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fourmarkdove · 4 years

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Upstate.

Title: Upstate. | Masterlist

Summary: When the Captain learns you’ve kept a secret all these years, he’s more furious than he’s ever been.

Pairing: Syverson x Reader

Words: 5.5k

Warnings: 18+ Smut. Angst, breeding kink, daddy kink, size kink, rough sex, dirty talk. Infertility/PCOS.

A/N: Had this in my drafts forever and sort of forgot I wrote it. Comments are welcome! Thanks for reading!

It wasn’t supposed to take this long to get pregnant.

It just wasn’t.

You went on the pill shortly after you met, which wasn’t the most glamorous story, but that one drunken pounding against the ladies bathroom wall just days before he was set to ship out set the tone for your relationship. At least in the beginning.

He did two more tours after that. The first time he was on leave, he dropped to a knee, all suntanned and scruffy, after dinner at your favorite little fish shop on the pier.

“We haven’t known each other so long, but your sweet voice on those phone calls, babydoll. They keep me goin’ when I feel like there’s not much reason to.”

That last time he promised, “We’re gonna settle down for good. You an’ me an’ our brood. Daddy just has some unfinished ass to kick, but don’t you worry, sweetness. Nothin’ but picket fences and backyard barbecues soon as I get back.”

You said of course you’d marry your coarse, burly soldier and there never was a happier man who swept up his girl on that pier in a yellow sundress.

You never thought you’d see the day when your hardline, take no bullshit, don’t give em’ an inch Captain would shed a tear - let alone in public - but he did just that the moment he turned his shoulder and saw you in the just barely off-white dress.

He swept his woman off your feet, saying he wanted to be a gentleman and treat you right. But you knew by the intensity of his gaze and how he barely glanced at the pretty white lingerie before he started tearing it off your body that he was going to have trouble being gentle. Not that you minded. You had no regrets when it came to this swollen beast of a man filling every hole, manipulating your body in unnatural positions because you were smaller and he was strong as a horse and built like a brick wall. He’d pin your wrists to the bed above your head and gorge on your heaving tits, or grip behind your knees and have your feet bouncing behind his thick neck, until you were a sweat slick, foul mouthed whore begging for more of his meaty shaft pounding you into a moaning, senseless mess. You thought growing up there’d be something magical and pure about being a new bride dressed in white giving yourself over, blushing and shy, to the man you promised to love forever.

The reality was so much more visceral. All you wanted for days on end was his thick body forcing your thighs open, his hands gripping your flesh, fingers leaving bruises on your hips, crushing kisses that nearly made you faint, the salty taste of his sweat and cum dripping from your lips and cunt, rolling down your thighs, smeared onto the teeth marks he left around your nipples and on your ass like a soothing balm. The only soundtrack in the house was the grunting feral sounds over you as if he willed his very being into yours through the force of each veiny thrust. And the lewd slapping of flesh against flesh, sometimes muted just a bit by the rough hair trailing down his torso leading to his monster cock. The sound of his thighs clapping against your ass and thighs as he fisted your hair and drove himself into your cervix never ever got tiresome.

When he’d get too close, he’d devour your cunt, biceps and forearms flexing and lifting you to his face, swallowing every drop of your slick mixed with his, swirling his thick tongue over your sensitive clit, feeding the mixed liquids back inside your slit. He’d drop to a knee and spread you over his shoulders if you didn’t make it to bed, or in bed, he’d trail down your body, nipping and biting, picking up your skin between his teeth, flashing those blue eyes up at you. He loved going down on his woman maybe even more than burying his throbbing cock, so he’d always glance up to see your lashes flutter, eyes roll back, lips part and scream silently as he gorged on your sex. His beard scratched between your thighs and made you that much more sensitive but fuck you loved it and he loved marking you. He’d sink his sharp canines into the crease of your thigh and bite down just hard enough to make you cry out and arch for him.

By the time you were begging to come and whimpering his name like a prayer, he’d force his heavy, uncut cock all the way inside and start grinding, flexing every muscle in his core powering the grunting snaps of his hips into yours, seeking both of your release. And his mouth would get so filthy pressed to your ear.

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you up with all this cum. Not gonna be able to walk straight for weeks. That’s right spread wider for me. Fuckin’ give me that cunt. You’re gonna take it all like a good girl aren't ya? Get you all round - knocked up with my seed over and over. All that thick cream in these balls is just for you. That’s right. You want it? Milk it, babe.”

He growled and groaned, slapping his balls against your ass, all of the things that made you gasp and close down on him. You’d come first. Always. pulling the head of his cock right up against your cervix. He’d keep thrusting through your orgasm and his followed quickly after.

His big body could crush you under his weight but you loved it, practically demanded it, so he’d half roll off, resting mostly on his side and forearm and hip, while he panted into your hair on the pillow. But you wanted him all over your skin. The musky scent of his, still rolling down his hot skin, sweaty and thick with pheromones and sex, from working so hard to get both of you off over and over, you had no way to explain how you loved it - except by licking up the side of his neck and suckle kissing behind his ear while he panted into the pillow, his bicep and forearm heavy across your chest or around your hip, still holding you possessively.

He’d chuckle, still panting and turn his head on the pillow. Voice still rough from the beating his vocal cords took while he growled, huffed, groaned and barked instructions to you, he’d whisper in those quieter moments.

“Insatiable, kitten. Gimme a minute. Daddy knows what you need.”

You’d turn over in his weighty, tree bough arms and nuzzle into his hairy chest, feeling his thumping heartbeat hard and steady under your fingers. Tree trunk legs could pull all of you into him, and he’d fold you into his center, so not a single inch of you would have to touch sticky bed sheets when he rolled over onto his back. Thick fingers spread across your back, soothing over your roughed up skin, lifting your hair off of your sweaty neck, until the cool air in the room and his perpetually hot skin balanced to the perfect temperature somewhere in the middle.

It went on like that for three, six, nine months once he was home for good. Only two things changed as the months went on. His chocolate curls grew and spilled onto his forehead - which you loved to run your hands through - and you conceded the beard stays if the curls do too.

You came off the pill immediately, from that first night he came home, and never went back to it.

“Sweetness, don’t stress about it,” he’d coo gently, finding you curled up in bed or in the bathroom, sitting alone in the empty back bedroom in the new house. He’d try to squeeze the sadness out of your body every single month with his huge bear arms.

“It’s fun to try again, ain’t it?” he’d wiggle his eyebrows, and make you giggle through the tears. The more playful he was about it, the harder he leaned into trying everything he could to make it easier on you, so that meant a lot of research on websites. He never in a million years thought he’d be reading up on ‘luteal phases’.

He never had to be told twice that you might be ovulating. You’d whisper it to him sometimes he’d sense it. In bed, he’d smell that wet heat before you even backed your ass up against him, wiggling your aching core against the base of his raging erection. Slipping his big hand down your tummy and into your panties, he’d slide a long couple fingers through your slick heat, spreading your pussy lips achingly wide before withdrawing his hand and wrapping his other arm around the front of your shoulders.

“Mmph looks like you’re ready,” he’d groan, checking the viscosity of your juices. Spreading your slick between his fingers, he’d lick at it, gripping you tighter as you’d smirk and work your hips mercilessly on his dick.

That one taste would be enough to work him into a rutting frenzy though. “Got damnit, I need a taste,” he’d growl, climbing down and burying his face between your thighs. His mouth and beard would come up glistening with your juices and he’d look positively lust drunk on the stuff. Spreading his knees, he’d hoist your thighs up onto his, spreading your knees over his hips, so he’d be able to have a perfect look at your swollen cunt.

Pupils dilated and breathing hard, he’d pinch the hood of your clit and stroke it between his finger and thumb, making you squeal and writhe, pulling your own hair. He was in awe of your pussy every time he actually looked at that tiny, suckling hole - how in the world did you manage to stretch and accept his girthy cock? It had to hurt, right? It HAD to. Gripping your hips, he pulled you up to himself, one forearm supporting under your ass, and the other around your back. Touching foreheads, he nuzzled you lovingly.

You kissed him hungrily, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip before letting go. Hair mussed and giving him the darkest look, rolling your hips in his lap, you purred deep. Much to your confusion, he was the one to slow things down, smiling in his gorgeous blue eyes, kissing over your forehead, temples, eyelashes, nose, each lip.

“I wanna give you everything, babydoll,” he sighed, dropping his head to kiss over your shoulder.

Arching your back, you had him grip onto your hands and ease you, still spread over his hairy thighs, back onto the bed.

“Put a baby in me,” you demanded. He huffed out a sharp breath, puffing out his cheeks, before plunging two thick fingers into your cunt, scissoring his fingers to stretch you out. You shrieked and moaned in pleasure, arching deeply.

He could have been gentle but those five little words; that demand of yours. You were his new CO and when he received orders, he ploughed through at a punishing pace.

“Gotta prime these walls,” he grunted, thrusting his fingers in and out, turning his hand so he could rub sloppy juices spilling out of your cunt. Leaning over, he pressed his palm against the mattress next to your head and did something near a one handed push up, coming nose to nose with you.

“Why we gotta prime walls, baby?”

You whined as he flexed and slipped a third thrusting finger into your slurping cunt, begging for something larger to grip onto.

“We prime…” you panted, clawing across the tense muscles in his chest, “because you’re gonna… paint my walls… with your seed.”

Giving you his tongue, he withdrew his fingers and smeared his fingers over his precum-leaking meaty member. Just pushing it down to the right angle and you arched, digging your toes into his tree trunk thighs as you accepted his cock into your aching insides. You cried out, tossing your head back, but that just made him latch onto your throat and thrust into your cervix like a battering ram.

You screamed his name two, maybe three times, and he bared his teeth, growling and swearing, struggling to hold on, planking on his forearms desperate not cum yet while your smaller slippery body, squirmed and writhed under him. One second you were hissing and gasping, sinking your teeth and nails into his shoulders or biceps. The next you’d sob and dig your feet in, because you were so stretched and so sensitive. If he could just hold on that second longer, you’d grab at his ass, let your thighs open up and release your massaging death grip on his cock still buried as deep as he last thrust before you clamped down on him to begin with. Then he slowed just a bit to kiss your panting mouth as the orgasmic shockwaves relaxed. Your deep purr indicated you were ready for more, so he’d catch under your knees and fold you in half, pounding your body at a different angle.

When it was time, he bore his teeth and groaned, burying his face in your neck, getting sloppy with his thrusts until the last two that were exceptionally deliberate, seeding white hot cum directly to the source, his slit ground mercilessly against your cervix, for a direct shot at emptying himself into your womb.

When all was said and done, you’d toss him a pillow and he’d kneel between your legs, pushing the pillow under you to keep your hips elevated. Hooking his arms under your thighs, he kissed all around your sensitive mound. Kissing inside your thighs, he could thumb your swollen lips apart and see how completely full he’d filled you, to the point of leaking, but neither of you minded. If it wasn’t too tender, he’d clean you up with his tongue before lying down with you again, closing your legs, and drawing both your knees up over his hip.

You assured him every time that the pain was hardly anything as you shuddered and clung onto his imposing frame. It was only the last couple of months that instead of giggling and demanding ice cream in bed after what you both agreed was the best sex anyone on the planet was having, you just wanted to be held.

“Shhh, shhh... I got you, sweetness,” he’d soothe, drawing up blankets, rubbing you all over. He’d tuck you into his chest, and you’d curl up even smaller, your soft little body trembling against his twitching muscle always felt amazing before. But not when it came with tears. You hid your face away when he asked what was wrong, but he felt the little puffs of held breath and silent tears falling into his chest hair.

Finally, finally, one night spent cradling you in his arms and kissing your tears away, he convinced you. And you didn’t just break your silence.

You shattered.

“Doc told me years ago... it isn’t... I’ll never have…babies of my own. My hormones are all wrong for it. She said shots, maybe IVF but… even conceiving… even if possible, it’d be…”

The worried lines around his eyes and across his forehead smoothed out as he stared at the blinking red light on the smoke detector above the bed. He stayed quiet, putting an arm behind his head.

“I hoped I would have found a better way to tell you all this before now.”

“You knew before we met?” His voice was uncomfortably calm. “Five years ago.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean to—“

“Ya kept it from me. No indication whatsoever there were problems on the home front, though.”

“I hoped I wouldn’t ever have to say anything because we’d somehow be pregnant by now and—“

“Ya let me think everything was fine. Told me, “Come on home, soldier. Let’s try workin’ on that family again.’ And I did. Every tour. I came crawlin’ home to you.”

Sitting up against the headboard, he flicked on the bedside lamp and scratched his beard, eventually dropping his upturned hands on his thighs, displaying his defeat.

Even though you wore his shirt from the night before and he was naked, barely covered by the bedsheet, you felt entirely exposed. You wanted to dissolve into liquid and melt into the floor or shed your skin and slink into a nook and never come out again.

His wide eyes plead with you: ‘give me something substantial to grasp onto. Toss a rope and a damn good reason for all of the lies to a drowning man.’

There was only one reason, but you couldn’t bear saying it out loud. You couldn’t the entire time you knew him.

Slipping his hand behind your neck, he thumbed your chin up to look at him. “You thought I wouldn’t want ya if I knew, huh.”

Your bottom lip quivered but he didn’t let you collapse into yourself. Looking over your tense, teary, flushed features thoughtfully, he stayed silent. He had a way of looking still as a sheet of ice while a raging current boiled just underneath. That kind of stillness gave those under his command confidence because even amidst chaos, he made solid decisions. Ones that saved their lives, kept them out of harm's way.

In that moment, you felt no confidence. Sitting on your knees expectantly, you trembled all over. He moved his thumb down from your chin as he inhaled audibly, and furrowed his brow exhaling forcefully, wrapping his massive hand around your throat.

The moments waiting made your ears hot and the blood rush to your face. Tightness crept across your chest. You broke the silence first or you’d have lost your mind.

“You’re angry.”

He chuckled ruefully and went placid in an instant. “Angry. Mmm... Yes, that is one way to describe it, darlin’. Never more so, as a point of fact.”

Swallowing down tears, if he wouldn’t let you drop your head, at least you could close your eyes.

“No.” His calloused thumb stroked up and down the side of your neck. “No—no, you don’t get to do that. Not with me.”

“Please, Sy!” You burst, holding onto his wrist with both hands. “Please say something! I can’t take it!”

He sniffed and took his hand back, rubbing them together instead of touching you any longer. His broad shoulders lifted and dropped. “Not quite sure what to say.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t look at you, not entirely, so he arched a brow and gave a sideways glance. His voice was rough and deep with more emotion than either of you anticipated. “I was uh… unapproachable?”

Lifting your head from your hands, it made your heart shred into a pulp seeing the lifted brows and pained expression tensing his features. “What?”

“Unapproachable,” he graveled, cursing the emotion that made him choke up. “Fuck. I know I can be direct. I been tryin’ real hard to be gentle with you. Did I give the impression you couldn’t, ya know, tell me things?”

“No, of course not, Sy. I tell you everything.”

His smoldering ember pile only needed a breath of fresh air before it came roaring to life, consuming these new logs you’d placed on top.

“Gotdamn it. You knew this was important to me. The way you carried on, let me believe we had a life together. A future. With our family. Do I even know you?”

Smoke from the fire burning inside him made your eyes sting and water.

“Please, stop it, Sy,” you pleaded, pulling away from his grasp. “Please!”

The flames of anger - or was it hate - turned his pupils dark and made him somehow appear even larger with each deep breath.

“How do I know where the lies stop and you begin?”

Embers of his rage floated in the air and easily took to you like the driest kindling. You exploded unlike you never had before. Fists balled and panting, you squared your shoulders up and shifted your weight.

“You know what? Fine. Here’s the truth: I was barely 18 when the doctor looked at me and said, ‘consider adoption’. I wasn’t even thinking about kids then, only why I had cramps every month but no period.

“We’ve tried correcting hormones for years with so little success I’ve felt like a goddamn science project while my friends moved on, grew up, got married, raised families. Do you know how devastating it is to slog through one of those baby showers? Everyone is so warm and happy, celebrating new life and how their bodies produce something amazing.

“Meanwhile, all I can think about is how if I were to conceive by some fucking miracle, the chances of miscarriage are so high, it’d make more sense to plan some kind of memorial for a child I’ll never meet instead of a cute little fucking baby shower.

“And it’s the one thing you asked of me! What kind of a woman am I that I can’t give you the one thing you wanted?! A broken one. With a broken womb. So yeah, be upset with me. Hate me, Sy. But I promise you’re never gonna catch up. I’ve got years’ worth of a head start hating myself.”

Eyes bleary and completely heartbroken now that he knew your secret, your head dropped and you held it in pain from the headache that exploded from the tension.

You didn’t wait even thirty seconds before he nudged your head back up again with his knuckle. Your chest ached so badly from barely containing the sobbing. The moment you saw his arms were already open waiting for you to fall into, you gasped and let the tears come.

You leaned in an inch and he scooped you up the rest of the way. Helping you settle into his lap, thighs spread over his, he cradled you tenderly to his bare chest, wrapping you up in his entire upper body. Burying your face into his neck, you mewled his name softly when his lips pressed behind your ear.

“Sy, I—“

“Shh shh shh…” his baritone was so deep, you could feel and hear it as he dropped his head low to speak close like it was your own secret space to be alone together. “I’m sorry, sweetness. I know, babygirl, I know. Shh shh…”

Rubbing circles over your back, he gave you time to release through deep sobs some of that suffering you’d been dragging with you.

“I’m disappointed, shh—disappointed we can’t have our own, ‘course. But I think I’m more disappointed that you been upset this whole time over somethin’ we coulda sorted out together. Years ago. Babydoll, it breaks my heart to think of you bein’ this sad. Makes it a hundred times worse if you were upset ‘bout lettin’ me down. And you usin’ that ‘hate’ word in the same breath to describe the love of my life… Geez babygirl, that tears my heart right out my chest.”

Tears streaked down your cheeks. You pressed your palms against his hard as rock chest while he encircled you in his long reach. Tears rimmed his blue eyes as you wordlessly attempted to work out if he planned to let go or hold onto you. Eventually, you collapsed into him, exhausted.

“Look at me, Sweetheart. It’s important. What? Louder. Deep breath and one more time? Oh. No, I know it’s gonna make you cry more but imma make it better, I promise. Lemme see my girl. There she is.”

You sniffled and rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand. Your lips and eyes felt swollen from crying, and your hair was a mess, but he smiled in his soft blue eyes and stroked it back.

“Kids, no kids, doesn’t matter. I wanted you. Ask Parker or any other CO I work with. That very first night I saw you I said, “Imma marry that girl,” and here we are. But since we are married, I wanna know the things goin’ on inside ya. Not just ‘how ya feelin’, are ya hungry, are ya horny’ type stuff.”

You scoffed, kissing his cheek softly. He squeezed your hips tightly, lifting you closer, up higher on his pelvis, angling slightly back onto the pillows. He didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, but your heat, wiggling in his lap, and that you were starting to let go of some things inexplicably made the blood rush to his groin. You’d feel it in a second if he didn’t adjust your seating situation and lie back with you a bit.

“You’re not ‘broken’, sweets. And I don’t ever want to hear ya talkin’ ‘bout my girl like ‘at. You’re all woman, an’ the only one for me. You locked that right down in that pretty blue dress down on the pier years ago. Was it yellow? Nah. Really? With the little red… Huh. Color blind or not, this heart ain’t even mine no more so best be lookin’ after it. Yeah, you can cry now. Come here, babygirl. Daddy’s got you.”

When most of the tears were shed, he thumbed the dimples right above your panty line, just under the back of his lifted shirt you wore. Soothed very nearly to sleep, your fingers wound their way through his hair. He sighed letting his head fall back into your hands; he always loved when you scritched him like a puppy. Wrapping both hands behind your thighs, he held you in place, pressed to him and straightened up his neck when he really enjoyed what you were doing to him.

“Right there?” you cooed softly, raking your nails through his hair, down to the nape of his neck.

“Mmph,” he grunted affirmatively, tipping his chin down. He found one button on the shirt you wore straining against the fabric, exposing your bare skin right in front of his face. So he nuzzled into it. The unexpected tickle of his beard when he kissed inside made you gasp and arch back.

“Hey!” you squeaked and a mischievous smirk flashed across his face. He looped a finger inside his red flannel, releasing the fabric right below your belly button.

His eyes flashed up at you again as he pressed his mouth to your belly, swirling his thumbs in circles over your hips when he slid them inside the oversized flannel draped loosely on your body.

You closed your eyes, curling your fingers in his hair, and listened to the sound of the deliberate, wet kisses he placed from one hip to the other.

Hugging just under the curve of your behind, he ran his scratchy beard against your sensitive skin, but you still cradled the back of his head to you just the same. Finally kissing down to the apex of your sex, using his tongue to moisten the spot first, he placed a slow, suckling kiss that made your clit pulse and hips jerk involuntary.

“Sorry,” you mewled, pawing his hair. His jaw tensed and head lifted just slightly when your body responded so abruptly.

He nuzzled your skin and arched a brow up at you. “Don't be sorry, babygirl. Are you gonna let Daddy make ya feel good?”

A darkness fell across your features hearing that particular pet name for him. You tugged the shirt together.

“I don’t think I can do this, Sy. It’d be the first time not trying for... I can’t think about the… the emptiness. Feels like I’m giving something away too soon.”

“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, collecting your hand from his shoulder. “Tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you.”

“Time… I guess. And you. Fuck, Sy. I must sound crazy. The way I’m talking, it’s like somebody died.

Here I am going on when you’ve actually witnessed people die.

I don’t want to diminish what you’ve been through with my nonsense.

Of course we need to do this.

We need to do this.

I want this.

I need you.

I need us.

I need this.

Fuck me, Captain.

Fuck me senseless.”

You made quick work shrugging out of his shirt and wrapped both arms around his thick neck. Fisting the mattress, he shouldered your ribs so quickly, it knocked you right off balance and onto his arm. Gripping under one of your thighs, he used that massive upper body strength of his to lie you back gently onto the mattress, holding your whole body up with just one arm.

As he eased you down onto your back, you went quiet and he leaned on his elbow to look down over you.

You stared up at the red blinking light on the smoke detector a long time while he pressed his large forearm down against your chest, between your breasts, and spread his palm over your sternum, attempting to give you an anchor point. Your arms laid limp, one above your head, one at your side, almost like you were having a nightmare except wide awake.

He’d seen that vacant look in the eyes of fresh infantry grunts after their first real battle and brush with death. But he never thought he expected to see it stateside, in the eyes of his wife.

Doing what felt natural to do, after all he was trained for it, he dropped his voice and redirected your attention.

“Eyes on me, darlin’. I know you’re feelin’ pretty rough inside. Grief is grief however it comes. Yeah, it’ll take time. But that’s why you’ve got your Unit to fall back on. Unit of two, you an’ me. Makes us a pretty elite team. I’ll do some of the heavy lifting for ya now that I know what we’re working with. I need ya to stay with me though, yeah?”

“Unit of two. I like it. Will you ever… Oh Sy, will you ever touch me like that again?”

He frowned, wrinkles lining his forehead. “Sweets, hell nor high water gonna keep me from lovin’ on you.”

Three months later, you returned home from a walk with the new puppy to find Sy standing in the front lawn, one hand on his hip and the other waving at the delivery truck to keep backing up.

“More wood?” you called from across the street over the roar of the diesel truck lift dropping green treated lumber along the side of the house. While your husband signed off on the delivery, you crossed to meet him in the grass with the puppy under your arm.

Looping a sweaty arm around you, he pulled you in by the hip and kissed the crown of your head.

“Thank ya, sir. See ya’ next Saturday,” Sy smiled behind his reflective sunglasses, shaking the driver’s hand.

“Next Saturday?” you repeated, glancing over your shoulder at the new pile of lumber that had been dwindling as he completed projects. Or at least it was. “I thought the treehouse was done, my love.”

“Oh, it is. Come have a look see.” He dwarfed your hand in his, taking you to the sprawling backyard. His truck was parked at an angle on the lawn with his tools laid out in the back and sketches drawn all over sheets on the hood.

Leaning in with his hip, he showed you his drawings, motioning with his hands as to where they should be or already were in the yard.

“Swing set? Done. Slides over there? Done. High and low bars - also done. Rope bridge, climbing apparatus, bouncer thing, treehouse, done.”

Tilting your face, you bumped your head against his chest appreciatively and he smirked. “I want to build out chairs that flip down on the deck. Not sure on the height is all. I don’t suppose you have any input?”

“All the social worker has said is to plan on three siblings from upstate. Two boys and a girl, between the ages of 5 and 10. Sorry I don’t have any help as far as height goes. I think we are more than ready for the little ones next week, Sy. Why don’t you come inside and cool down with me?”

Scratching the back of his neck, he glanced over his shoulder at the freshly installed fence blocking the neighbors’ view. “Better idea, babygirl. How ‘bout we give those swings a try first. Should hold both our weight, I reckon.”

Arching a brow, you folded your arms across your chest, pretending to be annoyed. “Oh, you ‘reckon,’ hm?” you repeated, patting his sweaty chest through his tank top. “Bear, we already have a sex swing upstairs.”

“Yeahhhhh...” he drawled, giving you his most sly smirk, “but this one is outdoors.”

“Captain! I can’t believe you!” you gasped, touching your imaginary pearls before pushing off the wall of muscle your husband provided when he folded his arms across his chest, launching yourself into a dead sprint across the grass toward the swing set. “Ladies first!!”

He chuckled, and jogged behind. “’Course, babygirl.”

Masterlist

#fourmarkdovewrites #fourmarkdove masterlist #syverson x reader #captain syverson fic #hurt/comfort #tw:#tw: pregnancy #tw: infertility #henry cavil #henry cavill smut

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eyebagsbutglam · 3 years

Text

Bubble Bath

Hi! This piece was inspired by a gif and a little chat with the love of my life @patchworkpuzzle Thank you for being my muse!

You had a long day at work, so your sweet husband Kiri makes sure you’re well taken care of.

WC: 3033

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, c*nnilingus, light ch*king, bites, foot licking, kinda switch Kiri, sorry if I forgot something

Walking through the front door of your house you let out a sigh of relief. You’ve had, a day. Busy and seeming to last a whole week. You leaned against your front door and slid down to the floor, peeling off your shoes and placing them next to your purse on the floor to the side of the entryway table.

“Babe I’m home.” You manage to yell, but it came out sounding more like a croak. A head of thick shoulder length red hair peeks around the doorway to the kitchen and bright crimson eyes meet yours.

“Tough day Princess?” Kirishima says, walking over to you and wiping his hands on the half apron he wore around his waist. You took in the sight of him and your heart leaped. Your handsome house husband. How was he able to make an apron look sexy?

Kirishima knelt in front of you so he was eye level, sitting back on his heels. You rested your head back against the door taking a second to admire how his sleeveless shirt showcased his muscular arms. You sighed, “Tough doesn’t even begin to explain it.”

He reached forward to brush a fallen hair behind your ear and you closed your eyes, pressing into the warmth of his calloused hand. “Sounds like you need a little TLC then. Why don’t you run yourself a bath, I’ll make you some tea.”

You wanted to cry. Kirishima was always so considerate of you, showing you how much he appreciated everything you do for the two of you, how hard you work. “Thanks Eiji.” You lean forward placing a hand on his face and kissing his cheek. He grabs your hand helping you stand and walks back into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove.

“Honey and coconut milk?” You hear him ask as you head down the hall to your bedroom. He knew you so well.

“Please and thank you.” You reply and reach up to unhook your bra, sliding the straps off your shoulders and pulling it out of the bottom of your shirt with a sigh of relief.

The bubbles on the water smelled of lavender and rosemary. You bought the bubble bath from a little boutique in town that sold oils, soaps, and lotions made from the purest of ingredients. Dipping in a toe to check the temperature you decided it was perfect and lowered the rest of your body into the tub, a long sigh leaving your lips.

The warm water soothed and loosened the perpetual knots in your back. You really needed to pay better attention to the way you held your body while you worked. Bending your knees you slid a little further into the water, the bubbles barely covering your breasts. You close your eyes and let the stress of the day melt away.

The door opening causes you to open your eyes and in walks your hunk of a husband holding a steaming cup of tea, his apron unfortunately discarded. “Here you go Princess,” He hands you the mug, “Just how you like it.”

You take a sip and let the warmth soothe you on the inside as the bathwater soothes you from the outside. Another sigh leaves you. “How is it that I got so lucky?” You meet his eyes and offer him a small smile, which he returns. He leans down and places a soft kiss on your forehead.

“I ask myself that everyday.” Your heart melts along with the tightness of your muscles.

Kirishima stands and turns to leave you to your peace, but halts at the door when you let out a sound that can only be described as a moan after taking another sip of your tea. The sound sends a vibration through him, making it impossible to walk out the door and leave you be.

You notice his hesitance and ask, “What is it, Eiji?” Sitting up slightly so your chest is fully out of the water. Suds drip down your breasts and your nipples peek at the change in temperature.

His pupils dilate at the sight and a need to touch you overtakes him. “How about a foot rub Princess? You look like you could use one after your long day.”

“Mhhm, that would be wonderful. Thanks Eiji.” You don’t notice the change in demeanour when he stalks to the tub, sitting on the lip and reaching into the water to grab one of your feet. Setting your mug on the floor you lean your head back on the lip of the tub and close your eyes as he begins rubbing circles into the ball of your foot.

The bathroom starts to fill with the sounds of your little moans and groans while he thoroughly massages one foot and moves to the next, and you are blissfully unaware of the effect those sounds have on him. You have no idea that the way your eyelids flutter when he strokes along the arch of your foot reminds him of how your eyes flutter shut when you're deep in the throws of passion, about to reach your release.

You miss the way he gulps when he notices a bead of sweat fall from your temple, tracing a line down your jaw to your neck, landing in the dip of your collarbone. It isn’t until you feel him lower your foot into the water and then run a hand from the inside of your knee to the top of your thigh that you open your eyes to be met with his lust blown gaze.

“Eiji,” You manage to whisper as your heart rate picks up. His hand stops right before it reaches your core and begins rubbing firm circles on your skin, his other hand landing on your hip.

This time you don’t miss the way his eyes dip to your lips, how his tongue traces over his own lip before he brings it between his teeth. The hand on your hip slowly slides up the side of your body as he leans his face so close to yours that you can feel his breath on your face.

“Shh, just let me take care of you Princess.” The nickname comes out as a purr and a heat that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water settles in your core.

Kirishima dips his face to the spot where your neck meets your shoulder and starts placing light kisses along your skin, moving up to your jaw. You feel his fingers brush along your pussy, stopping to rub excruciatingly soft circles on your clit.

A small whine escapes your lips and you arch into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. You feel him smile against the skin on your neck just before he nips at a spot that has you digging your nails into his skin.

“Someone’s being a bit impatient today,” He murmurs against your skin, dragging his lips across your shoulder and back again. Your hands slacken and move to tangle into his hair. His hand at your waist moves to find your breast, fingers drawing lazy circles around your nipple. Oh he knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying every second of it.

“Please-” You whimper, his soft teasing starting to drive you crazy, “Please Eiji.”

Both his hands stop and he lifts his head from your neck to look into your eyes, earning a whine of protest from you.

“Please what? Do you want me to stop?” There was an innocent look of concern on his face but a mischievous gleam flashed in his eyes.

You shook your head and leaned in so your lips could meet his, only for him to stop you with a light hold on your neck, “You need to use your words Princess.”

“I-” You swallow, your mouth beginning to water, “I don’t want you to stop Eiji.”

The corners of his mouth twitch up and he pulls you to him and bites your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. “And what would you like me to do?” His grip on your neck tightens slightly and you hum in pleasure, your eyes rolling back before closing.

“I want you to-to keep touching me.” Your words are so quiet if he wasn’t as close as he was he probably wouldn't hear them.

His hand releases your throat and you hear him click his tongue. Your eyes open as he taps a finger on your lips, shaking his head. “Have you forgotten your manners, Little One?” He rubs along your cheek with the back of his fingers, “What do we say when we ask for something?”

Your eyes glaze over and all your stress from the day is completely forgotten. Only the thought of Kirishima’s body on yours fills your head and you purr, “I want you to keep touching me, Please.”

Kirishima lets out a growl and pulls the drain stop out before scooping you into his arms and walking your dripping body into the bedroom. He throws you onto the bed and climbs on top of you, settling himself between your legs, his clothes and your bed now soaked with bath water. You sit up, lips meeting his in a moan, pulling him into you with a hand at the back of his neck.

His hips grind against yours and you can feel his hard length through his pants. You move to buck your hips against his but he stops you with a hand on your hip, holding you in place.

Pulling away from the kiss he rests his forehead against yours, “Slow down Princess. I told you I’ll take care of you, and I’m a man of my word.” He places a hand to your chest in a silent command to lay back. You obey, settling into the pillows behind you.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head, kissing each one as if to say keep these here. His eyes meet yours and you nod, silently telling him you understand.

His hands lightly trace down your arms and he brushes his lips against yours, placing light kisses on the corner of your mouth and along your jaw. When he reaches your ear he whispers, “I’m going to take my time tasting every inch of you.”

His words have heat pooling between your legs and you try to clench your thighs together, but his hard muscular body between them makes it impossible.

A chuckle tickles the skin behind your ear as his lips begin their descent down your neck while his big strong hands find your breasts. His thumbs lightly graze your nipples, back and forth, then circle around them.

Your mind goes blank, pleasure slowly building until all you can think about is his hands on your body, his lips on your skin.

Kirishima kisses and nibbles down the column of your throat, his sharp teeth leaving little marks on your smooth skin. When he reaches the hollow of your throat he stops, “How are you feeling Princess,” he asks, his fingers continuing their caress.

“I feel good Eiji,” You murmur, “Please- don’t stop.”

Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending attuned to him. He reaches up to place a kiss to your lips before moving to your sternum.

His kisses are sloppy, and with every brush of his tongue on your skin the coil in your core tightens, moisture collecting between your legs.

You feel his teeth nibble the bottom of your breast and then his mouth is on your nipple, sucking, tongue flicking and circling.

You arch into him and it’s taking every ounce of self restraint not to tangle your hands into his luscious locks and press him harder onto you. Instead you ball your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palm.

A whimper leaves you when he moves to your other nipple and you lock your legs around his waist. You feel his muscles shift under his shirt and realize you need to feel his skin on yours.

“Eiji,” he releases your nipple with a pop and your body twitches.

“Yes Little One?” His fingers resume their positions caressing your peeked nubs. Each graze sends a jolt through your body and you have to take a moment to remember what you were going to ask.

“I- want to feel your skin on mine. Please,” You start to drag his shirt up with the heel of your foot, “I need- need to feel you.”

He smiles, “Anything for my Princess,” and lifts up so he’s sitting back on his heels. Your legs fall to the bed and you watch him pull his shirt, damp and stuck to his skin from the water dripping off you, over his head, watching as his abs and obliques contract with the movement.

You bite your lip as you take him in. Broad shoulders and chest tapering into a cut abdomen. He takes the moment to tie his hair back into a bun, smirking at your shameless ogling.

“Getting your fill?” He croons, moving down the bed and pulling your legs so they’re laying flat. When he moves you can see the outline of his impressive length straining against his pants, discovering just how his tending to you is affecting him.

But right now it isn't about him, it’s about you. And he’s going to spend this time pleasuring you just how you deserve. You’re his Princess, and he’s going to make sure you’re spoiled rotten.

He brings your foot to his mouth and licks from your heel to the ball of your foot, sucking your big toe into his mouth and running his tongue around it. Then he’s moving up your leg, leaving open mouth kisses to your inner calf.

You open your legs to accommodate his size, toes curling at the feel of his skin against yours. Your body is hot, and if there wasn't already a wet spot on the bed from leaving the bath without being dried off, there would definitely be one from your arousal now dripping down your legs.

When he reaches your thighs he starts tracing patterns on your skin with his tongue, tasting every inch, leaving no spot unexplored. His hands roam your body, massaging and gripping your ass, hips, and waist.

You moan, writhing underneath him. His mouth is sinful. Every caress of his lips, every graze of his teeth, every brush of his tongue pulling you down into an inferno of desire.

Then his lips place a soft kiss between your hips and you realize your eyes were closed because they open, meeting his, which are already laser focused on you. His mouth curves in a devilish grin as he moves your legs to rest on his shoulders.

“Do I have your attention now Princess?”

Your eyes are glazed over with lust, mind hazy, and all you can do is nod, a small noise leaving your throat that is a mix between a moan and a whine.

“Good. Now keep those pretty eyes on me.” He keeps his eyes on yours while placing sloppy kisses to your inner thigh, nibbling in between.

This is when your restraint breaks and your hand finds his hair, the other resting to your side. He growls, allowing the new position, and responds with a kiss on your clit.

You moan, hips moving to grind yourself onto his face, but he has you pinned down before you can move. His tongue dips to taste your arousal and his eyes roll into the back of his head with a groan, the vibrations adding to your pleasure. “You have the sweetest pussy Princess.” He whispers onto you, eyes finding yours again while he continues to run his tongue along your folds.

Your hand balls into a fist in his hair as his tongue finds your clit and begins a pattern of flicks and circles, tightening that coil of pleasure in your core.

“F-fuck,” You whine, your head falling back into the pillows, tightening your grip on his hair to hold him in place while you grind yourself on his face. He obliges, holding his tongue firm, his cock throbbing in his pants while you use him.

Pressure builds and your moans grow louder until your climax hits you like a bus. Your shaking, legs weak, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. Kirishima greedily laps up every drop of your cum. The strokes of his tongue on your overly sensitive pussy have you twitching, hand dropping to your side as your legs close around his head.

He finishes devouring you with a soft kiss, sliding your legs to the side and crawling up the bed to lay next to you. His fingers trace swirls on your stomach.

“How are you feeling,” Kirishima's voice snapped you from your pleasure coma and you turned toward him, humming, wrapping your arm around his waist and nuzzling into his chest.

“Very relaxed.” You spoke into his chest with a smile. A rumbling chuckle was his reply and his fingers found your hair, massaging your scalp.

You felt him place a kiss to your forehead and you moved closer to press the rest of your body against his. You were not surprised to be met with a very large, very hard present pressing against your abdomen.

You pulled away, looking down to catch a glimpse of his erection still straining in his pants and, as if in response to your gaze, it twitched.

You ran a finger along the underneath of his cock, from base to tip, as you looked into Kirishima’s crimson eyes, pupils already lust blown once more. “And now,” You grabbed him through his pants and stroked once, “Let me take care of you.”

He bucked into your hand, cupping your face to lock you into a long sensual kiss. The kiss broke and he rested his forehead against yours, smiling.

“How is it that I got so lucky?” He asks, rubbing his thumb along your cheek.

You smile, leaving a kitten lick on his lips before whispering, “I ask myself that every day.”

#moo's writings #bubble bath by moo #kirishima x reader #eijirou kirishima x reader #kirishima bnha #bnha x reader #kirishima x you #kirishima x y/n #eijirou x y/n #eijirou x you #eijirou x reader #eijirou kirishima x you #eijirou kirishima x y/n

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dontshootmespence · 4 years

Text

Through It All

Part 17

Summary: Now married, Spencer & Y/N navigate the D/s lifestyle. How will their relationship change?

Words: 1,883

Warnings: Katoptronophilia (sex in front of a mirror), public masturbation, phone sex, p in v.

A/N: My next entry for @cm-kinkbingo run by my beautiful girlfriend @heycasbutt. This fills my katoptronophilia square.

Every single morning, you speak positivity into the bathroom mirror as per Spencer’s instructions. Some days it sticks and it feels real, and other days it feels like you’re speaking to someone else entirely, the message slipping past your lips and over your head before disappearing into thin air.

You look sadly at your skin and jiggly stomach, wrinkled and stretched, as you slip into your work clothes. Pregnancy added about 40 pounds to your frame and you’re still holding onto about 25 pounds of it. Slowly but surely it’s coming off, but it’s even harder to lose weight now that you’ve had Charlotte.

Spencer walks in from the bathroom and instantly notices you glancing into the full-length mirror near your bed. It’s vintage, stained wood and one of your favorite things, although lately not so much. “Hey,” he says softly, kissing your temple and tipping your chin toward him with his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll get there. And until then, you’re still the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“I love you,” you mumble, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes. Charlotte’s been running a bit of a fever the past few days, so sleep is touch and go. “I’m getting there. Having more good days than bad ones, but I guess today’s a bad one.” The bad ones feel like fucking mountains. Traversing them without Spencer would be a nightmare, but thankfully that’s not your reality.

Spencer presses his lips to yours and for a blissful moment, you forget how you feel about yourself and get lost in him. “Hey,” he says. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as his lips ghost the corners of your mouth, peppering kisses over your lips and nose. “How about we have some fun today?”

“We have work,” you laugh, slipping your hands around his waist under the suit jacket he’s wearing. His warmth is so inviting. All you want to do is stay here for eternity, but...life. “You have something in mind beforehand?”

Snickering, Spencer pulls you into a heady kiss and steps away. “We barely have five minutes and even I’m not that good under pressure-”

“Don’t underestimate yourself.” You smile into his neck, remembering all the times, both past and recent past that he’s had you quaking in minutes.

“Well, thank you love. But I was actually thinking at work.”

You raise an eyebrow, inviting him to tell you whatever he has in mind.

“You have lunch at 1, right?” When you nod, he continues, his smile almost sinister. “Good, make sure you answer your phone at one.”

With that, he walks out the door, not looking back, leaving you in a perpetual state of anticipation until he decides to put you out of your misery. It feels like old times.

---

The hours at work either slip by or feel like they’re passing into eternity. Sometimes, you glance at the clock in the corner of the computer screen and a half hour has passed. Other times, you feel like you’re sitting at school, staring at the clock, begging for the hands to move. As you work, it’s difficult to keep your mind focused. Mainly because it’s too busy running through the plethora of different scenarios Spencer could have planned for you.

The whirlwind of thoughts has you clenching your legs at your desk, slowly pushing back and forth against the chair in search of some kind of relief; but it’s a joke. There’s nothing there and you aren’t about to touch yourself without Spencer’s instructions; them coming from him is what makes it so fulfilling. Finally, the clock hits 1:00 PM and you excuse yourself for lunch, staring impatiently at your phone, waiting for Spence’s name to pop up.

“Hey, Spence,” you say eagerly. “We meeting up somewhere?” You can’t wait. Maybe a quickie up against your office building? Sex in the car?

“No.” He speaks coolly. “Go to the bathroom.”

Your legs tremble slightly at the smoothness of his tone. You whisper in reply. “Yes, Sir.”

Once inside one of the stalls, you tune out everyone walking in and out and focus on the frantic thudding of your own heart. “Sir?”

“Undo the buttons on your pants, touch yourself and then take a picture. I want to see how wet you are.”

A million questions come to mind. Where is he right now? Is he touching himself too? Breathing heavily into the phone, you do as he instructs, imagining him stroking his own length in his car in the University’s garage. “Hold the phone to your pretty pussy. Let me hear it.”

You bite back a high-pitched whimper and lower the phone to where you’re slipping your fingers against your slick folds. As your middle finger slides against your clit, you hear the wet sound and feel a flush of embarrassment. What if one of your co-workers can hear you? Shakily, you pull the phone back up to your mouth. “Was that satisfactory, Sir?”

“Yes, love. Sounds like you’re sufficiently wet.”

“I am, Sir. I’ve been imagining this all morning.”

“Does this live up to expectations?”

“It exceeds them, Sir.”

“Good,” he replies. You can practically hear him straightening up in his seat, driven by the effect he has on you. “Keep touching yourself. Make yourself come right there in the stall like a good little slut.”

Blushing at his praise, you decide to get out of your head and embrace the task at hand, fluttering your fingers over your folds and clit, varying in speed and pressure until the mental image in your head becomes too much. “I wish these fingers were yours, Sir.”

“Imagine they are,” he says thickly. “Use your pointer and middle fingers. Imagine they’re mine sliding back and forth over your clit.”

Whimpering, you massage your sensitive bud and clench your thighs around your hand. “Sir, can I fuck myself on my fingers?” Your voice is barely audible, but he gives you permission. Slipping your fingers inside, you buck down into your own palm and fuck yourself. God, you wish it were Spencer. You wish he was here right now fucking you against the bathroom stall outside your office. “Should I come, Sir?”

“No,” he says dismissively, as if it’s obvious. “Remove your hand.”

With a whine, you do as you’re told and go to grab a piece of toilet paper to clean yourself off, but before you can, he tells you to FaceTime him. “Anyone there?” He mouths.

For a moment, you listen for the sound of running water or footsteps, but you hear nothing. “No, Sir.”

“Good, lick your fingers clean. I want to watch.”

Your pussy is quivering as you lift your fingers to your mouth, slowly licking each digit, lapping your tongue around and around without a thought, like a doll, until Spencer tells you to stop. When it comes to cleaning your arousal, you always aim to do a complete job. “Good girl,” he says with a smile. “I’ll see you tonight.”

You’re on edge, just short of manic. He’s not done with you yet.

And yet you have to go back to work.

Fuck.

---

Later that night, after Spencer prepares dinner and manages to get Charlotte to sleep, he meets you back outside at the kitchen table. “Strip,” he instructs. This is what you love. What you’ve missed. The ability to not question. Just do it.

Heat floods through you with that one word, your work clothes easily slipping from your body and onto the kitchen floor. You leave them in an unceremonious pile. Again, the blinds on the window are open, so someone could see you from the apartment building across the street. But you don’t care. All you care about is that you can feel yourself slipping into the submissive skin again, and it feels amazing, safe, right.

His fingers entwine with yours as he leads you into the bedroom, guiding you to kneel in the corner of the bed that faces your full-length mirror. He comes to kneel behind you. Instead of looking away, you confront your image, and settle on the look in Spencer’s eyes: reverence.

When his hands slide over your stomach, still a little jiggly, stretch marks forming where they hadn’t been before, you allow your hands to float over them. “Look at me.” Your gaze floats upward, his warm eyes penetrating. “This is where my baby was. In here. You carried her for nearly ten months.” He presses kisses to the back of your neck and in between your shoulder blades as he talks. “Your body might’ve changed. But it is no less perfect. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

For the first time in a while, you actually feel the words, deep down in your soul. He grabs your hands and guides them behind you, slipping both yours and his into his pants to push them down around his knees.

You close your eyes contentedly as your hands slip around his cock. He thrusts through them a few times before grasping your wrists between his hand and placing himself at your entrance with the other, sliding home as he pulls back on your arms.

As his cock fills you, you moan, reveling in the feel of him, hot and thick and strong. “Look up,” he demands softly. When you do, you see your eyes glazed over with lust, mirroring Spencer’s own, his hand gently settling around your neck to help hold you in place.

With every powerful thrust, your body shakes. Your mouth begins to drop open, spit pooling on your tongue. “Don’t swallow it. Let it come out. Watch how gorgeous you are.”

Everything else, the lingering scents from dinner, the soft sound of traffic outside, it all flows to the background of your mind, allowing his heavy breaths and your small whimpers to put you into a trance. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...Sir. I’m gonna come.”

“Who says you’re allowed?”

“No one, Sir.” You swallow the answer back as you beg your body not to betray you. “Please, Sir.”

“No.”

Spencer pulls you almost flush against his back, one arm sitting around your waist as the other travels down to your pussy. “Earlier, you said you wished your fingers were mine,” he says against the shell of your ear, his middle finger flicking against your oversensitive clit. “How does that feel? Look into the mirror and tell me.”

You stare at your reflection. It’s both unknown and familiar. With his cock filling you to the hilt, he holds you in place, lips trailing over your neck as you speak. “Feels amazing, Sir. Will you make me come? Please?”

“Of course, love.” His fingers massage you, your pussy pushing forward against him. “Just look at your reflection when you do. If I see you looking away, I’m going to edge you at least four times.”

“Yes. Sir. I will. I promise.”

Low thrusts and his fluttering fingers quickly cause your body to buck against him, your orgasm building from the depths of your toes and rolling forward. As promised, you ask permission, watching with captivated eyes as your body shakes.

“Don’t you look beautiful, love?” He asks, pulling your hair back from where it had curtained in front of your eyes.

It’s so easy to say. “Yes, Sir.”

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#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #through it all #the most natural thing in the world #dontshootmespence

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there-must-be-a-lock · 5 years

Text

Marked (Part 25 - Epilogue)

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2740

Warnings: Bit o’ smut, but nothing too explicit and nothing you haven’t seen before in this story.

A/N: This is tied closely to Part 16, aka the djinn chapter, and I recommend re-reading that one first if it’s been a while. It also references Part 20 a few times.

As many of you know, by now, this fic is very personal and very honest. I’m not going to get into it too much, but this story is my way of telling anyone who needs to hear it that things will get better, and the bad days will pass, and the scars don’t define you. I hope you wake up tomorrow and decide to try again.

Thanks for reading.

This is not a happy ending.

We’re not always happy people, Dean and me. We have good days, but we have bad days too: days when it’s all I can do to get out of bed, days when I feel like I’m being crushed by the weight of everything we’ve been through. We are battered and bruised and worn around the edges. We’re kind of a mess. I’m okay with that.

Love is messy. Love is showing someone your weak spots, your knitted-up ripped-apart insides, the dark broken pieces, and saying, here I am, I’m yours to hurt.

And yes, sometimes we hurt each other. Sometimes we rip each other apart all over again. Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing but scar tissue, held together by duct tape and sheer stubbornness.

At the end of every day, though, we dust each other off and bandage each other up, and in the morning, we try again.

- - - - -

The humid spring air drags at my skin, tugging at my fingers when I stick my hand out the open window and let it ride the pressure of the wind.

It’s an overcast day, threatening rain, and Dean looks as stormy as the sky as he drives in silence. I just shrugged when he asked me about work, and we’ve both been quiet since. When he catches me watching, though, he gives me a rueful little attempt at a smile. It looks more like a grimace, but he’s trying. I know he’s trying.

I’ve been working at a new place nearby, a roadhouse one of the boys’ hunting contacts opened recently. It’s perpetually full of plaid and testosterone and people asking if I’m “Dean’s girl,” trying to get a message to the Winchesters. I guess word spreads fast with hunters. On the bright side, though, I can be honest if I need to call out because of a potential apocalypse, or something.

Dean usually comes inside, has a beer while I’m finishing my shift, but today he was waiting outside with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped.

“Can we go somewhere?” he said. It wasn’t an apology, but I know better than to expect an apology right away. He’ll get there.

We don’t fight often, not really. Usually when I get scared and pull away, he knows how to follow, how to reassure me, how to make me feel safe. Usually I’m tough enough to withstand his sharp edges and push through the walls he likes to hide behind.

Today has been a bad day. It’s bad for both of us, in our own ways, but this morning started with his nervous little sideways look as he folded up his pocketknife, and it ended with the vicious things he says when he’s angry at himself but wants to make me hurt for it. Usually I’d roll my eyes and tell him to go punch something, but today marks exactly two years since the demon showed up on my doorstep. Today I already felt raw and vulnerable and stripped-bare; when he lashed out, he cut right into the softest parts of me, and I slashed right back, snarling at him through my tears, and we were still screaming at each other when I stormed out to go to work. The anger’s gone now, but it’s left a cold, heavy ache in its place.

He takes us to Lawrence, of course. We park in front of the old rusty gate and hop the fence. He reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a little squeeze without actually looking at me, and we set off down the old path together.

We sit on one of the big flat rocks, watching the water: green-grey, steady, endless. It’s familiar, now, the shape of the eddies and the gurgle as it rolls smoothly around the rocks.

Just a couple weeks ago, we had a picnic here for Sam’s birthday. The surprise had been Dean’s idea. He’d told Eileen and Cas beforehand, and we’d packed a checkered blanket, a cake, the whole nine yards. We didn’t tell Sam where we were going, not until we’d pulled up at the fence and he’d stared at us blankly.

“So, you remember when Dad used to take me fishing?” Dean had said, running a hand through his hair nervously. Sam had gotten teared up when he realized, and Dean looked so startled, like he usually does when his efforts to open up are met with something other than disgust.

The memory makes me soften, slightly. I move in closer and Dean shifts to meet me, and I tuck myself snugly into the curve of his arm, resting my head on his shoulder. He lets out a long shaky exhale and then clears his throat.

“I love you,” he says gruffly.

“I know,” I whisper.

He kisses the top of my head and I rest my hand on his knee, thumb stroking over the rough denim. The rock is too hard to make a comfortable seat, and my neck is at an awkward angle, and the sky is slowly growing darker, and I don’t mind.

We sit for a while without talking. It’s enough just to be here together; I know what he’s trying to say.

Around dusk, we get up. My legs are cramped and stiff, and Dean helps me get to my feet. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight, and I bury my face in the softness of his worn flannel.

“I love you too,” I say, muffled against his chest. He strokes my hair and takes one more deep breath, and then he grabs my hand, and we start along the path back to the car. It starts to rain as we jump the fence, warm heavy drops that thud into the dirt, and for a moment I stand still and turn my face up to the sky, letting the water run down my cheeks.

I still feel cold and achy, inside, but mostly I just feel leaden with exhaustion. I’m ready for the day to be over. I’m ready to be home.

I curl up in the passenger seat and turn on the tape deck. Dean sings along just a little bit off-key, and when the rain drumming on the roof starts to drown out the music, I turn up the volume. Dean pulls back onto the highway and we head west.

“You gotta drop me at my car,” I point out, as he cruises past the exit to the roadhouse.

“You can just take Baby tomorrow,” he says, deliberately casual. It’s a big gesture, and we both know it; it’s like the Dean equivalent of a dozen roses, or jewelry, or whatever the stereotypical romantic gift is. I can’t help the way my mouth twitches up in a smile.

My clothes are still slightly damp from the rain when we get back to the bunker, and I strip down to my underwear as soon as we get back to our room, burrowing in under the big comforter. Dean follows, slower, pausing to turn on the small bedside lamp and turn off the overhead lights before he takes off his jeans and his flannel and crawls into bed. He looks at me hesitantly, like he’s not sure I’ll want to touch him, but I slide on top of him and kiss him, and I feel his sigh of relief against my mouth.

We kiss, deep and heated, until my lips feel bruised, and then I sit up and look down at him, running my hands down his chest to the hem of his shirt so I can tug it up. He lifts it up over his head obediently and tosses it away.

I grab his wrists as he settles back down. I press them into the pillow on either side of his head, leaning in to pin him, watching the way his lips part and his eyes go huge and dark.

“Do you want…” I ask hoarsely, thinking of the cuffs I got him for his birthday, but he just shakes his head slightly, looking up at me, open and trusting.

“Just like this?” he asks quietly. I kiss the frown line between his eyes and hold his wrists tighter.

We take our time. There’s no rush.

I kiss his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, nibble his earlobe, and then I drag my mouth down the side of his neck, sinking my teeth into the soft skin, biting until he’s bruised and gasping. I grind down until he’s rock-hard, until I’m soaking the thin fabric of my panties where I’m pressing against the length of him. He stares when I sit up and take off my bra. When he reaches up, reaches out for me, I grab his wrists again and shove them down, and the way he whimpers sets my skin on fire.

I roll away clumsily, just long enough for both of us to get rid of the last of our clothes, and when he reaches out again, hands flying to my waist like he can’t help himself, I let him pull me up to straddle his face. He holds me down and fucks me shallowly with his tongue until I reach down and pull his hair, tugging sharply. He moans low in his chest and I rock down against his mouth, tilting my hips, until the filthy slick suction of his lips around my clit has my legs trembling and my head spinning. His nails rake down the small of my back and that’s it, I’m gone, arching my back and shaking, coming so hard I black out for a second.

My muscles are limp, totally useless, and I’m unsteady as I swing my leg over and tumble onto my back. I pull him on top of me and he fucks into me hard and desperate, muscles surging under my palms as I run my hands down his shoulders. I dig my fingernails into the swell of his ass, urging him closer, and tell him how perfect he feels, how good he is, how much I love him, and when he slams into me one last time, he lets out a long broken groan and then melts down against me, a hot perfect weight all over me as our heartbeats slow and our sweat cools.

I almost drift off, just like that, with his breath tickling my neck, feeling the flutter of him starting to go soft inside me. I grumble when he starts to pull away and he makes a soothing noise, turning to shut off the lamp. I roll onto my side and squirm back against him in the pitch-black, and he spoons up behind me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“S’okay. Me too,” I sigh, already half-asleep again.

“Is this… are we okay?”

He sounds so small and scared in the dark.

“We will be,” I say.

We sleep.

I love waking up with Dean, the way he holds me in his sleep, pressed firmly to my back with his arm curled protectively around me, his breath tickling the nape of my neck. I take it in for a few minutes, still and silent, until he starts to stir, his thumb stroking over my collarbone and his nose nuzzling my ear.

The alarm hasn’t gone off yet; I have a few minutes before I have to get up.

I roll over lazily, molding myself to his chest, and kiss him properly. He’s frowning against my lips. When I look at him, he’s looking back through half-closed eyes, sleepy and sweet and soft, the Dean that only I get to see. I love him, love him in a way that makes my heart swell and puts stars in my eyes and brings every other stupid cliche to life. I love him so much I can barely breathe sometimes. The bad days don’t change that.

“We’re okay,” I say firmly, before he can ask again, and the tight worried line of his mouth eases slightly.

“I’m trying,” he whispers. “I don’t know why I can’t just - I get caught up, and… fuck. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I love you,” I answer, and I run my fingertips over his cheek, rubbing my thumb over the curve of his lower lip.

The alarm goes off, beeping insistently, and we both grumble in unison as Dean swats at the clock.

“Do you have to?” he pouts. I kiss the tip of his nose.

“Gotta get to the library and finish this essay before class.”

“We have a library.”

“And if I needed to write an essay about ghouls, I’d be all set, but I need actual books, not grimoires.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll go get coffee started.”

I watch him get out of bed and fumble with his pants. I admire the muscles in his shoulders as he pulls on a shirt, half-tempted to drag him back into bed and map the freckles with my tongue.

He looks back at me as he leaves, and his smile gives me butterflies, even after all this time.

Dean’s got my favorite mug waiting by the time I shower quickly and shuffle into the kitchen, and there’s a fresh pot of coffee, still steaming hot. Cas is sitting at the table and staring into his own mug like it holds the secrets of the universe. Dean is muttering darkly as he slams cabinet doors, looking for another box of his favorite cereal.

Laughter from down the hall announces Sam and Eileen’s return. They come in sweaty and beaming, fresh off their morning run.

“Egg white omelettes, anybody?” Sam asks cheerfully, rummaging in the fridge, and I just roll my eyes.

Dean sits down, nursing his coffee and looking sourly at the empty cereal box on the table. I sit next to him.

“Frigging morning people,” he mumbles.

“Seriously,” I agree, and kiss his cheek.

“Sure you don’t want an omelette?” Sam asks, pointing at me with a bundle of spinach.

“Gotta go. Abnormal psych essay to finish.”

“What’s it about?” Sam asks, as Eileen ducks under his arm to get to the coffee.

“Assholes,” she says, and holds up the empty pot accusingly. Cas sidles away with an apologetic grimace.

I suppress a laugh and answer, “Sublimation. I think I’ll probably do okay.”

I smirk at Dean, who huffs and rolls his eyes. Sam and I exchange a knowing look.

Dean grabs my hand. He squeezes gently, interlacing our fingers, and I pick up my coffee left-handed, reluctant to let go.

The classes were Sam’s idea to begin with; he always asks how it’s going, and he fusses about my grades like a proud parent, even though it’s just a part-time thing, for now, to see if anything really grabs my interest. I’m on my third psychology class, now. I’m starting to think about enrolling full-time, but… we’ll see.

I drain my mug and give Dean’s hand one last squeeze before I let go and stand up.

“You gonna be home for dinner?” he asks, watching me as I fish around in a cabinet and pull out a granola bar for the road.

“Yup,” I answer absent-mindedly, checking my pockets for my wallet as I head to the door.

Dean calls my name, and I turn impatiently. He catches up and cups my face in his hands as he kisses me.

“You forgot something,” he whispers, and gives me one last quick peck before he releases me.

“Love you,” I say. “You big fuckin’ sap.”

He grins. “You know it. Love you more.”

I can’t help but ogle him slightly when he turns his back: broad shoulders, bowed legs, mine.

I wave to the rest of my strange little family before I leave. There’s a chorus of goodbyes, and I smile to myself as I walk away.

Today is a good day. Not all of them are, but today is a good day.

I think we’re going to be okay.

-----

This is not a happy ending.

This is not an ending at all; it’s just another day, just another step. And I have no idea where we’re headed, Dean and me, but it’s not about the destination.

We woke up this morning and chose to try again. We chose to keep moving forward, one tiny step after another. We chose to move forward together.

It’s not about getting somewhere. It’s the step that matters.

If you enjoyed this, please reblog, leave a message here, or buy me a coffee over here.

Tag team: @winchesterprincessbride @ultimatecin73 @mrswhozeewhatsis @mogaruke @babypieandwhiskey @amanda-teaches @hannahindie @fandom-princess-forevermore @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @maddiepants @fangirlxwritesx67 @leatherandfrackles @waywardbaby @covered-byroses @thoughtslikeaminefield @dean-Winchesters-bacon @atc74 @onethirstyunicorn @tumbler-tidbits @67-chevy-baby @wayward-and-worn @the-chocolate-moose @geekgirl1213 @notyourtypicalrose @myfanficlibrarium @calaofnoldor @indecisive20something @carryonmyswansong @akshi8278 @woodworthti666 @sandlee44 @flamencodiva @weepingwillowphoenix @shamelesslydean @rockhoochie @fookinghelljensensthighs @ladywinchester1967 @magssteenkamp @vickyfarley @olivia-whorelow @vicmc624 @daddys-little-princess67 @stoneyggirl

#marked #dean winchester fic #spn fic #spn fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader smut #dean x you #Dean Winchester #dean winchester smut #dean winchester angst #supernatural fanfiction

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ingridbgalatea · 4 years

Text

ミ✭ dog-eared.

cw; death.

the quiet is sudden.

the air rids itself of forceful screams, and red cords no longer strain and break at the sound of blood spilling through pierced flesh. the otherwise hideous creak and crumple of the beast shreds against metal, reduced to the hum of a disk scratching voice pressed against fabric as snow seeps into ingrid’s ears. calm tide that the moon draws in, and out again— she breathes; her chest weighing of iron as much as her tongue, scarlet angering the bull of her heart. no longer can she hear the distant, murderous intent of the death knell’s crow. an echo repeats itself in it’s memory, but not the bell itself; dull murmur of it’s chime growing flat with every resound.

snow falls, marble white an unwelcome contrast to the crimson that bloodied her skin; no longer warm and soft, as much as her father might’ve wanted her suitors to see. low, lulling notes of a supposedly happy hymnal play in haunting minor, both meant for the wed and dying. dying. dying. the word begins to lose meaning the more she says it, soundlessly, meant for an audience of no one besides herself. a person with no such companionship dies alone, and that was what she was, right? dying.

despite everything the stories say, death isn’t at all what they paint it out to be.

—when it ropes you around the waist, (callous touch to bloody wounds,) you’d think you would see your life flash before your eyes.

she thinks she would see felix, in all his perpetual scowl; once small smile contorted into something she could never understand. his face, worn with battles he both knew how to pick but didn’t anyways. she thinks she would see sylvain, with his carefully painted smile and words that were both ultimately a little reckless and quietly caring, and maybe she wouldn’t feel the need to pick up after him so much. she thinks she would see his highness, in all his polite small talk and tall standing; and she wonders what he would think about what aeschylus had called justice.

was that it? was that what he died for? so chivalry, so honour, so knighthood, so valour, so martyrdom, so justice—

so what?

she doesn’t see their faces. not anymore.

eyes press softly close (though they were already shut), the softness of a cruel winter lies on her eyelashes. her flesh, or lack thereof, is tangible as the touch of another wraps around her form. blood drips without distinction between flesh and cloth; dyes the snow as red as strawberries in the summer. everything feels numb in all of her own tragic, human fragility, and fingers thrum in her head but not against the back of the one who’d begun carrying her. a loss for words, and a loss for names… even recognising who had lifted her up in that piteous state was difficult. air travels through her, trudging through the muck of blood and mucus; disquieting smell of metal filling her lungs. she is breathing, yes, yes, but only so; where the thunder of her thoughts meet her lips there is only a drop of rain, scarlet blood.

ingrid wants to be held a little longer, blink in dream-worthy bleariness; living in the little moments between uneager steps that mark the snow. it’s a little like riding a horse, or a pegasus returning from flight; soft footfalls uneasy against the ground, lifting and falling. gentle light filters through; warmth leaves her embrace unconscientiously, as you might pry a toy from a child. holding, holding— nothing; empty air, an unraised hand closes around itself as her body is lowered to the ground. to the ground… no, deeper than that; a grave, maybe? she can’t tell. it is certainly not a bed; nor as welcoming— the cold stings where the wind bites.

she lies, still.

quiet returns, though not for long (but she couldn’t be sure of that fact, for time was no longer as meaningful, nor invaluable). soon(er, or later), the faint buzz of chatter resonates, velvety words against blue lips; the voice quivers in the cold but does not drone itself out in defeat. poetry, was it? the rhythm of the voice is only nervously placed; she hopes she’d gotten at least that bit right. overwrought pauses were scarce, but not absent in his recital. she manages to catch a few words from it— how was she so sure that it was a ‘his’?— but nothing so sharp as to cut through her numbed skin. grievances, promises, memories, whatever poems would say and sing, and…...

‘rest in peace.’

...oh.

for who was that sentiment?

f o r.. wh o?

who was r e s tin g in p e a ce ?

……………… w h o ...

am i

d ?

—i am certainly breathing and breathing and breathing and i cannot seem to stop and not unless i’ve forgotten how to see (i have) or hear (perhaps) or think (i have not) but until i have forgotten how to breathe then that is territory i will not step. but where is the line and when do i cross it and have i crossed it already? i am certainly breathing and breathing and breathing but what if it is only in my head and only there instead? what then?

see, i’ve never considered myself immune to failure and i never will, but i am only as pained as any other human and therefore i must deal with it as just. i am not immune to failure but i am not immune to not relishing in it, if that makes any sense; but i am barely making (creating, really,) anything. every new word makes me hate the last but that is untrue with stories for i cherish them all. yet, as an artist i must learn to hate my craft. so, as a martyr, must i learn to hate my death?

-and truthfully i am not so earnestly as regretful (to die) as of the thought that there would be nothing to regret but there is and there are lots and things i will never right and things i will never write and that in itself is a despairing thought. what is martyrdom without a god and what is knighthood without a king? likewise, what is idolisation without an idol and what am i without myself?

unwound thoughts hover over the precipice; carved deep into the ravine below, indistinct words of a priest. like water that drips between the cracks of ruined earth, it eludes her— no matter how much she would try and fail to hold it in her hands. words were fickle, and they were never as right as ingrid would have hoped them to be, but if she could remember just this— it would be enough.

( they say faces you see in dreams are only of those you know; but she doesn’t remember this one at all. perhaps it didn’t matter as much as she wanted it to. )

he opens his mouth— crooked smile, as though the thought seemed almost entertaining. where there is a joy of knowledge and the ability to know and have faith, reflects only voided blankness.

then, he speaks, and ingrid wonders if it was worth listening.

“ your fate is already written. ”

i k n o w.

a maskless shiver lives on her skin. did this moment dictate her fate? or was it every disappointing choice she’d made until then; with the affirmation that she would fix it before… before her death? before that, even? did she have a choice to do so at all? ink stains the page but in all her efforts to wipe it away, it only smudges; leaves otherwise permanent stains on parchment and temporarily on her skin. part of her withers, like rotting paper. she wonders, momentously, if it was her own writing all along, or if it were the goddess’s authorship— that she lived a short life and died an unsatisfying death.

‘ unsatisfying. ’

goddess, it was.

ingrid doesn’t see her life flash before her eyes, no.

it is only an open book, and she has ruined any and all chances to read it.

she stops at the last page before the final chapter; finger hanging over the top-right corner.

the page flips like the snuffing toss of a pegasus’s head; discontent and mild in it’s expression— but it ends only there.

she has it dog-eared, for reference.

“ ... however, the reason you are here, alive at all, is the question: can you change what you believe is written as ‘fate’?”

something twists inside her.

had she changed anything?

her heart screams in her chest. it pounds and tears and shrieks and rips and it beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats—

and then it stops.

…

he doesn’t wait, walking away.

ingrid doesn’t run to meet him.

the world turns, but she has stopped turning with it.

…

No,

( a wan, dying thought. )

I haven’t changed anything at all.

#l&kjustice2020 #cw; death #;; and thats it babey! shows over pack it up <3 #special thanks to mik and ria!!! ilysm

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sassysatsuma · 5 years

Text

Don’t Forget About Me - Ghost/Bones

"Hey, hey Without you there's holes in my soul Hey, hey Let the water in

Where ever you've gone? How, how, how? I just need to know That you won't forget about me Where ever you've gone? How, how, how?

I just need to know That you won't forget about me Lost through time and that's all I need So much love, then one day buried Hope you're safe, 'cause I lay you leaves Is there more than we can see? Answers for me"

Don't Forget About Me - CLOVES

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Cue a Satsuma desperately trying to stay relevant. I dunno man, something about the new Ghost reveal trailer thingy ma jig just got me dusting off the old word processor. As always, I fell into a trap of thinking about Ghost and Lara McCoy, because quite literally a decade on, I’m still writing about these lovesick fools.

I’m not sure what this is, but it was just one of those things where the picture in my head, the song and the words just knitted together and I bashed out 2000 hasty words like a woman possessed. It’s a weird mash up of Modern Warfare 2019 (we’re on the eve of new Ghost dropping), Caught in the System AU where Lara and Riley never stop being a thing and old school Modern Warfare 2. I’m just as confused as you are.

Dedicated as always to my muse and my love @smashinterrupted because she inspires me to write even when she doesn’t know about it. Also because she puts so much into the friendships and communities she cares about, which is just you know, all kinds of beautiful.

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On a painfully average Tuesday, Lara feels her heart beat again.

It's been a dismal February, grey and filled with thick welling clouds that by now seem perpetually hung in a snow white sky. The start of a new decade, although with January all but a memory the world's eagerness for a fresh start has faded. The new decade is more of an afterthought now, just another chance for likes and validation. The magazines might have dropped their “New Year, New You” bullshit for another year, but social media is still filled with ten year challenges and glow ups set amongst its usual materialistic fakery. For most, it's an annoyance, seeing selfie after selfie clog their feed. For the people who are struggling to move forwards, each fresh, light hearted post cuts as deep as the last.

Lara is a creature of habit although in truth she no longer remembers if she has been all along or if the army made her this way. Regardless, almost every afternoon she finds herself here, queuing in her local coffee shop for the biggest, most caffeinated beverage money can buy. It's her daily ritual, a blessed half hour of peace and quiet before she has to return to Sandhurst Military Academy and somehow teach the officers of tomorrow to be better than she ever was.

It's oddly mild for February, but the constant fine drizzle outside chases away any hopes for Spring. Inside the packed coffee shop it's sweltering, a humid, artificial warmth that has her shrugging off her khaki jacket and tying it around her waist. Anywhere else and she'd look quite the sight, dressed fully in her army fatigues, trousers tucked dutifully into her standard issue black boots. But here, she blends in. She prefers it in almost every way, her desire to stand up and be counted long since passed.

The barista doesn't even bother to ask for her order, greeting her with a soft smile that he reserves for polite regulars. Barely minutes later, her to go cup is clasped between her sweaty palms and she turns on her heel, bracing herself for another afternoon teaching at an institution she no longer truly believes in.

It's in that moment when her heart threatens to burst from her chest.

If she'd been alone, she would have been so sure that she was hallucinating, the face that greets her one she's spent the past 4 years so terrified that she'd forget. But they're flesh and blood as they stand in front of her, customers bustling around them in a way that tells her that this can't be anything but real.

Simon Riley, dressed in civvie clothes that still somehow manage to look so alien, even after all this time. His face is weathered, more scarred and a little older than the man she remembers. And yet the look in his eyes takes her back in an instant, brown irises that look at her as though she's all that matters.

He's a ghost in every sense. There hasn't been a moment in 4 years where she hasn't grieved for him.

Right now, it's all she can do to put her coffee down onto something solid before she drops it.

"Bones..." His voice his hoarse and he visibly swallows before her, nervous hands hanging idly by his sides. His dark hair is slicked down with rain, whilst bigger droplets pepper the exposed skin of his neck and arms. Despite the weather, he's only wearing a t shirt and jeans, the fabric betraying a body that is thicker with muscle than she remembers. There are what look to be deliberate scars littering his forearms and what little she can see of his biceps but she's not even sure she wants to know why they are there.

Lara quickly realises that she's been staring dumbfounded and silent. She swallows, her throat drier than it has any reason to be. There's a part of her that just wants to run forward and hold him, but it exposes a vulnerability she doesn't dare show. Instead her brow furrows, her voice stronger than she feels when she finally does speak.

"...How?"

Riley looks at her as though it's the hardest question in the world.

Maybe it is.

"Outside." The word comes out like an order, an echo of the man she met when she first joined the 141. It's unfair how she feels it like a kick to the stomach, memories she's fought to repress suddenly flooding her mind. She's sure that she doesn't let it show and yet somehow, Riley softens, barely. He cocks a head towards the door. "Please?"

Her feet decide for her, her coffee long since abandoned along with some confused teenagers.

Outside, she barely feels the rain, despite her jacket still hanging around her waist. She folds her arms, grasps her biceps in a way that somehow feels like the right thing to do, although not for a moment do her eyes leave Riley. She falls in step beside him as he leads her to the shelter of a nearby bus stop, her fingernails biting into her skin to fight the intense desire to reach out and touch him.

"I thought you were dead." It appears stating the obvious is the place where her mouth chooses to take over and begin.

"It was safer that way." Riley shrugs, although it's by no means as confident a gesture as he intends. "Price wasn't the only one to get his name dragged through the mud that day." There's another name missing from his admission, but Lara knows him well enough to know that he'd never want to give voice to MacTavish and the black mark they put against his name. Not even now, when the world knows the truth of it, a truth their Captain fought and ultimately died for. "I needed to disappear. No better way of doing that than dying."

'You could have told me,' Lara says to herself, though she knows better than to give the words voice. Her heart hates his decision, but her head understands. Would have likely done the same even when she would have had a family to mourn her. For Ghost, she was his only family. Instead, she leans back against the bus shelter, the sole of a boot propped against the shoddy plastic wall. "You still haven't told me how."

"I don't..." She can almost feel the crack in Riley's voice, but he swallows it back expertly. Instead he runs a hand through the wet tangle of dark brown hair atop his head, grimacing as he struggles to find the words. "I was... lucky." The word rolls off his tongue with an air of disgust. "Shepherd slotted Roach... right there in front of me. Shot me too but it didn't put me away the way he expected. I played dead in the dirt like a fucking possum, wondering if any of it was worth it. I don't know what made me finally crawl away. I came back for him, but by then... they'd taken care of him with all the others, Makarov's men, the lot. I threw my mask in the fire and figured it was better if everyone thought I was gone."

It's too much, the grim resignation in his voice, an almost monotone quality that fights to mask the emotion behind the words that leave his mouth. Lara can feel anger stirring in her gut, her heart panging with the same pain that had hit her that morning she'd woken up from surgery, away from the 141 and out of the fight. It's all too easy to picture, her eyes welling up with tears for the little brother she'd found in Roach. It crushed her the moment she found out they were all gone, but it's no easier now hearing it from Riley all over again.

He notices before she can try and look away, practised eyes reading her the exact same way they always have. It's another reminder of everything she's been missing, another stab at her gut that somehow isn't soothed by his presence beside her. Tears slip from her eyes and she swipes at them with frustrated hands, turning from him in a mix of shame and confusion.

His touch is a question. A hand reaches for her shoulder, a gentle squeeze of pressure that is more timid than anything they've ever shared. It feels like an unknown, like they're right back where they started except this time they are both fragments of the people they once were.

There's so much to say; her thoughts a chasing whirlwind that clouds her mind. She hasn't the words to even begin to express them. She wants to feel anger, wants to thrash and scream and punish him for every empty feeling she's had since he's been gone.

But she can't. Maybe one day she will, when the tempest in her mind has finally calmed and she can think clearly again. Now, the only tangible emotions she feels are the pain of losing everything and the complete and utter relief that he's found her again.

Her heart is his. Despite everything, that's the one thing that's never changed.

She spins around before her head can tell her no, arms wrapping around a neck they'd never dreamed to hold again. They're both off balance, stumbling backwards clumsily until Riley's back presses against the plastic wall. His hands fall to her hips, a familiar weight that threatens to choke her as she closes the distance between them.

The kiss is messy, a jumble between two people fighting to take as much of each other in as possible. Teeth and noses clash and they move clumsily against each other, hands gripping fearfully as though they could drift at any second. It's everything she's forgotten and nothing she remembers all at once.

She breaks away breathless, eyes closed as she rests her forehead against his. She can feel his heart hammering against her own, doesn't dare speak in case she ruins everything with the wrong words. Outside the shelter, the rain is falling heavier now, beating off the tarmac in a steady rhythm. She wishes that the white noise would swallow them both.

"I'm sorry." It's barely a whisper, but Riley's apology is there, brushing against her lips. It's enough to shake her from her thoughts, and she takes a cautious step from him, her eyes finally able to meet his. She reaches out, straightens his shirt were it lies crumpled against his skin.

"There's so much more we should say." Her hands move to his arms, tracing the foreign scars her fingertips find there as if to prove a point. He looks at her as though he doesn't even know where to start and she shakes her head, cutting him off before he even begins to try. "Are you staying?"

"... Do you want me to?"

"I never wanted you to leave." Her words are blunt, echoing the only thing she knows for sure right now. Her right hand traces his arm down to his wrist, before her fingers slip clumsily between his. The soft grip of her hand tries to convey everything she doesn't feel able to say. "Stay."

And she means it, wants it more than anything she's ever wanted before. There's so many questions, so many complications that she knows deep down it will never be easy, that they have countless hurdles laid out in front of them. She knows that talking will hurt, that memories and emotions she's buried deep will come back to haunt her as soon as he begins to answer her questions. She's under no illusions that this will be anything like a fairytale.

And yet despite that, she knows he's worth it. Knows that she's never for a second stopped loving him. Living without him was the cruellest of lessons; the hardest thing she’s ever had to do. Now that he's back she can't imagine ever wanting to feel that again. She won’t. She barely made it out alive the first time.

He's the type of ghost she never wants to stop haunting her.

#sass pretends to be a writer #caught in the system #cits #lara mccoy #simon riley #skeleton #ghost/bones #smashinterrupted #smash satsuma #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare 2019

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years

Text

A love that never leaves (12)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Violence. Character death.

A/N: This was tough to write, but here we are at the end. Bucky makes a decision and the past is rarely what it seems to be. There’s a Band of Brothers reference in here, if you can spot it. An epilogue will be up next weekend!

Last year I posted Ch 9 of Safe With Me on Bucky’s birthday, which was also a real angsty chapter for him. I might need to write him something nice soon. ♥️

Links don’t work, so if you want to access the full ALTNL Masterlist, just click the MASTERLIST header on my blog.

Previously...

For two weeks, she stays there recovering, but no one comes.

In that sleepy Italian town, she finally understands.

After everything she has done, after everything they stole from her, after they broke her one last time - it appears that Hydra really was finished with her.

With freedom should come relief, but that is an emotion reserved for saints, not sinners like her. What she has done, she can never undo.

She will live with that fact, from now until the end of her days.

*****

MISSION REPORT

WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW.

He doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t. But orders are orders. Tucking the white notebook into his coat pocket, he takes a deep breath.

And he walks toward the little cabin.

*****

The bedroom is quiet. Kneeling on the bed, they face either other.

Staring blankly into his lap, Bucky is frozen in place. Across from him, all he can hear are her quick, short breaths, growing steadily faster the longer they sit in silence. Distantly, he notices his fingers are clenched so tight in the fabric of his threadbare sweatpants, they’re moments from ripping apart.

“Say something,” she finally whispers.

Bucky slowly looks up.

Blatant fear rests in her face, and it makes him want to wrap her in his arms. Soothe it away and tell her everything will be okay, that he understands what happened, and he knows why she did it and he loves her no matter what.

Those are the words he should give her. They sit on his tongue, ready to be used. And he wants to use them, he really really does. But he doesn’t.

Because right now, Bucky has never felt so god damn lost in his entire life.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks instead.

Shivering under the glare of his shocked disbelief, she fumbles her words. “I wanted to tell you Bucky, I did -“

She reaches for his arm and he involuntarily jerks away.

“But you didn’t,” he interrupts, and she recoils at the betrayal in his voice. “You didn’t tell me.”

Licking her lips, she tries again.

“I wanted - Bucky, I wanted to tell you so damn much. From the very beginning, but you were doing so well, and - and we were doing so well together, and I just wanted you to remember first. I wanted you to remember us first.”

Once again, she tries to touch him and once again, he wrenches his arm away.

“So, you lied, instead,” he says coldly.

Alarmed at the ice in his tone, she shakes her head. “No! I never lied to you Bucky, everything I told you was true. Everything about you and me, every single word, it was all true, you know that, you know it was, don’t - please don’t -" she chokes on the words as they tumble free.

Her fingers reach for him again. He pulls back again.

“How the hell do you expect me to believe you? You left out the most important part of the god damn story!”

“I know, shit, I know I shouldn’t have, but I just - Bucky, you said before, you said it didn’t matter - you said it wasn’t - that it wasn’t my fault, please!”

She reaches. He shies away.

Every time he withdraws from her touch, the light inside her dims. Finally, she stops trying. She tangles her fingers in her lap instead.

“That was - that was before I knew - you had to do that to those men, but - but I was - I was - how could you do that to me?” He hates the way his voice rises hysterically, but he can’t stop it. The question is like a physical blow and she cowers from his words.

“Bucky, I’m so sorry -“

“You ruined my life!” he shouts, and she quits breathing. “Everything I was, you just - you took it. Who I was, where I came from, what I believed - you broke it all. You broke me.”

Shrinking into herself, she has no reply. Tears spill down her face as she accepts his anger.

What the hell is he supposed to do now?

Scrambling backward off the bed, Bucky finds himself riding the dangerous edge of a full-blown panic attack. Looking at her there, sitting in the pile of soft blankets where he held her and kissed her and -

Shaking fingers comb through the wild tangles of hair falling over his face, and he feels tiny scars scattered across his scalp. Physical residue of horrific memories he still cannot remember.

Gathering her courage, she tries to speak again, but he stops her.

“Don’t,” he says forcefully. “Just - don’t.”

Looking around the room, he sees the glowing red embers of the fire, sees snowflakes drifting by the window, sees the pile of his dirty socks in the corner and her small jewelry box propped open on the dresser. All these small fragments that make up their life.

Their life here. Their life together.

It should be enough to rein him in. His heart wants it so much.

But apparently his brain has other ideas.

Spinning around, he goes to the closet and yanks the door open. Snatching up his duffel bag, he finds the pile of his neatly folded laundry tucked on the top shelf. Gathering everything, he stuffs it haphazard in the bag. Zipping it shut, he heads for the door.

“What are you doing? Bucky? Where are you going?” her voice rises in panic. Struggling off the bed, she follows him. “No no no, wait, please wait! Please, Bucky, don’t leave, please! Talk to me, tell me what I can do.”

It’s almost enough. The desperate plea nearly breaks him. Everything in him is screaming to stop, to drop the duffel bag and bury his face against her and cry until he’s empty. But he’s so god damn confused, he can barely see straight.

He forces himself to ignore her.

Rushing downstairs, he hears the soft thump of her bare feet chasing him, but he keeps going.

More pieces of their life together are strewn down below. Empty mugs with damp tea bags on the kitchen counter, a paperback book with one of his gum wrappers marking her page, the fluffy blanket Bucky wrapped around them both as they cuddled by the fire. Tiny remnants of a perfect life, a beautiful picture he never knew he craved, until he held it all in his perpetually mismatched hands.

Reaching the front door, Bucky shoves his feet into the boots he keeps lined up below the coat rack. Trembling fingers whip through the buckles and laces, and then he grabs his white jacket and jams his arms through. Without bothering to zip it up, he hefts his bag over his shoulder and pulls the door open.

Cold air swirls around him, the freshness of a beautiful morning spilling in.

With one foot outside, he abruptly halts. Breathing hard, his entire body vibrates under the strain of the anguish that sweeps through him.

Because he cannot help himself, he looks back.

Surrounded by the comforts of their home, there she stands. The love of his god damn life, hugging herself while she watches the man who promised to love her forever, as he walks out the door.

Bucky feels his heart thumping uncontrollably, smashing against his ribs, boom, boom, boom. Screaming at him to stop and listen. To let her explain and forgive her. To love her unconditionally and forever.

His heart thumps harder, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, and those sketchy memories that haunt his nightmares, the wash of red blood and the stench of black death, those painful colors that painted the life of the Winter Soldier, fill him with sick horror and it makes him dizzy.

“Please, Bucky,” she whispers. Broken. “Please stay. Don’t leave me.”

It takes every ounce of self-control he possesses, but he turns away. Slams the front door, hoists his bag over his shoulders, and leaps down the short flight of steps. With no plan other than escape, he bolts for the thick grove of pine trees opposite her house.

Knee deep drifts of snow blanket the yard, and he feels the icy bite of wet cold seeping through his pants as he trudges along, but it doesn’t matter. He keeps stomping until he reaches the cover of trees, where the thick white tapers away and the path is easier to navigate.

Breaking into a slow trot, he winds around the wide trunks of the silent forest. Now and then, he sniffs and angrily wipes away the tears that won’t seem to stop.

On and on he goes, his slow jog eventually changing to a flat out run. One mile turns into two and then into five. In the thin mountain air, his breath comes harsh and ragged as he runs faster and faster, away from the horrors of a past he can’t remember and the crushing disappointment he left on her face. On and on he runs, until suddenly, the terrain curves up, so he drops his head and sprints, scrabbling at slippery black rock. The duffel bag bounces crazily at his back and he loses his grip once, smashing his face against the icy granite. Swearing viciously, his nose gushing blood, he crawls back to his feet and keeps running.

Bucky climbs and climbs and climbs, until all of a sudden, he skids to a stop.

Spread out before him, is an alien world. Glittering white stretches into infinity, sawtooth mountain peaks clawing at the distant blue sky. In the open, it is fiercely cold, but he jerks off his stocking hat, sighing in relief at the feel of air on his blisteringly hot neck. Sweat slides down his back, pooling between his shoulder blades and he gulps down the dry air, relishing in the ache it forces into his lungs.

Folding his fingers atop his head, he tips his face to the dazzling sunshine. Slowly, his panting lessens. Slowly, he feels the wild anxiety dissipate. And slowly, he begins to understand what he’s done.

“Oh my god,” he exhales. Staring up into the deep blue sky, dread creeps up his spine. “What the fuck did I just do?”

Knees buckling, he falls hard, the sting of cold soaking through his pants. A shaking hand wipes away the blood still trickling from his nose and he closes his eyes.

Bucky Barnes will be the first to admit, sometimes he makes terrible decisions.

Sometimes they’re just normal terrible, like the time he ate four platefuls of spaghetti and then challenged Sam to a five-mile run. By mile two, he was puking up tomato sauce.

Sometimes they’re slightly more terrible, like the time he refused medical treatment and insisted on digging three bullets out of his thigh himself. He passed out near the end and cracked his head on the ceramic floor of the med bay.

Sometimes they’re pretty terrible, like all those times he forced himself to stand in a Hydra base and relieve every hideous memory that inevitably resurfaced. That just proves he’s an idiot.

But now and then, he does this. Makes such a monumentally terrible decision that nothing positive can come from it. And this one here just might be the most catastrophically stupid decision of his entire fucking life. He should have stayed. He should have dug his heels in and worked through this with her, but like a god damn coward, he ran.

“You dumb idiot sonofabitch,” he growls.

Above the whistle of wind whipping around, he hears a quiet chirp chirp sound and a striped chipmunk scurries past. The small creature stops when it sees him, popping up on its haunches and sniffing the air. Bright eyes watch him, and Bucky has the uncomfortable feeling of being judged.

“I really fucked that up, didn’t I?” he asks. The chipmunk twitches its fluffy tail in agreement and Bucky grunts. “I know, I just - I fuckin’ panicked. One minute I’m asking her to marry me and the next she’s telling me - well, you know.” The chipmunk tilts its head. “Okay, so maybe you don’t know, but believe me, it was insane.” Another chirp, another head tilt. Bucky groans and buries his face in his hands. “Jesus. You’re right. I’m a god damn idiot.”

Shame flares red-hot in his chest. How could he have done this to her? Left their trust behind and walked away?

In the crisp morning air, clarity arrives like a clap of thunder.

Despite decades apart, despite every cruel twist of Fate, despite the unending brutality Hydra leveled against them both, despite everything in the world conspiring to keep them apart - nothing worked. With only muscle memory to guide them, somehow, against all odds, they found their way back to each other.

Because this right here, is what it means to love someone with every piece of your heart.

The simplicity of that realization brings a deep comfort to his soul. He knows then, exactly what he has to do.

“I have to go back,” he announces. Jumping to his feet, he grabs his bag and shrugs into the straps. “Tell her none of it matters. None of it does matter. I get why she did it, I would’ve done the same damn thing, if I thought I could save her.” Bucky nods at the chipmunk. “Thanks man.”

Turning around, he picks up his trail and he heads for home.

*****

The trek back seems shorter. Or maybe he’s just anxious to get back, but in no time at all, Bucky picks out the familiar markers that mean home is just over the horizon. Unable to contain himself, he starts to sprint.

Relief fills him when he plunges through the trees, finding the house exactly as he left it.

Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, water bubbles merrily in the nearby stream, the pile of wood he was chopping lays unfinished by the shed. Everything in its place, everything perfect, everything -

Wrong.

There is no discernible reason for it, but feeling is overpowering. It slams into him, like a punch to the face.

Something is wrong.

Pulling up short, he goes completely still.

All those threats he imagined lurking in the darkness last night feel suddenly real, magnified in the morning sun. There are no screams, no cries, no blood, nothing that would indicate anything out of the ordinary, but still. Swinging his bag around, Bucky crouches in the snow and digs through his pack until his fingers find a gun. Shaking a round of bullets from the clip stashed inside his coat, he slips them into the chamber and snaps it shut. Rising slowly, he raises the gun, eyes darting back and forth across the quiet landscape. Picking his way carefully through the snow, he’s within a few hundred feet of the house when he sees it.

Footprints.

Coming from the opposite direction, leading in a straight line to her front door.

Bucky feels the ground disappear beneath his feet.

“Fuck,” he spits out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Something suddenly crunches under his boot. Glancing down, he drops to one knee, his eyes tracking every direction, while he reaches blindly for whatever made that sound. Fingers touch a hard edge, and brushing away a dusting of snow, he picks up a white notebook.

Eyes still roaming cautiously, he balances it on his knee and flips it open.

Written at the top of every page, the words “MISSION REPORT” are ground into the paper. Thumbing through page after page, he finds shaky block letters in gray lead, short sentences and rambling comments and odd words jumping out at him.

Krakow. Pain. New soldiers. Old signals. Pain. Electricity. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Utterly bewildered, Bucky flips to the last few pages.

---

MISSION REPORT: CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –

---

MISSION REPORT: NEW OBJECTIVE IDENTIFIED. RECONNAISSANCE REQUIRED TO DETERMINE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION. OBSERVATION WILL CONTINUE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE.

---

MISSION REPORT: LAST MISSION PARAMETERS RECALLED AND RE-ACTIVATED. APPROPRIATE TOOLS COMMANDEERED TO ADDRESS ISSUES AND SECURE ADDITIONAL SUPPORT. SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT WILL BE UNDERTAKEN BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH FINAL ELIMINATION PLAN.

---

MISSION REPORT: SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT ESTABLISHED. AWAITING RESULTS.

---

MISSION REPORT: BOTH TARGETS UNEXPECTEDLY INFILTRATED BASE. UNABLE TO SEPARATE AND ADDRESS INDIVIDUALLY. WILL CONTINUE HOLDING PATTERN UNTIL OPPORTUNITY ARISES.

---

MISSION REPORT: WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW.

---

Bucky reads it all twice, trying to make sense of the words. They look like diary entries, the barest details outlining the sketch of a person’s day.

Kind of like the notes Steve jots down sometimes, so he can fill in a more descriptive report later. Like the kind Sam sometimes writes in the notebook he tries to hide, so he can examine his own thoughts and mood swings. Like the kind Bucky sometimes marks on the back of grocery receipts, when he gets stuck inside his head and needs a way to set the anger free.

Mission reports are the hallmark of any good soldier.

Any good soldier.

An idea suddenly pops into his brain. Insane, irrational, and entirely ludicrous.

Tucking the notebook into his pocket, he grits his teeth furiously and raises the gun again. Picking his way through the snow, he reaches the shoveled path and when he hits the front steps, his feet choose the places he already memorized, where the creaking whine of the wood is silenced.

Pressing his ear to the door, he strains to hear, but finds nothing. Praying he is dead wrong, Bucky turns the handle slowly and eases the door open. Stepping into the doorway, he finds himself momentarily snow-blind from the world of white, so he blinks quickly.

The inside world takes shape. All the basics of a comfortable life remain, just as he left them this morning.

A crackling fire. The smell of coffee. The hum of a fan. A low radio playing staticky jazz in the background.

In the dim light, the barrel of his gun finds the face of someone kneeling by the fireplace.

Except there are two people kneeling there.

She sits on her knees, her arms folded behind her back. Dressed in sweatpants and a heavy sweater, thick socks on her feet, she still shivers uncontrollably. Crouched behind her, digging a gun into her neck, is a familiar face, one Bucky recognizes from a blurry photograph.

“What kind of soldier leaves his home base completely unprotected?” Henry Lewis asks. His voice is low and hollow, guttural tones of a man who hasn’t spoken in a long time. “You failed to even lock the door, I walked right inside. I expect she thought I was you, she came running at the sound.”

The resemblance to the photos is there, with only slight differences. After years of electricity and experiments, his curly black hair is now a shock of white, illuminating his dark eyes. He looks like a young man, mid-30s at most, but the haunted look in his face speaks of decades of nightmares.

When she meets Bucky’s eyes, he sees dazed shock fill her features. Swallowing hard, she keeps her eyes focused on him and tries to speak.

“Henry, I know you’re upset. You should be,” she says quietly, never looking away from Bucky. “But he has nothing to do with this. Let him leave, and you and I can figure out what you need to do. Please.”

“No, I need him here,” Henry answers, his mouth at her ear. “He has to be here for this.”

Still aiming the gun at the pair, Bucky eyes his angle, gauging his chances of taking Henry down with a single shot. The mechanics of it bounce through his head and he comes up empty. He tries to get Henry talking while he strategizes.

“Lieutenant, how are you here?”

“How am I alive, you mean?” Henry clarifies. “That’s a long story. Without a happy ending, I’m afraid. Let’s just say the serum they gave me wasn’t quite as effective as yours, but it still covered the basics.”

Bucky glances to the photos scattered across the coffee table, of soldiers and experiments.

“So, you were one of the first, then,” he states. The gun in his hand is steady as he keeps it raised, still waiting for the right angle. “You volunteered?”

“Fuck you, I never fucking volunteered,” Henry snaps. “I never would have gotten involved if I knew what the hell they were.” Nostrils flaring angrily, his lips press into a tight line. “My unit, the men I trained and served with, all of them were dying out in Germany and there I was, stuck behind a god damn desk writing reports. They said they could fix my leg and I wanted a way back into the war.” His gaze flicks quickly to her. “I wanted her to be proud of me.”

Tears spill down her face at the comment. “Henry, I was always proud of the man you were,” she whispers.

Henry says nothing. Simply clenches his jaw, his eyes back on Bucky. When he speaks again, his voice is hard.

“When they put me under, it was 1959 and I was in the Ukraine. They left me there. Useless forgotten tech. No one thought twice about the old soldiers they kept in cold storage, but decades later the tech in the place went to shit and the cryo tank stopped working. I was the only one who woke up. That was in 2016.”

A bead of cold sweat drips into Bucky’s eye and he blinks it away, shuddering at the thought of returning to cryo. Of remaining locked in that cold darkness forever.

“What then? You went back to the old bases?” Bucky questions. His gun drifts a hair to the right, still searching for a shot, but Henry knows exactly what he’s doing. Tugging her closer, he digs the gun at her neck in deep and she flinches. Bucky swears under his breath and gives up the angle.

“At first, the only thing I remembered were the locations of the bases where I was stationed. I went back to all of them, launching distress signals and trying to find someone to help. But you and your friends were the only people who ever came.”

Christ. How fucking wrong could they have been? All this time, Bucky thought they were smashing Hydra’s broken tech, but there was so much they missed.

“We thought it was the technology,” Bucky says tightly. “Never found anything at the bases, thought they were all breaking down.”

“No,” Henry says. “I was always good at hiding.” A tiny, reluctant smile curves his lips. “The day you were shot, when she found you, I was sitting in the bar. You walked right by me. Barely glanced in my direction.”

Bucky has an epiphany then, remembering the occupants of the bar with perfect clarity. Specifically, a lanky man with a ragged fur hood drawn around his face, one hand encased in a black wool glove - the other hand splayed bare on the table.

“The glove,” he says slowly. “The one I found up at the base. That was you.”

Henry nods once. Stares searchingly at Bucky.

“I’ve been in the shadows of your life Barnes. The night she wiped you, I was there for that as well. They sent me to fetch her for the procedure.” Henry seems confused for a moment. “I think they were testing me. To see if I remembered.”

“Oh,” she breathes, realization dawning. “I saw you hesitate, when you came into the cell. I remember now." Henry twitches at her statement.

“I know,” he says sharply. “You always remember. The rest of us don’t have that luxury.”

Bucky sees her face crumple at the words. He feels a flash of anger at the insensitivity.

“That’s enough,” he says sharply. “Lieutenant, why are you here? What do you want?”

Henry doesn’t answer. He changes the subject.

“I stood there in that room while the two of you said goodbye. I watched her comfort you. Everyone could see how much she loved you. It made me so fucking angry and I couldn't say anything, they wouldn't let me. But I couldn’t understand why she was with someone else. She was supposed to love me, that's why she left me those memories of her.”

At the hurt in his voice, she tries to turn to face him, but he won’t let her move. “They told me you died, Henry. They said they killed you, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”

Henry talks to her now, his voice a little lower. “The last day we were at the base, before we moved out, I snuck away and left food by your door. Unlocked in in case you wanted to leave. I had no clue why I was doing it, but something told me that I should. So, I did.”

“You saved my life,” she says, closing her eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“I had to,” he replies softly. “It was like I had to do it.”

There, for a brief, shining moment, Bucky sees the gun begin to lower. But then Henry remembers himself, remembers the anger he keeps inside, and he rolls his shoulders back and presses it harder against her.

Watching him closely, Bucky tries again.

“You still haven't answered the question. Why are you here?” Still, Henry says nothing. Frustrated, Bucky tries something else. “Fine. Then do you know what happened to Richter?”

Henry’s lip curls at the question.

“I killed him.”

Her eyes fly open at the words, palpable relief in her face.

“Not that any of us here are sad about that,” Bucky says, “but why?”

“Because he was an asshole who deserved it,” Henry sneers. “I had more control after a mission and I started to remember things about him. Got so mad, I gut-shot him, wanted him to suffer.” His eyes narrow and he muses quietly to himself. “I never should have done it that way.”

Nerves tensing at the comment, Bucky grips his gun a little tighter. “Why? Why was that a bad thing?”

“He was still alive when I went over to him. He said something to me.”

“What did he say?” There is no answer and Bucky asks again. “Lieutenant. What did he say to you?”

Henry sits up straighter, his gun still pressed to her skin and he glares at Bucky. “He gave me one more mission.”

“And? What was it?”

No answer. Instead, Henry fists his hand in the back of her sweater and pulls her to her feet. Using her as a shield, he moves closer to the door.

“Lieutenant,” Bucky barks. “Dammit, what was the last mission you received?”

Still no answer. Henry holds her tight against him and she stares mutely back at Bucky.

The love he sees there takes his breath away.

When Henry finally speaks again, the words are harsh. “She did this to both of us, you understand that right? Everything that happened, it was because of her.”

“No,” Bucky says fiercely. “She had no choice. They gave her no choice. Surely you understand that. You have to see that.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Maybe. But I love her,” Bucky says simply. “I’ve loved her every day since I was twenty-seven years old. Nothing can change that.”

“Sometimes,” Henry says wearily, “it’s the things we love most, that destroy us.”

Bucky sees the devastation in her expression at those words. But still there, steadfast beneath it all, is that all-consuming love. The kind that doesn’t give up.

She loves him. He loves her. Nothing else matters.

“She could take every last memory again and it wouldn’t change anything,” he says, speaking to her now. “I told her, this love would never leave, and I meant that. If I lose it all again, I’d still find my way back to her.”

There is pity in the gaze Henry levels at him. Bucky glares defiantly back and behind Henry’s dark eyes, is a minuscule shift. A hint of relief appears, before quickly fading.

“Well. Okay. I guess that’s it then,” Henry says calmly.

“Wait,” Bucky says quickly. “Hang on, you still haven’t - tell me about your final mission.”

Without replying, Henry tucks he against him and shuffles toward the front door. Bucky tries to come closer, but he shakes his head warningly and shoves the gun into her harder. Bucky keeps his distance.

The door is still open, and Henry nudges it further, until they’re backing out onto the porch. There he pauses, giving Bucky a hard look.

“Think about it. You know exactly what the mission was,” Henry says flatly, and Bucky feels his stomach plummet. “I have to end this now.”

Wrapping one arm around her waist, Henry lifts her down the stairs, the gun still tight against her. Like a magnet, Bucky follows, the gun in his hands now coated in slick sweat.

Out in the icy world, Henry keeps going backward, pulling her through the snow. Bucky can see her shivering violently now, the wet cold soaking through her socks and thin sweatpants. Further and further he drags her, Bucky stalking every move, his throat clogged with fear.

Finally, they stop.

“Henry,” she says, her voice cracking. “Henry I’m sorry. I��m so sorry for everything.”

“I know you are,” he says gently. Kissing her temple tenderly, he looks back at Bucky and places the gun carefully to the exact same place his lips just touched. She chokes back a sob.

“Lieutenant put the god damn gun down,” Bucky calls, fighting to keep his voice even. “I can help you. Let me help you.”

“No, you can’t,” Henry says calmly. One long, thin finger caresses the trigger and then blue eyes meet bottomless black ones.

What he sees, cuts Bucky Barnes down to the bone.

The pleading expression on Henry’s face is something Bucky knows intimately. How many times through the years did he give that same look to other people? Handlers and henchmen and horror-struck victims. The look is gut wrenching desperation, the kind that begs for one single thing above all others.

This is the look of someone asking for death.

Please, it says. Kill me, it says.

“No,” Bucky says urgently, desperation soaking into the words. “God dammit, don’t - don’t make me do this.”

“You know I have to,” Henry says and in the cold mountain air, the finality of his words is obvious.

“Lieutenant,” Bucky grits out and Henry tightens his arm around her.

“She’s my mission,” he whispers.

There it is. This cannot end until the mission is complete. Years of training, brainwashing, torture. All of it culminating in the burning desire to complete the given mission, no matter the cost. Bucky knows that feeling like no other.

“Please,” Bucky croaks out one final time. “Put the gun down, I’m - I’m begging you. I know you don’t want to hurt her.”

“No. I don’t,” Henry agrees. But then his finger squeezes tighter on the trigger and Bucky sees him silently mouthing two words.

“Do it.”

One man squeezes a trigger. Another man takes the hit.

The sound of the bullet making contact is jarring. During the war, Bucky learned to hide the flinch, to keep the stoic mask in place with every kill, but it roils his gut all the same. Across from him, Henry Lewis drops like a marionette cut from its strings. The gun falls harmlessly by his side and in death, his lips curve up in a relieved smile.

Bucky waits a beat, before throwing his gun aside and running for her. There’s blood splattered on her clothes and across the side of her face, but she's reaching for him and he sweeps her into his arms as she tumbles forward.

The echoing ricochet of the gunshot ripples away and world is silent for a fleeting moment, before the birds resume their bright chatter. Burying her face against his jacket, she clings to him and she breaks. Great heaving sobs rip from her throat, ugly sounds of absolute dejection, of fear and relief and heartbroken sadness. Cradling her in the snow, Bucky rocks her against him and lets her cry.

“It’s okay,” he keeps saying, over and over. Finally, he scoops her up and carries her back toward the house. “It’s okay honey, I’m here. I won’t let go.”

*****

Deep in the heart of the forest, where the snow struggles to reach, Bucky stops walking.

Easing down the body from his shoulder, he unstraps the shovel from his back and starts to dig. Once he breaks through dead pine needles and the first frozen layer of dirt, the rest is easy. Through the years, he’s gotten good at digging graves.

As he digs, he thinks.

This man, with serum pumping through his veins, was one of the world’s first super soldiers. His body and blood would be a veritable gold mine of information, every scientist on the planet would be dying to get their hands on him, slice him apart and peek inside. Find out what made him tick. Perhaps he should have brought the authorities in for this one, there was so much science to learn, so much to discover.

But Bucky thinks about dignity and honor. About what it means to be a soldier, back then and even today.

And he says fuck it.

Instead, he carries Lieutenant Henry Lewis, of the British Army’s 506th battalion, to the base of a towering pine tree in the mountains of France and gives him a real burial. One fit for a soldier.

Out here, he digs alone. Back at the cabin, she had said her goodbyes. Standing on the porch, he gave them privacy, watching from a distance as she spoke to Henry, occasionally pausing to think, to wipe her eyes. When she placed a hand on the cold body wrapped carefully in her softest pair of bed linens, she squeezed his arm and smiled. Bucky never plans to ask what she said in that goodbye. That was for them alone, and he knows that every love story deserves a proper ending. He would never begrudge them theirs.

An hour later, he tamps down the mound of dirt. Dropping the shovel he sighs, clapping the rough texture of earth from his fingers. Tilting his head back, he looks up to find streaks of purple and red filtering through the thick branches soaring overhead.

Color, he thinks. Painting a new memory. This is one he plans to keep to himself. Life is funny like that sometimes.

Death always brings sadness, but there is beauty in one thing. For Henry, all those vibrant memories that made up his life will live on, held in her hands, never to be forgotten. Bucky smiles when he realizes the same can be said for him. The memories of his past held tight in her hands, accessible any time he needs. But all he really wants, is the chance to create new memories together. The past is done, he just wants a future with her.

And he gets one. She said yes.

He’s so damn lucky.

Darkness begins to descend, and he feels that aching pull toward home. But before he leaves, Bucky thinks of one last detail.

There is no gravestone here, this soldier will not rest among that familiar sea of identical white stone, each inscribed with those key details. Name. Rank. Military brand. Birth. Death. Those final black and white bits gifted to every soldier, forgetting the unending sea of color of their lives.

Slipping a knife from his boot, he crouches down and digs his blade into the tree. With a few twists of his wrist, he carves a rough cross deep into the base of the tree trunk. He gazes at the small token for a minute, before sliding the knife back into his boot.

Standing with an inaudible sigh, he backs away. Straightens himself up. Snaps his feet together and offers a sharp salute to the unmarked grave.

“Rest easy, Soldier,” he murmurs.

And then Sergeant Bucky Barnes turns and heads home.

*****

Epilogue

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky #altnl

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clown-bait · 5 years

Text

Release

I wrote this kinda self indulgent smutty drabble yesterday and forgot to post it. So here is some fresh Pennywise x reader stuff hope yall like.

You know he’ll be upset. You slid out of his embrace this morning like precious water slipping through fingers. He glared at you as you left him with a single molten yellow eye as bright as the fires of hades. You knew that look and you knew you were taking something precious away from him. You told him to get over it, you told him you absolutely could not play hookie for him on your first day of your new job. But this was Pennywise. The godlike being was either perpetually horrifying or a spoiled child, sometimes both on a bad day. And still you loved him more than you had ever or will ever love a human partner. Based on the look he gave you when you ignored his demanding "Stay." to go shower, you might say he was on the same page. You tell him he needs to find a hobby and he snarls grumbles like a cranky child. When you kissed your mate goodbye you knew, he was upset today.

You got home and collapsed on your couch feet too sore to walk on. Your groceries could survive sitting in the bag for a little while longer. You were hungry so you pulled out the mediocre grocery store sushi you had bought for dinner and scarfed that down. And that's when you realize your mate had not come running to greet you. Even if you left him for a couple of hours to run and errand the clingy eldritch would rush you before you even got your foot through the door. Maybe it he was still angry. You told him to suck it up this morning when he was being particularly pushy had you gone too far? Things were quiet but they were calm and relaxed not a single eerie feeling of being watched hung in the air. And that bothered you. The familiar feelings of self doubt and anxiety began to stew inside your brain. You could beat the bad thoughts away all you wanted but they still festered in the back of your mind. You're tired you hurt and now your head is sick. "Go to bed" you tell yourself as you lazily shove your groceries in the fridge, not even taking out the chips and shampoo. You drag yourself to your bed the lingering smell of circus taints the sheets and the fluffiest and nicest of your pillows. He insisted on getting that one as his and that thought makes you smile. You strip down to nothing, too exhausted to put on PJs, and you slide under your cozy down feather comforter. You're sad before you drift off.

On the cusp of sleep you are startled by loud heavy steps. The owners feet must be massive as they leisurely drag into your room. You wonder if this is that sleep paralysis thing you've heard so much about until the weight of your bed dips drastically and you're manhandled backwards by long vine like limbs trapping you like an octopus. His tongue, wet and slime covered, drags over your neck, your cheeks, your lips. Your clown begins his ritual grooming of you that he usually only saves for after a rough and harsh fucking.

"Pennywise where were you?" You mumble and turn to face him.

"Work." he grunts and you finally notice how disheveled he is. His normally perfectly coiffed hair hung loose and frazzled his eyes bore bags more intense than usual and his right rib cage had a nasty bruise that you don't doubt was once a fatal injury by human standards. You noticed his suit and ruff were gone too which he only removed if he needed to form new ones.

"Tough crowd today?" You ask him feeling endeared that he went out hunting instead of bothering you. Sometimes he really is capable of listening.

Your clown grunts and continues to lick. "Didn't ruin my grand finale." He said with his tongue out. His hands are now pressing soothing circles deep into your sore muscles and that feeling of his clay mask textured skin pressed so tightly against your own was a welcome relief. "You smell different. I don't like it." He pouted baring his fangs "And you look like you fell off a building. When I said get a hobby I didn't mean get yourself killed."

He snorts with amusement "As if my prey could ever actually harm me my dear."

"What'd you go after an entire high school football team?"

"Only the one!" He bounces to life cheery as ever and you laugh the bad thoughts sizzle out of your mind leaving ashes. "Alright you've guilted me enough turn around" You sigh and you swing your leg over his slender hips as he does so excitedly. Your hands run up over the back of his marble torso and he lets out a deep pleasured groan as you start to massage him. "Pennywise just didn't know what to do with himself all day long!" He began to chatter trying to get sympathy like a begging puppy. "Had to find other means of entertainment." You can hear the smile in his voice and your hands stop. That shithead. You touch the right side where his big supposed injury was and he doesn't even flinch.

"Oh my god." Your hands leave him completely. "You little shit!" You growl and he flips over with the look of a kid who's hand was caught in the cookie jar. His shit eating grin grows on his lips and it tells you everything you need to know. He's still upset and now you are too. You feel a claw on your ass and you snatch his hands holding them over his head "and what are you going to do about it tiny thing." He growls. "Left me aaaalll alone today! Think I'd let you get away with a stunt like that hmm?" You feel the slime covered thing that served as his cock caress your ass. His claws dig into your hands and you let go in pain seconds later he's got you by the throat and has pulled you down onto his lips as his talons rake into your ass and hips. You're furious at him for a stunt like this and you grab his throat back. You try squeezing but you can't he's made out of steel and he laughs "Harder!" Like its a fucking game to him. So you decide to play his way. You growl in his face and bite him, hard. The moan he lets out is obscene and he grips your ass like its his personal stress ball. You come up for air and his blood is running up your lips and yours down his hands. That is when you crash together like two freight trains. His feverish kisses give away his desperation for you and the way his alien cock has been sliding back and forth between your cunt lips you'd be lying if you said you hadn't missed him all day yourself. His mouth is all over your top half you cant tell which spots are going to have hickies and which are gonna leave a mark into next week. He pushes you up and away from him abruptly and grabs your hips grinding you down back and forth over his curling cock. It pressed upward into your pussy with each rock like an arching cat trying to get the most out of being stroked. He still looks disheveled but you know its real this time and his eyes ooze pure want and lust as he looks at your sweaty post work body. He doesn't care your perfect makeup has melted or your hair is a mess. His queen doesn't need to look regal to get him off and messy is one of his favorite looks on you. He slides you back and forth for what seems like torture until one particular long rock pushes your hips up, up and up then downward onto his slick and throbbing cock. He fills you like you were made to sheath him, and you know the look on your face as he did was as depraved as the sound that left your mouth. He swats your ass hastily and you buck in surprise making him growl in pleasure "Move!" He commands as he does it again "More!" His voice is haggard and needy you try to use opportunity to piss him off one last time "say please." You groan giving away your own want for him. He snarls and sharply thrusts from the bottom reminding you who holds the reins at the moment. "Please." He sneers and does it again, this time you let out a whimpery moan. "You can have more if you do as I say. Move."

And you do, god you do. You start to ride him rocking your hips into your bouncing encouraging that perfect alien appendage of his to curl and press inside you. He tosses his head back with a groan of pleasure guiding your hips into that dipping motion. His fangs are out and you know he's enjoying himself his breathing coming from his panting lips like steam. You moan like a whore for him you can't help it when he knows you literally inside and out. Your clown lets out a horrible snarl and he grips your hips harshly using you like a fleshlight. Not that you're complaining at all, you could never ride him this fast and that release is quickly on the horizon. Pennywise's moans are now deep and monstrous, he's lost in you. His feisty mate, his queen. He growls loud and hits that sweet spot within you hard which sends your orgasming his name in a voice you're pretty sure you've never made before. Your body trembles all the way to your toes and he pulls you down against him holding you by the neck with his teeth while still thrusting hard. He snarls and warmth floods your insides with what you couldn't hold racing up your scratched rear. You lay there panting in a heap more exhausted than you've felt in a while. Pennywise's soft lips on your forehead bring you back to earth and you look at your mate. He gives you a hazy smirky grin that's mostly buck teeth and drool. "Missed ya!" He giggles and you grab his cheeks forcing him to endure nuzzles and kisses. Not that he actually minds.

#pennywise #pennywise x reader #pennywise x you #lemon #it fanfiction #pennywise fanfiction

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zweiginator · 6 years

Note

you and bri are “just friends” and you’re baking a cake together for freddie’s birthday but when you’re icing the cake brian gets some on his fingers and you suck it off...👀

i wrote way too much for this and it’s also very ~dirty~

“brian, can you get freddie’s cake out of the oven?” you dry your hands off with a damp hand towel, nudging your head towards the oven.

“sure thing, bub.” brian smiles, his teeth poking from between sugar-coated lips; he had tasted quite a bit of the frosting while you were making it together.

he pulls it out carefully, dropping it quickly on the stove to let it cool off.

“is it done?” you ask, handing him a toothpick. he pokes it into the spongy cake, grinning when it comes out completely clean.

“affirmative.” he scoops some more icing onto his finger and licks it off; you try not to focus too deeply on how his tongue flicks over the pads of his fingers, the way his lips suck off the creamy spread, spit coating his digits.

you wait for the cake to cool, watching the steam billow through the pores. brian hoists you onto the counter, looking at you intently as he talks to you about the record playing softly in the background, a staticky scratch permeating the vanilla-scented air every few seconds–a side-effect from being one of brian’s favorites.

twenty minutes later brian touches the metal pan carefully, nodding when his finger is only slightly warm at the touch. “it’s ready to be decorated!” he set the pan down next to your legs, holding his arms out and then pulling you off of the marble top, his grip firm, making a fiery tingle shoot through your spine and fizzle out to your limbs. you fetch some icing knives, scooping giant dollops of cream cheese frosting onto the curved edges and slathering the lukewarm cake with it. your hips are touching, your elbows occasionally bumping together as you bob your heads to the beat, appreciating the music–and each other’s silent company.

brian dips his fingers into the bowl as you finish sliding the knife across the raised edge of the cake, appreciating the finished product. there is a lot of extra in the tupperware bowl, and brian’s eyes are glimmering and giddy.

“did you try some of this frosting?” brian’s question is muffled by his fingers which are being sucked on harshly between reddened lips. “ ’t’s really good.” he adds.

“must be pretty good, you’ve downed half the bowl.” you joke, shoving his hip with your own. he piles more on his finger.

“you should have some. it’s creamy.” brian looks at you intently, watching how your eyes become hooded, watching him bring his fingers closer and closer to his awaiting mouth.

in a bout of confidence, possibly induced by the sugar coursing through your veins and pervading the air, you grab brian’s wrist and push his fingers into your mouth, swirling your tongue around his digits as you look up at him, your eyelashes fluttering as you hum around his fingers. they’re long, almost hitting your throat as you take them in all the way. they’re sweet; you can almost feel the grains of sugar exfoliating your lips.

brian groans almost imperceptibly, but the deep throaty sound is enough to make your knees buckle with arousal.

“you’re right.” you pull his fingers out, kissing the calloused pads. “it’s really good.”

the atmosphere has changed, and the song has too as brian cups your cheek with his hand, his fingers wet against your skin. he leans in wordlessly, molding his lips with yours; they’re laced with sugar, soft and covered lightly with the icing that’s still atop your tastebuds. his tongue swipes over your bottom lip and finds it’s way into your mouth, swirling around your own tongue. he moans at the taste of you, at how you tangle your hands in his hair and pull him down until his knees are buckling and his legs are shaking from the uncomfortable position. he wraps an arm around your waist and lifts you up onto the counter, positioning himself so he’s standing tall between your legs. his mouth never leaves yours; he moves his lips expertly, his jaw tensing as you both move in unison. his thigh is positioned so it’s rubbing just barely against your clit, and you grab onto his collar, grinding yourself onto his leg as you moan into the hot kisses he’s giving you.

you lean forward and unbuckle his belt, pulling it from the loops and letting it drop to the floor. he hitches your dress up and yanks it over your head, tossing it behind him as he leans forward to kiss and suck at your breasts, adorning them with purply-pink love bites. he does the same to the other one, rocking his hips into you gently–almost respectfully–as he blindly reaches for the bowl of icing, dipping his fingers into it yet again. he runs the finger down from your sternum to the bottom of your navel, watching a stripe of creamy white pave a path down your body. then he presses open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones, licking down your body, flicking his tongue to catch the icing. he’s moaning as he tastes your skin, the natural sweetness of you meshed so perfectly with the dessert marked on your torso. he kisses down your stomach, licking a long stripe down your navel before he grabs your thighs and throws your legs over his shoulders, pressing his arms over your hips to keep you still. he’s looking up at you in anticipating as he breathes hotly against your pussy, watching as you squirm beneath his touch. he moans as his tongue delves into you; he can taste your wetness cascading over his taste buds, mixing with the fading taste of sugar and cream. his nose is nudging against your clit as he licks at your entrance, pushing his tongue in and out as he watches your reactions–your back arching, your legs shaking over his shoulders. he can feel your walls clenching and convulsing around his tongue and he groans at how it feels to be so close to you.

“you’re so pretty.” he kisses your inner thighs, sucking marks into them and you moan loudly in response, finding the strength to rest on your elbows to watch his movements. “so needy for my mouth.” he positions his lips around your clit and sucks, alternating between flicking the bud with his tongue and suctioning it between his bitten, swollen lips.

“tell me how it feels, angel.” he flits his eyes up so they meet your own, which are threatening to roll back from the pleasure almost aching up your body, slowly and then all-at-once as you begin to chant his name.

“so–” you gasp. “so good. your mouth feels so good, brian.” you egg him on, nodding as he licks a long stripe over your folds before he expertly flicks the tip of his tongue over your bare clit.

“brian!” you sit up and grab his hair, pulling him impossibly closer and grinding your hips so your clit is rubbing deliciously against his tongue, faster and faster. you feel the seeds of your orgasm sprouting in the pit of your stomach and you whimper as brian pushes you back gently so you’re laid out for him like before.

“wanna see you spread out for me when i make you cum.” he looks up at you menacingly; there’s spit and your wetness dribbling down your chin and his nose is wet too. his hair is messy and matted and pulled desperately to one side. he continues his harsh licks on your clit until your legs are shaking uncontrollably atop his shoulders and you’re cumming, the fluids mixing with the perpetual sweetness of you and your homemade icing in his mouth.

you smirk as you realize brian’s pants are pulled down, pooled around his ankles. his cock is throbbing from underneath his briefs; you can see the outline pulsing underneath the fabric. a small wet patch grows in size by the second, so you dip your finger in the icing and get down on your knees.

__________________________

if being a giant slut were illegal i’d be on death row dudes

#Brian May #brian may smut #blurb

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bymoonchild · 6 years

Text

Set On You (M)

Pairing | Jungkook x Reader

Genre | Fluff, smut / volleyball!AU, college!AU, setter Jungkook x manager reader

Warnings | Light smut, detailed thigh-riding, thirsty nsfw thoughts, alcohol consumption, swearing and a whole lot of hopeless pining and soft moments because it’s soft uwu hours 24/7

Word count | 18.1k

Summary | Sports has never been your thing, so when you find yourself in a sports hall that reeks of perspiration and cologne and in front of a group of volleyball players whom you’re supposed to be managing (heck, you can’t even manage your own life), you know that you’re in Deep Shit™.

Especially when Jeon Jungkook, the golden setter of the team aka the boy who holds stars in his eyes, starts to occupy your reveries, slowly becoming both the quiet and pandemonium of your heart.

The repeated squeaks of sneakers and harrowing smacks from the contact of palm against ball reverberate across the court, sounding awfully similar to the erratic thumping of your heartbeats, but they do nothing to drown out the thudding in your eardrums. Cowering meekly behind the door of your school’s daunting indoor sports hall, the perspiration on your palms is getting way out of hand and your legs almost threaten to take you back to your dorm, but the palpable, icy-cold air that greets you halts you in your tracks.

Clad in their renowned black and red jerseys, you watch the volleyball players manoeuvre effortlessly all over the court, giving their all to keep the ball up in the air. They almost look identical – radiating with a peculiar charisma and indomitable grit – if not for the designated numbers on their backs.

More volts of panic pulse through your veins. You’re intimidated out of your wits, but even for a person who’s allegedly allergic to sports, you can’t deny the ferocity of their match – it’s pretty enthralling. Thinking about it, this is actually your first time catching your school’s volleyball team in action and you have to admit that their teamwork is quite something.

Sports has never been your thing, let alone volleyball. In fact, you would very much rather be cooped under your quilt in the comfort of your air-conditioned room at this very moment. How you’ve landed yourself in a humid and stinky indoor sports hall that reeks of perspiration and cloying cologne, facing a group of really tall and sweaty college boys with that signature awkward grin of yours is beyond you, and something you definitely didn’t foresee yourself doing in your second year in Seoul National University.

You should have trusted your gut feeling when you thought that agreeing to be the student manager for the school’s volleyball team to earn extracurricular points for your scholarship would be a terrible idea. Gosh, this is all on Hoseok, your English Lit seatmate and also (surprisingly) the captain of the volleyball team. Curse him and his manipulative ways of convincing people.

According to your very wise friend, 1) you desperately need to join a club ASAP because the only club you belong to is the Sunshine Club – no, it’s not a real club, it’s just a pejorative term for students who alternate between home and school, and that certainly earns you zero extracurricular points, 2) you need to get out of your comfort zone more often because this is college and in college, you fuck things up for the fun of it, and 3) a student manager could really do good for the volleyball team because the new season is starting really soon and they’re gearing up for first place this season after their demeaning loss to Hanyang University last year, oh and also, the boys have been praying everyday to have someone (new and well, fun) other than their coach on the team because the old man sure can be a little grump.

You don’t question the last point because it’s a known fact that the volleyball team is your school’s pride and joy. When they were beaten at their own game last year, the entire school went in mourning for a whole damn week. It’s pretty hilarious, the more you think about it, that the competitive sport is basically just a more intense game of “don’t let the balloon touch the floor”. But almost everyone finds the sport cool because somehow or other, the players also happen to be naturally tall and also attractive – though the latter is highly subjective and does not include your terrible friend.

Albeit not knowing the players personally and being able to match their names to their faces, you’ve seen the gang in school, perpetually flaunting their black and red jerseys that can be spotted from miles away and drawing attention to their rambunctious selves.

The number of people who admire (and worship) them don’t escape your notice too, including your smitten professors who all have a mutual soft spot for Hoseok whenever he falls behind or sleeps in class. It seems like everyone is oddly bewitched by their charms – you’ve heard stories about the appalling number of girls who’ve confessed to them and hooked up with them at parties, only because Hoseok can’t stop gloating about the increasing count. But whether they’re just plain ole rumors or facts, you’d rather not be involved in their social politics because Hoseok is your own Gossip Girl and that’s more than enough, really.

“Guys, gather up!”

Coach Kim blows his whistle and literally the entire team comes scrambling to swamp the two of you. A wave of panic washes over you, draining colour from your face as they start to look you up and down inquisitively. You’ve never felt that inferior about being vertically-challenged before, but being surrounded by a group of volleyball players who could appear to be almost a good 2 meters tall? Definitely not up your alley.

“We finally, yes, finally,” you don’t miss the enthusiasm and relief in Coach Kim’s voice, “have a student manager on the team!”

At that, everyone explodes in loud cheers, their gruff voices filling up the court and you shudder at the resonance of their voices.

“Hi,” you give a little wave to the tall towers before you, trying to make things less menacing for you. “I’m Y/N, a second-year Psychology major. Nice to meet you! I’ll be the student manager from today onwards. Hoseok dragged me here—”

“Yay, welcome Y/N!” Hoseok interrupts your intention of throwing shade at him with an overzealous whoop of excitement and his teammates divert their attention to their loud captain. “You guys be nice to her or you’ll be catching these hands.”

They all roll their eyes, before grunting out an okay. After taking turns to introduce themselves – honestly, your brain could only be loaded with so many names, you’d definitely need more time to digest and remember their faces, the players soon disperse and resume their usual rotational drills.

Turning to you with an eerily wide grin, Hoseok then leads you to the perimeter of the court and hands you a clipboard. “Okay for today, just familiarise yourself with the positions and the guys. Easy peasy, I know we’re all good-looking—”

You interrupt his narcissistic statement by faking a gag.

“Rude! As I was saying before I was rudely cut off, we’re all good-looking, but it’s easy to distinguish us. Unless you mix Seokjin-hyung and Jungkook up, which is fine because they look quite similar. Both ugly.”

“You just said—”

“The entire team is present except for Jungkookie. He’ll come later because he’s taking a test now. When you see a tall guy who looks like an overgrown, emo baby bunny, just mark Jungkook present.”

You hum mindlessly and glance over to the guys who’ve already taken their respective positions.

“Now, now, don’t gush over the guys. They’re fucking gross. They sweat a lot and stink like rotten meat after practice.”

“As if you don’t too! I’ve sat beside you in class after your practice before and I had to hold my breath the entire class.”

“Excuse you!” He clicks his tongue in annoyance, “I’m already pretty hygienic compared to the others… Anyways, it’s too late to back out.”

“Oh shit.”

“I’m kidding! We’re really nice, a little intimidating maybe because of our heights but that’s only because you’re short as fuck, but we don’t bite… unless you want us to. Come! Let’s go through the positions together.”

Being the volleyball neophyte you are, Hoseok walks you through the various volleyball positions. You learn that there are four main positions and only six players are allowed on the court, though the entire team is 14 members strong. There are three wing spikers in total – Hoseok, Taehyung, and Yoongi – and they carry the defensive workload. Namjoon and Seokjin are the middle blockers, while Jimin is the libero who wears a different coloured jersey since he can conveniently switch in and out of the game (usually with Seokjin) and lastly, the setter, who is none other than Jungkook. Hoseok calls him the backbone of the team.

“Okay, this isn’t that hard. I can do this,” you think to yourself after Hoseok leaves to join his teammates, a dry attempt to spur yourself on.

Maybe it’s because you haven’t done much besides committing their names and faces to memory and learning about the different positions, but the first thirty minutes of practice have been going surprisingly well, until—

“Jungkookie!” Hoseok shrieks while looking past your shoulder towards the door.

“The overgrown, emo baby bunny?” You quote your friend, before turning your head to look at the latecomer.

And damn, you wish you could take back your words. Standing before you is a boy who’s unfamiliar to your sight, but a dazzling one in appearance. His hair is a black mop of soft tousled locks, his onyx eyes are doe-like and his lips take on a soft rosy pink tint.

Upon your words, Jungkook doubles over with a boyish chuckle. “Hyung! What did you call me?”

Ignoring the latter and swatting him away, Hoseok continues with a beam, “Yep, this is Jungkook, our golden setter. Great, now you’ve met everyone on the team!”

He then turns back to Jungkook, while offering you a pat on the back, “Jungkookie, meet Y/N, our new student manager. Treat her nicely or I’ll break your fingers.”

Jungkook takes offense at the threat (his dearest fingers…) and glowers at his captain. He then turns to you and you notice that his facial expressions soften for a moment, before his face starts to scrunch up. With a contrived smile, he extends out his hand, “Hello, nice to meet you.”

You draw in a furtive breath, painfully aware of how he practically looms over you.

“H-Hi, I’m Y/N.”

You instantly curse yourself, red threatening to dot your cheeks because Hoseok literally just said your name like 10 seconds ago.

Even from where you’re standing, it doesn’t take much for you to notice how his eyes take on a sharp, mesmerising glow. Like stars glistening in the velvet night sky, vying to out-glow one another.

And so, you panic.

“Nice to meet the overgrown, emo baby bunny,” are the words that follow your already embarrassing introduction and you grimace upon hearing yourself, wishing to swallow your stupid words back. Your mouth just lives to sabotage you whenever you’re nervous.

The awkwardness starts to saturate the air, uncomfortable in the way it clings onto the two of you, minus Hoseok who’s drinking everything in with confusion. Jungkook’s eyes rest on your embarrassed features, blinking owlishly and this is when you know that you need to leave, stat. Embarrassed, you bite your lower lip and mutter, “I have to go… help Coach. Bye!”

Spinning on your heels skittishly, you jog past hoarse hollers of nice serve and chance ball to join Coach Kim at the sidelines and you swear you’ve never speed-walked this fast in your entire life before. It literally takes every ounce of you not to freak out even when you can still feel holes being bored on your back. Not even an hour into practice and you’ve embarrassed yourself already? So much for beating your personal record.

“Well, that was painfully awkward,” the captain taunts with a smile full of mirth.

“Urgh h-hyung, stop it!”

Besides the brainwork of remembering the players’ names and positions, your agenda of tasks also includes physical labour, much to your dismay, of refilling water bottles, picking up stray balls from all corners of the court and being in charge of the dreaded grimy storeroom aka your new hiding place away from the sausage fest outside.

You don’t really get to watch today’s full six-on-six match, too busy scrambling all over the court to gather the stray balls and when you’re finally done, the boys have taken a five and are sprawled all over the floor, grumbling loudly in fatigue.

Joining Coach Kim on the bench, your eyes sweep quickly across the court and you see Jungkook lying on the ground with his eyes closed, chest heaving up and down rhythmically in tandem with his breathing, like an empty boat blobbing on gentle early-morning waves. What catches your attention is how apparent his jersey sticks to his abdomen, slightly exposing his torso and warmth violently flares in the full of your cheeks, tipping your ears pink. You can’t unsee it, but you desperately want to. Beside him, Hoseok has his shirt rolled up to his chest, baring his well-sculpted front, but you don’t feel a thing.

As if on cue, a raven black mop of dishevelled locks rises up from the ground, swiftly meeting your eyes in the process. He freezes like a rabbit caught in a snare, eyes wide and shoulders rigid. But it’s not like you’re any better. You stare back at Jungkook blankly, trying your best not to panic because he just caught you staring at him like a creep and it’s only your first day.

Uh oh.

A disconcerting feeling starts to stir in the pit of your stomach, so you quickly pry your eyes away because you’re that good at pretending that you didn’t see shit.

From your periphery, you realise that he’s still looking straight at you and you shudder at the weight of his piercing gaze, feeling hot all of a sudden.

Eventually, you decide to muster up some courage and turn back to him. You see that his eyes are still dead set on you and this throws you off kilter. Forming a thin line on his lips, he suddenly throws himself back onto the ground with a thud, causing his teammates to rise up instantly and wonder what the heck is wrong with their setter.

The way Jungkook stares at you remains etched in your mind even after practice. If this is what you’re going to face three times a week from today onwards, you’re going to need all the luck you can have and probably also some calming tea for your unsettling nerves.

You arrive at the sports hall punctually the next practice, a tad excited, albeit the nerves in your stomach. Instead of reporting straight to Coach Kim, you decide to greet the few players who are already warming up, but almost retract your footsteps when you see Jungkook part of the warm-up circle.

He’s already staring at you with that same gaze of his, but the boys don’t sense your hesitance and beckon you to join them. It’s a little too late to back away, so you saunter over with a bubbly façade, ignoring the fact that Jungkook is still relentlessly boring holes onto your face.

“Hey!” Taehyung chirps and scoots over to make space for you. “Sit here, Y/N!”

“Hi Y/N!”

“Did you come from class?” Hoseok pipes, spinning a volleyball with his finger.

“Yeah, it ended 10 minutes ago.”

“H-Hi.”

You hear a soft murmur beside you and turn your head, only to meet Jungkook and his brown doe eyes. Seated only inches away from you, his breath fans out across your cheek and warmth scatters over your skin in the rise of gooseflesh at the proximity. He doesn’t break eye contact with you for few seconds, as if you two are the only ones in the court, before he blinks away and continues stretching like he didn’t just stutter.

“Hey, Jungkook,” you mutter in a slight daze of confusion, wincing when your words come off as a gasp, so you quickly turn back to somewhere safe – to the sight of Hoseok doing push-ups with the derpiest face ever. If Jungkook has heard your silly gasp, he’s sure being really nice for not laughing about it or bringing it up.

Once Coach Kim finally enters the court, you run up to him in relief because you’re dying to break away from Jungkook’s gaze, and Hoseok invites you to join their discussion about the strategies for their practice match. Foreign terms like “quicks”, “back-row attacks” and “jump float serves” are being strewn around vivaciously, but you dutifully scribble whatever you could decipher on your clipboard, though the technicalities are starting to get pretty overwhelming.

Mid-way into the discussion, a particular chuckle floats over to your direction and you can’t help but draw your gaze to the middle of the court. You see Jungkook goofing around with his teammates, spinning a volleyball deftly with his hands, and the edges of your lips curl up at the sight of him having fun. It’s strange how he’s so uptight whenever he’s around with you, all rigid limbs and awkward glances.

Practice starts promptly after the discussion and things start to change half an hour into practice, contrary to their chill warm-up session. Taking their respective positions, nobody’s cracking jokes or slacking off, all committed to ensuring that the ball stays afloat and honing their skills.

The shift in Jungkook’s demeanour is especially evident to you. From the shy and awkward boy he is around you, he’s now focused and charismatic. His gaze doesn’t break away from the ball, always on the lookout and poised to set.

The boys practice for another two hours, constantly refining their moves and providing feedback to one another. Besides listening to Coach Kim’s never-ending commentary and laments about the boys, you also move around the perimeter to observe each player and take notes on your clipboard.

You somehow find yourself standing near the net, where Jungkook is positioned in his fully immersed glory. Hoseok calling him the backbone of the team comes to mind. After researching more about the different positions, you’re aware that the setter controls the flow of the game and orchestrates the attacks, but what intrigues you more is knowing that Jungkook is one of the best setters in the zone. You wonder if he’s really that amazing as what they make him to be, so you decide to take a break from your clipboard and pay full attention to the boy in front of you.

The ball arches over the net from the opposing team and Jimin springs into action, diving on the ground without hesitation. He grunts loudly when he manages to save it, pumping it back up in the air. A rolling receive, you recognise. From behind, one of his teammates screams an exasperated “nice save”.

The ball glides over to where Jungkook’s at and he extends his arms, as if inviting it to rest in his cupped hands. You can’t help but be mesmerised by his figure that’s positioned at a breath’s gap from the net, his back arching into a parabolic shape and thigh muscles rippling as he uses just one hand to slightly push the ball over the net with great aplomb. His effortless move sends the ball diving straight onto the ground, untouched by his stunned teammates from the other side.

“A dump!” Taehyung hollers excitedly, “Holy fuck!”

“What the fuck, Kook!” Namjoon from the opposing team shouts in frustration, but seems to be equally impressed by Jungkook’s sly move. “You’re a devil.”

Jungkook lets out a satisfied chuckle at their dumfounded reactions and the edges of your lips quirk up involuntarily. His sun-kissed skin shimmers with a thin sheen of sweat on his neck, while his dark eyes sparkle with intensity. He looks almost idyllic being on the court, phenomenal even – it’s like he belongs there, like he was born to play and shine on the court.

There’s something about his contented smile that’s enamouring – there’s something warm, soft and child-like beneath it. Something very much like a young boy playing hide-and-seek, hidden deep within him and hoping to be discovered and resurrected.

His smile is a nice sight.

The match resumes and you continue to observe how the setter receives the ball and tosses it to his teammates with impeccable control and precision. The way his fingers cup the volleyball doesn’t go past your notice and you gulp when your eyes land on his veiny arms.

A warm tingling feeling courses to your own fingertips. You wonder how holding his hand would feel like and similar thoughts continue to invade your mind throughout the entire practice.

The following practices fly by in a blur.

You’re on the bench with Coach Kim, your clipboard in hand. You’ve soon found joy in analysing the skills of each player and coming up with strategies, and this is evident from your clipboard that’s now filled up with your messy handwriting. The exciting game of volleyball is really starting to grow on you, though what’s more captivating is watching the setter shine on the court.

Jungkook is a silent and calculating setter who pinpoints his tosses with an eerie tactical accuracy. He’s especially meticulous in estimating the average height of each spiker’s jumps and he knows how to change the speed and altitude of his tosses to complement each teammate, leaving no room for mistakes.

While you’re realising all these by yourself, the guys are still fighting it out on the court, engrossed in the last set of the practice match and Jungkook’s team is in the lead. It’s against his own teammates, but the setter’s competitive burn doesn’t seem to know when to stop, boundless when it comes to the things he’s passionate about. This isn’t exclusive to just him though – his teammates seem to have picked up his vigour too, all firing with extra vitality. It isn’t surprising as all of their efforts are dedicated to winning the championships this season.

Seeing how the game is never coming to an end because they’ve been at match point for the last five minutes and neither team is letting their guard down, you excuse yourself from the game to refill their water bottles. Seokjin decides to join you when he watches you leave. Jimin has stepped in for the last few minutes of the set and you thank him for his help because carrying 14 water bottles is not an easy task.

From the corner of his eye, Jungkook sees you returning to the court with their water bottles hugged to your chest and he wishes he could run over to help you. But when Seokjin appears behind you, sharing a laugh with you, an unfamiliar feeling pools in his stomach – something about the sight of you laughing with his teammate puts him off. He doesn’t like it, but he softens at how brightly and effortlessly your face lights up. Seokjin’s probably telling you one of his overused dad jokes.

Sharp curses and flustered yells of Jungkook’s name fly through the air, but there’s barely enough time for him to process what is going on. He registers the blur of yellow and blue spinning in a few centimeters away from his face and before he knows it, he’s crashing on the cold hard ground from the impact.

A yelp escapes from the back of his throat. He feels like his nose just did a full-on pancake save on the ground. The middle of his face is throbbing in pain and his vision starts to blur from the tears at the edges of his eyes.

“Jungkook, what the heck were you doing!” Coach Kim bellows and jogs over to check up on him, his creased forehead is evidence that he’s in disbelief that the golden setter is actually capable of being distracted during a match.

The blazing blur of blue and yellow is soon replaced with shadowy looming figures and gasps of horror.

“Gosh, your nose is as red as Angry Bird,” Taehyung pipes in and chortles with his phone in hand. “What the fuck, I need to capture this. This is blackmail material.”

“Dude! What was that about?” Hoseok kneels down, a tad amused by the situation. “You’re normally not like this, who were you looking at?”

“Guys, guys! Give him some space…”

A lulling voice emerges amidst the insults mercilessly thrown at his injured self and Jungkook relaxes a little.

Easing your way to the front, you squat beside him, wincing at the sight of the bloody gash. A single line of blood trickles down his jaw and then to his neck, causing a red seam on his jersey.

“Okay, kids! Thank god that we have a manager now. Y/N will take care of Jungkook and his bloody face, so get back to practice!”

You offer him a little smile as he stares at you wide-eyed silently.

“Jungkook? You’re okay. You’re fine, it doesn’t look that bad,” you coo reassuringly, hoping to lessen the pain that’s evident from his contorted expression.

Pressing the back of his hand to his nose to wipe away the blood, Jungkook flushes pink, as if his face isn’t red enough already. Besides the stinging pain on his face, he feels his heart beating a merciless staccato rhythm. He already has trouble breathing from the blood in his nostrils, but all air rushes out of him when you inch even closer to assess the damage and he shuts his eyes in panic.

“I’ll take you to the nurse after you’re all cleaned up.”

Jungkook grunts in response. With careful fingers, you cradle the back of his head and push away his sweaty bangs with your other hand, before gently wiping the area around his nose. Slowly reopening his eyes, he gazes at you quietly and you avoid eye contact with him at all costs, but you shiver involuntarily when the warmth of his breath graces your arm.

At this close of a distance, you can count the long eyelashes that frame Jungkook’s large orbs, the crooked bunny teeth that appear when he winces, the little mole under his lips and the faint scar on his right cheek that mars his otherwise unblemished and fair skin. His hair also feels soft as it tickles the back of your hand and you’re so tempted to thread your fingers through them. You have to physically shake your head to rid yourself of these thoughts.

“Okay… Slowly…” You slip out of Jungkook’s hold as he settles on the edge of an empty bed in the school clinic and the nurse approaches you two without a word, as though injuries like these are an everyday occurrence.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Not as bad as before,” he mumbles bashfully, peeking at you through his lashes and you instantly want to melt into a puddle on the floor, especially since there’s less blood, people and space. It’s just the two of you now.

Noticing that you’re standing awkwardly by the door, he pats the space beside him and you move over, actually tired from the whole ordeal.

You two make some small talk while waiting for the nurse to return. You learn that Jungkook is in his second year too, a Computer Science major, and you tell him that you’ve never seen him in school before though the Social Sciences faculty is right beside his.

“I think I’m kind of low-key?” He states and you raise an eyebrow. He is definitely not low-key. There are probably girls gushing over him at this very instance.

“I’m always in class or at practice. Okay, I spend 30 percent of my life in class, 60 percent at practice and the last 10 percent in my room,” he explains animatedly, flinging his hands to gesture how he divides his time.

You try not to sputter into a fit of laughter, but laughter pokes its way across glassy eyes and pink cheeks when Jungkook scrunches his nose at his words.

“But I think I’ve seen you in school before? Your faculty always has fundraiser activities going on. And you performed for a talent show before, didn’t you? My friend dragged me to your faculty’s talent show. You sang an Adele song right?”

“Oh,” you squeak, a little too high to your liking, red finding its way up your cheeks. You’re nonplussed and a little touched that he remembers you from the other talented and pretty female contestants because they’re so many girls around him and you’re just… well, you’re just you.

“Oh my god, I probably sounded terrible,” you grimace, hand flying up to cover your face in embarrassment.

“No, you didn’t! I remembered your performance because it was that good.”

“R-Really?

He hums in response.

“Okay… thank you, I guess?” You look down at your fingers awkwardly. “That’s really nice of you.”

A chuckle escapes his lips. “No – thank you. Coach would have just left me bleeding on the ground if it wasn’t for you.”

A small smile tugs at your lips and the edges of his lips start to curl up to a semblance of a smile as well. Before you know it, he has his hand up, gingerly ruffling your hair and your entire body instantly stiffens, as if zapped by electricity. Muted colours of soft pastels swirl in your head. You think that his touch on your head might actually burn more than his squashed nose.

“No problem, Jungkook.”

It’s been a month since you joined the volleyball team as their student manager and now your existence alternated between school, your dorm and the sports hall, but you’re actually enjoying every bit of it.

It’s a Tuesday, which means there’s no volleyball practice, but you’re heading to the sports hall to clean up the storeroom and do some administrative stuff for their upcoming friendlies.

“Y/N!”

Looking up at the direction of the familiar voice, your eyes land on Jungkook who’s smiling at you and you stop in your tracks. You drink in the sight of him in a white T-shirt, ripped light blue jeans and a denim jacket. It’s nothing over the top, but he looks stunning regardless and you have to curb the lingering wisps of excitement brewing in your stomach.

This is probably the first time seeing Jungkook in school. Ever since his bloody nose incident, the two of you have started to become less uptight with each other and are now friends, if you choose to omit the awkward stares, flustered cheeks and sweaty palms. Just friends, nothing more or less.

You wave to him, trying your best to hide your surprised expression. He has never approached you directly during practice, let alone in the hallway.

“Where are you headed to?” He breaks the distance between you and him in less than five strides.

“I’m just going to clean up the storeroom. You?”

“Clas—oh actually, I was about to practice my tosses too.”

“Don’t you have class?”

“Um, no I don’t?”

“But you were just walking in the other direction, away from the sports hall.” You raise an eyebrow and tilt your head.

This stops him cold. He can’t place your expression exactly – it’s a cross between amusement and confusion and this makes him even more torn between wanting to continue lying so he can go to the sports hall with you and dropping the act and running away to save himself from further embarrassment. He chooses neither.

“Okay fine, you caught me. Can we… let’s just go to the sports hall together?”

How and why is a mystery, but you find yourself nodding your head in acquiescence.

Walking beside Jungkook is anxiety-inducing, as if you aren’t nervous enough around the said boy on a regular basis. As you pass through the hallway of blur figures, you pick up a whiff of Jungkook’s scent – it’s a comforting, clean fresh laundry scent that rests pleasantly on your nose. The soft material of his denim jacket is ticklish as it brushes against your arm, sending your heart ricocheting even more furiously in your ribcage.

There’s always been something about Jungkook that makes you feel… alive, you realise.

It’s the little awakening tingles that shoot up your spine every time his skin comes into contact with yours, be it casually and intentionally and the momentary halting of your heartbeat and the fluster that attacks you without a warning whenever he gazes at you. It’s the little crinkle at the edges of his eyes when he’s smiling and his mellifluous laughs – both soft and loud ones – when he’s cackling up with the guys that never fail to render you breathless.

You hate how you always magically transform into an incoherent fool every time you come in contact with him. But no matter how times he has caused your heart to stop for the briefest of moments, you don’t regret the lovely loss because you’ll gladly succumb to any pain, fuzzy feeling or ramification that Jungkook brings – just because, as strange as it sounds, you like it.

You don’t realise that you’ve held your breath the entire walk to the sports hall until you reach the storeroom and that was only possible after persuading the insistent Jungkook that you don’t need his help with clearing the cabinets.

When you’re done after spending an hour in the stuffy storeroom, you find Jungkook spiking the balls against the wall in his sports attire. You swallow hard when your eyes trail down to his accentuated butt that looks too good for his own good and his thighs that flex dangerously when he moves. Your cheeks sear with embarrassment that’s hot enough to burn away your lewd thoughts.

For someone who’s painfully shy and cannot toss a ball for pity’s sake, you cannot fathom where you get the sudden surge of courage, but your mouth decides to take matters into its own hands and blurt out something along the lines of “Hey, want me to toss the ball to you?”.

You hate how your voice rises in the end, turning into an awkward squeak, but he seems to find it adorable if his dazed look is anything to go by.

Eagerly taking you up on your offer, the two of you soon fall into a comfortable pattern – you’d toss the ball to Jungkook for him to practice his tosses and spikes and this continues till the volleyball crate is emptied out. Sometimes you don’t toss high enough and he’ll laugh at your fail attempts, but he’s always patient with you and even teaches you the proper way of tossing the way with the correct push. Heck, you didn’t even know that there was a correct way of tossing a freaking ball.

After what seems like 10 hours, you sit down to catch your breath, slightly embarrassed by your lack of stamina because Jungkook looks like he can go on for another 10, looking as impeccable as ever. When he runs a hand through his hair with that lopsided smile of his, it leaves you even more short of breath. It’s as though he’s doing this on purpose.

His fitted shirt is drenched with sweat, cruelly sticking to his abs and you gulp when your eyes trail down to his thighs. The fabric of his shorts hugs his lower half like a second skin, revealing the harsh lines and sculpted muscles of his thighs. And you really need to curb your obsession for his thighs, because it’s getting way out of hand and you’ll skin yourself alive if he ever finds out about it.

“Hey, you tired?” Jungkook trudges over to sit beside the stoned you, playing with the ball in his hands.

“Oh no no, I’m okay,” you lie blatantly and begin to stand up, but he stops you.

“It’s okay, I’m pretty beat too. Want to grab some food? I’m actually really hungry.”

He looks at you with a painfully familiar glint swimming in his corneas and your breathing stutters violently at the sight.

Listen, you don’t know if you can survive being this close to him, but you decide to fuck it when Hoseok’s words echo in your mind: you need to get out of your comfort zone more often – go and fuck things up.

Deciding to heed his stupid advice, you shoot Jungkook a smile, “Thought you’d never ask.”

Somehow or other, you two end up eating at a convenience store near campus because ramen after practice is always a good decision.

“So, um, how’s school?” Jungkook starts off, picking up his noodles with regalement, but deadpans upon realising how lame he sounds.

“How’s school?” You repeat with a bemused tone, chuckling at his dry attempt at making small talk.

“I mean like… tell me about yourself? Like how’s school been like for you… Urgh, this is so embarrassing.”

He groans loudly and buries his head in his palms and then peeks at your face through the spaces in between his fingers. His heart swells like never before at your smile and the tinges of amusement dancing in your orbs.

A highly ranked and skilled setter he might be, but Jungkook knows no shit when it comes to his strange, burgeoning feelings for you. He wishes that feelings could be more like volleyball – systematic, clear-cut, and guaranteed a clear, satisfying view if you try hard enough. Human emotions bring along this ambiguity that he’s scared of approaching. He isn’t sure if he is capable of understanding it, but there’s always a first time for everything.

You laugh dryly, “I’m always clueless when I’m supposed to talk about myself. I guess I’m just a normal person with normal dreams and normal hobbies?”

He chuckles boyishly and your breath hitches, nervous as heck from the way he’s looking at you so attentively with a soft smile.

You continue, “Okay, I don’t really have a hobby and I spend a lot of time by myself in my room. I know I’m lame.”

“No, it doesn’t! If it makes you feel better, I feel normal too. With normal dreams and hobbies.”

A corner of your mouth curls up in retaliation. “Being the golden setter of SNU’s volleyball team and probably the best in this entire zone isn’t quite my definition of normal. Now I feel even more boring.”

“No! Urgh… You’re not boring. If you were, I wouldn’t be here listening to you – I swear. And I have a limited patience for boring people… like Coach. God, he is the most boring person in the world.”

“You’re just being nice to me.”

Jungkook shakes his head fervently and your heart gnaws at how disconcerted he is –he’s trying so hard to make you feel better about yourself that it’s endearing.

“Being normal is great, but there’s nothing normal about normal I feel? And you… you’re a special kind of normal. You’re nice, smart, funny, sometimes pretty awkward but still not as awkward as me, so you’re not that bad.”

You chuckle sheepishly, but your smile fades away when he shoots you a longing look before muttering under his breath, “And you make me feel normal.”

His brown eyes glimmer in the hazy streetlights, highlighting the caramel flecks in them. Your eyes dart between his soft expression and his fingers that are drumming against the table.

“Me?” You squeak, startled by Jungkook’s sudden confession. Your mouth drops agape, but it’s quickly overridden by a shy smile when you observe how the little blush on his cheeks has receded to make camp on his ears, the glint in his eyes brighter.

“Yeah. When I’m with you, I feel normal. Not a volleyball player or the golden setter. Just me, Jeon Jungkook.”

Heat sits high on your cheeks as his words linger in your ears. The world seems to hang suspended, out of space and out of time. You try to find your voice but your tongue is suddenly terribly numb, so the two of you continue to sit in silence, staring at one another and enjoying the swim of your heads.

That night, Jungkook walks you back to your dorm and you give him a hug before saying your dreadful goodbye – a lilting whisper of good night Kook.

Hugging isn’t uncommon with the team because they’re strangely big on hugs and being their manager means that you’re their personal teddy bear that they can crush after a long tiring practice. But you don’t miss how you hug Jungkook a little tighter and longer compared to the casual ones you share with the others, relishing the warmth of the sweet honey gold that pulses through his veins. To your surprise, he wraps his arms around you as well and the two of you stay in that position for awhile in the quiet of the night. The way his broad chest heaves up and down alongside his slow, steady humming heartbeat serves nothing but as a solace to you.

You feel safe in his arms.

There is truth that you think Jungkook is cute, that you couldn’t deny, alongside the emotionally-constipated but quiet and sincere ways he cares for the people around him. He’s sincere, doesn’t sugar-coat his words and can also be quite the jokester. He doesn’t flirt excessively and make you feel uncomfortable nor does he do anything particularly extravagant to get your heart racing, but your heart still runs a fucking marathon nonetheless.

That night, you only manage to fall asleep after spending hours trying to counter your own thoughts and coax the erratic slamming of your heart against your chest. He’s a child of the cosmos. You wonder if he sings lullabies and waltzes with the stars in his slumber.

You wonder if the stars look at him in defeat, envious of the way he outshines them all. The effulgence he possesses beats the brilliance of all the other stars.

In between shy glances and awkward banter sessions, Jeon Jungkook has slowly become both the quiet and pandemonium of your heart.

That night, Jungkook’s phone blows up with messages from his teammates and he’s this close to throwing his phone on the wall and strangling them with his bare heads, seniority and all be damned.

[minie hyung] [22:49] jungkookie is getting it [22:49] with y/n our lovely manager!!! 2 qt pies [22:49] [Image]

[best captain in the world] [22:49] damn kid [22:49] it’s only been 2 weeks [22:50] and i didn’t ask y/n to join the team so that you could hit on her??

[jungkook] [22:50] guys wtf I’m not hitting on her!!! [22:50] we’re just friends [22:50] and wtf jimin hyung where were you??? when did you take that pic?

[minie hyung] [22:51] when you 2 were busy staring at each other!! [22:51] i was just walking back home and passed by the store bcs I WAS HUNGRY [22:51] but you were too engrossed in looking at each other and being lovey dovey to notice me but what’s new

[yeontan’s dad] [22:51] y/n’s hella cute tho

[grumpa hyung] [22:52] yeah, really pretty and smart too

[jungkook] [22:52] lmaO say wAT [22:54] she’s mine, just saying [22:55] back the fuck off

[joonie hyung] [22:55] “we’re just friends” he said

[handsome hyung] [22:56] aww our kookie has a crush !! who knew that you were capable of feelings

[jungkook] [22:57] well someone has to take ONE for the team

[best captain in the world] [22:57] wrong interpretation of the phrase kid. [22:58] you just insulted y/n, i’m telling on you

[jungkook] [22:58] NO HYUNG PLEASE DON’T [22:58] I’M SORRY ☹ Y/N PLEASE ☹☹☹ [23:01] hyung????

“So… you and Jungkook, huh?”

Hoseok plumps his ass down dramatically onto the seat beside yours and you, for the nth time, regret choosing that seat on the fifth row on the first day of your English Lit class. Who the hell would have known that you’d sit beside the pesky and loud-as-fuck volleyball captain and end up being extremely good buddies?

“Me and Jungkook?” You tilt your head, though you already have an inkling of what he’s going to bring up. You just wish that he wouldn’t tease you too much about it.

“Yeah, you two have been awfully and shadily close nowadays. You know you’re all that he talks about, right?”

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at his last sentence. You had no idea at all.

Hoseok catches the flush that runs all the way down to your neck and simpers at your speechless self who’s currently mindlessly picking at your food and avoiding all eye contact.

“And the sexual tension between you two is real. Don’t think the team hasn’t realised. It’s our favourite thing to talk about now. Besides talking about our sexcapades, that is.”

“What the fuck? I totally did not want to know that.”

Shooting him an incredulous glare, you throw a fry at him. The thought of Jungkook engaging in hook-ups bothers the heck out of you and you want to vent all your frustration on your meddlesome friend. You wonder if Jungkook’s as nice to other girls as he is to you, and if there’s another hapless girl who’s in the same plight as you. The thought of it makes you sick.

“Okay, but you must have noticed how intensely Jungkook looks at you. Like he wants to eat you up. Or out.”

“Oh my god, can you not say that so loudly?”

“I speak nothing but the truth, girl.”

“Shu—”

“Speaking of the devil, look who we have here? Your lover boy!” Hoseok guffaws.

Fate is really pulling strings to get the two of you together.

You tilt your head upwards and amidst the bustling students, you spot half of the volleyball team in the middle of the cafeteria – they probably decided to grab lunch together before practice – and then your eyes land on Jungkook, who’s already looking at you with his doe eyes and boyish smile. He’s dressed in his signature look – his favourite oversized black hoodie that practically drowns his physique and grey sweatpants – and damn does he look dashing.

“Guys, over here!”

Hoseok hollers as loud as he can, much to your dismay, diverting all attention to your table and you squirm in your seat with a defeated sigh. As they make their way over, you focus on stuffing your food in your mouth, so you can hurry get the fuck out of here. But before you know it, a tray is settled beside yours and of course, it belongs to none other than Jungkook.

You scowl at your tray, knowing that the guys have obviously left that particular seat empty for Jungkook. From your periphery, he slides into the seat beside yours and your entire body tenses up. Despite having gone out for a meal with him before, you still don’t think you can handle the proximity.

He greets you with a hi and you nod back in response. He has no idea of how his mere presence fills your veins with electricity.

The boys soon fall into a conversation about their rivalry with the other schools and throwing a party before finals to relieve some stress and frustration – you honestly wonder what kind of frustration they’re talking about here.

Sitting with the volleyball players – even just half of the team – for lunch makes you wonder how the heck you agreed to becoming their manager and how you’re still with them because they’re so rowdy and embarrassing. You’d probably feel intimidated by them if you didn’t know them personally, but look at yourself now: you’re part of the team and also hopelessly crushing on their setter, who happens to be sitting right beside you.

“Oh right, Y/N! I have something to show you,” Hoseok coos from across you, wagging his eyebrows suggestively with a sparkle of mirth in his orbs. Interest rekindled, you urge him to spill and he fishes out for his phone from his pocket. At this, you notice Jungkook tense up instantly.

After scrolling through his phone for a few seconds, Hoseok beckons you to lean forward with a shit-eating grin and you have a hunch about what he’s up to.

“The other day, Kookie said some things in the group chat that you might want to see.”

“Hyung!” Jungkook flares up beside you, lurching forward across the width of the table and snatching the phone from Hoseok’s grip before you could even look at the screen properly. “Fuck hyung, you’re such a snake!”

Hoseok only shrugs casually. You have to battle Jungkook yourself if you want to pursue the matter.

“Jungkook, what’s on his phone? Why can’t you show me?”

“Um, i-it’s a secret!” He panics, holding the phone high up and out of your reach.

Clicking your tongue in annoyance, you try to grab it, but Jungkook’s hand is so fucking long that you can’t get the phone within your fingertips regardless of how high you reach out.

“Kook!” You lament, leaning forward to weasel your way to find out why he’s being so shady, but he doesn’t let up and holds the gadget even further away from your reach.

Caught in a frenzy, you don’t realise how your boobs are pressed against his left arm and your other hand is propped onto Jungkook’s thigh. How and when it happened is nebulous. It’s only when your fingers find themselves kneading his thigh that you realise the dire situation you’re in.

Dragging your eyes down to where your hand is at, you halt when you realise that it’s centimetres away from his crotch. Any careless movement and you’ll be brushing against Jungkook’s dick and this very thought sends a small jolt through your body.

Fuck.

The fact that he’s wearing those grey sweats of his doesn’t make things any better as they’re proudly flaunting the distinct outline of his bulge prodding at his sweatpants. Gulping down hard, your whole body freezes up blankly.

Seconds stretch into infinity. When Jungkook realises that you’ve stop persisting, he absentmindedly turns to you and is met with a dangerous view of your cleavage conveniently pressed up against him. But he soon grasps that this isn’t the sole reason why you’ve turned paralysed. When his eyes follow your gaze and find that your hand is milliseconds away from his bulge, he flings Hoseok’s phone onto the table.

“Oh my god, fuck I’m so sorry Jungkook.”

You withdraw your hand away instantly and pry your eyes away from his crotch, though you can’t stop thinking about his bulge. Flopping back into your seat, your limbs turn into goo. You’re definitely going to hell.

He looks up to meet your eyes, fumbling frantically over his words. He wants to bury himself alive.

“It’s ok—I, um, it’s fine, Y/N. It’s okay. Shit—”

He trails off awkwardly and you almost choke at the congealing tension in the air. You swear you could slice it with a knife and then use the same knife to cut Hoseok apart because your friend sure is a devil.

“Gross. Can you guys stop flirting with each other in front of us?” Jimin pipes and you dart your eyes to across the table and see that everyone has their eyes fastened upon the two of you with amused expressions. You close your eyes and wince – maybe if you close your eyes long enough, you’ll disappear into thin air.

Jungkook clears his throat awkwardly and stares hard at his food. He takes a little peek at his crotch and dies a little more inside upon realising that he’s popped a boner in the fucking cafeteria just from your touch. Fingers tugging down the hem of his hoodie, he hopes that you wouldn’t look down and notice it.

The next few minutes of lunch pass by agonisingly with you fuming silently in your chair, looking more like an aggravated hamster than anything with your flustered face and crease on your forehead.

Every time Hoseok reaches over to pet your head, he’s attacked by an icy glare and a hard kick to his shin from the boy sitting two seats opposite him. But he also notices how Jungkook melts at the roses flaring across your cheeks. He’s so whipped. Their golden setter is so fucking whipped and he has no clue what to do about it.

It’s D-20 to the start of the season. The team needs to kick their training into high gear if they want to be ready in time for their first official match and that means absolutely no slacking and only two hundred percent during training and friendlies.

That goes the same for you too. You’ve been busy coming up with strategies for each player and organising friendlies with neighbouring schools. It’s hard to arrange friendlies due to time constraints and it took you tons of phone calls and paperwork, but you manage to secure a session with Hongik University just before the start of the season.

You’re just returning to the sports hall after walking the Hongik team to their bus when a loud bedlam from inside catches your attention. Rushing into the sports hall, you see the SNU players huddled in a circle, tension evident in the air. Arms are being recklessly thrown about and bodies are being shoved.

Squinting your eyes, you take in the breadth of the agitated shoulders and your stomach drops when your mind registers the number 9 on the jersey.

Jungkook.

A wave of panic hits you square in the chest. From where you’re standing, you watch Taehyung grab him on the shoulders to calm him down. The setter retaliates by flinging his arm, turning to your direction in the process. He is livid, cheeks flushed red with eyebrows furrowed as he proceeds to grab another teammate by the collar.

Number 1.

Hoseok.

This sends your stomach flying into a sequence of contortions.

You’ve never seen Jungkook this furious before, normally so composed with his feelings. This very sight gets your blood rushing frenziedly, especially how he’s this close to socking Hoseok in the face – Hoseok, his captain whom he respects so much.

Ignoring the fear that catches in your throat and freezes the breath in your lungs, your legs take you across the court as fast as they can.

Jungkook freezes and drops his fists instantly when he spots you approaching. The nervous flickering of your eyes doesn’t escape his notice and under your worried gaze, he feels the world crumble at his feet. He feels like he’s the shittiest person in the entire world.

You reach out for him with unsteady fingers, but he recoils at the slightest touch of your fingertips, distress and chagrin all over his face. A series of frustrated grunts and curses escapes his lips before he stomps off the court with heavy footsteps, ignoring the concerned looks of his teammates as he barrels out of the door and slams it shut.

You stare blankly at the door, bombarded with a tumult of conflicted emotions. You contemplate running after him, but you understand that Jungkook probably wants some alone time to cool down. So you choose not to, staying behind to check on Hoseok while the others fill you in about the argument.

“I kept missing Jungkook’s tosses and he got mad at himself for not tossing high enough for me, but it’s not even his fault,” Taehyung explains apprehensively. “He was in a bad mood throughout the match, so we lost. After that, Hoseok-hyung went to talk to him and Jungkook started lashing it out on him.”

His lips quiver at the thought of him causing the argument, so you put your hand on his shoulder and offer him a small smile.

“Y/N, check on him for me, please?” Hoseok walks towards you and pats your back softly. You could only nod, because knowing the setter, he’s probably beating himself up right now.

Torn ligaments, twisted joints and sore shoulders: they all heal with time, but disappointing the team is a heavy weight to carry, especially for setters.

It’s the setter’s role to bring out the best of their teammates, to know each of their strengths and weaknesses and adapt accordingly to each player’s skills. And it’s also the setter’s fault if his teammates keep missing his tosses. It’s his fault for their loss today.

Jungkook’s limbs feel so heavy that it’s as though he’s carrying the weight of the world. No one is blaming him. Not to his face, at least. But he knows that he has led them down and his self-deprecating thoughts are so loud that he can literally drown in them. He might look like a dense guy, but there’s a tenacious hurricane living in his mind.

Hunched over on a bench, he grits his teeth and locks his fists, nails digging the skin of his palms, while hot tears threaten to spill. Maybe if he practices harder, maybe if he doesn’t fuck up that often, maybe if he disappears, the team will be better—

“Hey Kook.”

He snaps out of his trance when his ears perk up at the familiar voice. Blinking his tears away, he sees you with the same concerned gaze and feels a sharp tug at his heartstrings at the very sight of your worried expression.

You lower yourself to meet him and press a cool water bottle to his forehead. The sudden coldness makes him look up and the tugs soon multiply rapidly when you smile softly at him, moving to sit beside him.

You don’t talk for a good three minutes, letting the silence weave itself comfortably into the spaces between you two. You don’t really know what to say and you don’t want to force him to talk either.

“You’re always saving my ass.”

Jungkook shatters the unnerving silence with a sigh.

Your lips curl up at his attempt of lightening up the mood. “Maybe that’s because I’m your manager?”

All hardness of his features soon disappear and he looks like a scared bunny. Honestly, you just want to give him a tight hug until you take away all his sorrows.

“I mean, beyond being our manager… You always seem to be around whenever I mess up. You’re like my personal cheerleader,” Jungkook laughs.

His laughter is a sweet symphony to your ears, prompting a small bubble of laughter to escape your lungs too. “Out of all things, I especially don’t want to be your personal cheerleader.”

Your relationship with Jungkook has developed by leaps and bounds over the past few months. From being awkward strangers who could barely hold eye contact for more than two seconds, to a cordial manager-player relationship, and to the good friends (minus the bashful smiles, burning cheeks and occasional NSFW thoughts) who look out for each other that you are today. It’s amazing how much you two have opened up to each other.

“Y/N, do you think I’m self-centred?” He asks suddenly. “I’m sorry that you had to see me like… this. I wished I had a better control of my emotions, but sometimes it’s just really hard, you know…”

His words clog in his throat and he swallows them meekly.

Your heart gnaws at the way he views himself.

“Hey, don’t say that. You’re not self-centred, Kook. In fact, you’re one of the most selfless people I know. And I know it’s hard – it’s normal to feel frustrated. Everyone’s feeling the pressure, but your feelings are valid even on bad days.”

“So… you’re not going to scold me for picking a fight with my teammates? With Hoseok-hyung?”

“You think I came here to do that?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook mumbles and looks away glumly.

“Don’t be silly,” you nudge him softly, urging him to turn towards you. “I came here because I know that you feel responsible for losing today. You’re angry at yourself for Taehyung’s slip-up.”

“Y-You know? How?”

“Hmm, I notice a lot of things about you, Kook. You just don’t realise it.”

An acknowledgment between a whine and a ‘hmm’ escapes from the setter’s lips, so quizzical and innocent that he sounds like a bunny.

“It’s just… I’m the setter and I’m supposed to be the core of the team so if we don’t do well, it’s on me. It’s my fault… I just don’t want to disappoint them.”

The remainder of Jungkook’s sentence dies on the tip of his tongue as he shuts his eyes, remembering the commotion he caused.

“But it’s not your fault, you know that right?”

“I—”

“Do you know how much the team looks up to you? You’re indispensable. The guys depend on your skills, your experiences and trust in them. Yes, the team could have done this and that – a lot of things could have been improved – but we shouldn’t be focusing on the could haves. This is why we practice and practice. You’ll do better next time, I’m sure.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because,” you turn to him, settling your hand on top of his. “You are Jeon Jungkook and all of your teammates have faith in you. Myself included.”

“You?” Stupefied, his voice comes out as a soft whisper.

“I’m your teammate too, right? Oh, and also your personal cheerleader. I mean, this title was kind of forced on me but I’ll take it if it makes you smile – just like how you’re smiling right now.”

Jungkook merely shakes his head with a soft smile and raises his arm to ruffle your hair, stirring up a mini tornado within you. He chuckles when you jump slightly, displaying his bunny teeth in their full glory and though you would have liked to stare a little longer, you have to stop yourself, so you avert your gaze. The pink flush threatening to dot your cheeks is lethal and you can’t afford Jungkook knowing your true feelings.

He then squirms closer, eliminating any space in between you two, and rests his weight on you. Before you know it, he’s lowering his head on your shoulder and your heart soars at the intimacy.

He feels warm beside you. He’s always mysteriously warm and it’s the kind of warmth that brings you nothing but comfort. You resist the urge to press closer against him and tilt your head to match his, still too stricken to move a muscle. He continues fidgeting, until his nose finds the crook of your shoulder.

“It’s nice,” Jungkook murmurs and you almost don’t catch it.

“What’s nice?”

“That you’re here.”

Golden stardust bursts within you upon his words, doing absolutely nothing for the wildfire claiming the land of your chest, but you try to conceal the joy in your voice.

“Well, you can’t get rid of me that easily. Until I get sick of managing you idiots, but I also need extracurricular points, so I’ll still be here, whether you like it or not.”

“I like it.”

Lowering his gaze to the ground, he repeats with an earnestness that wakes up the hummingbird of your heart with a gentle pat on its head. “I like it a lot.”

You can almost imagine Jungkook serenading it with a lullaby – you know he would.

There’s no denying the sudden lightheaded feeling you get from the sweet calm of his presence. You can’t ignore how your wandering eyes are always somehow meeting his sparkly ones and how they rest on you longer than they should, rendering you breathless every single time.

While Jungkook is energetic and burning with passion, slightly insecure and childlike in his own dumb Jeon Jungkook ways like a young fire, you, on the other hand, are perceptive and calm, like a soft breath of cool air on a hot summer day that sways the knee-high grass in the meadows. And maybe this is why he adores you so much, for you are each other’s opposite and complement.

You used to be skeptical about the idea of love and hate all sorts of uncertainties, but that was until you found a new home in the galaxy of Jungkook’s eyes.

“Shall we head back?”

He stands up, looking as determined as ever. He offers his hand to help you up and you gladly reach for it. To your surprise, Jungkook slips his fingers into yours wordlessly and any hope of catching your breath fizzles out.

The two of you walk back to the court with comets dancing across your rosy cheeks and smiles brighter than the celestials in Jungkook’s eyes.

He’s hella whipped for you – that he will willingly admit defeat. There isn’t a definite time or date when he realised that he has his little crush on you, or when that little crush has graduated into a serious, ardent adoration for you. It’s a gradual plummeting; a peaceful and clandestine descent before his heart was willingly taken hostage by you.

You’re catastrophically beautiful, completely detrimental to the feeble defences of his heart. You never fail to soothe the storms in his mind with your lulling presence. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in him and to be very honest, he is utterly petrified, but he wants to try, if it’s with you.

The world around you is spinning.

As part of their team bonding efforts and to relieve some stress before the season, the team has decided to throw a party at Hoseok and Namjoon’s frat house, which only means: a fuck ton of alcohol and unruly volleyball players with no brain or mouth filter whatsoever.

After chugging seven shots of vodka and four shots of suspicious mixtures that were handed to you, you’re more than just out of it. Everything is fuzzy and ten folds funnier, liquid confidence smouldering within your bloodstream. The amount of alcohol in your system is enough to make heat pool in your stomach and send your thoughts into a frenzy.

You’re aware that you’re badly smashed, but for fuck’s sake, you don’t understand why you can’t stop having nasty thoughts about the boy sitting in front of you.

Opposite you, Jungkook is watching his embarrassing teammates sputter into a howling bout of laughter with an amused grin. From his half-lidded eyes, he’s a little out of it, but he still looks fucking good and this causes your chest to swell.

You’ve made eye contact with him for the fifteenth time within the past two hours. Much could be said in the language of stealth. It’s as though you two enjoy this little game of the push and pull attraction of two magnets. You don’t miss the twinkle in his eyes that never fails to ignite a deep fire in your bones, washing your senses away. As you imploringly pry yourself away from his intense gaze, you turn to see Hoseok flashing you his most annoying grin ever.

“Fuck off,” you mouth, knowing exactly what your idiot of a friend is about to say, but this only urges him to tease you even more and you want to sock him in the face.

Without wiping that annoying smirk off his face, he leans forward and whispers into your ear, “You two little shitheads have been eye-fucking each other the entire time.”

“Wha—”

“He probably has a boner right now. Just look at him trying to cover it up.”

Your eyes search for Jungkook. Shifting uncomfortably with a cushion planted on top of his lap, his irises suddenly dart all over the room to avoid looking anywhere near you.

You gulp down.

He has a boner?

The voice in your mind screams at you hysterically and you can almost hear the smile in her tone. He has a boner. A fucking boner! Fuck.

How your thoughts run from wanting to tape Hoseok’s mouth so that he’ll shut up for the first time in his life to imagining yourself taking care of Jungkook’s hard-on is beyond you. The mere thought of Jungkook’s hard dick strained against his jeans gets your mind whirling with images of you kneeling on your knees, kissing the head of his dick before taking him completely in your mouth and blowing him till he comes.

Between glowing cheeks and averted eyes, you abandon the righteous battle with your morals, knowing exactly what you want.

You want him. You want him to fuck you senseless until you forget your own name.

These thoughts send a bolt of heated pleasure straight to your core, causing wetness to pool between your thighs.

Frenziedly, your eyes trail back to the setter and you notice him fidgeting uneasily under your gaze. Fuck, you’re not freaking drunk enough for this. You reach out to grab the drink from Hoseok and down the deathly concoction that he probably made with the intention of getting downright wasted. Seconds after your brave and reckless act, you wince at the burn of your throat.

Hopes of washing your cacophonous, lustful thoughts away with the burning liquor go in vain because it’s just simply fucking impossible. This has morphed into a battle of brain and heart. Your heart definitely knows what it wants: for Jungkook to take you there and then, but your brain is screaming at you to stop being so concupiscent. But since when have you ever listened to your brain? Jungkook probably doesn’t even think of you that way. Poor boy’s probably going to be mortified when he finds out how ready you are to bend over for him.

Shoving Hoseok away in embarrassment because you’re ashamed that that bitch has caught you red-handed, you decide to hide in one of the rooms to clear your head because the living room is an intolerable place to catch your breath and rid your filthy thoughts when everyone is raucously downing shots and screaming at one another. You may be a wreck, but this place is a breeding place for hell and havoc. So much for team bonding.

After finding your way through the maze of sloppy and rowdy drunks, you spot a bedroom down the hall – yes that’s right, Hoseok’s room. Hopefully, that will teach him a lesson for perpetually feeding off your misery.

In your drunken state, it takes you a few fumble attempts to ease the door open and when you see one of the boys sitting on the edge of the bed, you know you’re utterly fucked.

Jungkook.

With a cup of vodka in hand, looking as irresistibly riveting as ever.

A whimper finds its way lodged in your throat and you’re unsure whether to laugh or cry at the absurd situation, because ending up in the same room with the boy whom you’ve been trying to avoid the entire night because you couldn’t stop thinking about sucking his dick dry is truly ridiculous.

His eyes widen when he finds you at the door and his lips can’t help but part to expose his teeth at your surprised and shit-faced expression.

“Y/N?” He slurs, voice raspy, and you grasp that he, just like you and everyone else in this apartment, is wasted as fuck, so you should definitely leave before you do something that you’ll regret. You’re about to turn on your heels and hide from him for the night and well, the rest of your life, but the alcohol pulsing through your veins screams at you to fuck it and go against your thoughts.

“Hey,” you mumble, closing the door behind you.

“You okay?” Even in your drunken state, you can still hear the worry burning at the edges of his usually composed voice. You nod as he pats the space beside him and you amble towards him.

“It was too noisy. Had to take a breather in somewhere quiet,” he mumbles, raising his cup to his lips.

“Me too.”

The two of you continue to sit in silence, drinking in the moment of weird stillness and suffering from the whirlpool in your heads. At the speed that your thoughts are racing at, it’s a feat how your mind is still functioning – how it can still coherently form lewd thoughts and images of Jungkook buried in between your thighs.

You need to tame the fire that’s flaring viciously within you before you lose control and pounce on him. For what it’s worth, you notice that he has been anxiously fidgeting with his cup, downing it for the nth time in the past five minutes. You’re pretty sure that he’s drinking nothing and is probably just as nervous as you.

Deciding that anywhere would be better than being stuck in a room with the boy whom you can’t stop lusting for, you break the silence, “Um, maybe I… should go—”

When you stand up to leave, Jungkook frantically leans forward and grabs hold of your wrist, pulling you towards him. He hasn’t meant to do it, but you somehow end up toppling over, bones liquefied by the booze.

The room starts to spin even faster, your orbs flickering back and forth. Your body is planted snug on top of his thighs, your hands and boobs pressed against his broad chest and your crotch against his bulge.

Arms firm around your waist, his body heat zaps your skin with a fiery warmth, flaring up your neck and ripening your features with an unbridled lust. For the briefest of moments, you swear you feel his dick twitch beneath you and the way he gulps down his saliva hard confirms that he bears the exact same thoughts.

“Oops, sorry,” you giggle, feeling an abrupt surge of high from the alcohol. You push against him to steady yourself, but he doesn’t let up, arms still locked around your befuddled self.

Another deafening silence descends. Even in your intoxicated state, you can still hear the thumping of your heartbeat blasting in your eardrums. You two look into each other’s eyes, unmoving. You can’t tell much from Jungkook’s eyes since they’re droopy and hazy, but he’s looking at you so intensely that it sends another zap of electricity down your spine and to your arousal. You subconsciously rub your thighs together and his lips curl up into a smirk when he realises the effect he has on you.

“Y/N,” Jungkook whispers hoarsely and he leans in till he’s dangerously close, till the delicate graze of his mouth transgresses the juncture between your jaw and ear and a familiar prickle of gooseflesh tremor moves along your neck at the sudden proximity.

“You’re so beautiful.”

A cascade of warmth starts to pour into your abdomen, the intimacy of the moment suddenly drawing upon you. You can even smell the alcohol from his breath and it’s inebriating, making you wetter than ever.

“Can I kiss you?”

He breathes into your ear and you jerk your head in bewilderment, eyes wide and ears ringing. You hesitate and wonder if he’s joking, but he shows no sign of teasing; just a look of patience and sincerity.

“Y-Yeah,” your words come out practically as a whimper and you let your eyes fall shut as he slowly inches forward.

When he presses his lips against yours, a fizzle of electricity runs through your veins. His lips are everything that you’ve imagined – soft and warm. Intoxicating.

He parts them slightly, enough to capture yours nicely, and presses in a little firmer. The tip of his tongue shyly licks at your bottom lip, coaxing you in more, and you feel like melting in honey.

Greedy for more, you chase his tongue and he chuckles in satisfaction, tangling his tongue with yours. God, he can taste the vodka and sprite on you and as silly as it sounds, he thinks this is the best mix he has ever tasted.

You whimper against his mouth, fingers threading through his hair and tugging softly at them.

“Fuck. I want to do bad things to you,” he exhales with a little whine, hands smoothing up the expanse of your back.

Despite your drunken, flummoxed state, you manage to hear him loud and clear. A deeper surge of tabooed desire runs through your veins at the thought of Jungkook getting turned on by you. You imagine him getting off to thoughts of you, desperate for your touch. You wonder what kind of risqué fantasies he has of you and if they’re as filthy as yours.

“Like what?”

“Urgh Y/N, please don’t make me say it out loud. I’m drunk, but not drunk enough to tell you that I want to fuck you.”

“You do?” You ask, voice laced with a barely restrained frustration.

“I want to strip you bare and fuck you. Right. Now.”

“How badly?” You bat your eyelashes at him coquettishly. It’s almost impossible to curb the lingering wisps of excitement brewing low in your stomach.

“So fucking bad,” he groans, gnawing at his bottom lips anxiously. “B-But not today… I want it to be done properly.”

You sulk blatantly, tugging at his hair again.

Cupping your cheeks, he lowers his forehead to meet yours and chuckles, “It has to be somewhere perfect for you. N-Not in my captain’s dirty ass room.”

“But Kook,” you protest with a whine and press yourself against him. His entire body tenses up when your cold hands begin to roam, slipping underneath his shirt and tracing the hot flesh of his chiselled abs.

“God, you’re such a tease. Fuck you.”

The desperation in Jungkook’s voice is shameless and he’s this to close to surrendering at the hands of your intoxicated dirty self.

“Please do,” you whimper frivolously against his neck, licking at the tender exposed skin. The heat between your legs is so intense that it’s starting to ache with need.

“Y/N—”

“Fuck, I fucking love your thighs.”

It must be the alcohol talking, but fuck it. You’re going to follow your heart’s desire.

“W-What?”

He stiffens underneath when your nimble fingers graze along the inside of this thighs.

“Do you know how distracting your thighs are when you wear those volleyball shorts?”

“You were staring at my thighs?” The teasing lilt caressing the edges of his voice doesn’t escape your ears.

“Your thighs are fucking thick. It’s too tempting to look away.”

The winning moment of liquid courage takes over your brain completely and you can’t help but moan unabashedly when Jungkook’s fingers slip under your dress, grazing your skin languidly.

“I-I want to ride your thigh.”

There. You said it, embarrassment drowned in giddy anticipation and longing ages ago.

Jungkook grunts despairingly. Every single nerve-ending of his is aflame, skin tingling with ferocious desire.

You are going to the bane of his existence.

“Please?” You beg wantonly, aching to be touched.

In sly discretion, you press your thighs together, desperate for some sort of friction that will make your throbbing need easier to bear and Jungkook clicks his tongue in fake annoyance, shooting you a glare when he realises what you’re doing.

“Fuck, Y/N. You’re trying to kill me. I’ve had a hard-on ever since you arrived.”

You giggle, noticing how his normally-doe eyes darken with rampant lust and you rub your thighs even more.

“You’re so fucking pretty. So beautiful. Fuck my life.”

He rolls his lower half suggestively, allowing you to detail the thick profile of his length – underneath lies a furious red begging to be touched and sucked.

“Ride my thigh,” he instructs, eyes glassy with lust and desire, inducing another wave of lechery to consume your insides.

Without any hesitation, you adjust your position on his thigh to make yourself at home, torso melding against his and this fucking turns you on like no other. Eyes rolled back into your head, you start to grind on his thigh, shuddering blissfully at the hard ridges of muscles against your dripping core.

Pleased with your reaction, he flexes his thighs with a satisfied smirk and a shiver traverses your entire body, leaving you with a spasm of nerves. You wail his name out loud – knowing that the others outside probably can’t hear it and your whimpers increase in volume and pitch when his fingers linger around the elastic of your panties, before palming your ass cheeks to anchor you closer to him.

You moan at his touch, begging for more. The wetness in between your thighs has long ruined your underwear and Jungkook’s jeans.

“Fuck, your ass,” he grunts loudly from the back of his throat, finding purchase on your ass cheeks and kneading them with a vice-like and desperate grip.

“The guys were talking about how cute your ass is and I told them to shut the fuck up. Do you know how fucking hard I get when you bend over to pick up the volleyballs? I always have to spend hours jerking off after practice.”

You moan in response, light-headed from the mental image. Jacking off in the locker room is not anything new or a taboo among the guys. But Jungkook always spends a longer time than the others in the cubicle to curb the pulsating urges between his legs. The mere thought of you, innocently batting your long lashes at him and being so intimate with him, has always been enough to make him cum.

Wiped over by another intense surge of lust, you grow an ardent urge to touch him more. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants to see in this world, it’s like a battle of waits between predator and prey, but you are lucidly aware of what you want.

Slipping your hand between your bodies, your fingers trail down from his toned abs to graze against the prominent outline of his clothed bulge and it grows to its full hardness almost immediately from your touch. You haven’t even seen his dick yet, but fuck, you really, really want a taste of Jungkook’s dick.

“I-I want your dick. So bad. Please, Jungkookie. Please?”

You’re so filthy that you don’t even recognise yourself. Moving your hand along his length, you stroke him through the two layers of material, but you can still feel the heat of his cock against your palm. Just as you’re about to unzip his jeans, he stops you to your disappointment.

“No, not today,” he manages to breathe out, nearly at his wit’s end. His voice is about to crack from his insatiable hunger for you, while you groan despondently in response.

Jungkook’s fingers trace along the length of your neck until they find their way into your hair and run through them as he leans down to the crook of your neck. You shiver when his breaths coast on the exposed skin of your throat before he nips gingerly on your skin, soft one moment and dirty the next, relishing how it makes you jump.

God, he can smell you at this proximity. Your favourite citrus and lavender scent. He stifles a laugh at how you can still smell so tantalisingly innocent when you’re so fucking needy for him. His dick grows even harder, turned on by the stark difference in your character and this makes it even harder for him to prevent blowing his load there and then.

He desperately wants to pin you down, strip you bare, explore your body in all of its magnificence, memorise every crevice of your body and then fuck your brains out till his name is the only thing you know. But he needs to hold himself back, not wanting it done sloppily at a party and especially not when you’re drunk, but he’s this close to joining the dark side.

White stars begin to dot the edges of his vision.

He digs his fingers into your waist to press you closer to him, thigh bouncing rhythmically so your clit brushes against a different area of his toned thigh each time. It brings a euphoric sensation to your core, the tingles spreading fast and sending you near delirious. A writhing wreck, you can only fall limp against his chest, muffling your stuttering whimpers. You wish he’d let you come apart with his fingers, but the way he’s grinding his thigh up against your clit is intoxicating enough, much more than the alcohol in your blood.

“That’s it,” he smirks, watching you grind your hips back and forth with a lustful gaze and you reach up to kiss his neck to exhibit your high.

“You like this?”

“Fucking,” you mewl wantonly, tugging at his tousled locks. The heat radiating from Jungkook’s body burns addictively and sharp intakes of air occur against your lips, leaving your throat to run dry. “Love it.”

He grins at your honesty, more spurred to make you feel good. Tonight, it’s all about you and your pleasure. Hovering over him, you let your mouth hang open and inhale each other in. His breath coasts on your cheeks when he pulls away for air, only to dive back into the pristine juncture of your throat, attacking the delicate skin, searching and starving. He doesn’t stop sucking and running his tongue across your skin till your neck is painted with lilac bruises, till he’s satisfied with his very own masterpiece.

“J-Jungkook, please.”

With a predatory gaze, he watches how your breasts bounce with each rock of your hips and leans south to trail his tongue down your cleavage. You hook your arm around his neck, soft whimpers leaving your mouth when the pleasure overpowers you till you can’t even find your voice. Jungkook hums in satisfaction, burying his face into your chest.

Discovering the pleasant weight of your breasts and the firm peaks of your nipples against his calloused palms, he kneads them hungrily, fuelling the growing pressure that’s culminating in the pit of your stomach.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so hot.”

A combination of a hoarse moan and gasp is strangled out of Jungkook’s throat from the depths of his lungs. His spine straightens as his body locks up over the sudden onslaught of pleasure. The slick noises of your folds against his thigh are almost deafening now, filthy to the core, but not as erotic as your moans. He honestly can’t believe this is happening, after his many fantasies of being this intimate with you.

“Jungkook,” you moan shamelessly when the coil inside you grows tighter and tighter, hotter and hotter. “I’m cl-close.”

“Come for me, baby.”

The smallest of smirks tugs at the corner of his mouth when he runs a finger down your clothed core, further tightening that coil in your belly. You feel so vulnerable under his command, but his dominance lights up your nerves like fireworks. You fucking love it.

Jungkook’s leg starts bouncing faster and the otherworldly sensation sends you over the edge. Your nails dig deeper into his biceps to stable yourself as your legs begin to shake, stomach knotting. You choke back a sob as you jerk your hips up, moaning an incoherent string of curse words and his name all mixed in one. The sight of your lovely face hovers over his, your swollen mouth hanging apart, eyes half-lidded in a torrent of bliss and neck messily painted in purple bruises.

Jungkook holds your hips down to help you with your high, whispering sweet praises into your ear as his hands stroke your sides. He lifts his leg ever so slightly, dragging the hard muscles against your core once again until you snap your eyes shut, your entire body briefly locked up and dispersed into a series of erratic spasms.

The idyllic blinding white fades to only a shimmer at the edges of your eyes. You slump forward, burying your face into his chest. Seconds after, he follows suit, coming untouched in his pants.

Head still buried in his chest, Jungkook wraps his arms around you to engulf you in a tight hug. He breathes heavily against his work of art on your neck and jerks up when reality hits him square in the face.

Your breath is still ragged in your lungs, forehead rested on his shoulder as he gently rubs comforting circles on your back. You’ve ridden off most of the intoxication, but you still can’t think straight. Not when Jungkook is nipping at the soft lobe of your ear, an attempt to coax you into relaxing.

“That was… wow.”

He breaks the silence with a sheepish smile as he pushes the messy strands of your hair away from your face, gingerly running his thumb over your rubescent cheeks. He leans his head down to meet your forehead, brushing the tip of his nose with yours.

“Yeah,” you breathe out softly and he can hear the gears turning frantically in your mind.

“You don’t… regret it, do you? Fuck, I’m so sorry… We’re both drunk and I shouldn—”

“No! Of course not,” you shake your head, “I-I liked it.”

“You liked it?” From the lilt that caresses the edges of his voice, he’s clearly enjoying this.

“Urgh, shut the hell up!”

Even in his post-snogging and thigh-riding state, he still looks incredible. He’s just so delicate and nice to you that it’s almost unreal – it’s like being in a dream. He looks at you like you hold the stars in the night sky with utter adoration, before pecking a soft kiss on your forehead.

At this very moment, you realise that you’re irrevocably, hopelessly and unabashedly in love with him and there’s no turning back, not when the stars in his eyes are twinkling with nothing but love.

Jungkook and you aren’t exactly a thing. Not yet. Sure, you guys hang out exclusively and all like before, but neither of you has popped the question or sat down to delve into the daunting topic of Feelings.

The morning after, both of you wake up to tangled limbs, bad morning breaths, bashful smiles and memories of last night’s dalliance. He tells you to give him some time because honestly, he thinks he needs all the time he can have to ensure that he does this relationship thingy properly with you. The last thing he would want is to fuck things up with you. And you tell him that you’ll wait for him, because you know how hard things have been on him. Juggling between volleyball and school work is tough enough, so you don’t want to give him more pressure.

However, you realise that there have been several changes regarding the way he acts with and around you. Whether it’s because of that intimate night or stress from volleyball (or both), Jungkook has become so much touchier with you – he’s always wanting to hold your hand and keeping you by his side. Displaying of affection is also more common in front of his teammates, but it’s not like you have anything against it. He probably needs more attention and affection since the season is only days away.

After a series of friendlies, the season has finally begun and the boys have never been readier, all prepared to be crowned as champions. With your clipboard attached to your hand, you unwaveringly multitask between watching the semi-final match and taking down notes for the boys.

Their semi-final match is with Yonsei University. While you’re pale in the face standing at the sidelines, the boys are determined and embody a degree of calmness on the court, their nerves submerged by the jolts of adrenaline. They’ve got the upper hand with Yonsei and their win is guaranteed, but it’s impossible not to feel anxious.

The crowd cheers as Jungkook tosses the ball to Taehyung at a calculated height and precision and the latter spikes it down before their opponents even have time to blink. The incident from last month comes to mind. You’re glad that he has learnt to have more confidence and trust in himself and his teammates, though he dedicates this improvement to you and your calming presence.

"You're at set-point, so please focus. And don't do anything dumb," you tease, placing your hands on your hips and faking a scowl at him as he unblinkingly hovers over you. You remember how you used to be afraid by their builds, but you’ve grown slightly accustomed after awhile, though there’s one thing that you think you’ll never get used to: the way Jungkook looks at you with stars dancing in his eyes.

“I’m kidding, kiddo. You’ll do well like always, okay? I know you will. Now go there and kick some ass.”

He nods and downs the water bottle that you’ve handed to him before pouring the remaining over his head. His action doesn’t surprise you anymore as you already have a towel ready to wipe him dry.

But what takes you aback is when he grabs you by your shoulders and leans down to meet your eyes. You open your mouth, ready to lament about him touching you with his clammy hands, but retract upon seeing the change in Jungkook’s demeanour.

Despite the loud cheers from all four directions, Jungkook can hear his heart racing loudly in his ears. Just before the whistle pierces through the court to signal the end of time-out, he traces your jaw with his fingertips and whispers into your ear, his mellifluous voice softer than snow, “I have something that I need to tell you after the game.”

Tinges of affection waltzes with the stars in his pupils. He looks at you like you hold his entire world on the tips of your fingers, like he just needs you for everything to be okay.

Lacing your fingers together, warmth seeps from his palm into yours like a soft, comforting hum and you know exactly what he wants to tell you.

“Okay, I’ll be waiting here.”

With a sliver of hope, he jogs back to the court. It’s now his turn to serve. With that same palm that just held yours, he gallantly performs the best serve of his life, one that spirals off his palm to shoot through the hole between the other team’s back line, clinching a safe spot for SNU in the finals.

After five long sets, SNU wins Yonsei by a landslide and the team gets an evening off before they resume practice the next day. Jungkook seizes this chance to take you out for dinner, somewhere that isn’t at the convenience store.

The sky is already soaked in sparse hues of navy and black, and the silence of the night becomes even more endearing due to Jungkook’s mere presence by your side. He’s nervous, you can tell, even more than this morning, from the way he’s bouncing nervously on the balls of his shoes, as though he’s about to combust.

His vision zones in on how your bottom lip is caught between your teeth – a habit of yours whenever you’re unsure, so he takes you into his arms and intertwines your fingers together. You relax involuntarily when he starts rubbing circles onto your palm.

Jungkook cranes his neck up, lips grazing the shell of your ear and you shudder at his warm breath fanning against your skin, inviting the rise of gooseflesh to scatter all over your neck.

He wraps one hand around your waist and looks deeply into your orbs, as though he’s spellbound by the iridescent glint in your eyes and the roses flaring up across your cheeks under the sliver of moonlight.

And in the velvet of the summer night, he gingerly whispers, with utter adoration swelling his chest to the size of the moon. The words that you have repeatedly dreamed of him to say. The words that you’ve been wanting to tell him. The words that have been trapped hidden behind his heart for the longest time.

“I love you.”

You feel the warmth of Jungkook’s palms cradling your blushing features, while he strokes your cheeks with his thumb.

“Kook,” you breathe out softly.

“I love you, Y/N.”

He repeats in a tone three notches deeper, paired with an earnestness that gets your heart ricocheting in your ribcage.

“I knew there was something about you when you joined us on the first day… And I confirmed it after sacrificing my own nose.”

“Sacrifice? You mean it was on purpose?” A sparkle of mirth glimmers in your eyes under the hazy yellow light.

“I normally don’t get distracted, but I couldn’t help but get upset when you came back into the court laughing with Seokjin-hyung. I was still staring at you when I got hit on the face.”

“You’re so silly, but at least your boopy nose is still cute. I love your nose.”

“And my thighs, right?”

You blush fervently at the memory of that night.

“Fuck Y/N, I just confessed to you and all you do is tell me that you love my nose,” he laughs, his thumb still rubbing circles onto your cheek.

Your lips curl up into a smile. “Kiss me?”

“I will give you the entire world if you asked me to.”

His whisper is so earnest and affectionate that it makes you feel like melting.

In a graceful sweep, he pulls you closer by the hips, finding purchase on your waist. The first touch is similar to the caress of a feather, so light that you could barely feel it. The tip of his tongue skims over the rosy flesh of your bottom lip, eliciting goosebumps that tingle along the nape of your neck. You close your eyes, feeling like you’re plummeting into a bottomless pit.

Jungkook’s lips are soft, a little chapped, as they meld to yours. He kisses you like he hasn’t kissed you before, like it’s your first time being completely vulnerable to each other, like planets condemned by gravity to collide.

Images of him moaning shamelessly beneath you as you grind on his thigh and him kneading your ass get completely fizzed out of your memory. You can only think of him kissing you, how tenderly he’s holding onto you, how sweet his lips taste onto yours and how sincere he is on stealing your breath.

You can only think of how the objection of your affection is coruscating before you as he sprinkles his personal collection of stardust onto your lips, with a love so blazingly radiant that it rivals the intensity of the sun.

You feel golden.

Like you’re lying on a bed of sunflowers, drifting alongside the movement of summer’s light towards glistening honey.

A whimper lodges itself in your throat, bubbling against Jungkook’s lips and even in the darkness behind your eyelids, you can vividly picture the crescent of his smile forming against your lips.

The tip of his tongue prods at the seam of your lips and you part your lips to let him in entirely. You reach out and caress the nape of his neck to deepen the kiss, jumping slightly in surprise when his fingers splay gingerly over your waist, tugging at the hem at your shirt languidly. Your mind has long become a labyrinth of little streets that you have difficulty navigating, sent into a turmoil by how sweet his love tastes. It’s insane how much you yearn for his burning touch.

You inch away slowly and your eyes land on his, now glistening with solar debris that sends instant palpitations to your heart. He stares at you longingly, like he can’t believe that you’re really here in front of him, cocooned up against his body and adoration swells in his chest. He feels like combusting, but he also feels like hugging you and having you all to himself till the end of time.

“You know how I feel for you, right?” You mumble, looking deep into his orbs.

Jungkook notices how your bottom lip is taut between your teeth and the hint of a blush is still glowing effervescently on your cheeks. You’re beautiful. A visual spectacle, a sight to behold. You’re so beautiful that his chest constricts, lungs taking a sparse second to remember how to fucking breathe normally again.

“Remind me?” He whispers back.

You let out a giggle at how ardently Jungkook is gazing at you and how lovely he looks right now, exhilaration gleaming like a kaleidoscope of stars in his eyes.

This time, you lean in, planting your lips on the rosy flesh on his mouth and he softens. Kissing him is akin to drinking hot chocolate on a rainy winter day, snuggling under your warm quilt after a long day and dancing in the rain. It feels like weaving through time and space.

Pulling away, he lets out another one of his boyish laughs, tugging at your heartstrings for the umpteenth time that night before dusting kisses over every inch of your blushing features, exhaling words of love against your skin. You see galaxies sprawled all over in the darkness of your closed eyelids.

“I love you Jeon Jungkook,” you breathe out, gracing the shell of his ear. “I love you so much and I swear by the stars in your eyes.”

“Are you… wearing Jungkook’s jersey from last season or are my eyes playing tricks on me?” Hoseok quips, eyebrows raised.

“Oh.”

You look down at your attire – Jungkook’s old jersey and a pair of denim jeans. “Yeah, he made me wear it and now I feel like some frat boy’s hoe.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you. Hell knows what the kid did while wearing that jersey, probably jerked off in it like a million times. Oh and he also sweats a lot – I know it’s been washed and all, but it’s literally a sweat-drenched shirt. Unless you’re into that kink…? Like Jungkook’s sweat? Hit me up, baby.”

You throw the nearest object at him – your clipboard, clocking him square in the chest, though the boy remains unperturbed.

“Listen, I’m really happy that you’re here with us. You’ve been with us for only three months, but you’ve been of such great help to the team and we all really appreciate you being here. So yeah, thank you?”

“It’s so weird that you’re being nice to me,” you chortle. “But no worries, dude. I somehow like suffering, so I like being the team’s manager.”

“Well, you have Jungkook now – take it as a thank you gift from the team, won’t you? He’s a good human sacrifice for the satanic you,” Hoseok waggles his eyebrows greasily.

“Fuck off,” you sneer back, rolling your eyes.

“Jungkook is a great guy, really, even though he’s an overgrown, emo baby bunny,” he quotes himself and you recall what happened the first time you met Jungkook. “But I’m just really happy for the both of you.”

Time really doesn’t wait for no one.

Amidst a whirlwind of tiring training sessions, worn-out limbs and bottles of protein shakes, three months have come and gone in a blink of an eye. Your first season with the volleyball team is approaching an end.

It’s finally D-day and everyone has been waiting for this since forever – their final match with Hanyang University.

The game passes in flashes of white, alongside the voices of excitement and desperation, hand signs and bruises that stacked up quicker than their attacks. They're ferociously neck and neck with Hanyang – both teams are refusing to relent, tightening up their plays and leaving fewer and fewer loopholes in their game as they vie for match point of their fifth and final set.

Your lips are probably chapped from biting on them, bearing the brunt of anxiety, as you continue to chant please, please let them win to yourself.

A risky ball returns to your side of the court and your heart stops at the difficulty of receiving it, but Jimin slides across the court in time and manages to save it, hollering loudly, “Chance ball!”

He digs it towards where Jungkook is poised, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and everyone drops into their ready positions, all eyes on the ball and set to put an end to the intense rally.

It’s only a matter of milliseconds before the ball falls into the cupped hands of the golden setter who then pushes it back up in the air, quick and effortless, to an altitude that complements the height of Hoseok’s jump. Without even the slightest of delays, the captain is up on his feet and stretches his hand to slam the ball down ruthlessly.

His smack sends it rocketing towards the other side of the court and his opponents scramble to receive it. It brushes against their libero’s forearm, but it’s almost impossible to save it from the speed and force it’s flying at, and meets the floor with a satisfying thwack of finality. Everyone freezes all at once with hitched breathes, eyes glued to how the ball dribbles obstinately in a slow motion, before rolling away from the perimeter of the court.

The last whistle breaks the static silence to announce the finality. Everyone turns to the score chart – 28 to 26.

There and then, the gym erupts into a positive torrent of roars and it takes a few prolonged seconds before reality hits Jungkook right in the face.

SNU won the championships.

They won the season!

Consciousness comes streaming back to the players after awhile. Yoongi is the first to scream, unexpectedly, with a loud fuck yeah and this snaps everyone out of their trance. Jimin’s reaction comes next, falling to his knees to do his signature slide, both fists pumped in the air as he snarls, “We fucking won!”

The players then tackle one another into a tight group hug, all smiling triumphantly and throwing their fists up in excitement. The sound of cheering from the crowd sends a tingle up their spines and it feels so fucking good.

Coach Kim is already on his feet, running towards them with the proudest smile you’ve ever seen on him and you’re about to follow suit, until you see Jungkook break away from the huddle and barrel towards you at a speed too fast for your comprehension.

Smiling at how his face is lit up like the stars in his eyes, you throw your arms wide open and he dives into your embrace, hot tears brimming at the edges of both your eyes. He engulfs you into the tightest hug he’s ever given anyone and you wrap your arms around his waist, heart swelling with pride.

He feels like the dew on a perfectly bloomed rose in your comforting arms as he nuzzles further into the crook of your neck, relishing the warmth of your lithe body against his.

“Kook! You did it, oh my god!” You scream in joy, but your repeated words of congratulations get muffled by his broad chest.

He leans back to take a look, a really good look of your beaming face that screams nothing but pride and love, before scooping you up in a graceful sweep and twirling you around, simply because words cannot describe how happy he feels.

A soft, feather-light peck is then pressed on your ear and a blush makes camp on your cheeks. His warmth leaves your skin after a fleeting second, the cool air of the sports hall rushing back to stroke the flaming blush on your cheeks.

Still riding the high from their win, he then leans in to kiss the beam from your lips and the open display of affection makes your heart burst in your chest. Behind you two, the entire volleyball is wolf-whistling and applauding raucously. Jungkook scrunches his nose in embarrassment at how all his teammates and Coach are gawking at the two of you, but really, he cannot find any damns to give.

Red-faced and bright-eyed, the champions of the season make their way out of the court with a steady, triumphant gait, their bodies pumped with a brew of adrenaline and slight exhaustion. Lagging at the back of the team is Jungkook and you in your own little bubble. His fingers are interlaced firmly with yours and he registers that his heart will forever and always be set on you.

In his eyes, you see stars. You see yourself. You see the two of you.

You see love.

For the nth time that day, Jungkook leans in to meet your lips and he knows very well that this is the sweetest victory he will ever taste in his life.

Note | If you’re reading this, hi there love! ♡ Thank you so much for reading my first piece on this site. If you liked it, hit that like or reblog button or/and hmu with feedback or talk to me here – it’ll really make my day ♡ This was beta-ed by Ali @gukseuphoria and J @glitterjjk – thank you for being my first beta readers! There’ll be more stories coming your way, check out my WIPs for more! 💫💛✨

(A special shoutout to Ayv @piedpipers for being my first friend here and for always believing in me and hyping me up 👭🌞🌸💖)

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