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galatially · 19 hours ago

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&.⠀⠀NSFW A-Z⠀⋆⠀JOE BURROW.

pairing⠀⁎⠀joe burrow x reader. word count⠀⁎⠀11.5k.

summary⠀⁎⠀nsfw a to z with joe.

author's note⠀⁎⠀used a couple of drafts for some sections. not written as dr!reader but i guess it applies if you wanna read it like that? i've had requests for this since november lmao, hope y'all enjoy <3 warnings⠀⁎⠀18+ mdni, smut, third person [she/her], oral, sexting/sex tapes (kinda sorta), unprotected, semi-public, language.

read more⠀⁎⠀joe burrow masterlist.

A, AFTERCARE:

After sex, it's all slow speech, hooded eyes, and lazy smiles. Joe needs the warmth radiating from her to keep him from floating away. Aftercare is tender and thorough, usually filled with gentle touches, light kisses, and a few quiet moments of pure contentment. She often runs her fingers through his hair, while Joe's arms wrap around her in a loose embrace. They're both sticky and sweaty, but it's a mess they don't mind.

When he finally regains the strength to clean up, there's a box of baby wipes near the bed, ready to bring a soothing cool to flushed skin. He might toss the wipes with a flick of his wrist, the word, "Curry," falling from his lips as it just narrowly misses the bin.

Evenings usually brought a shower and a bath, his hands kneading her shoulders, her neck, her back. She would lean into Joe’s touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his strong, calloused hands worked the tension from her body. They’d linger under the hot water until it turned tepid, their skin pruning. Slow kisses exchanged as they stood wrapped up in warm towels, losing track of time.

Coming back to bed, he'd indulge in the way she’d snort when something tickled her too much, the way she’d squint when she was thinking too hard with her brain still foggy, and the way her smile never failed to make him feel like the most important person in the room. She, on the other hand, loved how Joe's face would relax into something peaceful and serene after climax, all the sarcasm and sharp edges momentarily dulled by the recession of endorphins.

B, BODY PART:

Joe's an ass man. It's no secret. The way her hips swayed when she walked into a room was like poetry to his eyes. He could spend hours tracing the contours of her backside with his fingertips, feeling the smoothness of her skin and the firmness of her muscles. It was as if he gravitated towards her ass like a homing pigeon to its roost. He'd get laser-focused, intent on making her squirm and moan with every gentle squeeze or playful smack.

She was really no better when it came to his chest. The way Joe's pecs rippled and flexed was enough to make her lose her train of thought. Her favorite thing was the way his heart thumped against her palm when she laid her hand over it. It was a reassuring beat that she felt in her soul, a reminder that she was home. She'd trace the line of his pectorals with her nails, watching him shiver before planting a gentle kiss over his heart, her kissing trailing upwards until she was kissing the base of his throat, feeling the beat of his heart against her lips.

C, CUM:

"Fuck," he groaned, both hands covering his face as his voice broke around the edges of the word. The couch was plush beneath his thighs, his head falling back over the armrest as he felt heat spread through him, pumping his heart, and bringing a red tint to his neck and face.

Her right hand gripped his cock, her hold on him firm. She kissed along the vein on the underside of his shaft, his pulse fluttering against her lips, his taste salty. She took him in her mouth, her eyes flicking up to meet his through her lashes. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, her tongue swirling around the head in slow, deliberate motions that had Joe's body tightening.

She pulled off of him, her hand pumping, her wrist twisting slowly as she watched the pleasure play out across his features. The veins in his neck stood out, his eyes squeezed shut tightly, and his teeth dug into his lower lip. He was close.

"Hmmm," she hummed, stroking Joe's cock with a knowing smile. "Close?" she whispered teasingly, her hand gliding over him like warm honey.

Joe's forearms crossed over his face, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he released a strangled moan. "Yeah," he murmured, his hips jerking up to meet her touch. "So close, baby. Don't stop."

Her smile grew, her eyes gleaming as she took his words as a challenge. She increased her pace, her hand moving swiftly, her thumb brushing the sensitive spot just under the head of his cock. She watched as Joe's abdomen tensed, his thighs quivered, and his whole body began to shake with the effort of holding back. She knew his threshold, knew exactly how much more he could take. He just wasn't there yet.

She leaned in, her tongue swiping over the tip of his cock, collecting the precum that had gathered. His control continued to slip, his hips thrusting upward, seeking more of her warm, wet mouth. With a soft laugh, she took him in again, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him deep. His groan sounded an inch further away than a moment before, no doubt having thrown his head back over the headrest again. Those golden brown strands of hair were messy, sticking to his forehead with sweat and tousled from his touch.

Her other hand roved over his thigh, tracing the muscles, her nails gently scraping over his skin. She felt him tense, his breath catching in his throat. The head of Joe's cock hit the back of her throat and she gagged slightly, her eyes watering, but she didn't stop. She breathed through her nose, her hand still stroking the parts of him her mouth couldn’t reach.

"God, baby," Joe hissed, his voice strained, his entire body coiled tight. "I'm gonna cum." She felt one of his hands reach down to tangle in her hair, gripping tightly as his hips jerked upwards, pushing his cock deeper into her mouth.

She swallowed around him, her throat muscles tightening around his length as he came. His cum spurted hot and thick, flooding her mouth. As Joe's orgasm subsided, his hips stilled and his grip on her hair loosened, his hand moving to cradle the back of her head instead.

"Swallow," he commanded gruffly. She obeyed, her eyes holding his gaze as she swallowed every drop. She licked her lips, savoring the taste of him, and sat back on her heels, watching him come down from his high.

Joe's chest was heaving, his face flushed. His hand remained on the back of her head, stroking her hair gently. "Fuck," he murmured, his eyes glazed with satisfaction. "Get up here."

She took her time, rising to her feet. Joe reached out, pulling her down to straddle him, his cock still semi-hard between her legs. He kissed her, his tongue tasting of himself, and she melted into it, her hands sliding into his hair.

D, DIRTY SECRET:

In all the years that his closest friends had known him, Joe had never been as protective over his phone as he was now. It was in the smallest actions that went unnoticed by most. The way he would whip it out of sight when it vibrated during dinner, or the way he angled the phone away when he was undoubtedly texting her. They all chalked it up to bashfulness. He was always selective about showing affection in public; he had never been one for PDA in any of his relationships.

The truth lay beneath the surface just for the two of them in the form of a hidden photo album. Within the depths of Joe's phone was a collection of images reserved for his eyes only. It was her body on display, her moans mixing with his, her skin glistening with sweat and his cum.

Some of the videos were lighthearted. The two of them laughing as she straddled him. Or her puffs of frustration met with his amused quips as she rode him reverse cowgirl, trying to hit just the right angle. But the most popular ones, the ones Joe watched most often, were the ones where she was on her back, legs spread wide, and he was pounding into her. Her eyes would roll back in her head, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.

His favorite video was from a few months ago, right after they had moved in together. His phone was held in her hand, high enough above her head in selfie mode to capture what was going on. Her knees dug into the mattress on either side of his hips, her free hand buried in the hair at the nape of his neck. He mouthed at her neck and shoulder, nipping and sucking, his hands just as busy, cupping and squeezing handfuls of her ass.

"So perfect," he mumbled so low it was barely perceptible. She bit her bottom lip with a smug smile, watching Joe's expression as he dipped his head to kiss the top of her breasts. His right hand lifted from her flesh, pausing in the air before coming down in a satisfying smack to her ass. She yelped, her body jumping before she giggled.

"Joseph," she scolded playfully, slapping at his arm. He grinned up at her, his eyes sparkling as he swirled his tongue around her nipple, hands still kneading her ass. "You're gonna make me drop your phone."

Joe laughed softly before he smacked her ass again, this time harder. "You better not," he shot back, his tone light and teasing. She squirmed against him as she shifted the phone to her other hand, huffing under her breath about her arm getting tired. He didn't pay her complaints any mind, continuing on his mission to make her writhe for him.

"Open," he ordered faintly, dipping his middle and ring finger into her mouth, watching her eyes glaze over as she took them in, her tongue flicking around his digits before she obeyed. She sucked on them, a soft sound of pleasure escaping her as she felt Joe's eyes on her, his gaze intense and hungry. He withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers down to her opening, circling once, twice, three times before slowly pushing in.

She whimpered at the feeling of his fingers filling her, her eyes squeezing shut, her body tightening around the digits, the camera shaking in her grasp as she breathed out. He began to pump in and out of her with his hand, pressing a row of kisses from the center of her sternum out to the edge of her shoulder.

"Oh, fuck," she groaned, her voice cutting through the wet squelches of Joe's hand in her pussy. "So good, Joey," she moaned, her eyes fluttering open to look directly into the camera, a look of pure ecstasy painted across her features.

"Don't drop it," he warned again, pausing his movements to allow her a chance to steady the device. "Keep filming, baby."

"It's not as easy as it looks," she quipped, her voice breathy and ragged, as she attempted to keep the camera steady while Joe's ministrations grew more vigorous. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her thighs quivering, and she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out too loudly.

"I can see that," Joe murmured, "but you're doing a great job." His thumb circled her clit, pressing firmly, and she had to grip the phone tighter to avoid dropping it. Her breath caught as she felt the beginnings of an orgasm coil deep in her belly.

He allowed her a moment to catch her breath, accepted the deep press of her lips to his own before his hand slid away, leaving her wetness to cool in the open air. The camera remained steady in her hand, the recording still rolling. Just as she began to grind down on his bulge, his hand lifted again to come down hard on her ass once more.

"Ow! What the fuck, Joe?" She yelped, her eyes flying open. She glared down at him, the phone slipping precariously in her hand.

Joe's grin was unrepentant. "Don't act like you don't love it," he said, his voice a low rumble. He took the opportunity to soothe the sting, shifting her weight so she was no longer sitting back on her heels. With her lower half at his eye-level, he dipped his head to press a kiss to the side of her hip.

"Better?" he asked, his voice dripping with amusement, as he watched her regain her composure.

She rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was all the answer he needed. "Keep it up and I won't be responsible for what happens to this phone," she warned him, ending the recording as Joe laughed, full and bright in the background.

E, EXPERIENCE:

Joe has a good amount of experience but still likes to learn his partners. There's a few things he can always rely on like his steady hands and his impeccable ability to read body language. He likes the challenge of figuring out how to use his hands just right, where to kiss, where to bite, all to get the perfect reaction.

F, FAVORITE POSITION:

The roll of her hips above him was mesmerizing, the way her skin glistened with sweat and her breasts bounced with every thrust was a sight to behold. Joe's eyes remained glued to her face, watching her expressions shift from pleasure to concentration and back again. His hands held onto her thighs, his grip tight but not painful, guiding her movements to match his rhythm.

"That's it, baby," Joe encouraged, his voice deep and rough with desire as he watched her body move over him. "Take what you need."

Her eyes locked onto Joe's, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts as she picked up the pace, her inner walls tightening around his length. If he could burn this sight into his mind, he would. Her moans grew louder, her nails digging into his shoulders as she reached for her peak. Joe knew her body so well, the way she liked it, the way she needed it.

It was in the bounce of her breasts and the arch of her back that Joe found bliss. He loved seeing her use him for leverage, taking the proverbial reins to scratch an itch only he could reach. He fawned over the way she'd begin to whine, her thighs giving out before she'd sigh, clamoring for his help, pulling his hands to her hips to bring her down harder onto him, her sickly sweet essence coating his length with every drop of her arousal.

"Need my help, huh?" he would mock her, his voice dark, pupils blown wide as he watched her tremble above him; weakened by the effort of keeping herself steady. And she would bite out a 'please' through gritted teeth, head nodding violently, her eyes squeezed shut.

Joe didn't miss a beat, his hands moving from her thighs to her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. He took over her pace, guiding her down onto him with more force than she had been using. She was tight around him, so fucking tight, walls fluttering as she approached her climax. It was always the sound of her voice that pushed him over the edge, the way she'd say his name that had him ready to sign his entire life away if it meant hearing that sweet sound every day for the rest of his life.

Her eyes snapped open, meeting Joe's as she leaned back slightly, her breasts swaying with the motion. Her hand found its way between her legs, her thumb circling her clit, pressing down in time with Joe's thrusts. She watched him, watched the way his eyes never left her, the way his jaw was clenched in determination, the way his neck strained.

"I'm close," she panted, breathless whispers passing through her swollen lips.

"Yeah?" Joe questioned, groaning as she pulsed around him. "Tell me how bad you need it, baby."

Her eyes searched his, the haze of pleasure sucking him in. "So…so bad," she moaned, her voice thick with lust. "Please, Joe, harder."

Obeying her desperate plea, Joe's grip tightened on her hips, his strokes becoming more forceful. Each time he drove into her, she'd let out a high-pitched sob that only made him want to go faster, deeper. The slap of their skin echoed through the room, a rhythmic beat that grew faster, more intense. The headboard smacked against the wall in a steady tempo.

Her walls tightened around him, her nails digging into his skin. The pressure was building, coiling in his balls, threatening to spill over at any second. He watched her face, the way her eyes had gone glassy with pleasure, the way her teeth had sunk into her bottom lip to hold back the scream that was threatening to escape.

"That's it," he grunted when she made that tell-tale face, the one where her eyes would roll back in her head and she'd bite her bottom lip until it was bruised. She was so beautiful like this. "There you go beautiful, just like that."

Her orgasm crashed over her, her body jolting and trembling as she came down around him. Her walls spasmed and contracted, a pulsing that had Joe groaning out her name. His hips jerked, spilling into her in thick, hot pulses as he followed her over the edge.

Their breaths mingled in the air above them, humid puffs leaving strained lungs. He pulled her to rest against his chest, hands running along her back, her legs still straddling his waist. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder. She nuzzled into him, a small smile playing on her lips.

G, GOOFY:

Joe's not a giggler in the bedroom. Once he's turned on, it's like someone's flipped a switch and he's in it for the long haul. But every once in a while, something would happen that was so absurd, so utterly ridiculous, that they couldn't help but laugh together. Like the time Joe's foot slipped on the duvet and headbutted her nose, or when they had tried to switch positions in the wrong direction so quickly that they'd ended up in a tangled heap on the floor.

The post-coital giggles and roasts are much more common.

"We gotta work on your stamina, baby," Joe teased, his voice still gruff. His chest heaved under her head as she collapsed against him, her body boneless and satiated.

She rolled her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. "Shut up," she murmured, her voice muffled by his shoulder. "I'm gonna be sore for the next week."

Joe chuckled, kissing the top of her head. "I think that's the longest you've lasted on top," he said, his voice filled with pride. He gently rolled her off him, then leaned over her, trailing his lips up her shoulder, over her breasts, the line of her neck, and finally capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

"I'll grab something to clean up," Joe offered, his voice a gentle rumble as he pulled away from her embrace. She groaned, the loss of his warmth already making her want to pull him back, but she knew better than to argue with his bull-headed, determined efficiency. Her eyes followed his naked form as he strode to the bathroom, the light playing over his muscular backside.

The sound of running water filled the quiet room as Joe returned with a wet washcloth. He gently cleaned her up, his touch tender despite the raw passion that had just taken over them. After placing the washcloth in the hamper of used rags, he returned to bed. She settled against his chest, slinging one leg over his waist and throwing an arm across his abdomen.

"Did you set your alarm?" she asked tiredly, her eyes already fluttering closed as she cuddled into him.

Joe took his time answering. The hand splayed on her hip, his thumb massaging tight circles, before moving to the waistband of her panties, peeling them away from her body, cocking his arm back, and sending the underwear flying into the darkness. The fabric hit the wall with a dull thump, and she couldn’t help but laugh at his playfulness, even though her body was begging for sleep.

"What is wrong with you?" she laughed sleepily, her voice muffled against his skin as she nuzzled into his neck.

"Just don't want anything in the way of our skin-to-skin time before I go," Joe murmured while pulling her closer, his voice a warm rumble.

She giggled and squirmed. "I think you were dropped on your head as a baby," she murmured, her eyes still closed.

Joe chuckled, his hand moving to caress her skin in a more gentle manner, his fingertips tracing the curve of her spine. He felt her body tense up for a moment before relaxing into his touch. "Nah, I'm just a product of my environment," he said, his voice low and smug.

"What environment would that be?" She questioned, her voice laced with sleepy amusement.

"The one where I was blessed with this life," Joe quipped, his fingers continuing their lazy exploration of her skin. "I'm so lucky to have you, I don't take that for granted." He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in, as his hand trailed up to the small of her back, his fingers breathing warmth over the goosebumps emerging across her lower back.

She sighed, the warmth of his words seeping into her bones. "I love you, despite how much you perplex me," she whispered, her eyes still closed. She felt Joe's chest rumble with his own laughter, his arms tightening around her.

"So lucky," he reiterated, pressing a kiss to her temple. She hummed in return, her thumb tracing shapes on Joe's chest as she snuggled closer, their bodies sticking together. She could feel the steady thump of his heart beneath her palm, a comforting beat that calmed her own racing pulse. Despite the heat, she didn't want to let go, to break the warm cocoon of their embrace.

"I'll miss you," she whispered. The thought of two weeks without Joe's touch, his voice in her ear, his smell on her skin, was a heavy weight on her chest. But that was the downside of dating a pro athlete: the inevitable separations, the long hours, the rigid schedules.

Joe kissed the top of her head, his arms tightening around her. "I'll miss you too, baby," he said, his voice gruff with affection. "I always do. I'll be thinkin' about you all day, every day. Just waiting until I can get back here and do this again."

She sighed contentedly, her eyes drifting closed. "I'll be here, counting down the days," she mumbled, her voice already drifting into sleep. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid out there. Come back to me in one piece."

"Always," Joe promised, his voice soothing and earnest. He brought her hand up to his lips, kissing each of her knuckles, his other hand still caressing the smooth skin of her back. "I'll be smart, come back to you just as good as new."

She nodded against him. A soft, drifting "Good boy," slipped from her lips.

H, HAIR:

He prefers to keep things tidy. Due to his sensitive skin, he keeps a tight schedule with his grooming habits. He's not super hairy, and he's freaked out by the idea of being completely bald down there, so he keeps it neatly trimmed. The carpet does indeed match the drapes, a natural happy medium between blonde and brown that's easy on the eyes.

I, INTIMACY:

The world seemed to spin in slow motion as Joe felt the warmth of her thighs envelop his head. The gentle drag of her fingertips through his hair made him shiver. Her voice faltering, her back arching as she spoke molten pleas into the darkness of the bedroom. It was in moments like these that Joe felt truly connected to her, as if every fiber of his being was tuned into her every thought and feeling.

He could almost hear her thoughts before they left her mouth, curling off her tongue, and wrapping him in a haze of comfort and love. He couldn't tell up from down, left from right. All he knew was her. The way she looked at him, the way she touched him. Every inch of him burned for her.

"J…" she moaned, her head rolling to the side, hand buried in his golden locks as she watched him worship her body. Joe didn't need to look up to know the effect he had on her. The way her body quivered, her thighs tightening around his neck, her breaths becoming more erratic—those were his cues. He knew her better than he knew himself, and he used that knowledge to his full advantage.

He was locked in, fully focused on her pleasure, his tongue swirling around her clit, his hands gripping her thighs to keep her in place. The lower half of his face was coated in her, his eyes closed in concentration as his mouth worked her into a frenzy. It was all heaven; her taste, her smell, her sounds. The tip of his nose nudged against her clit as he slid his tongue into her, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked.

"God, baby, please don't stop," she begged, her voice strained with pleasure. Her fingers tangled in Joe's hair, holding him in place as if he had any intention of moving.

Joe's response was a low groan, his tongue moving faster, pressing harder against her swollen bud. He felt her thighs shift, the pleasure building in her muscles, ready to clench around him in sweet release. He opened his eyes for a moment to watch her closely, the way her chest rose and fell with each heavy breath, the way her eyes rolled back in her head. His own body was already responding, his cock hard and insistent, his hips grinding against the bed.

Her hand tightened in his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp, a silent demand for more. He didn't hesitate, his mouth moving faster, his tongue working in time with her hips as they rocked against him. She was close, so close. He could feel it in the way her muscles clenched, in the way her breath hitched.

He pulled away for a brief second, kissing her clit before bringing him thumb down to press against it. "You're so beautiful like this," he murmured, watching her expression as she processed the new sensation. Her eyes snapped open, meeting his.

"Oh," she breathed out, her eyes widening in surprise at the sudden change of pace. Joe's thumb circled her clit in a firm but gentle motion, setting her nerves alight. Her breath caught in her throat, the anticipation building in her chest. She watched him, his eyes dark with desire and his mouth curving into a knowing smile.

He leaned back in, his tongue swiping over her clit in a firm, slow motion, savoring her taste. The intimate moment was charged with an electric tension that made every touch feel amplified. She arched back into the sheets, her body begging for more. "Joe," she whimpered, her voice thick with need.

"Fuck," she whispered, her eyes drifting shut again as Joe's mouth returned to her. He kissed and licked, his tongue licking a full stripe along her folds, teasing her clit before swirling around her entrance. Her thighs trembled and her hips bucked, seeking more pressure. He was in no rush, though, enjoying the way she squirmed under him.

With a smirk, Joe pulled back again, his thumb still working its magic. "Look at me, wanna see your eyes," he ordered, his voice firm but gentle. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze, filled with passion and a hint of frustration. He leaned back in, his eyes focused on hers, hands parting her folds to give himself better access.

"Fuck me," she panted, her voice shaking with desire. "Now, Joe. I need you now."

"Patience, baby," Joe murmured against her slick flesh. "Good things come to those who wait."

He continued to tease her with his mouth, alternating between gentle kisses and firm sucks that had her writhing with need. Each time she thought she couldn't take it anymore, Joe would ease up, only to bring her back to the edge with renewed fervor. Her pleas grew more desperate, her voice rising in pitch until it was a thin wail.

His whispers were met with her ragged breaths, her incoherent pleas as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. She could feel her orgasm building, a storm in the pit of her stomach that was threatening to break free. Her nails dug into the sheets, her body straining against the mattress.

He pushed a finger inside her, curling it in a come-hither motion that made her eyes roll back in her head. "Joe, please," she begged, her voice cracking with need. He added another finger, stretching her, preparing her for his thick cock. She was wet, so wet for him, and Joe took a moment to revel in her arousal, to breathe in the sweet scent of her desire.

"Baby, please, Joe," her voice was a desperate whine as Joe's thumb and fingers worked in tandem, bringing her closer and closer to the brink. She was a picture of beauty, lost in the throes of pleasure, and Joe felt his heart swell with love and desire. He could feel the warmth of her arousal against his face, the sweet scent of her filling the room.

His mouth devoured her whole, her slickness coating his face as he ate her like it was the sweetest fruit he'd ever tasted. The sounds she made were his favorite sound, a mix of whimpers and moans that grew louder with every stroke of his tongue. His fingers worked their magic inside her, stretching and curling, hitting that spot that made her breath hitch before she was tumbling.

That final thread snapped inside of her, pulling a sob from her chest as she shattered around his fingers. Her thighs clenched around his head, her body convulsing with the power of her climax. Joe kept licking, keeping her on edge, drawing out every drop of pleasure he could coax from her. He parted her thighs, allowing him better access to her pussy, and took her clit between his lips, giving it a gentle suck before swiping his tongue over it again.

She threw her head back, her chest heaving as she fought to regain her breath. "Joe," she panted, her voice hoarse. "Shit, oh my god, oh my god."

When he finally came up for air, his face was covered, damn near glittering in the dim light from the lamp beside the bed. He kissed his way back up her body, leaving a trail of their combined love. Her skin was hot to the touch, sticky with their combined sweat. She could feel the wetness of his mouth on her thighs, her stomach, her tits. She shivered under him, the sensation sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her.

"You taste so good, honey," Joe murmured, his voice thick with his own lust. He kissed her collarbone, her neck, the corner of her mouth. "Always so sweet."

Her eyes fluttered open, the intensity of her orgasm slowly fading into a warm glow. He loved the way she looked at him after, like he had just handed her the stars. She reached up, her hand finding his cheek, and pulled him down into a deep kiss, their tongues tangling in a dance of love and desire. She could taste herself on his lips, the faint saltiness of her release mixing with the mint of his breath.

Her hand slid down his body, her palm flattening over his chest. She felt his heart beating wildly beneath her touch, a testament to his own arousal. Joe groaned into her mouth, his own need palpable. His hand found her throat, squeezing the sides gently in a silent question. Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze meeting his, and she nodded. He kissed her again, harder this time, his teeth catching her bottom lip.

Joe slid into her, filling her slowly, his nose nudging against hers, their breaths mingling. She trembled, her eyebrows furrowing as she adjusted to his thickness, her body still sensitive from her climax. He didn't rush, didn't push until she was ready. He waited, kissing her softly, sweetly, one hand bracing himself above her while the other gripped her hip. She moaned softly, biting her bottom lip before giving him the green light to move.

J, JACK OFF:

The videos stored deep in his phone came in handy on extended periods apart, especially during the lonely hotel nights. It wasn’t the same as feeling her, tasting her, but Joe wasn't above taking what he could get. His hand palmed over the tent in his underwear, his thumb scrolling through the password protected photo album.

He clicked on the most recent, a photo of her on their bed, her skin glowing in the soft light. It wasn't particularly explicit, just her lying there, looking up at him with a bright smile, her hand playing with the hem of her shirt. But Joe knew what was hidden beneath that fabric, knew her body like the back of his hand. That was enough to get him going.

K, KINK:

Joe isn't subtle about his praise kink. He really can't help the way his Adam's apple bobs when she tells him how good he is. The way his eyes light up like a kid in a candy store when she praises him. And she's more than happy to oblige.

"Mm, you’re so good at that," she whispered, her nails dragging down his back. Her body tightening around him, her muscles spasming.

Joe groaned, his hips jerking as he watched her face contort with pleasure. He loved this, the way she looks at him like he's the only man in the world capable of making her feel this way. Her eyes fluttering closed as she throws her head back, her hand coming up to cover her mouth to stifle her moans.

L, LOCATION:

Everything felt slippery. Their bodies gliding against each other, the water pelting their skin like warm kisses. Joe's hands were everywhere, exploring every inch of her body with a hunger that never ceased to amaze her. She was pressed up against the shower wall, the tiles cool against her front, Joe hot against her back.

They had stumbled into the bathroom after Joe returned home from his game, the need for each other too strong to ignore. The water beat down on them, steaming up the room, as Joe steadied her hips, entering her from behind, his arms caging her in, palms flat against the wall. Her moans echoed off the tiles, blending with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin and the steady beat of the shower.

The water streamed down her back, over her ass and onto Joe's cock, making it slick as he slid in and out of her. She gripped his forearms, her knuckles straining with the effort of staying upright, her legs quivering with each of his deep, powerful thrusts. Joe leaned in, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear. "You're so wet," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "So, so wet for me."

Her breath hitched, clenching around him at his words. "Joe," she moaned, her voice echoing off the walls. She pushed back into him, her hips meeting his thrusts with a passion that was almost desperate. "More," she begged. "Harder."

Joe didn't need to be told twice. He tightened his grip on her hips, his thumbs digging in just enough to leave marks, and picked up the pace. The water ricocheted off their bodies, painting them in a misty haze that made everything feel surreal. His cock slammed into her, his balls slapping against her clit, and she could feel herself building towards another orgasm.

Her eyes squeezed shut, she threw her head back, exposing her neck to him. Joe took the opportunity to kiss along her throat, sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving bites in his wake. She moaned his name, the sound reverberating through the space. His hand slipped down to her clit, rubbing it in tight, fast circles that had her gasping.

He knew her body best, every peak and valley, every spot that made her shiver. And as he felt her start to tighten around him, her breaths coming in quick pants, he knew she was close. "Fuckin' squeezing me so good, baby," he growled into her ear.

Her nails dug into his arms, her body trembling as she felt the beginnings of her climax. "Joe," she panted, "I'm gonna—"

He bit down on her neck, cutting her off. "I know," he said, his voice strained with his own desire. "Cum for me, baby. I'm right there with you."

Her body responded to his command, her inner muscles contracting around his cock, her orgasm ripping through. Her knees gave out, but Joe held her up, his thrusts unrelenting as he chased his own release.

M, MOTIVATION:

It really doesn't take much to get Joe going, but when she whispers sweetly into his ear, his blood rushes. Her voice is like honey, dripping slow and sweet, making his dick twitch with every word. The way she looks at him, her eyes dark and hungry, that's what does it for him. That's what sends him over the edge.

Her praise is his kryptonite. When she tells him how good he makes her feel, it's like a punch to the gut in the best way possible. It makes him want to show her just how much he loves her, over and over again. It's a never-ending cycle of passion and adoration that keeps her coming back for more.

N, NO:

There's the basic ones: inflicting unnecessary pain on each other, sharing their intimate moments with anyone else, breaking the trust that was so carefully built. But there's also the smaller, less obvious things. Like Joe's dislike for being talked down to during sex, his need for eye contact, and his absolute no-go zone for any kind of humiliation.

He loathes being rushed, hates the feeling of being used. So quickies are rare, and when they happen, it's usually a spur-of-the-moment thing fueled by pure desire that neither of them can ignore. It's always the first of many later rounds where he can take his time and be more deliberate.

His distaste for toys in the bedroom are a pettier turn off. He's fine with the idea of her using them in his absence but the moment they're together, Joe wants to be the sole source of her pleasure. It's a point of pride for him, a silent challenge to be everything she needs, every time.

O, ORAL:

Joe's a proud munch. Although he would never turn down receiving head, giving is his bread and butter. He's a generous lover, always eager to leave her shaking and breathless. The way she squirms and gasps under his mouth turns him on so much that he often has to stop himself from getting carried away.

Eating her out was his love language, his way of worshipping her. He took his time, savoring every moment, every twitch of her body as she grew closer to the edge. Her head lolled back, her eyes screwed shut, as Joe's tongue danced over her clit, teasing it with the perfect amount of pressure. He always put his all into it, as if every taste of her was his last.

He often used it as a form of stress relief, taking her in his mouth after she'd had a particularly grueling day at work, or before a game he was worried about. He knew it calmed her, helped her unwind. And watching her come apart was his favorite way to ease his own tension. Part of that ease came from the knowledge that he was doing something he enjoyed, and was good at. Reassurances of his abilities, his goodness, his precision would fall from her lips, tug at his hair, and squeeze around his head as she came.

Her taste was addictive, the way she quivered beneath him, her thighs tightening around his head, the way she whispered his name in that breathy voice of hers, it was all his. And when she was done, when she was limp and sated, he would crawl up her body, kissing away the tension in her body, bringing her back to him, grounding her.

He enjoyed receiving as well, typically after some achievement as a selfish search for a reward. It was in the way her tongue swirling around the tip of his cock, her teeth grazing just slightly along his shaft. It was a gentle warmth, a sweet tease that had him groaning and his fingers itching to touch her, to urge her to take him deeper.

P, PACE:

"Pretty girl, all for me," Joe murmured, his voice thick with desire. She spread her legs wider, inviting him in, her slick glistening in the soft light of their bedroom.

He pushed into her, slow and deliberate, watching her face contort with pleasure. Her eyes squeezed shut as she bit down on her lower lip, trying to hold back the moan that wanted to escape. The sensation was exquisite, his cock sliding into her, filling her completely.

"Fuck, baby," Joe breathed, his forehead falling against hers. He began to move, his strokes long and deep, setting a rhythm that made her toes curl. She could feel the tension in his body, the restraint he was using to keep from pounding into her like a madman. But she knew he would soon lose that control. She could feel it in the way his grip tightened on her thighs, the way his breathing grew more ragged with every thrust.

Her hips met Joe's, urging him on. Her eyes never left his, the heat between them a palpable force. Her nails dug into his back, leaving little half-moons on his flesh as she arched up to meet him. "Harder," she whispered, her voice breathy. "I can take it."

Joe's eyes flashed with something feral, something that made her pulse race even faster. He obeyed, his strokes becoming more forceful, his hips pushing him harder into her with a wet sound that filled the room. She threw her head back, her hair fanning out on the pillow as she took him all in, her walls tightening around him, urging him deeper. The friction was electric, the sensation of his skin against hers setting her ablaze.

He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving deep, mimicking the motion of his hips. She moaned into his mouth, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly. She could feel the pressure building, her body coiling tighter and tighter with every stroke. He could feel a sweet heat rise up from his core, signaling his impending release.

"I'm not gonna last, baby," he murmured against her lips, their breaths mingling between soft gasps and heated moans. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction, content with the recognition that she had pushed him to the brink. She reached down and began to rub her clit in time with Joe's thrusts, her hips rolling to meet him. The pressure grew, a delicious ache that begged to be released.

Joe's hand pushed against the headboard, the bed slamming into the wall with the force of his movements. He could feel her tightening around him, her walls drawing him in. With a final groan, he gave in to his release, moaning out as he filled her with his warmth. She coaxed him through it, her hands full of him, running over his warm skin, gently whispering words of praise, pulsing around him so steadily he couldn't stop the burst of sensation in the pit of his stomach.

His hips stilled, eyes squeezed shut, as he reveled in the feeling of her milking him for every drop. Her hand stilled on her clit, her breath coming in short gasps. She felt him twitch inside her, his body slowly coming down from the high. Finally, he breathed in, his chest pulling in air, slow and strained, before deflating with a soft grunt.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to cum so quick," Joe muttered half-heartedly, his breath still hot against her skin. She shook her head, pulling him down against her chest, her fingertips embedding into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. "No, don't apologize," she assured him, a lazy smile playing on her lips. "We've got all night."

Joe pulled out and rolled over, his body slick with sweat. He leaned over to kiss her shoulder, his hair falling flat in soft curls against her skin. "Couldn't keep it together. You're a fucking tease," he said, his voice filled with both affection and exasperation.

She giggled, her chest heaving with exertion. "Keeps things interesting," she replied, rolling onto her side to face him. Her fingers traced the taut lines of his abdomen, feeling the dampness of his skin.

Joe's eyes followed her hand, a smirk playing on his lips. He reached out to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. "Interesting," he echoed, his voice a low rumble. His hand trailed down her side, over her sweat-slick skin to pull her closer into his. Determined fingers slipped between her thighs, pink lips parting to press his tongue against hers.

The pads of his fingertips circled her clit, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure through her body. She moaned into the kiss, her hips moving in a silent plea for more. Joe hummed against her mouth, the sound vibrating through her chest. "Want my fingers? Or my mouth?"

"Fingers. Need to kiss you," she managed to say between breathless gasps. Joe's smirk grew wider, and he complied, his mouth descending to hers in a deep, drugging kiss. His fingers remained between her thighs, working in tight circles that had her quivering around them, sighing into his parted lips.

Their kiss grew more frantic as Joe picked up speed, her body arching towards his touch. Her moans grew louder, filling the room with the sweet sound of pleasure. He slid two fingers inside her, the slickness of his release making it easy for him to move. Her walls clamped down, eager to keep him there.

"Yes," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Right there." Joe's eyes never left hers, the intensity in them making her stomach flip. His thumb continued to tease her clit, his fingers curling inside her, finding that perfect spot that had her toes curling.

"Yeah? Close, baby?" Joe questioned.

She could only nod, her eyes fluttering shut as Joe's fingers worked their magic. Her breaths grew shorter, her moans more desperate. His thumb flicked faster, pressing harder against her clit, feeling the tension in her body build.

"Cum for me, baby," Joe encouraged, his voice a soft rumble in her ear. "So fucking sexy." His words were like gasoline on the fire of her desire, and she couldn't hold back anymore. Her orgasm crashed over her, a wave of pleasure so intense it stole her breath. She tightened around his fingers, her body shaking with the force of it.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and she bit down on her lip to keep from screaming his name. Her nails dug into Joe's skin. He watched her face, the way her eyes rolled back and her hands clamored to hold on to something, anything; the way she threw her head back in ecstasy. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

When she finally came down from her climax, Joe leaned back, his chest heaving with exertion. Her hand slipped away from his bicep, her body going limp. She let out a contented sigh, her eyes fluttering open to meet his.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Joe leaned over her, kissing her gently, once, then twice. "Always," he assured her.

Q, QUICKIE:

The two of them made their way back to Joe's room, hand in hand, the floorboards creaking gently under their feet. Once the door was shut, Joe's hands were on her, his touch sending shivers down her spine. "Why do you get so horny when we get high?" he murmured, kissing her neck as he lifted the shirt from her torso.

She giggled, playfully pushing him back onto the bed. "I don't know," she hummed, unhooking her bra and letting it fall to the floor as she straddled him.

Joe's hands pulled her black nylon mini-skirt up over her hips, his eyes darkening with desire as he took in the sight of her. She felt the heat in Joe's gaze as his thumbs hooked into her lace panties, sliding them down her parted thighs. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the windows, casting their entwined forms in a silvery light.

"I fuckin' love you," Joe whispered against her ear, his breath hot and ragged. His hands roamed over her body, tracing the curves that were just hidden beneath her clothes. She leaned into his touch, her body responding to his in a way that only his touch could cultivate. She kissed him deeply, her tongue dancing with his, hands tugging at his messy hair.

They kissed for what felt like an eternity, their hands exploring each other's bodies with the urgency of teenagers who had just discovered the art of love. Joe's hands filled with the plushness of her hips, rocking her against him, pulling her down with no chance of running away. She moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled by their kiss. She reached for the hem of Joe's shirt, her fingers trembling with anticipation. She needed to feel his skin against hers, to trace the muscles she had watched ripple under the stadium lights so many times before.

"Oh," she whispered as she took in the sight of his bare chest. He sat up and helped her remove his shorts, tossing them aside before pulling her back down to kiss him. She felt his arousal growing against her, and she couldn't help but grind down onto him on her own.

Joe's hand moved from her ass to the back of her neck, guiding her movements as they found a rhythm that had them both panting. He kissed down her neck, nipping at her collarbone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before moving to her breasts. She arched her back, her breath hitching as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before moving to the next.

"Let's not get too crazy," she laughed against his lips, a hint of tease in her voice. "We don't want to wake up the whole house."

"Uh-huh," Joe murmured, his voice filled with a low undercurrent of desire. He captured her mouth again, his tongue delving deep as he pushed her thighs apart. The head of his cock nudged against her, and she felt her body respond, growing wetter, more eager for him. They moved together, trying their best to keep quiet, save for the rustle of the bedsheets beneath their bodies and the passing of whispers brushing over flushed cheeks.

Joe slid into her, filling her completely, and she arched her back with a soft moan. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he began to move, his hips a steady, rhythmic force. Her sighs spilled into the quiet night, mixing with the faint sound of their breaths and the occasional giggle when one of them accidentally smacked a hand against the headboard.

Joe's pace grew faster, his strokes deep and sure, hitting all the right spots that made her body tighten around him. She could feel her orgasm building, a delicious pressure at the bottom of her spine that grew with every thrust. Her hips rose to meet him, her legs tightening around his waist as she whispered his name over and over again. The bed creaked softly under their weight, and the only other sound in the room was their ragged breaths and the accidental smack of skin on skin.

Joe kissed his way down her neck, his teeth grazing her collarbone. She moaned quietly, her back arching off the bed as he sucked light bruises into her brown skin, the sensation sending electric jolts straight to her core. Her nails raked down his back, leaving red trails on his tanned skin. He groaned in pleasure, the sound vibrating against her neck.

She bit down on her lower lip, trying to muffle the sounds that wanted to escape. The anticipation was killing her, the slow build-up to the crescendo that she knew was coming.

"Focus, baby, gotta be more quiet than that," Joe murmured, his teeth grazing her ear as he picked up his rhythm, driving into her with purpose. She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut as she fought to keep her voice down. Her fingernails dug into Joe's back, concentrating her energy into holding back the sounds that fought to tumble from her lips. She could feel the tension building in her core, her innermost muscles tightening around him as the pleasure grew more intense.

Her legs trembled, her body on the brink. Then, with one final, deep thrust, they both broke, desperate orgasms ripping through them with the force of a hurricane. She bit down hard on Joe's shoulder to keep from screaming, her nails digging in deeper as her body convulsed around him. He groaned, the burn mixing with his own pleasure, and she felt his cock pulse inside her as he spilled into his condom, hoping to keep the mess to a minimum.

Joe collapsed onto her, their hearts hammering in unison as they both tried to catch their breaths. She found his weight comforting, pressing her into the mattress and grounding her as her head ceased its spinning.

"We really have to be quieter," she murmured, her voice filled with quiet laughter. Joe chuckled, his chest rising and falling against hers. They kissed once more, a gentle brush of their lips against each other.

They pulled back, panting softly, their eyes meeting in the dim light. She reached up to smooth back Joe's damp hair, her hand lingering on his cheek. "You're so pretty," she murmured, indulging in the way his cheeks flushed at the compliment.

Joe huffed, kissing her again. "You think I'm pretty?" he teased, his voice filled with amusement.

She rolled her eyes. "You know you are," she said, glancing at the clock just beyond his head.

R, RISK:

Before they could settle at the kitchen island, steaming plates of pasta and chicken in hand, Joe's voice boomed from his office, "Babe, can you come here for a second?" The tone was light, but there was an underlying urgency that made her eyebrows furrow. She set her plate down and sailed into the hallway, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. "What's up?" she called out, peeking her head into his office.

Joe sat in his chair, his expression unreadable as he gestured for her to come in. "Close the door," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper. She complied, a hint of uneasiness clouding over her features as she shut the heavy mahogany door with a soft click. When she turned to face him, she found Joe's gaze locked on her, watercolor blue eyes growing dark.

"Is everything alright? Did something happen?" She questioned, her voice tinged with concern as she stepped into the office.

Joe's smug smile grew wider. "No, everything's perfect," he said, his eyes roving over her body. "Just couldn't wait to get you alone." He stood up from his chair, shoulders rolling back as he approached her, his steps measured and slow. She felt a rush of heat and a flutter in her stomach as his arms encircled her waist. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, dipping his head to plant a gentle kiss to her cheek.

A small huff escaped her and she rolled her eyes, though her smile was unmistakable. "Joe, our friends—"

"They'll be fine," he interrupted, his hand slipping down over her dress and cupping her ass. "We won't be long."

She couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up from her chest. "You can't be serious," she whispered, trying to push him away. But Joe's grip was firm, his touch insistent as he drew desire up to the surface. She knew that look in his eyes—it was the one that always got her into trouble.

"Come on, baby," he coaxed, matching her whisper. "You know you want to."

Her resolve crumbled under Joe's intense gaze. She allowed him to back her up against his desk, the cool wood pressing against the back of her thighs. "Okay, but make it quick," she warned, laughing at the sudden change in elevation, his hands lifting her to sit on the edge of the desk.

S, STAMINA:

Joe usually taps out after two rounds. On nights when he has an extra ounce of energy, he might push for three, but he's a man who knows his limits. He is communicative about needing breaks, his voice gruff and thick with need when he offers his hands or his mouth if he can't go on anymore.

T, TOYS:

He's much too petty to bring toys into the bedroom. The selfish, stubborn part of him enjoys being the center of her pleasure. He thrives on the idea of being the only one capable of bringing her to those heights, the only one who knows her body this intimately.

He doesn't care about any toys she may have stored somewhere in the house to use when he's away. But when they're together, it's all about skin on skin, flesh on flesh.

U, UNFAIR:

He just couldn't help himself. Not when she was wearing those tiny shorts that barely contained her curves and that tank top that had him fantasizing about peeling it off her all day. She'd told him dinner would be ready in an hour, but that was an eternity when all he could think about was tasting her, feeling her warmth against him.

His hands traveled across her skin, tracing the contours of her body with an urgency that seemed to match the sizzling sounds from the stove. She tried to focus on the recipe, but Joe's touch was more alluring than the aroma of the garlic and herbs wafting through the kitchen. She felt the heat from his breath as he nibbled at her neck, his hair tickling her as he moved closer. "You're gonna make me burn our dinner," she teased, her voice breathy with desire.

Joe pulled away, his eyes dark with passion. "Would you be mad?" His smirk was playful, but the tension in his body was anything but.

"Very," she laughed, but the fire in her eyes said otherwise. She shut the top left burner off, gently directing Joe to hand her the wooden spatula she'd set aside. "Maybe not at first, but once the post-nut clarity kicks in, you'd be doing dishes for a week." She spilled the vegetables into the pan with a dramatic flair, their sizzle punctuating her words.

Joe leaned against the counter opposite her, his arms folded over his broad chest as he watched her cook. His gaze was hungry, but not for the food. "Is that a promise?"

She tossed him a playful glare. "It's a warning, Joe." She turned back to the oven, pushing the veggies inside. The air grew thick with a mix of arousal and the tantalizing scents of their dinner. Joe stepped closer, his hands finding her hips again. "If you don't behave, I'll make you eat salad," she threatened without much conviction.

He kissed her neck, his stubble grazing her skin. "Mm, salad," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Sounds delicious."

She rolled her eyes playfully, but her heart was racing. She could feel the heat of his body through her thin shirt. "Joe," she warned, trying to keep her voice steady. But the way his hands were moving over her, the way he was pressing into her, made it impossible to focus on anything else.

Joe's grip tightened. "What?" he whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

She whimpered, her voice faltering as she felt his dick through his sweatpants, slotting in the perfect place against her ass. The kitchen was a dance of heat and temptation, with every inch of her body craving his touch. She knew she needed to resist, but his persistent teasing was making it difficult. She slapped his hands away, turning to face him. "Would it kill you to be patient?" she asked, though her tone was more flirtatious than irritated.

Joe's smirk grew wider. "It just might." He stepped closer, his hands landing on her waist as he pinned her against the counter. "What else do you need to do?"

"Steaks are resting, vegetables are crisping in the oven, and the potatoes are just about done." She rattled off her dinner checklist, trying to maintain a semblance of composure as Joe's hands slid under her shirt. "I think that's all."

"Finally," Joe murmured. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. Her body responded instinctively, arching into him, her hands tangling in his hair as she began to forget about finishing off dinner. He lifted her onto the counter, her legs wrapping around his waist, the warmth of his body seeping into her core.

Their kisses were sloppy, filled with an urgent need that had been building all day. She could feel Joe's hands exploring her body, his fingertips dancing over her skin, sending waves of pleasure through her. She gasped as his thumb grazed her nipple, already hard and sensitive beneath her bra. He groaned into her mouth, his tongue delving deeper, claiming her so completely. Her hands roamed over his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt, tracing the lines of his pecs she knew so well.

The kitchen timer beeped, jolting them out of their passionate haze. She pulled away, panting. "Shit," she muttered, glancing at the oven.

Joe chuckled, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I'll get it," he offered, setting her down. He opened the oven door, the heat billowing out, and pulled out the tray of crisping vegetables.

She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. She hopped off the counter, smoothing her shorts and adjusting her shirt. "Thank you," she said, biting her lip at the sight of the bulge in his pants. "Just put it on the stove and turn the light on, it'll keep the food warm."

Joe did as told, smugness pulling at the corners of his mouth and radiating from his skin. "I thought we were gonna eat now?" He teased, watching her flustered state with amusement.

"Don't start with me," She replied with a roll of her eyes. "We're fixing this problem before we eat." She gestured to his pants, her voice breaking off into a laugh.

Joe's grin grew as he set the oven mitts aside. "Alright," he said, taking a step toward her. "I can't argue with that."

V, VOLUME:

Joe isn't as loud as he is deep. It's a sound that originates from the very pit of his soul, a low, full sound that floats through the air as he fucks her with everything he's got. He never stops talking, vocal cords vibrating with the effort of his words. He whispers sweet nothings, tells her how good she feels, how much he loves her, how much he needs her, the way he needs her more than he needs air to breathe.

As he draws closer, his words begin to chop off. They pitch higher, his breaths growing shallower as his tip burrows deeper. The curses spill from his tongue, unbidden and so harsh. The consonants jab at the air, sharp edges to the smooth curves of every vowel.

"Fuck, baby," he gasps as he climbs closer to the mountaintop. It's followed by a sharp inhale through his nose, a broken sound that dissolves into a shaky exhale. His peak is silence, a sudden cessation of all things verbal. Her eyes flutter open to find Joe's face contorted in ecstasy, his teeth bared as he spills into her. Warmth melts through him, blistering heat up the column of his spine before finally drawing a soft, gentle moan from his chest.

W, WILDCARD:

Nothing gets Joe more riled up than witnessing her in her element. In the very apt words of Drake, "Sweatpants, hair tied, chillin' with no makeup on." When she's relaxed and natural, something about her beauty hits him straight on. It's in the way she laughs, her head thrown back, mouth open wide, and her eyes scrunched shut. Or the way she zeroes in on a task when she's lost in thought.

It's in those moments that Joe feels his heart race, his palms sweat, and his mind unable to focus on anything but her.

He'd caught her like that once, her hair in its most natural state, a hot glue gun poised in her hands. Her concentration was so intense, her bottom lip between her teeth, that she didn't even notice him entering the room. He'd just watched her, his eyes traveling over the way she took in each of her slow, shallow breaths.

The pride that crossed her face as she held up the completed repair was unlike anything Joe had ever seen. "I think that's pretty solid," she announced, holding up the picture frame she'd just fixed. The wide collar of her shirt slipped off one shoulder, exposing soft, brown skin, and Joe had to fight the urge to groan out loud.

X, X-RAY:

He's working with something and he uses it well. Remember that purple hat? He wore it for a reason.

Y, YEARNING:

His sex drive is pretty high. During the offseason, he's not opposed to going multiple times a day, especially if she's up for it. It's like he's making up for lost time, craving the touch of her body, the sound of her moans, the taste of her skin. But Joe also knows that she has her limits. Her job can be demanding, leaving her tired by the end of the day. So he respects her boundaries, even when he's hard as a rock and his own need is screaming at him to take her again.

During the season, his sex life tends to take a bit of a backseat. He attempts to remain disciplined with a short list of conditions to ensure his peak performance. He's had moments where his thoughts wandered during a game, and that's a distraction he can't afford. The day before a game is completely off-limits, and even the days leading up to it are rationed. Post-game, win or loss, he needs to get the pent-up energy out of his system.

Z, ZZZ:

Once it's past his bedtime, he might need some distractions to keep him awake. Pillow talk is a must, their voices low and intimate in the quiet of their bedroom. Joe loves hearing about her day, especially the juicy bits of gossip from work that she's so good at sharing. He needs that bit of connection before he can drift off to sleep. But as soon as he's out, he's out cold. Like a light switch flipped off, Joe's eyes drift closed, his muscles slacken, and his breathing evens out.

#kendra recs 📖#v6queworlds #nsfw alphabet #joe burrows #joe burrows x reader #dr!reader au

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galatially · 21 hours ago

Text

SEX YEAH ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief a self-imposed sex ban during finals week sounds like a great idea…until your favorite professor stops playing nice. w.c 11.3k

risk assessment 18+ content mdni, smut & crack, second chance at love, cnc (adding just in case), fuck-buddies/fwb relationship, reader is of age and is a college student, age gap, exhibitionsim, unprotected p in v sex, jerking off, scenting, cosplay (the wolf of wall street reference), spanking, cowgirl, fem-dom, cock-warming. ft! choso, toji, nanami, gojo, sukuna

a/n: do people even read a/n's? lol

☆ CHOSO KAMO: CUM LAUDE AND OTHER HONORS

Choso Kamo — Professor Kamo to the rest of the campus, or “that one hot literature guy who talks about knights dying for pussy” — had really, truly, not expected to spiral like this. And it wasn’t even the whole “fucking a student” thing.

Sure, that had its own risks and thrills — medieval metaphors about sin and secrecy practically wrote themselves every time he bent you over his desk after a lecture on Dante's Inferno. But no, the real kicker here was how quickly the entire situation had devolved into something almost pitiful.

He was a man of principle. Of poetry. Of well-tailored tweed jackets with elbow patches. He annotated Beowulf in his spare time and kept a hand-written syllabus, for God’s sake. But now? He was a walking hard-on with a PhD and a steadily unraveling sense of self.

Because it started so innocently.

You’d shown up to class late on the first day, hair a little damp from rain, muttering apologies while trying not to slip on the tile floors. He'd looked up, ready to sigh, but then froze when he saw your face. Something about the tilt of your head, the way you bit your cheek while scanning for an empty seat.

“No fucking way,” he’d murmured.

And later, when you caught him in the corridor after class, backpack slung low, eyes bright with mischief—

“Hey, Kamo. Did your emo phase die with that mustache?”

You had said it like a challenge. Like a spark tossed onto dry kindling.

He remembered how your lips had tasted that first time again — after years — pressed against his mouth in the backseat of his shitty Honda. He’d driven you home like he was sixteen again, one hand on the wheel, the other trailing down your thigh, unable to focus on the road signs.

And the sex. Jesus.

“Are you gonna read Sir Gawain to me after you make me cum again?” you’d panted once, still catching your breath as he kissed down your stomach.

“No,” he muttered against your hip, smirking. “Only if you fail the oral quiz.”

He was funny back then, or thought he was.

Before his identity began orbiting entirely around whether or not you were free to sneak into his office.

He still remembered how you’d grabbed the edge of his desk to keep your balance, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers deep inside you as you whimpered, “F-fuck, I forgot the assignment—”

“I'll let it slide,” he’d whispered like some depraved academic deity, licking into your mouth while curling his fingers just right.

Which made it all the more humiliating when, two weeks before midterms, you’d pulled away post-orgasm, adjusting your shirt like you were zipping up a compartment in your brain.

“So I'm gonna need to focus for a while. No more of this until after the exams.”

He blinked.

“Wait, you’re—what?”

“No distractions. You qualify as one. Temporary ban.”

“Temporary—” he sat up. “You’re banning me?”

You kissed his forehead with horrifying gentleness. “Don’t be dramatic.”

And that, quite precisely, was when Choso Kamo began losing his damn mind.

It was subtle at first. Quoting love poetry during completely unrelated lectures, spilling coffee on his own lecture notes, and more recently, spending ten whole minutes monologuing about chastity belts before realizing what he was saying and hastily switching to feudal taxes.

But the eyes. His big, brown, tragically earnest eyes. When you told him, they’d gone glossy, wet around the edges — not full tears, not yet, but a threat of them, like he’d just witnessed the burning of the Library of Alexandria and been denied a hug.

“You’re being very stoic about this,” you told him, trying not to smile.

He blinked rapidly. “I'm literally about to cry.”

Meanwhile, you were surviving. Thriving, even. If you counted staying caffeinated and not flunking your upcoming Philosophy elective as thriving.

The sex with Choso had been — frankly — excellent. Top-tier, euphoric even. Toe-curling in a very literal, very real way. His tongue knew things, his hands remembered places. And your cervix? Familiarized. Reacquainted like an old friend.

But unlike Professor Kamo, Ph.D., who had the luxury of retreating into his office with leather chairs and pearl-clutching guilt, you were an undergraduate scraping by with cold lattes and colour-coded notes. The breakup all those years ago had been dramatic in the way only high-school love could be — he’d told you he wanted a PhD like he was announcing he had been drafted for war.

“I need to go,” he had said, sixteen and a half and full of dreams, with his stupid floppy hair and that hand-me-down hoodie that still smelled like your perfume.

“Go where? Oxford?” you’d snorted. You didn’t mean to cry, but you did. Grossly. He’d held you through it, apologised even while making that determined man chasing legacy face, and you had let him go.

But now — now, you had midterms, and your brain had no space left for sentimentality. Or dick. Which was basically the same thing in this context.

So, like a responsible adult (or the closest approximation of one), you took yourself to the library. And, like the tragically naive idiot you were, you chose the medieval literature aisle for reasons you tried to dress up as “academic curiosity” when in truth you were just…a masochist.

The library was empty.

You should’ve known. No one studied in this section, not unless they had a god complex or an obsession with incest-coded epic poems.

You reached up toward a volume you pretended to be interested in — Courtly Love and Other Medieval Lies or something like that — and that’s when you felt it.

Something solid and warm absolutely pressed against your back.

You froze.

“If this is some hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and unresolved sexual tension, I swear to God,” you muttered aloud.

“It’s not,” came a familiar voice. Warm, low, and stupidly fond.

“Though I am flattered you’re hallucinating about me.”

You turned your head slowly, dread pooling somewhere near your pancreas. And there he was.

Choso Kamo, medieval literature messiah, complete with a cardigan that had patches on the elbows again, holding a copy of Le Morte D’Arthur like he hadn’t just pinned you to a bookshelf.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned.

“I come here for peace,” he said, tone saintly. “And the tragic poetry.”

“You come here because no one can see you cry in this corner,” you snapped.

He blinked. Guilty. Then, because he was unbelievable, he leaned in — just a little. Just enough for you to feel that he was very real and very not over the whole “temporary ban” situation.

“You smell like that lavender thing again,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Makes it really hard to respect your ‘study boundaries,’ y’know.”

You exhaled slowly, book still hovering in your hand, brain refusing to cooperate with basic motor function.

“Do you need something, Professor Kamo?”

He looked at you with that wounded, damp-eyed expression he had no business making in a public academic space. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I need you to maybe let me kiss you for, like, two seconds so I can remember what peace feels like.”

And that, right there, was how your study break ended — pinned between Choso Kamo and a bookshelf older than both your childhood homes combined. You were kissing like you’d forgotten what oxygen was, like air didn’t matter when he was mouthing at your bottom lip like that, with hands sliding under your blazer and pressing against your waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you.

“Keep it quiet back there,” called the old librarian from somewhere far down the aisle, voice like brittle parchment. You barely pulled away, breathless, whispering a quick, “sorry!” toward the void before biting down a laugh and burying your face in Choso’s chest.

“Do you think she knows?” you mumbled against the fabric of his shirt.

“Absolutely,” he said. “She probably thinks I'm shelving books. Badly.”

“You are shelving something,” you muttered.

He groaned. “You’re disgusting.”

But he was already lifting your skirt, huffing like a man on a mission, swearing under his breath when he realized how many layers you’d cursed yourself with this morning.

“Why,” he whispered, mouth pressed against your shoulder as he unbuttoned and unzipped and peeled like his life depended on it, “Why do you do this to me.”

“Because the weather said fourteen degrees,” you hissed, clutching onto the shelf behind you, fingers brushing the cracked spine of The Canterbury Tales. “And because I didn’t think I’d be fucked next to Chaucer, Cho.”

He finally got to your thighs, his warm palms skimming over skin and stopping when he saw them — the lacey black pair. The ones with the tiny bow and mesh trim.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, kneeling slightly, letting his thumb drag just under the waistband. “You still buy these?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re fucking ruining me,” he whispered.

His hands gripped under your knees as he pulled one leg up and hooked it over his hip, tugging the lace to the side, the cold air of the library kissing wet heat just before he pressed himself into you. You clenched around him on instinct, a soft, surprised sound escaping into the dusty rows.

“God, shhh,” you hissed, forehead knocking against the shelf. He let out a strained chuckle, already starting to move.

“You shush me,” he muttered, nose brushing your temple. “You’re the one making those tiny fucking noises, like you’re trying so hard to behave.”

“Maybe I am trying to behave—”

“You’re failing.”

His thrusts were slow at first — painfully deliberate, his breath warm against your cheek, his hand cupped around the back of your thigh. The faint creak of wood beneath you, the occasional rustle of fabric, and the obscene sound of wet heat meeting flesh echoed faintly through the aisle. You were half-laughing, half-gasping, fingers digging into the bookshelf, one palm flat against The Song of Roland, muffling a whine into its faded cloth cover.

“Does this count as sacrilege,” you mumbled.

“Absolutely,” he groaned, speeding up, his hips snapping sharper. “But I'll repent after you cum.”

“What a gentleman.”

“Shut up and let me ruin your study schedule.”

He angled his hips and hit something that made your breath stutter, made your hand fly to his chest and fist the fabric there, biting down hard on your lip. His lips found your throat, mouthing along your pulse, and he whispered — raw, reverent — “You’re so fucking tight. Every single time.”

You couldn’t reply, not verbally. Your mouth opened, but no real sound came out — just a high, broken gasp as his fingers slipped between your legs to circle over your clit, his rhythm stuttering when you clenched around him again.

“Cho—”

“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured, thumb working in slow, cruel circles. “Come on. Be good for me.”

And you did. One hand still clamped over a book, the other wrapped around his shoulders, hips twitching as you came with a quiet, strangled cry into his neck, teeth grazing skin. He followed right after, groaning low, clutching you close like he needed to anchor himself in the reality of what just happened.

Silence settled in the dusty air, with only the sound of breathing, of fabrics shifting.

A beat passed. Then choso whispered, still catching his breath—

“So... still banned, or…?”

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: THE EXAM BEFORE THE EXAM

Toji Fushiguro — head of military sciences, habitual menace, and the reason half the student body walked with a permanent limp (some from sparring, others from fear). Getting into the program was doable. Surviving it? That was where dreams went to die. And you? Well, somehow, you were still standing. Walking the tightrope of respect and rebellion, womanhood and war, biting sarcasm and battle simulations — and managing not to crumble under the weight of Professor Fushiguro’s ice-cold stare.

Which would have been fine. Normal even, in the way bootcamp trauma is considered “character-building.” But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, had one little twist for you:

The man who railed you within an inch of your life at a bar this past summer — the one with the deep voice, veiny hands, and that mouth like a loaded weapon — turned out to be your fucking teacher.

You didn’t know when he pulled you into that coatroom that night. Didn’t know that those strong hands were government-funded or that the man who bit your shoulder when he came was going to be barking orders in a lecture hall two weeks later.

And yet.

You walked into class, and there he was. Professor Fushiguro. Same green eyes, same build.

Same mouth you’d kissed while breathless and begging, now saying things like “form a perimeter” and “that’s a piss-poor excuse for a flank.”

To his credit, he pretended not to recognize you. And you, in return, tried to pretend he hadn’t once called you baby while dragging his cock over your dripping folds like it was a reward.

But see, the pretending didn’t last.

Not when you started lingering after class, not when he’d walk past you during drills, and you’d stand just a little straighter, thighs pressing against each other just a little tighter.

Not even when he found you one evening in the training hall, wrist-deep in frustration over a jammed dummy rifle and an even more jammed libido.

“You still don’t listen,” he’d said that night, voice low as he boxed you against the wall. “No wonder you’re always behind.”

“Guess I need someone to show me,” you’d snapped back.

And then it spiraled.

Into on and off fucks in staff storage closets, under the flickering lights of the weapons bay, in his office when the door “accidentally” locked behind you.

He was always rough. Not cruel — he never hurt you (unless you asked). But rough like he had to get it out, had to get you out of his system or else he’d lose it. He’d mutter shit like, “always so wet for me,” while shoving your panties to the side with two fingers, pressing into you like he was reclaiming something he never really gave up. You’d scratch down his back, gasping into his mouth, feeling his teeth on your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs like they belonged to him.

“Gonna make you fail, fucking you like this,” he’d say, voice rasping near your ear, hips snapping into you as you braced yourself on his desk, your notes crumpling beneath your palms.

“Then don’t stop,” you’d dared. “Make me fail.”

But then.

A week before exams, he pulled back.

“No more,” he said, arms crossed, mouth tight.

You blinked. “You serious?”

“Yeah.”

He ran a hand down his face like he’d aged five years in the last month. “You’ve got exams. I've got integrity.”

You snorted. “Since when?”

“Since now,” he gritted out. “And don’t give me that look. Just because we’re…” he paused, made a vague hand gesture that could’ve meant ‘fucking’ or ‘cursed soulmates’ — hard to tell, really.

“…close, doesn’t mean I'm gonna grade you easier. You get that?”

You stared at him.

This six-foot-something walking contradiction, trying to draw a line now, after he’d already crossed ten of them balls-deep.

“Got it, sport,” you said, tone dry enough to parch a desert.

He flinched. You smiled. And just like that, the sex-ban was in place.

But if the look on his face said anything — clenched jaw, hands tightening into fists every time you so much as breathed near him — it was affecting him way more than it was affecting you. And that was just the beginning of his downfall.

Physical examinations were hell — plain and simple. Muscle-aching, sun-scorched, sweat-slick hell. Your limbs felt like lead, your lungs were raw, and if the grass beneath your boots felt soft for a moment, it was only because you were seriously considering collapsing into it and never getting up again.

And of course, he had to be the one barking orders.

“Outside. Now. No one gets a free pass, not even the ones whining about cramps or puking their breakfast. Ground. Move.”

Toji Fushiguro — mean as ever, especially toward you lately. His green eyes barely brushed your face now, jaw so tight you could practically hear the teeth grinding.

It was almost funny, if it weren’t also kind of sad.

You passed him in the doorway, shoulder brushing his arm. No glance, no grunt, nothing. You’d dare say he was acting like a kid. And fine, let him sulk — you had a test to get through without dying.

What you didn’t know, though, was that he stayed back. That he lingered in the quiet of the empty break room, your scent still clinging to the air like a cruel reminder. That was his first mistake.

His second?

Green eyes drifting to the bench where you'd left your bandana. Sweat-soaked black cotton, creased from being tied around your head all morning, the faintest sheen of your hair oil still warming it. And Toji — old, bitter Toji — picked it up like it weighed something.

He told himself he wasn’t gonna do anything stupid. He was just gonna…hold it. Maybe tuck it into his coat pocket and return it later, like a normal adult. But then he rubbed the fabric between his fingers.

Thin, soft, still warm. It smelled like you — that impossible mix of salt and cheap soap, shampoo and skin, and something earthy and feminine that always made him a little crazy.

He felt it in his gut first. That low throb — not just in his cock, but in his goddamn chest. Regret, guilt, arousal, shame — an ugly stew of it. He groaned under his breath, thumbing the bandana with a clenched jaw, eyes fluttering shut. His cock was hard already, straining against his pants. Fucking great. “Just five minutes,” he muttered, like some kind of prayer. “Five minutes and I'll forget you ever existed.”

He palmed himself, rough and fast, still holding the bandana like it might anchor him to something other than pure depravity. His breathing grew louder, chest heaving under the thick black shirt he always wore like armor. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic — jerking off in a break room like some depraved teenager, when he was old enough to have tenure. But then again, hadn’t you turned him into this? You and your little shorts. Your mouth that always had something smart to say. Your eyes looking up at him like you knew what he was thinking.

He fisted his cock, hard now, thick and twitching in his grip. The ache was unbearable — heavy, pulsing, the kind that made his teeth grit and his thighs tense. And all the while, he kept the bandana close to his face, his nostrils flaring, moaning low like he was about to die from it.

“Fuck…fucckkk, you little brat…” he muttered. He was close. So fucking close —

And that’s when the door opened. Fast. Sudden.

“Shit, I forgot—”

You stopped. He didn’t.

His hand froze around the base of his cock, the bandana still in his other hand, flushed red and eyes blown wide as you stood in the doorway, breath hitching.

You stared. He stared back. The silence was so thick, you could hear the clock tick on the wall. And Toji — Toji fucking Fushiguro — had never looked more ashamed.

Not when he lost comrades. Not when he failed his last marriage. Not even when he nearly got caught sleeping with you in his office two months ago. This was different.

This was you, standing there with your hand still on the doorknob, eyes flicking from the bandana to his cock to his face. And fuck, he didn’t even have the words.

You blinked, slowly.

“…You’re seriously jerking off in a student break room?”

He swallowed, chest heaving. “I—”

“With my bandana?”

“…It smells like you.”

The words escaped before he could stop them. And yeah, he was definitely going to hell for this one.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you.

“Well, that’s one way to say you miss me.”

Of course, not one word was said. Not a gasp, not a curse, not even the ghost of a reprimand. You stepped forward, fingers curling around the very bandana he’d just fucked his fist into like a shameful teenager, the cloth warm and heavy and damp with the evidence of his so-called self-control, his cock still twitching in the aftermath. His jaw locked in mortification as you slowly peeled it out of his hand — never once breaking eye contact, not even when your thumb grazed the wettest patch, not even when you gave a soft amused hum that made his stomach flip and his spine stiffen.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t say a single thing as you brought it up, shook it out once with a flick of your wrist, and with casual, deliberate hands, tied your hair back with it, the fabric brushing your cheek, cooling slightly as it met your skin, still sticky from the heat of your morning drills.

And then you turned and walked away, boots loud against the linoleum, leaving the break room like nothing happened, like he was the only one caught in the storm — because all said and done, you still had an exam to give, and unlike him, you didn’t waste time. You were built for war and score sheets both, and you weren’t about to let a pervy, emotionally repressed head instructor knock your GPA off track.

Toji didn’t move for a full minute after that. Not even a twitch. The only thing that stirred was the sick realization setting in his gut that there was no walking back from this now — not after what he’d done, and definitely not after what you’d done right back.

Later that day, when the sun was dipping low and the training ground had mostly emptied out, he waited until the hallway was clear, eyes flicking left and right before grabbing you by the elbow in that no-nonsense way that meant you were in trouble — dragging you down the hall with that rough, controlled gait of his, jaw working like he was chewing through glass.

“Office. Now.”

You didn’t resist, didn’t even roll your eyes. But the smirk on your lips told him you knew exactly what this was.

The door slammed behind you, the lock clicking a second later, and you barely had time to drop your bag before he had you pressed against the nearest desk, hands already on your hips like he was restraining himself and failing miserably. “You’re gonna pretend that was nothing?” his voice was low, frayed, voice-box rasping like he’d smoked too much or screamed too long. “You think you can just walk outta there with my fuckin’ cum in your hair and act like that’s normal?”

You tilted your head, just enough for the smell to hit him again. Thick, raw, intimate. The combination of his own musk and your shampoo, grounding and familiar in a way that made his knees want to give out. He groaned — long and guttural — pressing his nose into your head like he was being punished, inhaling deep, and the way his grip on your hips tightened was almost painful.

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you replied sweetly, and that was all it took for his control to snap.

His hand shoved up your shirt, not gently, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your ribs before sliding down to the waistband of your pants, yanking them down just enough to expose what he needed, and his breath stuttered when he saw the slick already gathering between your thighs — your pussy already wet and twitching like you knew this was going to happen. He didn’t even undress himself fully. Just unzipped, pushed his briefs down to free his cock, already rock hard and leaking at the tip, angry red and pulsing with every beat of his blood.

“You got no shame,” he hissed into your ear, lining himself up and sinking in without a warning, hissing through his teeth when the tight heat of you clenched around him like a vice. “You like being filled up that bad, huh?”

“I like multitasking,” you gasped, knuckles white on the edge of the desk, nails scratching into the wood as his hips slammed against you, the sound of skin on skin echoing around the cramped office. “Told you — I can focus.”

“Focus, huh?” he growled, fucking into you harder now, every thrust raw and punishing, like he was trying to fuck the memory of earlier out of both your heads. “You’re dripping, girl. You soaked through your damn pants, and you call that focus?”

You moaned, jaw slack, lashes fluttering with every thick, deep push that filled you to the brim, the friction of him inside you so blindingly good it almost knocked you off your balance. Your breath caught when he reached around, pinching your nipple through the fabric of your sports bra, a little cruel, a little possessive, all of it insane. “Guess you’re grading on a curve now, huh?” you managed, and he laughed, breathless, wrecked.

“No,” he muttered into your shoulder, voice cracked and hoarse, hips stuttering as his cock twitched deep inside you. “You’re just that fucking smart.”

☆ NANAMI KENTO: THE WOLF OF WALL D

You never really envisioned a life of ledgers, equity risk premiums, and the horrors of double-entry bookkeeping. In fact, if anything, you’d always assumed you’d end up somewhere in the arts — or at least somewhere where the word “asset” didn’t come with twelve subcategories and a spreadsheet the size of a tombstone. But one ambitious internship, two mock stock wins, and a dangerously persuasive LinkedIn mentor later, here you are: enrolled in one of the most prestigious finance programs in the country, selling your soul for a theoretical future on Wall Street.

Except, no one warned you about the real economy — the one where your old hookup turns out to be your new professor.

It was Halloween. Pre-college euphoria, post-exam breakdown — a sloppy cocktail of confidence and denial. You’d just gotten the admission offer, the kind that comes with a fancy crest and a pretentious Serif font. You were glowing, and frankly, you wanted to celebrate. And maybe — maybe — dressing as Margot Robbie's Naomi Lapaglia from The Wolf of Wall Street was a little too on the nose. Thigh-highs, heels, the pink velvet micro-dress, the accent — you committed. You even practiced the line in the mirror. Yes, that line. Yes, that scene.

And just your luck — of course the man who walked into the party with his sleeves rolled, Rolex glinting, and a perfect scowl under his sunglasses had gone as Jordan fucking Belfort. Expensive cologne clinging to his collar, the soft pull of his silk tie hanging low, like he already knew he’d be using it later. And he did.

Nanami Kento — although he hadn’t introduced himself with his full government name that night, just “Nanami” in that bored baritone, fingers skimming the rim of his glass like he was about to sign off on your performance evaluation. He didn’t even smile when you pointed out the cosmic horror of both of you showing up as horny power couple chaos incarnate. He just raised a brow, sipped his whisky, and drawled, “Well. It would be criminal not to commit now, wouldn’t it?”

And you did commit.

Specifically: to the floor of a stranger’s (Nanami’s) bedroom, sitting pretty and poisonous in the center, legs spread just enough to tease, your dress hiked up your thighs with practiced ease. No panties, of course — what kind of tribute to Naomi would it be otherwise? The heels stayed on — tall, glossy, a shade that caught the light like blood. You sat like you belonged on display, like he should’ve paid just to breathe the same air.

Nanami was in his shirt sleeves now, his tie loosened but still there like a noose. He hadn’t broken character once, hadn’t so much as cracked a smile since you’d started this absurd pantomime of power — but his eyes were molten. Reverent. He dropped to his knees slow, like something sacred was about to happen.

And just before he got close enough to bury his face between your thighs, you tilted your head, voice sugary and venomous.

“And you know something else, daddy?” you asked, tone lilting. “Mommy is just so sick and tired of wearing panties.”

He inhaled — sharp and shaky, like it was pulled straight from the pit of his chest — then let out a stunned, broken:

“Yeah.”

You blinked slow, smiled crueler. “Yeah?” you echoed, mocking his tone with a tilt of your lip.

His mouth opened like he was going to say more, but nothing came. just another rough exhale. and then he moved, hands coming forward as he began to crawl to you, something primal starting to flicker in his posture, like he’d shed the suit entirely and become all instinct and hunger. His face was already dipping low, gaze locked on where your thighs parted.

And that’s when you stopped him. Your heel — clean, sharp, and merciless — pressed right to the center of his forehead.

“But no touching,” you cooed, all faux sweetness and full control, dragging the sole down just enough to smear your heat along the crease of his brows.

He froze, arms shaking, still breathing hard.

And you pushed. Not gently, not cruelly, but enough. Just enough to tip him further down until he was on his stomach, the full weight of him humbled under your foot, cheek scraping the floor as he groaned from deep in his chest like it hurt to be treated like this and hurt more to be denied. You just sat there, thighs parted and glistening. His own personal hell, framed in pink velvet and sin. And you said nothing.

Because the message had been sent — he wasn’t getting this. Not tonight.

And then you’d leaned back on your palms, one knee lifting slow as a threat, and whispered, “You’re not gonna touch me, Nanami. You’re just gonna sit there and look.”

And he did. For longer than you'd thought he could manage.

But later on, you don’t know what was more embarrassing: the sound you made when he spat on your pussy and shoved two fingers in without ceremony, or the fact that you came — hard, embarrassingly fast — when his mouth dragging up your neck as he muttered, “You’re not going anywhere until I say you are.”

You should’ve known then that Fate was laughing at you. That this wouldn’t be the last time.

So imagine your shock when a year later, you walk into your first Financial Management and Ethics lecture — yes, ethics, the irony is its own punishment — and see Professor Nanami Kento himself standing behind the podium, glasses perched neatly on his nose, tie done up to the throat this time, looking like he’d never so much as held a condom, let alone wrecked someone with their own pantyhose. You couldn’t speak. Your body went cold, like someone had poured iced coffee down your spine. He, on the other hand, barely reacted, didn’t so much as glance your way during roll call.

And then, later that night, an email pinged into your inbox — along with the standard welcome email he’d drafted for the rest of the class. But yours? Yours came with an extra paragraph. Entirely formal. Impeccably punctuated. Polite to the point of threat.

Regarding our prior acquaintance, I trust that you will exercise discretion. Kindly refrain from referencing the event under any circumstances. It is not relevant to your coursework. Sincerely, Professor Nanami Kento, M.B.A., C.F.A. Adjunct Lecturer, Department of Financial Management Certified in Ethical Finance & Professional Conduct

You stared at the screen for a good five minutes, equal parts humiliated and deeply entertained. Because yes, Professor Nanami may want to pretend nothing happened — but you still remember the way he groaned your name like a warning, the way he muttered “greedy little thing” while stuffing you full, the way he unbuckled his belt like it was procedure. And you’re betting ten-to-one that he remembers it too. After all… it was his tie.

Nanami, meanwhile, was losing his mind — with an elegance only a man like him could bring to a full psychological collapse.

He’d never really been a “party guy,” let alone someone who dressed up for one. Halloween, to him, had always been one of those inefficient Western distractions, mostly an excuse for adults to wear synthetic wigs and pretend they weren’t miserable. But last year, for reasons even he didn’t fully understand (perhaps an existential crisis, perhaps two glasses of aged whisky), he gave in and indulged. Picked out a suit he already owned, added a pair of shades, tousled his hair on purpose for the first time in his life, and called himself Jordan Belfort.

The real kicker? He had just watched The Wolf of Wall Street the night before. The whole thing, from top to bottom, credits and all. Not because he wanted to — because a colleague said he should “loosen up.”

And that’s when he saw you.

You, in that godforsaken, serotonin-triggering pink velvet dress, hair sprayed into a perfect blowout, gloss on your lips, and a walk like you knew exactly what scene every man in that room was already imagining. And when your eyes met his and you smirked and asked, “You seen the movie?” — he knew. God help him, he knew.

You didn’t even need to discuss it. The two of you fell into that scene like it was muscle memory, like it had been choreographed months in advance. You sat on his bedroom floor, all spread pink and no panties. And Nanami — normally so composed, so neutral — crawled. Hands and knees. Ready to abandon God and dignity both just to get a taste.

But what kept him up at night wasn’t the act. It wasn’t the bruises, or the heel mark on his pride.

It was that goddamn care package.

Nanami prided himself on being considerate. He'd laid it all out for you on the bedside table:

A bottle of VOSS water, chilled.

A small silk bag with clean makeup wipes (bought from a boutique skincare store, not that pharmacy crap).

Travel-sized cleanser and moisturizer.

A protein bar (he googled “best post-sex snacks” at 2AM).

A mint.

A goddamn luxury tampon pack — in three sizes, just in case.

A note: “Thank you for tonight. Please take an Uber Black on me — money’s in the envelope.”

And it was. The exact fare + tip, calculated down to the decimal. He even folded the envelope with a golden paperclip. The one thing missing? His fucking number.

In all his obsessive curation, he forgot the single most basic detail. And when he realized it, it was already too late — you were gone. Slipped through his fingers like lingerie and regret.

He thought about it for weeks. Might’ve written a little poetry about it in his notes app, which he absolutely did not save. But fate, cruel bitch that she is, handed him a distraction: his alumni called. Said they were building an elite course track, needed a finance pro and thought of him. And Nanami said yes, thinking, surely, this would be a fresh start. But then he walked into the lecture hall, and you were there.

Front row. Same gloss on your mouth. Same eyes that once looked down at him like he was nothing more than a toy. You crossed your legs — the pink of your dress peeking out from under your coat like it knew what it was doing.

Nanami almost dropped his lesson plan.

And you? You smiled, gave a polite little nod, as if you weren’t the reason he woke up half hard most mornings. As if you weren’t still, technically, the only woman to ever shove him to the floor and then leave without a trace.

Later on in the semester is what was supposed to be a one-time “closure” meeting — two adults, one flat white, and a mutual agreement to never speak of Halloween again. Easy. You even wore flats. That's how serious you were about not being tempted.

Nanami, unfortunately, showed up in that same goddamn tie. Pale blue, subtly striped, definitely too expensive. The man must buy them in bulk, and you’re convinced there’s a hidden shelf in his penthouse that’s just ties and guilt. You tried to talk like adults. Really. You even brought up the contract he typed out like it was a sexless prenup.

Well, it was supposed to be a contract. A “mutual cessation of erotic activities in the interest of academic integrity,” as Nanami put it, complete with an italicized heading, numbered clauses, and an embarrassing amount of legalese clearly lifted from somewhere between a divorce form and a workplace harassment pamphlet.

You signed it with a pink glitter pen, under the heading that read: “Student–faculty agreement to abstain from sexual relations and/or activities that might invoke the carnal, the erotic, or the emotionally destabilizing.”

Clause 1.1: No sexual conduct, explicit or implicit, including but not limited to oral gratification, penetrative intercourse, hand stimulation, or any roleplay reminiscent of prior encounters involving cinematic characters.

Clause 3.4: Even suggestive eye contact during class hours to be avoided — especially if wearing high heels, pink dresses, or gloss.

Your personal favorite, Clause 5.2: Nanami Kento retains the right to amend or dissolve the agreement if academic integrity is compromised or if the student in question “moans like that again.”

You snorted when you read that part. “Moans like what again?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the lid of his coffee like it wronged him personally.

Clause 4.0 (added later): If the student is to arrive in a pink dress, she must also be wearing undergarments.

Clause 5.6: Should any aforementioned clause be violated, the offending party shall write a 500-word reflection on self-restraint.

You honestly thought he was joking until he printed it on letterhead.

Until he asked for a second copy “for record-keeping.”

Until he slid it into a folder labeled “important documents” right next to his will.

And still, despite the theatrics, despite the absurdity, you tried. You kept your skirts modest. Wore flats. Avoided eye contact in the lecture hall like Nanami Kento was the sun and you were but a humble, horny moth. But temptation, much like New York traffic, does not yield to logic.

Especially not during one rainy Wednesday, when you walked into his office to ask about your project grade and caught him mid-sentence, blazer off, sleeves rolled, sipping his espresso like a tragic European novella character — and there it was. That tie again.

“You only own one tie, don’t you?” you said, shutting the door behind you.

“I have seven of the same,” he said, not looking up. “Consistency is important.”

You crossed your arms. “Is sexual tension included in the syllabus?”

“Not until post-graduation.”

But then you leaned on the edge of his desk — his very clean, very expensive, very wide desk — and when the angle gave him a flash of your lace waistband, all bets were off. “You’re breaking clause four,” he said, already flushed, shifting in his chair like a man being tortured.

“Guess you’ll have to penalize me,” you purred, toeing off your flats like they were irrelevant.

“This is a violation of so many subclauses,” he whispered.

“Which one stops you from bending me over this desk?” you asked sweetly.

He didn’t have an answer.

“I am deeply—” he groaned as he pushed everything off his desk with one dramatic sweep and yanked you onto the wood, “—disappointed in both of us.”

Your thighs hit the edge with a thud. Your ass was in the air by the time he undid his belt, cursing softly, reverently. You shoved the pink dress up over your hips, smiled like a girl who studied hard and sinned harder. “And yet your mouth is still open.”

His mouth was, indeed, very open. The action was scholarly — like he was trying to write his thesis on you. You clenched his tie in your hand like a leash, and his groans vibrated all the way up your spine.

He fucked you like it was an unscheduled exam — brutal, precise, every thrust a line crossed in that ridiculous contract. The wood was cool under your cheek, the desk wobbling under both your bodies as he muttered incoherently into your skin. Somewhere in the blur of sweat and polished wood creaking beneath you, you moaned his name — and he froze, like a glitch in the matrix.

He nearly collapsed.

After, while wiping his glasses and adjusting his cuffs like nothing happened, he muttered, “I'll need to rewrite the contract.”

You, legs dangling off the desk, lipstick smeared and dress hiked up to your ribs, laughed. “Don’t forget to add Clause 6.9: No begging in the faculty lounge.”

He did rewrite it. This time, on thicker paper. Embossed.

But neither of you signed it.

☆ GOJO SATORU: CURRICULUM VIT-A-DICK

You should’ve known from the moment he strutted into the university auditorium like a six-foot-tall migraine in human form that life was going to test you.

Gojo Satoru — excuse me, Professor Gojo — who you first met at a tragically overfunded science fair where he proceeded to obliterate your carefully calibrated quantum demonstration with the same ease he probably uses to open cereal boxes. No, he wasn’t a judge. No, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. Yes, he still wore those obnoxious sunglasses indoors. The man had main-character syndrome, and unfortunately, the plot seemed to agree.

You thought that was the last of him, you really did. But then, scholarship in hand, you walked into your first advanced theoretical physics seminar and there he was — standing in front of the whiteboard with his hair gelled like it was afraid of gravity, grinning like a man who absolutely remembered insulting your entire personality and research method six months ago.

And that’s where it began: the pettiest academic rivalry known to mankind.

You interrupted every lecture with hypotheticals that started with “But wouldn’t that break down under—” and ended with Gojo pausing mid-sentence, sighing, and rolling up his sleeves like he was about to conduct a scientific duel instead of finishing the unit on entanglement.

The first time you lost a bet — over the probability collapse theory, God help you — he didn’t even gloat. He just handed you a page with “AFTER CLASS” written in blue gel pen and walked off humming the Jeopardy theme. That was your first “correctional training” session, he called it that. “Brat correction,” in reality, said in the tone of someone who absolutely loved how your jaw clenched every time he said it.

He likes to think he’s the authority figure in the room — Professor Gojo, head of department, youngest theoretical physicist with two international awards and a cocky little writeup in a nature magazine about quantum entanglement that he sends to every new TA like it’s a Bible. But none of that means shit when you’re in the front row again with your leg crossed just so, lips pursed in a smirk that tells him you’ve done your research — and worse, you’re going to use it.

The thing about debunking Gojo’s teachings is that it’s become a tradition now. An academic bloodsport where you come armed with papers, formulas, and sheer insolence, and he comes armed with that patronizing little chuckle and the smug belief that nobody, nobody, is ever going to outdo him in his own damn classroom.

And when you don’t? Well, let’s just say your ass knows the weight of his disappointment very intimately. There’s a very specific kind of warmth to his palm when it lands flat on you, almost reverent, like he’s patting down the remains of your pride after dismantling it entirely.

“Disrespecting your teacher again?” he murmurs, voice all low and falsely dismayed, fingers trailing the hot skin beneath your panties as if it pains him to have to teach you this way. “And I thought we were making progress. You’re gonna make me grey, sweetheart.”

You snort into the table, biting back a moan. Liar. His hair’s been white since tenure.

But when you win — oh, when you win — he drops the act entirely. Gojo becomes Satoru, sloppy and glassy-eyed as he stares up at you from where he’s half-kneeling on the floor, the lines of his shirt rumpled and his tie hanging undone like a leash you might tug if he talks back. And you’ve got one foot on his chest, the ball of it pressing ever so gently down, just enough for him to feel it and shudder like a dog in heat.

“Now say it,” you hum, tilting your head. “Say you were wrong about the decoherence model, Satoru.”

He actually whimpers. “I—I was wrong—Fuck, you were right—”

“And?”

Your foot inches lower, brushing against the bulge straining in his pants, feeling the heat of it beneath thin, overpriced fabric. He's sweating now, cheeks flushed, panting like he’s running a fever that only you can break.

“You’re smarter than me,” he gasps, voice cracking, so wet and wrecked you wonder if he even remembers what the original debate was about.

“Mmhm.” your foot presses harder. “Good boy.”

There’s a certain irony to it, really — you came here to study quantum physics, and somehow ended up mastering the laws of cause and effect in the way Satoru Gojo responds to your foot in his lap. The man can theorize particle-wave duality until he’s blue in the face, but one good press of your heel and he’s unraveling faster than any atom he’s ever split. And the best part? you still haven’t told him you’re publishing a paper that contradicts his entire thesis. Maybe next week.

But then comes finals season.

Oh, finals season. A time of chaos, caffeine, collective breakdowns — and Professor Gojo’s personal renaissance. He is, without a doubt, in the best mood he’s been all year: cheery, chipper, even. Students whisper about it like he’s some kind of academic sadist, thriving off the pain of others, grinning like the devil in a tailored button-down as he posts the final exam that reads more like a dissertation than anything else. And the worst part? He isn’t grading on a curve.

But you, his prized little rival-slash-pet project, get… kindness. Or something adjacent to it. A gentle reminder before class ends, said with an infuriatingly sweet smile:

“No staying after today, sweetheart. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.”

And then, like the most deranged cherry on top:

“We can always catch up on our…activities later.”

You almost pity the way he says it, like it doesn’t make his dick twitch. As if he hasn’t been pent-up all semester, denied of your touch and your scorn and your heel on his chest like a guilty little sinner. As if he’s not walking around with just enough self-restraint to keep from humping the podium.

But here’s where it gets fun.

Because he thought this would break you. That his absence, the sudden lack of punishment and provocation, would mess with your head just enough to send you spiraling, slipping, making one teeny-tiny mistake in your finals that he could then circle in red and jerk off to later. And it almost works. He's giddy as he grades, bouncing his leg, lips twitching in anticipation. Every other paper is a war crime, the red ink running out. But when he gets to yours? Blank.

Blank, as in: no errors. Not even a formatting issue. Not even an ambiguous variable name. Not even a single goddamn typo.

And you signed your name with a heart.

The gasp he lets out is not professional. He's sitting alone in his office with the door locked, hunched over the paper like it just whispered dirty secrets to him. His hands tremble a little — out of horror, out of awe, out of the frankly humiliating pressure building in his boxers. Because this is it. This is what he wanted.

To lose. To lose to you. And you knew it, you knew — that smug little smile when you handed it in, the way your fingers lingered against his as you passed it across the desk. You knew you’d fucked him academically and emotionally and now, he’s sitting there, legs spread and back arched like some kind of fucking... exam-brained toy.

When he returns the paper the next day, it’s with a practiced expression, the mask of Professor Gojo firmly back in place. But his hand brushes against yours — too slow, too soft — and you can feel the static hum between your fingertips like tension in a charged field. “Full marks,” he says smoothly, like he didn’t have to jerk off in his office to even touch this paper. “You've made me proud.”

You smile. “I always do, don't I, professor?”

He swallows so hard you can see the twitch in his throat. Yeah, he’s not mad at all. In fact, he’s already mentally clearing his schedule for next semester.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Gojo Satoru, professor, physicist, prodigy — is currently a blubbering, overstimulated mess beneath you, his palms flat and useless against his own silk sheets, hips twitching every time your ass connects with his thighs in that cruel, delicious rhythm. He's crying fat, glossy tears as they trail down his cheeks like he’s in mourning, but it’s just you. Just you, sitting pretty on his cock like the goddess of academic revenge, one hand planted on his chest like a paperweight, the other gently curling around his throat with all the casual authority of someone grading a multiple-choice test.

You bounce slow, unhurried, torturously controlled — and he loves it.

“F-fuck, you — you did so good,” he slurs, head thrown back so hard the veins in his neck twitch under your fingers. “So smart, baby — so fucking brilliant, top of the class, top of me —”

“Yeah?” you whisper, leaning forward just enough so your breath brushes his wet cheeks. “Who's the valedictorian now, professor?”

He whines — whines — something like a yes and a laugh and a sob mashed together, a hiccupping mess of praise and need. “M’so proud of you, fuck — fuck, y’ride me like you solved me, figured out the whole equation— m’just a— a variable— oh god—”

He’s delirious. Incoherent. Flushed chest heaving, hair a sweaty halo against the pillow, and it’s kind of funny — the irony of it all. Because this is the same man who used to look at you with that cocky glint in class, dreaming of your downfall, picturing you stuttering through corrections and red ink like a scolded schoolgirl, only to end up here: broken and blissed-out beneath your hips, all heart-shaped eyes and thank-you-mommy energy, mouthing nonsense like it’s a second language.

“Wanted me to fail so you could play teacher again, huh?” you coo, slowing down until your movements are a slow, grinding circle that has his toes curling. “But now you get to be my little after-school project instead.”

“Yesyesyes,” he gasps, voice breaking mid-word. “Use me, please— you earned it, you aced it— s’the least I can do, swear— wanna b’good for you— f-for my valedictorian—”

You press your palm firmer against his neck. Not hard — not yet — just enough to remind him that the only thing keeping him grounded is you. “That’s right, professor,” you murmur, licking the sweat off his jaw. “You’re just my bonus credit now.”

And he moans like you handed him a lifetime achievement award. If the education board ever saw this, you think, they’d have to rename the curriculum: quantum physics and Gojo Satoru’s public humiliation, taught by you, graded by orgasm count.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: A+ IN ANALYSIS, D- IN SELF CONTROL

If there was anyone who could make a student’s life flash before their eyes with a single look, it was Professor Sukuna.

Department: Modern History. Specialty: war crimes, chain-smoking, and looking like he belongs on a “do not approach” government list.

The man walks around like tenure is just a polite word for “try me,” tattoos curling up his neck and peeking through the gaps in his shirt like they, too, are sick of the dress code. He wears formal clothes the way one wears a hospital gown — reluctantly and out of necessity — and the scent of his cologne is nicotine and disdain.

He doesn’t lecture, he warns. Powerpoint slides are a thing of myth in his class. If you miss a date, you don’t get a reminder, you get a monologue about how the fall of Rome wasn’t as embarrassing as your lack of attention to deadlines. He’s harsh, terrifying, and objectively hot in that “he will ruin your self-esteem and your cervix” kind of way — not that you'd ever say that out loud.

You never had any special rapport with him either. You just sat in the front row like a chronically anxious nerd, too scared to even sneeze wrong. That is, until he found you crying in a quiet corner of the library, head in your history textbook like it could somehow absorb your heartbreak. He assumed you were overwhelmed by the syllabus — which, okay, rude — and muttered something that was equal parts pep talk and emotionally repressed threats against “whatever loser made you cry.”

Since then, Sukuna’s been...different. Not soft, not kind — don’t be delusional — just less sharp around the edges when it came to you. He'd still verbally dismantle any student who tried to correct him without citations, but when it came to you, he asked things like “you eating?” and “sleeping or still reading?” in passing. And he did it through email, because of course he did. Because Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t text students. He barely even types. He pecks at the keyboard like it owes him money. You’ve got a folder now, unintentionally titled “passive aggressive motivation,” where emails read like:

Subject: stop crying no man is worth bombing your GPA over. eat something. drink water. also your thesis outline was dogshit. fix it. -r.s

or:

Subject: your seminar slides don’t present this without adding a section on postcolonial analysis unless you want to embarrass yourself. also that guy who came to pick you up last week looks like he can't read. don’t bring him around again. -r.s

Every email ends with lowercase letters and an implicit threat. And it’s all very… professional. Totally, completely normal professor stuff. It’s not like he lingers outside your class when it ends to “make sure nobody bothers you,” or that his hand just happens to brush yours every time he gives back a graded paper. Or that when you send him an email past midnight, he responds faster than your own friends. Strictly educational, completely above board. Absolutely not the start of a very complicated, slow-burning, morally grey something.

…Right?

Right.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. The bar, that is.

Sukuna didn’t even like bars. Hated the smell of cheap beer and watered-down perfumes and whatever desperation clung to the sweat-slick air by midnight. But he’d gotten dragged there by another tenured professor who thought he needed to “loosen up,” which was ironic considering Sukuna’s idea of relaxing involved reading war manifestos and judging grad students.

So he’s already annoyed, even more so when he steps outside for a smoke and sees you there. Sitting on the curb, arms hugging your knees, hair pinned up like you’d tried too hard tonight. He knows that expression — the mix of hurt and embarrassment and the beginnings of oh god, don’t cry in public. It makes something seize in his chest.

“Seriously?” he mutters, walking up with the cigarette still burning between his fingers. “Who the fuck takes a girl to a bar for a first date?”

You just blink up at him, and he rolls his eyes like he’s not already halfway down the spiral. He drives you home, his untouched drink forgotten. The silence in the car is stiff, quiet, the kind that makes his knuckles tighten on the wheel every time you shift slightly in the passenger seat. When he drops you off and you say thank you too softly, he doesn’t say “you’re welcome.” He just stares ahead and mutters, “Get inside safe.”

But when he wakes up to your smaller body curled against him the next morning — God, fuck. He barely remembers letting you in, just that your eyes were glassy and your voice broke when you asked if you could stay, and then you’d fallen asleep on his bed before he could make a choice. And now you’re here, mouth slightly open in sleep, your wrist resting against his bare chest like you belong there. He slips out of bed like it’s going to absolve him of anything. It doesn’t.

So the next week? He ignores you. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because he’s your professor, and you’re his student, and this shit is so far past the line that the line is a fucking dot. And yet—

You stop raising your hand in class. Stop sending over-enthusiastic thesis emails. And that’s when Sukuna knows he’s fucked. Because ignoring you only works until he realizes the silence is your reaction to being ignored. He doesn’t even think before knocking on your apartment door one night, hair still damp from a too-fast shower, jaw clenched in some attempt to be rational. You don’t say anything. You just look at him.

And he cracks.

It’s the wall. The bed. The damn kitchen counter. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your breasts — sucking marks like he wants to leave proof of the apology he can’t voice. His voice is low, gravelly, drunk off the taste of your skin. His hands are rough, too big, too familiar now, and you tremble with every movement. “You still mad at me?” he grunts against your cunt, tongue swiping through your slick like it’ll get him forgiveness. Your hand fists his hair.

“You’re such an asshole,” you moan, shoving him deeper. He hums into your cunt like he agrees. And he does.

That night ends the same way they all do — tangled limbs, sheets kicked to the floor, and your breathless whine of “you never talk to me after.” And he means to, he really does. But he leaves again without saying anything, guilt burning like nicotine in his lungs.

So the cycle repeats.

You cry, he shows up. You argue, he pushes you up against the nearest surface and apologizes with his mouth and hands and cock — biting your shoulder, squeezing your hips, kissing the angry tear-track down your cheek until you’re choking on his name.

“Say it,” you gasp, nails raking down his back as you ride him.

He doesn't. He can't. He just slams you down harder and lets his mouth fall open, guttural noises spilling out like prayers. Fuckfuckfuck—

You make him feel alive. And all he can do is keep fucking up the same way, hoping one of these days, you’ll forgive him before he can find the words. And yet, finals season’s supposed to be your personal hell, not his. Sukuna’s brooding harder than usual, a semi-permanent crease etched between his brows and his arms crossed so tight over his chest that even the most clueless undergrad knows better than to raise their hand today.

You had said it nicely — too nicely — when you showed up to his office hours that weren’t even real office hours, just you dropping by like you always did, except this time, you had a script memorized.

“I just… I think it’s better if we don’t see each other until exams are over. I can't focus. And you’re kind of… a distraction.”

Him? A distraction? In his own subject? He doesn't even know if he should feel insulted or flattered. He decides on both and sulks accordingly. And you didn’t even say anything mean. There was no fight, no cold-shoulder aftermath. just soft words, a guilty look, and then nothing.

You didn’t show up to his class again. It was optional, sure — study week lectures aren’t mandatory, professor, he can hear your smartass voice in his head — but still. It's him. You always came for him. So when you don’t? That's when he knows it’s bad.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. Tells himself this is what he wanted, anyway — distance, boundaries, some room to breathe. Maybe he’s too old to be dealing with this kind of nonsense from someone who probably still has their ex-best friend’s Netflix password memorized.

But then he finds himself at the library. Not for you, of course not. He was returning a book — something dense and miserable on post-war treaties. Definitely not stalking. Absolutely not peeking between the shelves. Except then he sees you. Head bent over your notes, hair tied back, lips slightly pursed in concentration — and then there’s him. The most annoying little shit in his class, sitting beside you like he’s earned the spot, asking questions like he actually gives a damn about the League of Nations.

It takes everything in Sukuna not to walk up and knock the guy’s books to the floor. Instead, he glares from the second-floor balcony for an unhealthy amount of time before dragging you out the second you’re alone.

No explanation. No “hey, can we talk?” Just him grabbing your wrist and leading you into one of those back hallways that smell like too much disinfectant and stress sweat.

“Are you tired of me yet?” he says, low and flat.

You blink. “What?”

His jaw ticks. Fuck. It sounded pathetic out loud. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, all quiet and cornered. But now that it’s out there, the rest just comes spilling out in the most emotionally constipated way possible.

“You stopped showing up. You didn’t even reply to my last email. Now you’re with that… kid,” he mutters the last part like it physically wounds him. “You’re just—moving on?”

You stare, confused.

“I told you I needed to focus on finals.”

“Yeah, and I thought that was your generation’s code for leaving someone” he snaps.

The hallway goes still, the lights above continuing to buzz. Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Sukuna catches it — that little tell you have when you’re about to say something heartfelt, and God, he braces himself.

“You think I'm replacing you?” you say finally. “Sukuna, he was helping me revise flashcards.”

“Flashcards,” he repeats like it’s the filthiest word he’s ever heard.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re confusing,” he counters, but softer, quieter. Almost like he’s embarrassed. “You say I'm a distraction and then just vanish. I don’t know what the fuck you want anymore.”

“I wanted to pass. And maybe try not lose my mind.”

He leans back against the wall, head tilted up, arms now slack by his side. “Well,” he mutters, “Congrats. Because I'm losing mine.”

And he is. He misses your smart mouth, your late-night emails about history memes, the way your legs hooked around his waist like you belonged there. He misses the way you made him feel young again, even though he’s not — not really — and that fact creeps up his spine every time he watches you laugh with someone your age.

You reach for his hand, pull it away from the wall, and squeeze it gently. “I'm not replacing you,” you say. “I just needed to take a breath. But I'm still here.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles before he even realizes what he’s doing.

“…Good,” he says, voice rough. “Because I don't want to go back to pretending I don't give a shit.”

You smile, and his brain short-circuits the same way it always does when you do. He's still grumpy, still tired. still convinced he’s about five years and one existential crisis too old for you. But you’re still here. And that, somehow, is enough.

Monday morning smells like pencil shavings, stress, sweat, and betrayal. Not yours, of course — his. Because there you are, nestled so sweetly in his lap at his home desk, thighs spread across his, sunk down around his cock like you belong there. Because you do.

You’re not even moving. That's the part that’s driving him feral. Just sitting there all cozy and full and smug, keeping him hot and throbbing inside while he tries — tries — to grade the final batch of modern history exams. It’s the academic equivalent of edging, and Sukuna, for all his big scary professor demeanor, is fucking losing it.

Your breath is warm against the side of his neck as you lean in lazily. You’d had your fun earlier — broken him open on his own sheets like you were studying anatomy, and now you were just… resting. Inside him. Sheathing him. Cockwarming him like some kind of reward, like he was your treat. And the worst part? He didn’t even hate it.

“You've been on question three for five minutes,” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, and he jolts — not from your voice, but from how the shift grinds your cunt around him just the tiniest bit.

“I'm focusing,” he lies, throat tight.

You hum like you don’t believe him. “You’re twitching.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re hard.”

He glares at the paper like it’s personally responsible. “It's correction season.”

“Mhm. And you’re grading while balls-deep in your student. Who's the distraction now?”

He grunts — but it’s weak. He's weak. Because he’s still inside you and your cunt is so soft and wet and hot and he swears he can feel your heartbeat around him when you clench just once, just to remind him who’s got the power here. And then, as fate would have it, the worst fucking name in his roster shows up on the next paper.

“You've gotta be kidding me,” he says, voice dry, mouth downturned.

You peer down. “Oh. Him.”

Sukuna goes still. You don’t even need to say the name — it’s the boy from the library. The one you studied with during “the dry spell,” aka the week you ghosted him for focusing on your exams, and he swore he’d never be that soft again. Well. Jokes on him.

“He used zeitgeist in a sentence,” Sukuna says, with venom. “Unironically.”

You smile, slow and cruel. “He’s not wrong though.”

He turns to you, jaw tight, cock throbbing. “Say that again.”

“The answer’s worth full marks.”

You say it like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know exactly what that does to him.

His hand slips under your ass and pulls you down hard, deep. You don’t make a sound, just breathe against his cheek, but the flutter of your walls around him has him practically vibrating in place.

“Take it back,” he rasps.

You smile. “Never.”

He’s back to bouncing his leg again — a nervous tick turned torture as every shift sends your warmth tightening around him, soaking him, milking him. He can barely hold the pen. He scribbles out a 10 and replaces it with a shaky 7.

“He gets a C,” Sukuna mutters, spiteful.

“Abusing your authority?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re jealous?”

“Yes.”

You lean in close, lips just barely grazing his jaw. “Say it.”

“I hate that fucker,” he breathes.

“No,” you purr. “Say what you really hate.”

His head tips back, neck flushed red, pulse hammering under your mouth. “I hate that he got to see you smile.”

You grin. “You’re seeing it now.”

And you give him a single roll of your hips — slow, devastating, slick and sinful — and his breath catches, his eyes flutter shut, and his cock twitches helplessly inside you. “Holy fucckk,” he moans, low and wrecked.

“Mark the damn paper,” you whisper, licking the shell of his ear.

He scribbles an 8. “He gets a B- and that’s generous.”

You laugh softly and clench around him again. “You’re such a mess,” you coo, brushing his sweat-damp bangs back. “And you haven’t even cum yet.”

“You’re evil,” Sukuna whimpers, half-hysterical. “I missed you so fucking much.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

a/n: thank yeww for reading!! this took way too long to format, i hope you enjoy xx. i probably won't be writing any part 2's or continuations of this trope, so please respect me and my work and not comment about it/asking for it.

#kendra recs 📖#creamflix #sex yeah!#kamo choso #fushiguro toji #satoru gojo #kento nanami #ryomen sukuna

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galatially · 24 hours ago

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SUGAR, HONEY, SEXY BABY ! ! ! ✧

which JJK MEN are into... Ass, Boobs, or Thighs?

characters . . . Nanami, Choso, Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, & Toji

BOOBS ` Nanami, & Choso

He fucking loves your boobs. He worships them like he was born to. He’s very tender and slow, like every curve deserves his full attention. He buries his face between them after long days, groaning into your skin like it’s the only way he knows peace. When he’s inside you, the feeling of your chest pressing against his, or watching them bounce when you're on top, drives him insane. He’ll thumb your nipple while sucking the other, slow and intentional, while his other hand travels down your waist. Nothing turns him on more than how your breath hitches when he mouths at your chest like it’s special, which it is.

He sits on the couch, dress shirt half unbuttoned, his clothes loose around his neck. “Come here, baby...” he whispered. You kneel between his legs and slide your shirt off, cupping your breasts together, already knowing what he wants. He watches, mouth parted, as you slip his cock between them and press tight, moving slowly. His hands shake a little when he cups under your breasts to help you along, watching your slick skin glide over him. “fuck, you're... you're so beautiful.”

You lean forward and spit onto his tip, let it trail down, and keep going. His head falls back against the couch. “fuckk...” he mutters. His hips twitch—just slightly—and he watches, entranced, as you move faster, boobs pressed around him, warmth and softness everywhere. The deep groan he lets out when he finishes over your chest is filthy and naughty. ♡

THIGHS ` Gojo, & Geto

He wants your thighs in every way possible. Around his neck, his shoulders, crushing his face while you're above him. He loves how soft they are, how they tremble when he’s deep inside you, how they tighten around his waist when you get close. You could be wearing nothing but boyshorts and a t-shirt and he’s already rock hard. He’ll kiss the inside of your thighs like they’re holy, then mark them up just because they look too smooth. Massages turn into kisses, kisses into bites, and before you know it, his head’s buried between your legs.

He lies back on the bed, eyes glittering, hands on your hips as you lower yourself down. “C’mon, baby, don’t be shy...” he grins, and the second your thighs cage his head, he moans—moans. His hands clutch at your thighs, spreading them slightly so he can tongue your folds properly. His tongue is everywhere, lapping and sucking like he’s trying to ruin you. You roll your hips just once and his grip tightens, groaning into your pussy like it’s the best meal he’s ever had.

“Fuck, you taste so good— k-keep riding my face.. nggh...” he gasps between licks, barely breaking contact. He flattens his tongue and lets you grind, gripping your thighs, thumbs bruising your skin as he eats you out with zero shame. You look down and his eyes are starry, like this is bliss, and when you start trembling above him, he just holds you tighter, deeper, like he wants to live between your legs, forever.

ASS ` Sukuna, & Toji

Ass is his everything. Aesthetically perfect. Sensually addicting. Sexually criminal. He's got big backshot energy—he needs you bent over. His hands were made to cup, slap, and squeeze your ass until you're whining. He’ll pull you back into him lazily on the couch just to palm it. You’ll be cooking and he’s spanking you mid-sentence. He compliments it like a pervert, “Damn, what a thick ass.” as he gives you a casual slap. And the second you start wiggling it at him, it’s over.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking his cock slowly, watching you tease him. You crawl forward, completely bare, and turn around once you’re close. You look over your shoulder and arch, shaking your ass just enough to make him groan. “You know what that does to me, woman.” he mutters darkly. You wiggle it again and he's on you in seconds. He grabs your hips, lines himself up, and slams in.

“There you go.” he groans, dragging you back onto his cock. Your ass ripples with every thrust, the sound of skin on skin filthy in the quiet room. “This ass is fucking made for me..” he grits out, one hand spanking you hard, the other gripping your waist like he’ll never let go. You keep arching, keep wiggling, keep driving him insane until he’s panting over your back and telling you not to move—he’ll do all the work.

I was gnna write one for each of Thembut I got lazy. anywyas as u can see I love using the nickanme baby 😓😓

#kendra recs 📖#adorekento #sugar honey sexy baby #jjk #kamo choso #kento nanami #satoru gojo #suguru geto #fushiguro toji #ryomen sukuna

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galatially · 1 day ago

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maybe top 10 posts ever

#kendra posts #SCREAMING #iwtv amc

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galatially · 2 days ago

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A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets. You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

#kendra recs 📖#marvelstoriesepic #a thousand times before #bucky barnes x reader #avenger!bucky barnes #avenger!reader #avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

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