorrow?”

You’re too tired to think about it. Too dazed to pretend like you have any clue what the hell any of this means.

So you just press your face into her shoulder, and mumble, because you do know this one thing, “Definitely.”

[rensukepie]

#DOINGITRAW! ┈─★ various hq characters!

contains + warnings : breeding k!nk, praise, degradation, pure smut, VERY VERY messy sex, doing it raw (don't be silly, wrap your willy!), shower sex (sakusa), lmk if i need to add any more warnings

synopsis : scenarios of various hq characters knocking you up :3

★ MIYA ATSUMU

“t—tsumu….” you mewled as you felt the tip of his cock kissing your cervix each time he thrusted into you, loads of his cum from earlier rounds dripping out of you and onto the clean sheets that are now dirty.

“f—fuck…baby, ya feel so good…” he groans as he feels your warm pussy squeezing his cock, his free hand cupping your tits from behind. “should’ve told me sooner that ya wanted a baby…i woulda put one in ya ages ago…” he whispers in your ear, which puts you in a daze.

“d—don’t say stuff like that, tsumie…” you whimper quietly, your face flushed due to what he just said. “want more of your cum…♡” you say, feeling him bending over to give you more hickies and kisses on your neck and back.

“yeah? ya want more, pretty? ohh fuck—i’ll give ya more…” he whines as he spurts more of his cum inside of you, his hands roaming your ass, giving it a slap. “y’look so cute right now, baby..” he says in awe as he gently spreads your cunt open, the feeling of his cum dripping out of you once more.

and when you two get all cleaned up, he’s already making a list of names for the baby ♡.

★ MIYA OSAMU

“samu…” you say as you nuzzle against his chest under the covers. you and him have been scrolling on social media for the past hour and most of the things on his phone are just videos of babies due to him having such a high baby fever lately “y’know… if you want a kid you could just say so” you laugh a little, kissing him as you straddle on top of him.

“f—fuckk—yer s’good f’me, sweets…” he groans as you grind yourself on his now hard bulge underneath his grey sweats. “gonna take care of ya and our kid so good—i promise…” he says as the both of you take your clothes off, not wasting any time before he inserts his cock inside.

“hah—s—samu…feels s’good…” you whimper as you can already feel yourself getting closer to cumming, and so can he.

“been thinking about this for months…” he groans, your pussy clenching itself on his cock after hearing that. “seems like ya have been too…always such a slut f’me.” he whispers to you as he cums inside.

and for the next 9 months, he pampers you every single day. it was a promise, wasn’t it? ♡

★ BOKUTO KOUTAROU

“k—kou…! what’s gotten into you…♡?” you moan as he thrusts his cock inside of you roughly in a mating press.

“well i thought about what you said earlier this week…y’know, that conversation we had about having a kid..” he says as he continues to thrust inside of you. the sounds of his skin going against yours making you a little embarrassed but wet at the same time.

“so cute baby..getting wet over the smallest of sounds…♡” he coos, thumbing your nipple around with his free hand while playing with your clit with the other.

“k—kou…gonna cum if you keep doing that..” you mewl. he smirks at this and continues to do his actions with his fingers, the feeling of your pussy twitching on his cock making him closer as well.

“gonna cum too, baby..” he says, the both of you moaning together. “fucking lovee cumming in this pussy every single time…” he groans as he blows his load inside of you, his cock twitching load after load.

he’s always wanted to have a mini little version of him with someone, and now that you’re by his side, his dream will come true. ♡

★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI

“omi…i want a baby..” are the last words you said to him before he took you to the shower to absolutely fuck your brains out.

you whimper as kiyoomi pounds into you, warm shower droplets pouring onto you both. “w—want one s’bad…” you moan and twitch as you feel his cock get harder inside of you.

“yeah? you want me to fill you up and give you one?” he says in the same voice he uses to say the most filthiest things to you during sex. “hmm…think you can ask me a little more nicer? i know you can..”

“k—kiyo…you’d be such a great dad…♡” you blurt out, not realizing what you just said. it’s nothing bad, but now he wants to put one in you even more than before.

“yeah? you think so, honey?” he groans as he pounds into you even harder than before. “mhm—fuck…! please fill me up omi…” you whine “need your cum…”

as he hears your desperate pleas, he fills you deeply with his cum, pulling out of you after.

“don’t waste a drop..” he smirks into your neck, pushing any cum that falls out of you back inside of you ♡.

★ IWAIZUMI HAJIME

“work was so interesting today..” he says as his hands roam around your whole body, taking in your sounds of pleasure like music to his ears. “well…i saw this cute loving family…made me want to make one with you…”

“h—haji…want you to fuck a baby into me..♡” you mewl. as soon as he heard your words come out of your mouth, he teases your already wet pussy with his big cock. he doesn’t tease it for long though—because as soon as you started whining for him to just “put it in already”, he’s already listening to you.

“you’re so big haji…can’t take it…♡” you sob, your nails scratching at your back without even realizing it.

“you always say that, but you take it all the time, sweet girl…” he whispers in your ear, his voice going straight to your aroused cunt. “g—gonna cum haji—! oh fuckk…cum with me please..” you say desperately, reaching in for a sweet kiss as you both release at the same time.

“can’t wait to be a dad and take care of you both.” he says, a smile on his face forming. ♡

★ KUROO TETSUROU

“f—fuck—thank you s’much honey..♡” he whines as he inserts his cock inside of your syrupy pussy. “so good to me—fuck…!”

“tetsu…you’re so needy f’me, aren’t you?” you whisper to him as you hold onto his hair, massaging it with your fingers. “w—want to make you a mommy…s’badly…” he whimpers, making you laugh a little. he was so much bigger than you, yet, you always have him submitting to you.

“t—tetsurou…feels good…♡” you sob, pulling him into a kiss. you both groan at the way you both taste and you swear that you felt him almost cum during the kiss.

“aww were you about to cum, baby?” you say in a mocking tone, hearing him whimper at your words. “you’re so cute…”

“d—don’t say shit like that..” he says, his voice breaking as he finally cums inside of you.

after that, he orders a volleyball for the baby online. maybe the baby will become just like him back in high school ♡.

★ AKAASHI KEIJI

“had a dream of me and you with a kid…” he says with a sultry voice you haven’t heard before. “you looked so fucking pretty…” he says from behind you, kissing your neck with his hands playing with your tits, the feeling of his cock hardening behind you.

“k—keiji…i had a dream like that about you too…♡” you mewl at the pleasure he is giving you. “think it’s about time, yeah, angel?” he says, climbing on top of you to take off your little sleeping shorts along with your underwear, rubbing your bare wet pussy with his knee in between your legs.

“mhm…wan’your kid keiji..” you say as his cock enters inside of you, moaning at the familiar feeling. he was always so careful with you, so gentle and loving. “are you okay, angel? does it feel good?” he says sweetly. he asks you this every single time, and it never gets old. in fact, it makes you love him even more.

“maybe our kid will have your pretty hair…or even my eyes…maybe even your sweet personality.” he says gently, putting some strands of hair into the back of your ear as he continues to move back and forth in your pussy.

“gonna cum soon, angel..want you to cum with me too..” he desperately says, his lips pressed against yours so intimately, as if he’s yearned for this exact moment. “k—keiji m’gonna cum..!” you mewl, both of your fluids combining as he takes a moment to let you ride out your high.

“love you so much, angel.” he says after getting you both properly cleaned up, both of your arms around each other. ♡

[artficlly]

read between the lines [one-shot]

college marvel au frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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I’ve been tutoring Bucky.

Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

Ugh. Anyway.

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary. 

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again. 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

But maybe… in the best way possible.