#i really think something is wrong with me

[ggukivrse]

JUST THIS… TWICE? | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff

word count: 8.3k

warnings: more porn but with a tiny bit more plot :0, swearing, explicit sexual content, car sex, kissing, making out, oral (f. receiving), again he’s very cocky but can we blame him, breast play, multiple orgasms, banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk's actually a menace but lowkey down bad, the ending deserves a warning (i’m sorryy), let me know if i missed anything!

notes: thank you SAURR much to my bae j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! (i’m still giggling at all ur comments pls :3) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angelss <3

ps. READ PART ONE HERE!!

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You wake up to the dull throb of sunlight pressing through your curtains and the sharper ache between your legs.

It's not unpleasant — just a lingering reminder. A hum under your skin, like a bruise you don’t mind touching again and again.

You blink slowly, your eyes gritty from sleep, mouth dry, brain hazy in that half-dream state where everything feels like it could be made up. The heavy comforter is kicked down to your hips, your legs tangled in each other, and for a second — just one — you think maybe it was a dream.

But then you shift, and your thighs protest, and it all comes back.

The couch. His fingers. His mouth. The way he looked at you like he’d already had you a thousand times in his head. The things he said — low, teasing, mean. The things you said back. Your stomach tightens, breath hitching as your body tries to replay it too fast, too much.

You squeeze your eyes shut and will your brain to shut up.

You don’t usually let people sleep over. Not like this. Not in your bed, under your sheets, in your space.

But Jungkook’s always been the exception to things. It’s not new, waking up with him in your apartment. He’s been here for movie nights that turned into sleepovers, for hangovers that turned into late mornings, for heartbreaks that turned into shared pints of ice cream and shit talk.

You’ve seen him in your space more times than you can count. But never like this.

You breathe in slow and exhale even slower, eyes fluttering open. The room is still, the air thick with the kind of silence that begs to be broken but doesn’t quite want to be. You shift again, turning onto your side, and your eyes land on the shape beside you.

He’s lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across your pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The blanket’s halfway down his back, exposing the mess of tattoos curling across his shoulder and the dip of his spine. His hair’s a wreck — pushed off his forehead, flattened in the back — and his lips are parted, soft. He looks young like this. Calm. A little too good for your peace of mind.

You stare at him a moment too long.

And then you very, very carefully roll onto your back again.

You feel like you’re in a minefield. Like one wrong move will detonate something you're not ready to name.

You slept with your best friend.

Not just slept. Fucked.

Fucked him like you meant it. Like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

You exhale again. A sharp, quiet puff of air through your nose. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll just keep sleeping. And you can sneak to the bathroom. Or back in time. Whichever’s easier.

You’re not panicking. Not technically. You’re just… thinking. Overthinking. Remembering how you sounded begging him not to stop. Remembering how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. Remembering how, when it was over, he held you like it meant something.

You feel his warmth next to you, steady and real. His leg brushes yours, his knee nudging slightly against your calf, and your whole body goes still again.

You wonder what he's going to say when he wakes up; if he'll still smile at you like he did last night — like nothing about this is complicated. Like your world didn’t tilt just a little off its axis the second he kissed you back, like he wasn't allowed to and never planned on stopping.

You should feel weird. You should feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or something more than this weird, electric calm.

But mostly, you just feel like you don’t want to move.

His breathing shifts — subtle, but enough that you know he’s starting to wake up.

Your heart trips a little.

He shifts, and the arm he’d slung over your pillow curls slightly in, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He lets out a groggy hum, the noise half in his throat.

You freeze, eyes still closed.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

You swallow. Your voice doesn’t come right away, caught somewhere behind your tongue. When it does, it’s soft, a rasp. “No idea.”

He exhales. Shuffles a little closer. You can feel the heat of him now, bleeding through the sliver of space that still separates you. A moment passes. Then another. You brace for it — for the tension, the shift, the stammered joke to smooth over the jagged memory of last night.

But all he says is, “Damn. My back hurts.”

You blink, startled by the normalcy of it. “You’re not supposed to sleep like that. You looked like a crime scene victim.”

“Sexy,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “That’s what I was going for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. And weirdly, the knot in your stomach loosens just a little.

Another silence stretches. But it’s not bad. Not heavy. He makes a small sound as he shifts again, propping himself up just slightly on one elbow. You don’t look at him, not yet, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“How do you feel?”

You hesitate.

He waits.

You turn your head slowly toward him, and finally meet his gaze. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still sleep-warm, but there’s something sharper under the surface. Not regret. Not even nerves. Just… attention. He’s watching you the way he did last night — carefully. Like you matter.

You chew your lip for a second. "Sore," you eventually say, voice quiet.

He smiles. “Good sore or bad sore?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want a Yelp review?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, if you’re offering. I’d love a star rating.”

You stare at him for another second. Then you snort, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re such a dick.”

“You didn’t mind last night.”

You groan, muffled. “Please don't. It's too early for this.”

He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it wash over you like a warm breeze. He’s not weird about it. Not cagey or distant. And maybe it’s a little disarming how himself he still is. Like nothing’s changed.

Like everything has, but it’s fine.

He shifts again, flops onto his back beside you with a loud sigh and an arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover and this smug at the same time. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Your ego’s going to explode.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you blame me? I mean, damn.”

You roll your eyes and toss a corner of the blanket over his face.

But your heart’s still racing.

You don’t know what you were expecting — some awkward shuffle out of bed, a strained goodbye, maybe even him pretending it hadn’t happened. But he’s still here. In your bed. In your space. Making you laugh.

Just like always.

Your fingers brush against his under the covers. Neither of you pull away.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting yourself breathe. Letting the silence settle between you again. It feels different now, not loud with questions or demanding anything from you.

It feels like… him.

And maybe you’re not ready to ask what it means yet.

But for now?

This doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not even a little.

You’re standing outside your office building, arms crossed and scowling.

The sidewalk’s sticky with the leftover heat of the day, and there’s a cluster of your co-workers behind you laughing about something you’re not a part of. Their voices blur into the honks and hum of Friday traffic, and all you can focus on is the time.

Jungkook is two minutes late.

You know how stupid it is — two minutes. But today, even two seconds of anything feels like too much.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the back of your neck damp with sweat, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder in just the wrong way. Your phone sits heavy in your palm. No new messages. No “almost there.” No “sorry, traffic’s ass.”

Nothing.

The week has wrung you out like a wet towel. Every day, some new tiny disaster: deadlines moving without warning, your boss micromanaging you like you’re an intern again, and a meeting yesterday where a client talked over you so many times you wanted to crawl under the table and scream.

You’ve barely slept. Your eyes are scratchy. You snapped at someone in the break room this morning because they made a passive-aggressive joke about your “resting bitch face.” And now, Jungkook is late. On your day. Friday. The one consistent thing in your life.

Every Friday, he picks you up from work.

It started almost a year ago, after a breakup left you crying into your salad at your desk. When Jungkook had texted you to come down that day, you'd expected takeout and tissues. But instead, he’d cranked up the music in his car and driven you to a late-night ramen spot where you ended up laughing so hard you nearly choked on your noodles.

It became tradition. No matter what kind of week you’d had, no matter what mood either of you were in — Friday nights belonged to you two. You didn’t even have to plan anything. Sometimes it was tacos in the car and talking shit about your co-workers. Sometimes it was video games at his place or walking around the city until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He always showed up. Early, even.

But today, the sun is setting in your eyes, and he’s late.

You tap your foot. Then stop, because that’s annoying. Then sigh loud enough to get a look from a passing stranger.

You grip your phone tighter, squinting down the street. Still no sign of his car. Your thumb hovers over the call button.

Three minutes late now.

Your stomach twists — not from worry, but frustration. Because this — this quiet, unnecessary delay — is the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been your entire week. And you hate that it’s him. That even Jungkook gets to be a part of the unravelling now.

You lean against the metal pole of the bus sign, letting it bite into your spine. A bead of sweat slips down your back. The sun is way too bright for this hour.

Your phone buzzes.

Finally.

You snatch it up like you’ve been waiting for a lifeline, and there it is:

Kook 🍜: here in a min

You glare at the screen. Then type:

You: You’re late.

Kook 🍜: exactly 3 min. that’s barely anything

You: You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to castrate you.

Kook 🍜: bet you'll still get in the car

You don’t respond.

You just shove your phone back in your bag and take a breath that doesn’t do anything to help.

Jungkook’s car pulls up slow, music low, window already halfway down. He’s in that stupid black bucket hat he always wears, curls pushed out from under the brim. You catch the grin he’s wearing before he even says anything — wide, lazy, like he’s proud just to have found parking.

He leans over and calls out through the window, “Damn. Which poor intern did you kill today?”

You glare at him.

His smile falters a little, but he keeps going, still trying to crack you open like usual. “I mean, you’re kinda glowing with hate. It’s kinda hot. Very—”

“Jungkook,” you cut in, sharp.

His eyes snap up to yours.

You immediately hate how sharp your voice came out. You look away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a beat. “I just… I’ve had a fucking awful week, and I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.”

There’s a pause. Just the hum of the engine and a soft beat coming from the speakers — some song with a lazy bassline and breathy vocals.

Then he shifts. You hear the click of the lock before he leans over to push the door open for you. “Get in.”

You do. Without arguing.

The cool air hits your face the second the door closes, and you let your head lean back against the seat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just starts driving, hands loose on the wheel, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth like he’s thinking.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually, softer this time.

You shake your head. “Not really. Just one of those weeks where everything goes to shit in slow motion. Work, people, the world. My brain. I think I hate everyone.”

He hums. “Cool. We can start a club.”

You huff a laugh, just barely. But it’s something.

He glances at you sideways, like he’s measuring how far he can push. “So when do I get to punch your boss?”

“I’m serious, Kook.”

“I'm serious too! I’ve been doing push-ups.”

You snort, against your will. “You do three push-ups and call it training.”

“First of all, way more than three. Second, the form was perfect. Don’t disrespect me in my own car.”

You smile — tiny, fleeting — but it’s the first time today you’ve felt even remotely human.

“Thanks for picking me up,” you murmur after a second. “Even if you were late.”

“Exactly three minutes,” he says, defensive. “And I was texting you while driving, which is dedication. Illegal, but dedication.”

You glance over at him. He’s wearing his usual all-black like he’s trying to look tough, but the corners of his mouth are soft. His grip on the wheel is loose. Familiar. Like this is just another Friday, like nothing’s changed since last week.

But something has. You feel it.

You clear your throat. “Can we just go back to mine? I kind of want to curl into a blanket and pretend I don’t exist.”

“Nope,” he says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of plan?”

He just grins, eyes still on the road. “You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to god, if this ends with me getting roped into karaoke—”

“No karaoke,” he says with a laugh, holding up one hand solemnly. “I promise. You’ve suffered enough.”

You sigh and let your head fall against the window. The glass is cool against your temple, and you let your eyes slip closed for a second. “I’m serious though, Kook. I really don’t think I have the energy to be around people right now.”

“No people,” he assures you. “Just us. Little detour. Nothing dramatic.”

You peek one eye open at him. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being nice.”

“That’s what’s weird.”

He smirks. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You fall quiet again. The road noise fills the silence, the gentle whir of tires and the low pulse of the bass. It’s soothing in a way, the way riding with him always is.

Your fingers drift to your lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t ask again about your week. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, fingers tapping to the beat of the music.

You glance at him again.

He looks good when he’s focused but relaxed. The way he hums along to the music without realising. The way the light paints the side of his face gold as it streams through the windshield. You feel it crawl up your chest: that annoying, warm pressure. That thing you haven’t named yet.

That thing you’re starting to feel more often when he’s near you.

And it’s so stupid. So inconvenient.

You stare out the window, try to shake it off.

He turns down a street you don’t recognise.

“Seriously,” you say, finally. “Where are we going?”

He just grins again, eyes still forward.

“You’ll see.”

You’re parked at the top of a hill you didn’t know existed.

Below you, the city stretches out — tiny glints of light catching on glass and metal, and cars threading through the streets like slow-moving ants. It’s not some tourist lookout spot. There’s no crowds, no fences or coin-operated telescopes. Just a dusty turnout on the side of a winding road and a view that makes you feel like the world finally shut up for a minute.

It’s quiet up here. Real quiet. Even the music in the car has been turned down to a soft background hum — just instrumental now.

You’ve got a milkshake in your hands, condensation slipping down the side and catching on your fingers. It’s thick and rich, the kind that takes actual effort to sip through a straw. The sweetness coats your tongue, dulls the bitter edge that’s been living in your chest all week. In your lap is the discarded wrapping of a burger so good you had to ask where the hell it came from.

“I’ve literally never heard of this place,” you say around a mouthful of fries. “Is this one of those ‘secret menu, don’t tell anyone or they’ll kill you’ joints?”

Jungkook grins around his own bite, sauce already on the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. The guy who owns it doesn’t even do social media. Total off-the-grid.”

You nod like that explains the magic burger. “They probably sold their soul to the devil for the recipes or something.”

He laughs, mouth full, and leans over to wipe the sauce off with the back of his hand. “You okay now?”

You pause.

The question isn’t heavy. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it — just stares out at the view like he’s asking casually. But you hear the real version underneath. You always hear it with him.

You take a slow sip of your milkshake before answering.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

And for once, it’s not a lie. Your body still feels wrung out, your muscles sore from being tense for too many days in a row, but something about this — about being here, with him, with real food and fake silence and a breeze that smells like clean air and french fries settles something in you.

You glance over. He’s sitting back against the driver’s side door, one knee propped up. His hat’s on the floor somewhere — he'd thrown it off after complaining about the heat — and the curve of his neck is exposed just enough to distract you when you look too long.

Which you are. Looking too long, again.

“So,” you say, casually. “How many women have you brought up here to seduce with mystery burgers and pretty views?”

He snorts. “You’re the first. Most of my dates prefer the classic ‘come over and watch a movie, but don’t actually watch the movie’ route.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Such effort.”

“Right? I’m kind of romantic like that.”

You toss a fry at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in his tray.

He doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up and eats it. “Thanks.”

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs on your lips.

The air settles into a rhythm again. You chew slowly, the kind of silence between you that doesn’t need filling. It's never been hard, being around him. Even now — after everything — you find yourself slipping back into the easy groove of just existing next to him.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t even want to know.

You glance over at him again.

He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.

It should be funny.

It is funny. But your heart stutters instead.

You don’t laugh. You just watch.

The way his lips press together before each bite. The little crease between his eyebrows. His jaw, flexing with each chew. The thick column of his throat when he swallows.

You’ve seen him eat a thousand things in a thousand places. Messy tacos. Gas station snacks. Instant noodles straight from the pot. But somehow, this moment feels different.

Or maybe you do.

Something in you has been tilting all week.

You’ve been tired, angry, brittle with exhaustion. But under it — every time he texts you, looks at you, shows up — there’s something else rising. Warm and low.

You’re not sure when being around him stopped feeling simple.

Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s been creeping in longer. But it’s louder now. Clearer. It fills your throat and sits behind your ribs and presses up against the edges of your self-control.

He licks ketchup from his thumb.

And you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

He glances up and catches you looking, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

You blink. Swallow. Try to think of something else, anything else, but your body’s already too aware. Too wired.

“Would you hate me if I did something?” you ask, voice low.

His head tilts. “What kind of something?”

“Would you?” you repeat, ignoring his question.

He puts his empty milkshake cup and spare tissues into the paper bag you got the food in, then puts it on to the dashboard of the car before meeting your gaze again.

“You know I could never hate you,” he says, voice casual.

Your pulse stutters.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers fist in the front of his shirt and you’re moving across your seat, crashing your mouth into his.

It’s not sweet or delicate.

You kiss him like you’ve been holding it back for weeks. Like you’ve hit your limit and there’s nowhere else for the feeling to go. Your teeth scrape his lip. Your noses bump.

He makes a startled sound, hands finding your waist instinctively. You pull back a bit, heart hammering in your chest, and for a beat, neither of you move. He just stares at you — wide-eyed, lips parted — like he’s trying to memorise this exact second.

His mouth opens and closes for a second before his lips are on yours again, chasing your mouth like he needs you to breathe.

Fuck. You weren't actually expecting him to reciprocate.

Then again, you hadn't been thinking at all.

"This is a horrible idea," you mumble.

Jungkook smiles into the kiss. "Mhm. Terrible."

But neither of you stop. You're not sure you could even if you tried. Jungkook's an addicting man, especially when he's kissing you like this.

You grunt into his mouth when your knee hits the centre console, frustrated — not at him, not at this, but at the fucking layout of his stupid car.

You pull back just far enough to say, breathless, “This car is the worst possible place for this.”

He’s panting a little, lips flushed. “You’re the one who launched yourself at me.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your position to try and get comfortable, but your impatience only grows with every second that your lips aren't on his.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is so—”

“Hot,” Jungkook cuts in, his hand sliding under your shirt to palm your waist. His touch is warm. Steady. “It’s hot.”

You pause. Look at him.

His gaze is on your mouth again and his hand flexes against your skin like he’s trying to stay in control. But you see it — how much effort it’s taking.

And that…

Yeah, that does something to you.

With the help of his hands, your weight sinks down into his lap, both knees straddling his thighs.

The position isn’t comfortable — your head almost knocks the ceiling — but it’s better than before. Your mouths press together again, desperate.

Your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.

One of his hands snakes up your back, under your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to map it. You grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Do that again.”

You do.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to taste everything you’ve never said out loud. You lose your balance for a second, your body leaning into him, your chest flush with his. His hand slips up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.

“Shit,” he says, voice wrecked. “We can’t do this here.”

“Why not?” you murmur, mouth still grazing his.

He laughs — short, breathless. “Because I’m gonna break the gearshift with my dick if we keep going.”

You laugh too, the sound getting lost between the kisses you press to his jaw, his neck, the line of his throat.

His fingers dig into your waist. “You’re evil.”

You bite his earlobe gently. “You like it.”

He groans, the sound full and needy, and his hands are on your ass, dragging you harder into him, his hips rolling up to meet yours.

You both freeze at the contact.

Your breath catches. His does too.

You pull back to look at him. His eyes are blown wide. His lips are red. His chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile.

His mouth breaks from yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

“Backseat,” he says, voice a little raspy.

You blink, still breathless. “What?”

He grabs your waist again, eyes dark with lust pooling in his pupils. “Backseat. Now.”

You don’t question him this time.

You clamber into the back with far less grace than you’d like — knees catching on leather, thigh knocking the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn let out a pathetic chirp. Jungkook laughs behind you, but it’s breathless and reverent, the kind of sound that makes you feel seen. Wanted.

You fall into the back seat, legs tangled, heart hammering, your skin hot beneath your clothes. Before you can even fix your hair or adjust your position, he’s climbing in after you.

His body slots over yours, knee between your thighs, hands bracing on either side of your head as he dives back in.

You fist his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth breaks from yours and moves lower — along your jaw, down your neck. His lips are soft but relentless, nipping at the skin just below your ear before sucking hard enough to make your hips buck into him.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head falling back. “You’re—god—”

“Still not tired of me?” he murmurs against your throat.

You grip his shoulders, legs falling open to make room for him between them. “Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, but he listens. Fingers move to your buttons, surprisingly nimble despite how wrecked he looks. He doesn’t tear anything. Doesn’t rush it. He undoes each one slowly, as if he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting way too long to open.

As each button pops free, his mouth follows — kissing down the newly exposed skin between your breasts, over the curve of your ribs. His hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it open until your chest is bared, and hooks a finger beneath the centre of your bra, tugging it down and out of the way until you're fully exposed beneath him.

He pulls back to look.

And when he does, he breathes your name.

Low. Like a prayer.

You watch his eyes drag over you, dark and worshipful. One hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, lazy circles while the other grips your waist, holding you steady as your back arches into him.

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your nipple before his mouth closes around it — sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in him as his teeth graze sensitive skin and his free hand teases the other side, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Kook—” you breathe, hips shifting beneath him, desperate for friction.

His mouth drags away with a wet sound. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name sounds dangerous in his voice. Too natural. Like it belongs.

You don’t even call it out. You just say, “Need more.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He drops one hand between your thighs, pressing it there over your pants with firm, maddening pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter. His mouth is back on your chest, and his fingers start moving — slow at first, then harder, more purposeful, dragging against the seam of the fabric like he knows exactly how to push you to the edge.

He does.

And you’re already spiralling, body burning under his touch, chest heaving, lips swollen, the back seat of his car too cramped, too humid, too perfectly wrong for what’s happening.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

Your head drops back against the seat, a soft moan catching in your throat as Jungkook keeps working you over through your pants, his fingers circling you like he has all the time in the world and none of the patience to waste it.

“I swear to god,” you pant, “if you don’t get these off me right now, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

He laughs, still panting himself. His mouth presses hot and open to your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already buzzing. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

“You started this.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he mutters, breath warm against your collarbone.

He shifts down your body and you feel him fumble with the button of your pants, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“I can do it,” you say, breathless. “You’re slow.”

He blinks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Oh? I’m slow?”

You undo the button in one motion, zipper halfway down, and shoot him a sarcastic smile. “There. Congrats.”

He smiles, wide and wicked, and in the next second, he’s got your pants halfway down your thighs, your panties bunched right after. “Cool. I’ll just use my mouth then.”

That wipes the smugness off your face in an instant.

You freeze.

“Kook— wait, no—”

He pauses, glancing up at you from where he’s knelt between your legs, hair falling into his eyes, hands gripping your thighs with intent. “Did you just try and say no to that?”

“I mean…” You squirm, thighs twitching under his touch. “Last time was already— like, I came. A lot. You don’t have to do the whole… y’know…”

“The whole what?” he asks, voice dangerously innocent. “The part where I make you forget your own name with my tongue?”

You glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

He smirks, leaning in until his nose brushes your inner thigh. “Say what? That I’m gonna eat you out until you’re dripping into the seat?”

Your whole body jerks. “Jesus— Kook.”

“That’s not a no.”

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and warm. Then another. And another. Higher. Closer.

“Didn't get to do it last time,” he murmurs. “And I’ve been thinking about it. All fucking week.”

“You think about this?” you ask, trying for teasing, but your voice wavers as his mouth brushes closer to your core.

“Every night.”

Your breath catches.

“Every time I jerked off, it was to the sound you made when I had my fingers in you. You remember that?” he asks, dragging his mouth up until he’s just hovering over you, warm breath ghosting across your heat.

You nod, because you can’t speak. Your fingers are curled tight into the edge of the seat. Your thighs twitch.

“You remember what you said? ‘Please, don’t stop,’” he mimics, voice low and mocking. “But now you wanna tell me to stop this?”

You open your mouth to fire back some bratty reply — but then he presses a single, firm kiss against your cunt.

Your brain blanks.

Your hips buck.

“Fuck— okay,” you gasp, voice breaking.

He grins like he’s won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot and slow at first — just one long lick from bottom to top that has your eyes rolling back. His hands pin your thighs apart, anchoring you in place as he buries his face between your legs.

His tongue is obscene. Soft and firm in perfect rhythm, flicking over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

You cry out, hips stuttering up into his face, but he just groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re so messy already,” he mumbles against you. “Is that for me?”

You’re beyond words.

Your fingers snake into his hair, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man with something to prove. He moves with precision and hunger, memorising your every twitch, every gasp, every breathless curse.

“God, Kook—” you pant, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re such a fucking overachiever.”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, pupils blown. “You gonna dock my grade if I make you come too fast?”

You glare down at him, chest heaving. “You’re insufferable.”

He presses a kiss to your clit, slow and sharp. “As if it doesn't turn you on."

You can’t argue. Not when he dives back in, tongue sliding over you with maddening confidence, his nose bumping against your clit as he hums.

The pressure builds fast.

Too fast.

And you know it’s coming — the kind of orgasm that starts at your toes and climbs like a fuse to the rest of you — but you don’t care.

You come hard, shaking through it, barely aware of the sounds leaving your mouth. Everything goes white-hot for a second — your grip in his hair, the tremble in your thighs, the pleasure that pulses through you.

You’re still gasping, thighs trembling, when he finally pulls back. His lips are slick, his chin wet with you, and he looks fucking wrecked.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You good?” he asks, cocky and a little breathless.

You shoot him a look. “Do I look good?”

He smirks. “You look like I just rocked your shit.”

You scoff, weak but grinning. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He kisses your inner thigh, then leans up, mouth dragging over your ribs as he moves back over you. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Your hands slide under his shirt as he settles above you again, dragging it up over his toned stomach until he gets the hint and peels it off. You press your palms to his chest, warm and solid and slick with sweat.

Then your hand starts moving lower.

Jungkook freezes above you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are tugging at his waistband. You smirk up at him.

“My turn?”

“Your turn to what?” he asks, voice already hoarse.

You shift, nudging his hips up so you can start pulling his jeans open. “You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”

He groans — actual, full-bodied groan — as you work the zipper down and slide your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

But the second your fingers wrap around him, he grabs your wrist.

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He’s panting now, jaw tight, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“I can’t.”

You blink. “Can’t what?”

“I— fuck, if you put your mouth on me, I’m not gonna last.” He grips your wrist tighter, not pulling away but not letting you move either. “And I need to be in you first.”

You raise a brow, amused. “What happened to all that stamina you brag about during Mario Kart?”

He glares, cheeks flushed. “That’s different. You don’t suck me off during Mario Kart.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t joke right now,” he grits out, pushing your hand out of his boxers with an almost painful kind of restraint. “I’m serious. I’m already dying.”

You pout, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach just to be a brat. “So needy.”

His eyes narrow, before moving back onto you.

You squeal as he pins your hands above your head, his body crashing into yours, mouth crashing against your neck.

“I’ll show you needy,” he growls, voice thick and dark.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest, and you’re smiling — giddy, wrecked, turned on beyond belief.

“You promise?” you whisper, voice almost mocking.

His hips roll down into yours.

“Oh, baby. I promise.”

The second his hips grind down again, dragging against your soaked heat, you feel your breath punch out of your lungs.

He lets go of your wrists and shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. You reach for it instinctively, wanting to feel him, stroke him slow just to tease — but he swats your hand away like it’s nothing.

“No,” he growls, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone, rough and reverent all at once. “You had your chance.”

You open your mouth to argue, to push his buttons just a little more — but the head of his cock nudges your entrance, and whatever snark you had queued up melts into a gasp.

Jungkook groans under his breath, burying his face in the crook of your neck like the restraint is killing him. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “Wonder why.”

He shifts his hips, just a little, dragging the thick head through your folds. Not pushing in yet, but slicking himself up with you. You moan despite yourself, arching into him, your body desperate to be filled.

“You ready?” he mutters, voice ragged.

You look at him — really look at him. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead. His lips are kiss-bruised and red. His abs flex as he holds himself up over you, barely restraining the shake in his arms.

And you’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He pushes in slow, thick and stretching, and your breath catches at the burn. Your back arches. One hand flies to the window for leverage, the other fists in the back of his neck.

“Jesus,” Jungkook groans, barely halfway in. “You feel— fuck— you feel insane.”

You laugh, short and winded. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, and I meant it.”

He bottoms out with a curse, hips flush to yours. For a moment, you both just breathe — heavy and ragged, bodies locked together, the air thick with sweat and want.

His movements are slow at first — just a shallow roll of his hips that drags his cock along every nerve ending inside you. You moan, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Faster,” you breathe, already twitching around him.

He leans back just enough to watch your face, eyes locked on yours like he’s chasing every reaction. Then he picks up the pace — slamming into you with long, deep strokes that have the car rocking.

You cry out, snapping your hand up to press against your mouth. “Kook— fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughs — laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You think I could?”

Every thrust punches a gasp from your lungs. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but hold on.

He shifts, bracing one knee on the seat and angling his hips just right — and when he hits that spot inside you, your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Right there?” he grits out, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Fuck, I feel it— your pussy’s so fucking tight, you’re gonna— shit— you’re gonna make me come.”

“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”

He groans, pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in so hard you scream.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growls, panting.

You nod, grinning through the moans. “Always.”

“Fine.” He grabs both your wrists again and pins them above your head, his body pressing into you harder now, relentless, sweat slicking your skin. “Then you can take it.”

And fuck, you do.

Your second orgasm creeps up on you fast — your whole body tensing as his thrusts get rougher, deeper, desperate. You cry out his name, high and wrecked, and the sound makes him snap.

His rhythm falters. His mouth crashes against yours, sloppy and hot, all teeth and tongue as he chases his own edge.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, pulling back to look at you, eyes wild. “Fuck— can I—?”

You nod fast, moaning. “Inside. Just do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself one last time and shatters — groaning low in your ear as he spills into you, body shaking, arms trembling with effort as he holds himself up.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of breathing. Wind through cracked windows. The slow drip of sweat down your temples. The burn in your thighs. The mess between your legs.

Jungkook lets out a choked laugh and slumps down, burying his face in your neck. “Okay,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been the best sex I’ve had in a fucking car.”

You laugh, dazed. “You say that like it’s a long list.”

“Give me some credit,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. “I’m not that trashy.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “We just fogged up every window in your car.”

“Worth it.”

He doesn’t move.

You’re still tangled together, his weight heavy on you, his softening cock still inside.

After a moment, he shifts slightly and lets out a low, satisfied sigh. You can feel the smile against your neck before he presses another kiss there. Then another. And another.

You squirm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re clingy as fuck after sex.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, completely unashamed. “Deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “You’re like a weighted blanket.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweaty curls falling into his eyes. “You love it.”

“Debatable.”

He snorts, then finally pulls out, slow and careful. You both groan at the feeling, and you feel it immediately: his cum, warm and slick, already starting to slide out of you.

You shift to reach for your underwear, cringing at the sticky feeling.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “When we get home.”

You blink at him. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off—”

“No.” His tone is firmer now, jaw set. “I’m not just dropping you off.”

You stare at him for a beat, surprised by the sharp edge in his voice. Then you glance down pull up your bra and button up your shirt, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.

He watches you the whole time, his eyes dragging over your skin like he’s memorising every inch of it before covering it back up. And when you finish with the last button and reach for your jeans, he leans forward and kisses your jaw — soft, almost reverent.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And for some reason, you don’t fight it.

You’re lying in his bed, hair still damp from the shower, the curve of his hoodie soft against your bare thighs. The sheets smell like fabric softener and his cologne, and the room is dim — just the small lamp by the closet casting a low amber glow. There’s a bowl of ramen on the nightstand, still steaming. You’re not hungry, but he made it for you, so you took a few bites anyway.

Outside, the city hums. A car passes on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator clicks.

It should feel normal. Comfortable. It did feel normal — until maybe twenty minutes ago.

Things were fine when you got here. He’d pulled you toward the bathroom and handed you a towel, that stupid grin still half on his face. He even said something about making noodles if you promised not to pass out in his bed again. You’d laughed. Called him a housewife. Everything felt fine.

But when you came out of the shower, something was different.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like he didn’t hear you walk in. And when he looked up, the smile was there, yeah — but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. You shrugged it off. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just zoning out.

But then it kept going.

Quiet, too quiet. He’d made the ramen without talking. Brought it to you, set it down, and just... sat on the floor for a while, scrolling again, saying nothing. When you asked what he was doing, he just said, “Checking something,” and didn’t elaborate. Eventually he stood, turned on a random playlist, and flopped into the chair in the corner with a bottle of water.

Now he’s across the room, scrolling again, leg bouncing slightly like he’s keyed up and trying to burn it off. He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. You watch the light from his phone flicker across his face, the way his brow furrows every now and then, and something in your chest tugs.

It’s not dramatic. He’s not being rude or distant. He’s not treating you like a stranger. But he’s not treating you like you, either — not the way he usually does.

You know him too well not to notice. The way he’s moving isn’t right. Like he’s stuck in his own head. Like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to bring up.

Or maybe he’s trying not to say something. Either way, it sits in the air between you, subtle but heavy.

You pull your knees up under the hoodie and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin there. Watching him. Waiting, maybe, for him to snap out of it. Say something dumb. Make fun of your hair. Crawl into bed next to you like it’s nothing.

But he doesn’t.

You shift slightly, tugging the hoodie down over your thighs even though it’s already covering you. The ramen’s gone lukewarm on the nightstand.

“Kook?”

His head lifts just a little. “Hmm?”

You hesitate. “What’s going on?”

He blinks, finally looking at you. His eyes are soft. Tired, maybe. Or just dimmer than usual. “What do you mean?”

“You just feel…” You trail off, unsure how to word it without sounding dramatic. “I don’t know. A little off.”

He smiles, and it’s almost convincing. “I’m good. Just tired.”

You don’t push. Not really. You know him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. And whatever this is — it doesn’t feel sharp enough to cut yet. It just feels strange.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He glances down, then back at you. “Eat your noodles before they go gross.”

You glance at the bowl, then back at him. “You eat yet?”

He nods. “Earlier.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it slide.

He shifts in the chair, stretching his legs out and resting his head back for a second before sitting up again, like he was about to let himself relax and then thought better of it.

“I’m gonna get some work done before bed,” he says, standing up slowly. “Couple things I need to catch up on.”

You watch him move toward the door, half expecting him to stop, change his mind, come back and say something dumb like he always does. But he just opens it, hand braced against the frame.

His voice is gentle when he adds, “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He gives you a small smile — soft, careful — and then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stare at it for a long moment. The hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands now. The ramen sits untouched. The playlist keeps playing, quiet and aimless in the background.

You let out a soft sigh before reaching over to flick off the lamp.

The room goes dark, soft shadows stretching over the walls. The sheets rustle as you shift down into them, tugging the comforter over your legs, the warmth doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.

Maybe this is why people don’t sleep with their best friends.

Maybe this is exactly why those lines exist — because crossing them means risking everything else. And maybe you knew that. Maybe you ignored it anyway.

Because it was him.

Because part of you has been circling this for longer than you want to admit.

You close your eyes, breathing slow and steady. The scent of him still clings to the sheets. Still wraps around you like he should be here. But he’s not.

Regret settles low in your chest, dull and heavy. You hate the way it sits there, thick in your ribs, twisting slow in your stomach. You’ve always hated how it creeps in after the fact, when it’s already too late to take anything back.

You shift onto your side and pull the blanket up to your chin. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking.

He said everything was fine.

You just wish you believed him.

→ read part three here (coming soon — join the taglist for ‘just this… twice?’ to be notified when part two releases)

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[berrryparfait]

❝ i don't look good in this dress... ❞ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

♥︎ featuring: sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb x fem!reader | prompt

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you don't think this dress looks good on you... he begs to differ. 「i really don't see what you're seeing, babe.」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: fluff, shopping date, reader tries on a dress that hugs her curves and doesn't like how it looks, mentions of weight loss, insecurity, reassurance, he's whipped and worships the ground you walk on

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: lipstick – charlie puth

✧ a/n: requested work that i rushed to complete because i wanted all of u to know that u are GORGEOUS. do us all a favor and wear that dress girl ♡(>ᴗ•)

Nothing makes you happier than a shopping date with the love of your life. The way he’d been so eager to plan this day—to put a smile on your pretty face as if your happiness were his own… Well, it is.

You’d made preparations of your own, too. You had a rough idea of what you wanted to try on, and you’re determined not to leave empty-handed today. All that’s left is to slip into the dresses you’ve picked.

But when you finally zip this one up, it’s… not what you’d hoped for. And deep down, part of you knows—it’s not the dress’s fault.

“Babe, I don’t look good in this dress…”

Sylus lounges on the fitting room couch, one arm stretched out on top of the backrest. He’s been sitting here this whole time, thoroughly enjoying the view each time you emerge from behind the curtains.

He’s cleared out the store today for you to shop “in peace,” so it’s just you, him, and two store assistants in the room.

He frowns at your words, raking his piercing eyes up and down the length of your body once more. A disbelieving smirk curls his lips as he drawls, “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. You look ravishing in this dress—in fact, I’ll have them ring it up for us right now—”

“I-I don’t think I want this one, babe…” You sigh as you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the dress cinching your body in all the wrong places. It just looks…unflattering.

Sylus waves the assistants away and studies your expression once more, realization dawning. He’s always thought you pulled off everything you’ve ever worn—to him, this dress is no different. But he knows about your insecurities…

“…I’ve made my opinion clear, Kitten, but you can’t seem to get it in that head of yours that you are unreasonably beautiful.”

You smile at his words, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. You’ve heard him compliment your looks a thousand times now, but insecurities aren’t so easily vanquished. They start and end with… well, you. No one else can touch them.

“I love you for that, Sy—but it’s not that simple. I’ve lived with these thoughts my whole life.”

His arrogant stance softens, and though the sureness in his voice remains. To him, your beauty is fact—an indisputable one.

“I don’t mean to undermine what you’ve been through. I only mean to highlight my perspective.” He stands up and twirls you around like you’re dandelions waltzing through a ballroom of wind, his hands memorizing every curve, every dip of your body. “If you could only see yourself the way I do… I’d squander the world for just another glimpse.”

Zayne leans against a wall, your leather purse in hand. He waits patiently while you try on each piece of clothing, occasionally pulling out his phone to skim through articles on cardiothoracic surgery training in Japan.

You step out of the fitting room wearing a form-fitting black dress, unsure what to think of it. It feels a little tight around your hips, and though you’ve been eager to try it on for days, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You glance at your reflection in the mirror and fight the urge to retreat into the fitting room before anyone else sees you.

Zayne catches the panic in your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s just… This dress makes me look chubbier, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It accentuates your curves, which is hardly something to be upset about. You look beautiful—as always.”

His words warm you, but the tightness in your chest remains, your insecurities gripping your ribcage like a clawed hand. “I should lose some weight…” you mutter.

His brows knit together as he steps closer, concern softening his features. “Don’t sacrifice your health and wellbeing for the sake of meeting society’s so-called 'beauty standards. They’re unrealistic, fabricated, and frankly, unattainable. Your natural body is perfect just the way it is, and I mean that." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "This dress is gorgeous because you’re wearing it.”

He cups your cheek in his palm, and you smile up at him. Sensitive, adoring Zayne. While it’ll take more than an ultra-romantic speech to quiet the voice inside your head, his reassurance soothes the ache you’ve carried for years.

What once was a scar is now a patch of healing tissue—thanks in part to Zayne’s unwavering affirmations, and in part to your own efforts to love and accept yourself.

A group of girls are parading their outfits a few booths down from yours, giggling and squealing as they pose for photos. They’re stunning—slim and toned in all the right places, with flawless skin and sculpted jawlines.

You glance down at the dress you’re wearing, and it feels like a punch to the gut. How can you ever compete with girls like that? How do you look next to them? A nauseating wave of envy and self-doubt crashes over you, and your eyes instinctively seek out Rafayel for reassurance.

He’s staring at you with wide, hazy eyes, lips slightly parted as his gaze roams over your body. You blush, self-conscious, crossing your arms over your torso.

He jolts back to reality, the misty look on his face evaporating. “What was that for? I was enjoying the view.”

“You don’t have to lie, you know. This dress isn’t for me…”

He shakes his head, clearly baffled, and closes the distance between you in two strides. A half-smirk pulls at his lips as he says, “You’re kidding me, right? You look fuckin’ hot.” His hands trail down your thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Can we get this one? Please?” he murmurs into your ear.

You gently push him away. “...Nah. It’s unflattering on me.”

Rafayel scoffs, but there’s a surprising tenderness in his eyes when he says, “Listen, babe, you’re the most drop-dead gorgeous woman on earth, and the fact that you can’t see that? It genuinely breaks my heart. Tragic, really—”

You smack his arm and chuckle, the heaviness in your chest already starting to lift. Bless Rafayel and his ability to pull you from the depths of your own mind. Turning back to the mirror, you glance at your reflection again and think… It does make your ass look amazing. “…Maybe I will get it.”

“That’s my girl.” His grin turns wicked. “I can’t wait to take it off you…”

Xavier is dozing off on the couch, his head drooping and his eyelids fluttering. It’s an adorable sight—one that nearly distracts you from the reflection in the dressing room mirror.

Your hands smooth over the fabric of the blue cocktail dress, its fit on your body…disappointing. This isn’t how it looked on the mannequin, you think, heat blooming in your cheeks. All at once, your insecurities come crashing down, suffocating you with reminders that you’re “less than”, that you’ll never feel truly comfortable in your own skin—

“I like that dress. You look good.”

You spin around to see Xavier now sitting upright, his gaze fixed on your back. “You think so?”

He nods, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. But then again, everything looks good on you. It’s you.”

You bite your lip, hesitant to turn around. “You don’t think it makes me look… I don’t know…bigger?”

“Uhh…?” He frowns, confused. “What do you mean? Turn around. I want to see it.”

Slowly, you turn to face him, baring the gentle curve of your breasts and the mound of your tummy. You avert your gaze, fidgeting under the weight of his stare.

“Oh.”

“You don’t like it?” your voice wavers, your heart freezing as the blood drains from your face.

He shakes his head rapidly and shifts in his seat. “N-No, it’s not that… I just— I—” He quickly folds his arms over his lap, and you understand immediately.

A laugh escapes your lips.

He glares at you. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry! You’ve just really boosted my confidence today, that’s all,” you say between giggles. Suddenly, the mirror doesn’t seem so cruel. If this turns him on just by looking at it…

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hot. We get it…” he mutters, still throwing you dirty looks on the car ride home.

You spin around in the yellow sundress, the fabric hugging your curves and accentuating your hips. It looked different when the model wore it online…

Caleb is gawking at you from outside the fitting booth, arms crossed over his chest. “That dress looks so sexy on you, Pips. Let me get it for you—”

“Wait! I, uh… I don’t know how I feel about it…” You try not to betray your emotions, shoving the knot of insecurity down your throat. You’ve always struggled with body image, but you don’t want to worry Caleb by bringing it up.

Or worse—put those ideas into his head.

He steps forward, placing his hands gently on your waist as he takes in the way the fabric cascades down your legs, how it emphasizes your soft curves and full breasts. The very sight of you in it steals the breath from his lungs.

“Is this about your body?” he asks carefully, clearly afraid of striking a nerve.

You look down at your feet and shift uneasily, the nagging feeling intensifying beneath the weight of his gaze.

Caleb leans in and tilts your face up to meet his. “...Hey. I’ve traveled the world, and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, okay?” His thumbs stroke your cheeks with the softness of a summer breeze. “Why else would I be dating you—your personality?”

You glare at him, fighting to suppress a smile.

He wraps you in his arms before you can argue, and you melt into his embrace, allowing yourself—for once—to believe him.

You’re strong, funny, determined, and kind; and let’s not forget the fact that you pulled Caleb, the hottest pilot in any airport and the only man who sees you for exactly who you are.

“You’re the eighth wonder of the world, babe. Inside and out.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[swordgrace]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn with little plot, forced proximity, semi-public sex, rough sex, hair pulling, mild dirty talk, lots of banter/arguing, grinding, john wants that cookie so bad, making out, john walker’s praise kink, unprotected p in v sex.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this has been rotting away in my brain so I needed to get it out !! lowkey enjoyed writing this so much and I really hope that you guys like it, too! 🫶

The plan begins to crumble when reinforcements arrive, mercenaries funded by H.Y.D.R.A remnants, a generous benefactor hellbent on weapons acquisitions in Copenhagen.

It’s another mission that tests the cohesiveness of the team, and with each one, you’re all improving. Everything seemed to go sideways, comms were static with silence, and you weren’t sure where everyone else was.

Shadowed corridors flood with foot soldiers, and you narrowly avoid getting pierced with a high-caliber bullet, thanks to Walker’s shield.

“We need to move — now.” He gruffs, roughly grabbing at the back of your shoulder, hauling you further into the bunker’s underground labyrinth. He’s strong, sure, but not enough to take on ten.

“We’re cornered, Walker. If we don’t find somewhere to hide, we’re pinned down.” Insistent, you’re clamoring to find some momentary reprieve from the chaos, chest burning from exertion.

“And we’re pinned down if we hide,” John grits, clearly facing some moral dilemma. He’s typically talented at navigating these high-stress situations — or so he thinks, jaw twitching as he concedes to your idea. “Shit.”

John Walker wasn’t your first choice as a mission partner — he was hotheaded, bullish, and abrasive. His demeanor was a foil to yours; calm, level-headed, optimistic.

He knew what he was doing in a fight, but there was often a risk involved, an impulsivity that he was attempting to curb. You weren’t sworn enemies, but you weren’t exactly the best of friends, either.

Footsteps clash through the hallways, and you’re tugging on his arm, urging him to follow you as you make a mad dash for what appears to be a utility storage closet. It’s a terrible spot to cower in, but you aren’t left with many options.

John seems visibly agitated, but he follows you anyway, jogging after you before slamming the metal door shut behind the both of you. He realizes very quickly that there’s barely any room to fit the both of you.

Wedged into your side, distance becomes nonexistent, but it’s better than being caught out in the open. As if to reinforce your position, he jams the handle of a broom beneath the door latch, labored breathing beginning to steady.

Boots thud outside of the door, footfalls urgent before tapering off into mere echoes. Catching your breath, your body rattles beside his, hands poised against the metal wall, eyes fluttering shut.

“Genius.” John grouses, frustrated with the entire scenario. Something went wrong — they were sloppy and overestimated themselves.

With little patience for his short-fuse and sardonicism, you bite back. “What do you expect?” You huff, brows furrowing together. “Fighting our way out wouldn’t have worked.”

“Beats being locked in here,” He grunts, bracing himself against the wall. The forced proximity he’s now cornered into with you isn’t the worst thing he’s endured, but it’s far from optimal. “You need to move.”

“Move where?” Keeping your voice low, you’re entirely unhappy with him, unwilling to put up with his attitude. The circumstances only enhance the shared irritation that bristles between the both of you, coupled with his smart mouth.

John’s brows furrow together, attempting to navigate through his frustration. “If you face me and stop sprawling, it’ll create more space.” He proposes, but it sounds ridiculous.

“I’m not sprawling,” With an indignant sigh, you shake your head, conceding to him anyway. Shuffling forward, you stand with him, chest to chest, discomforted by the slim amount of space. “I think this is worse.”

“We’re out of options.” John tries to placate your irritation, but it doesn’t seem to work. His countenance is contorted into a look of perpetual grumpiness, mouth turned downward.

It isn’t uncomfortable, this position — it’s awkward. This is the closest you’ve been to him, save during training lessons, where he’s crouched over you or his hands have somehow ended up on your hips.

Admittedly, there is tension present — you’ve never been fully able to discern the reasoning behind it, but it’s there, festering beneath the surface. A muscle in John’s neck strains, taut as he rolls his shoulder.

Annoyance is certainly one feeling to describe John, but it wanes whenever you look at him. Maybe there’s something more, maybe there isn’t. Either way, your current predicament isn’t ideal.

Using the closet’s rigid metal surface as a brace, the unsightly corners dig into your back, prompting you to squirm. Silence lingers between, curling around heavier sighs and fleeting glances.

You don’t want to admit that listening to John and running might’ve been the easier option, knowing that you won’t hear the end of it if you give him that satisfaction.

Through flared nostrils, John exhales, posture coiled and taut, as if he’s a bowstring, prepared to snap in two. Even though his helmet, he’s clenching his jaw, cerulean hues blazing with an amalgamation of emotions.

“What’s our next move?” Broaching the silence, you’re making an attempt at relieving the tension, face angled away from him. One step forward, and you’d be flush against his body.

“I had a next move, if you didn’t lead us in here,” John murmurs, and you’re quick to glare at him, agitation flaring again. “What? This was your idea.” He quips, holding one hand up in faux surrender; it makes you angry.

“You’re kidding me,” With a mirthless laugh, your brows furrow together, chin jutting out in defiance as you glare past him. “We would’ve been ambushed or worse if I didn’t think of hiding, John.” His name tumbles from your mouth like a scornful parent.

It’s exceedingly rare that you ever call him by his first name; some sliver of him likes it, wants to hear you say it again. He doesn’t fully understand why, but he likes you — likes your fire, your kindness.

John scoffs, mouth curling into a smug smirk, eyes rolling as if to dismiss your streak of ire. “Now look at us,” He remarks, pushing the limits, prodding. “Snug together in some closet.”

Aggrieved, your disdain is visible, scrawled onto your features as you stare elsewhere, finding the chipped paint behind his shoulder to be fascinating. “You can be such an asshole sometimes, you know that? I wanted to keep us both safe.”

There’s a softer inflection laced into your words, as if you’re upset that he’s mocking your choices. Admittedly, it wasn’t the right move, his unwarranted jabs — you did do the smart thing by hiding.

He’s watching you closely, gaze flickering over the creased brows and downward curve of your mouth, across the wisps of hair that dust your temples. You’re pretty when you’re frustrated with him — more so when you aren’t, too.

John doesn’t want to admit defeat, but it’s getting under your skin; he begrudgingly concedes. “Fine,” He gruffs, tongue wetting his bottom lip. “It wasn’t the worst idea in the book.”

A humorless scoff rips from your throat, followed by a nonplussed expression. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You mumble, still neglecting to look him in the eyes.

“Yeah,” He placates, shoulders jostling in a shrug. “It could’ve been worse.” Leveling with you, his smirk wavers when you scoff, finding some sliver of amusement in the whole situation.

John Walker wasn’t the worst person to be trapped in a utility closet with — the company could’ve been completely sour. Instead, you were forced to endure his scathing banter and smug mouth, two things that you could navigate; mostly.

The discomfort of your current position only seems to grow, metal digging into your spine, enhanced by the uneven junctures of your suit. You wince when you shift, trying to relax whilst simultaneously avoiding bumping into him.

He notices, observant; he might’ve been ogling you for longer than what was deemed appropriate, but he kept that close to the chest. John has an idea, but he knows that you won’t bite.

“You okay?” He inquires, peering down at you with an innocuous expression. It gives you pause, makes you realize how much taller he is than you, his musculature; you try to shut your thoughts off.

“I’m fine, just … This wall is digging into my back. I think you got the comfortable side.” With a grousing huff, you wriggle again, attempting to shift your body enough to make a slight difference.

His jaw clenches, tongue tracing over his teeth, and to his own chagrin, he wants to alleviate whatever discomfort he can. “Why don’t you lean against me?” John suggests, as if it’s something commonplace.

Bewildered, you almost think he’s joking, teasing you to make light of the situation. With a sarcastic laugh, you shake your head, dismissing his idea as preposterous. “That’s a nice joke, John.” You grumble, aggravated.

“I’m serious,” John quips, clipped, mildly offended that you believed him to be insincere. “If we’re going to be stuck here, might as well make sure you’re comfortable.” He shrugs nonchalantly, tone somewhat gritty.

“Since when have you cared about my comfort?” It’s a genuine question, spoken with curiosity instead of something accusatory. You catch him off-guard, gaze finally meeting his own, and he almost seems shy.

John exhales; a long, drawn-out noise that signifies surprise, coupled with understanding. He hasn't exactly given you the impression that he likes you — in the traditional sense, anyway.

He isn’t known for his emotional intelligence or his sense of vulnerability.

“Since now,” He retorts, groveling to himself before shaking his head. “Jesus, do you want to stop being miserable or what?” John gruffs, his cadence seemingly cross with you, but it lacks malice.

Surprised, your jaw loosens, lips agape as you scramble for some halfhearted comeback. Coming up empty-handed, you decide to accept the offer, instead. “Alright.” You sigh, and take one step forward.

Proximity becomes nonexistent, the sliver of distance closed as your body presses firmly against his, and the heat crackles instantaneously. He’s broad-shouldered, firm when the both of you are wedged together.

He’s being nice, you think, which is mildly unexpected. The harsh, metal bite of the wall no longer protrudes into your back, offering you some relief. John is formidable, sturdy; better than the wall, at least.

Warmth spreads like wildfire over the back of your neck, snaking over your throat, causing you to look away again. You’re flush, chest-to-chest, tactical gear intermingling.

Fortunately for you, the discomfort that had gripped your spine dissipates, but it’s cost you your sanity. John unclasps the buckle beneath his chin, offering his jaw some momentary relief.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

It’s as if his own body is actively rebelling against him; from the moment your chest comes into contact with his, he’s fighting against baser instincts. You’re pretty — beautiful beyond compare, even with your curled lip and furrowed brows.

A gap of silence settles between, and he notices the inkling of tension that bleeds from your shoulders, using him as a brace. He’s much more comfortable than the wall, but it doesn’t make things any less awkward.

“Should we try comms?” Your voice is somewhat strained, flustered as you make a feeble attempt at distracting yourself from this. John bites, thankfully, head jostling with a nod.

“Couldn’t hurt.” He utters, clicking his tongue as he reaches for the device strapped to his wrist. The positioning is somewhat clumsy, and he fumbles with you pressed against him.

Static crackles on the other end — nothing, a dead end. Knowing that it’s off the table, he switches it back off, arm dropping back to his side. He shifts his stance, the both of you accidentally grinding over the other.

“Sorry.” You blurt, and he’s nodding to alleviate the potential tension that comes with it. Still, you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact — he’s close enough to kiss, heat of his breath pluming over your crown.

“S’fine.” John mumbles, neck tight with tension when your bodies brush over one another. It’s rousing feelings that feel horribly inappropriate for the time and place, and he can’t help it.

A hush falls over the both of you again, and when he glances away, you’re staring at him, instead. Eyelashes kiss the soft skin beneath your eyes, gaze catching on the shadow of his blonde beard, the scar on his right cheek, cerulean eyes.

He’s stupidly handsome, pleasant to behold despite his temperament, which seems unusually subdued, even now. You swallow the growing lump within your throat, teeth grinding together.

Even with his helmet, you find him attractive — you find John Walker attractive. When you repeat that fact in the back of your mind, it makes you contemplate quite a bit.

“Hanging in there?” Again, you shatter the silence with a droning question, relinquishing the tension and derailing your thoughts. It’s cheeky, but it gets him to laugh, even if the sound is dry.

“I’m not exactly hating this,” John utters, and he happens to look down at you, only to find that you’re staring, too. His heartbeat quickens, muscles tightening as he clears his throat. “You?”

“I’m great,” There’s a drop of sarcasm that lingers within your tone, but it seems to fade away. “You are definitely more comfortable than the wall.” You confirm, mouth twitching into a threadbare smile.

With a huff, John’s mouth curls into a faint smile, teetering along the fringes of sincerity. “Good to know.” He muses, cadence wrought with a twinge of insolence.

Everything goes quiet again, he’s staring — he notices details about your countenance that he never realized before. Your beauty is marrow-deep, and he knows it, knows that he’s screwed.

John becomes attractive to you like this — stripped down of his bravado, the arrogance clipped. You don’t know where to put your hands, but you prop one against his chest; he blushes.

He can’t help himself now, and his feelings are threatening to burst through the surface in more ways than one.

A groan nearly rips through his diaphragm when you writhe again, body pressing into his, your thigh ghosting over his groin. You don’t seem to notice anything, much to his relief.

Uncertain of how long you’ll be glued together for, John moves again, aiming to find better purchase along the wall, hand momentarily hovering over your waist. He steadies you when your balance wavers, causing you to shiver.

This should’ve been off-putting to you — and it wasn’t. Instead, you’re left burning from where he touched you, imagining that hand groping your body or tangled into your hair.

When you adjust again, you feel something firm against your navel, able to hear the subtle hitch in the back of his throat. He inhales — a sharp, poignant sound that seems wrought with stress.

It’s through his tactical pants, and you realize what exactly it is, causing you to bite at the inside of your cheek. Disbelief coupled with shock etched itself onto your features.

There’s a look of brief panic that settles onto his visage; you’re stunned, gaze widening when your eyes lock together. He doesn’t need any further prompting.

“Christ, I’m sorry.” John grovels, embarrassed that he’s gotten hard from having you pressed against him. It’s pathetic that he let himself get riled up from it, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

In the spirit of transparency, you aren’t upset.

In fact, it’s the opposite — you’re left stunned that he’s gotten hard for you. Some depraved sliver within you festers, wanting to torment him further, act on this tension that’s been brewing long before you went into the storage closet.

“Don’t be.” You whisper, hoarse as you attempt to scramble for a scrap of composure. The sensation of his erection bleeding heat into your navel makes you writhe, coiled with excitement.

John shakes his head, clinging to threadbare restraint, wanting nothing more than a sense of relief from it all. “We can switch places.” He offers, a feeble attempt at squashing the coyness.

“No,” The answer you give is too quick, but you don’t want to pretend like you aren’t interested. Instead, your gaze becomes somewhat half-lidded, tempting. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you actually like me.”

Caught, there is little room to refute your claim, and John is left looking increasingly tortured. He wants you so bad that it hurts, cock throbbing beneath his tactical pants, feeling your body shift again.

“Stop it.” John warns, nearly groaning when you sluggishly move against his body, teasing the growing tent in his pants.

Abashed yet enticed, you lean forward, stretching up onto your toes to plant a kiss against his jaw. It’s slow, methodical — John looks as if he’s about to explode. “I want to if you do.” You utter, tone permeated by desire.

Jesus Christ, he’s fucked; he knows he’s fucked, and you aren’t helping anything. He’s thought about this more times than he can count, and with the reality presented to him, he isn’t sure if he can resist.

“I don’t know if I can stop.” John husks, cadence pitched to a half-growl that sends shivers down your spine. He was contemplating going through with it — here, in a storage closet in the underbelly of a warehouse.

“I don’t think I want you to,” Breathy, your confession hits him like an aphrodisiac, spiking his system, striking him into overdrive. The setting isn’t entirely ideal, but you’re desperate. “Are you sure?”

Too late; John’s mouth is crashing into yours with the force of a battering ram, dropping his still-bent shield, hands flying to seize your hips. He’s manhandling you, turning to pin you against the wall, instead.

It’s all teeth, tongue, want — the banter was only a precursor to festering feelings that were now boiling over into an explosion of heat. You kiss him back, kiss him until your lungs are ragged.

The tenacity of his mouth makes your head spin, body screaming, every fiber of your being set aflame when he kisses you. Teeth catch your bottom lip, and he’s needy.

“Don’t care,” John gruffs in-between fervent kisses, grinding against your body, prepared to rip his belt off and sink into you. “I need you.” His breathy confession makes your knees buckle.

John isn’t too boastful to admit to wanting you, needing you; it feels good to be desired in the way he covets you. Lips clash, collide — you’re kissing him as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

Beneath your sternum, your chest grows tight, burning with a stinging neediness, hands flying to clasp at the nape of his neck. He’s still wearing his helmet, but it doesn’t seem to hinder anything at all.

Despite the amount of tactical gear that sits between flesh, he’s eager to make do with what he’s got, hand dropping to grope at your ass through your suit.

“John,” A breathy moan slips from your mouth, intentionally hushed so as to not give away your position. “Need you.” It’s clipped, rushed, but he’s hanging onto those words as if they’re an anchor.

Slotting a thigh between your legs, he brushes it over your clothed core, pulling another whine from your lips. A twinge of satisfaction ripples through him, but he’s driven by instinct now, with you in his crosshairs.

“Gotta make it quick,” John rumbles, even if every fiber of his being wants to fuck you properly, take his time with you. You’re in the middle of a mission — time isn’t a luxury for either of you. “Jesus, you’re so pretty.” He murmurs.

The compliment surprises you, but it isn’t unwelcome, rousing a fire within the pit of your belly. Needy, you rock yourself against his thigh, gaining scraps of friction that blossom between the both of you.

Mouths claw for one another, connecting in a heated frenzy, both ravenous for contact. John can’t recall the last time he’d done something like this, but he’s craving it, craving you.

Each kiss blisters through the both of you, his lips rugged, beard scratching ragged over your skin. The prickling sensation is a pleasant one, something you cling to, hands flying to the nape of his neck.

In a surprising move, your tongue floods into his mouth, and he stifles a groan, tasting you with enthusiasm. Reciprocating your heated kiss, he follows suit, hearing the whine that catches in your throat.

When your lips untether from one another, his mouth drops to your jaw, teeth grazing across sensitive flesh, causing you to moan. A sigh of ecstasy drags through your chest, wanton.

This is John Walker — the same John that you were grousing with earlier, the same John that had a smug mouth and abrasive temper.

John, whose mouth is disarmingly tender when he kisses your jaw. John, whose hands are kneading into your haunches as if it’s something he’s done a thousand times. John, who tastes like metal and something intimately familiar.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for touch.

Hands relocate to your waist, finding your belt with ease, unclasping it in order to unzip your pants. Your breathing picks up, eager, fingers hooking into his tactical gear to do the very same.

It’s all labored sighs, grunts, moaning — the both of you have become insatiable, frenzied. “John, please.” You mumble, chewing at your bottom lip when his hand brusquely shoves at your pants.

His belt noisily clatters when you’re unbuckling it, and he’s desperate to be inside of you. “You need it that bad?” John grunts beside your ear, hot breath feathering over your jaw.

“Yes,” Unable to withhold your excitement, you’re willing to give him what he wants; but not without consequence. Your palm darts to the swell in his pants, massaging over his erection. “So do you.”

John’s brain hums with static when you touch him, tendrils of ecstasy shooting through his body. A low, husky groan tears through his throat, and he’s huffing like a bull. “Christ, e—easy,” He sighs. “Please.”

Satisfied with his answer, you withdraw your hand, the both of you pushing fabric aside, scrambling together. His hand flies to the spandex of your underwear, pushing it aside as his hips urge forward, flushed head prodding against your cunt.

By no means is John small, either; he’s infuriatingly well-endowed, thick and oozing heat as he ruts himself into you. Using one thigh to keep your legs parted, he’s kissing you again, rough and needy.

Both of your hands find their perch against his shoulders, over kevlar and body armor, attempting to make it work. The positioning is slightly awkward, but neither of you care — it’s all desperation at this point, all desire.

Reciprocating his kiss, you’re clinging to him, using his body as an anchor, back flat against the wall. The space is nonexistent, bodies wedged together, flush and tight; he needs you like he needs air.

John exhales; a drawn-out, sharper sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled growl.

His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly. “Ready?” He gruffs, still nudging his cock against your folds, restraint threadbare.

With an exaggerated nod, you’re steeling yourself, biting at your bottom lip, faces flush together. His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance.

It’s slow, at first; he’s a dam trying not to splinter and shatter, exuding tension, attempting to let you adjust first before devolving into debauchery.

You make it difficult, sighing his name as if it’s branded on your tongue, kissing his mouth. The both of you are caught in the middle of some lust-ridden haze.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, teeth grazing over your jaw. He’s growling, panting, his sounds mirroring a feral dog instead of a man.

Proximity no longer exists — it’s lost to tangled bodies and groping hands, to teeth and tongue, to baser instincts. As his hips sink into you, a cry splits your mouth, and he fills you up.

Muscles coil around you, and he’s caging you in between his body and the wall, grunting when your cunt clenched around him. A string of breathy expletives escape him, hands firm against your hips.

Everything feels hot — the lack of space in the storage closet closes in around you, leaving just him, bleeding heat into your body. His jaw is locked, brows pinched together, attempting to cling to some composure.

As his cock ruts into you, your throat snares with a gasp, hands wrangled into his shoulders. You can only imagine what it’s like to see him, flesh to flesh, leaving marks against his skin.

A shadow passes over his stare, cerulean hues eclipsed by desire as he shifts his thigh, muscle keeping your legs spread apart. Sluggishness leaves him entirely — he’s fucking you, now.

The pace he sets is quick, needy, desperate; he’s all bite and no bark, manhandling you as each drag of his hips pins you into the wall. It’s rougher, sure, but he’s not hurting you in the slightest.

John shudders at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together.

“Christ, you’re tight,” John grits, exhaling heat beside your ear, mouth pressing against the side of your face. You turn, your forehead firm against his helmet, nails digging into his nape. “Goddamn perfect.”

Heat prevailed, licking along your spine as his thrusts grew with haste. A low whine rippled through you, countenance screwed up into a look of pleasure, thighs beginning to shake.

“John,” Through a strangled moan, you’re taking each thrust of his hips, the force akin to a battering ram. “So good at this, you’re s—Fuck, so perfect.” Never in your wildest imagination did you think you’d be calling John perfect, but it slips out.

When it does, it’s as if you’ve reached deep inside of him and flipped a switch; a primal glaze settles into his eyes.

His grip upon your thigh had only strengthened, fingertips threatening to leave bruises in the wake of your crass escapades. His cock throbs within you, hitting new depths, nearly kissing your cervix.

“Say it again.” John growls, the noise sharp enough to send goosebumps cascading over your spine. Your body is wracked with ecstasy, a muted buzz soaring through your nerves, now set ablaze.

Some loathsome part of him craves the praise, your validation — when it slips from your mouth, he’s chasing after it like some feral animal.

“Good at this, you’re — Shit, you’re fucking me so well,” The words that clamor from your lips sound foreign; you cringe at yourself despite it, but he seems to preen beneath the praise. “Don’t stop.”

It’s as if a fervor spikes within him, something buried and gnawing. He doubles his efforts, desperate to please you, ripping off his helmet as if it’s gotten too snug.

Blonde tresses sweep over his forehead, perfectly disheveled, messy; your fingers slip from his nape to his hair, grabbing it in fistfuls. The sharp sensation pulls a groan from his chest, a rumble that makes you shiver.

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

Each snap of his hips drags you further towards the edge, cock spearing into you without an ounce of hesitation. It’s borderline animalistic, all pent-up and shoved down, now boiling over in waves.

He’s handsome like this — handsome when he’s all over your mouth, when he’s pounding away at your cunt, brows pinched together in concentration.

One arm cages you in against him, the other pressed beside your head, palm grinding against metal. It groans in protest, bending to his inhuman strength, and the noise makes your belly churn with molten heat.

Every thrust is sharp, precise — he’s gritty, perspiration glittering along his neck, muscles pulled taut.

A low moan left you as he snapped forward, letting passion and want pour into his actions, cock sheathing itself inside of your aching cunt.

John ruts into you again, again, again — a pattern of rhythmic thrusts that jostle your body. Grunts tear through his chest, spilled beside your ear in warm huffs, pluming across your jaw.

“Walker?”

Bucky’s voice sizzles through the wave of static on the comms, and you don’t want him to stop. While he’s pounding away at you still, his movements begin to stutter at the noise, but you’re pulling him away.

“Don’t answer,” You moan, friction blossoming between the both of you, feverish and scalding. Every fiber of your being feels like it’s set ablaze, cunt clenching around his cock with each drag of his hips. “Please, John.”

John doesn’t relent, subservient to your breathy plea, hips urging forward as he’s bucking up into you with urgency. He’s close too, hand roughing your hip, grasp bruising as he kisses you.

His cock aches, throbbing inside of you, flesh crawling with heat beneath his body armor. Everything feels snug — he imagines what it’d be like to have you somewhere else, naked.

The fantasy ripples at the fringes of his mind, something lascivious and hazy, spurring him on. He fucks you hard, somewhere between rough and worshipful, as if you’re something to covet.

A breathy ‘fuck’ tears through his mouth, cock repeatedly pistoning in and out of you, listening to your pleasured whines and sighs. “Jesus,” John gruffs, feeling your lips press over his jaw. “That’s it, s’good.” He groans.

With another urge of his hips, you’re unraveling around him, driven to the brink by an amalgamation of friction and want. A buzz swarms through your body, legs rattling, shaking from your orgasm.

Grunts continued to spill beside your ear as he reached his peak, but you were already there. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, sobbing with ecstasy.

John fucked you through your release, cock steadily rutting into your cunt, pressing a messy kiss against your mouth. You reciprocate, teeth catching on his bottom lip, sighing into his maw.

Everything is white-hot, dizzying; John offers a strained warning of his encroaching release, cumming inside of you in a half-frenzy. He says your name, and it makes you shiver.

“Walker, what’s your twenty?”

Again, Bucky’s voice is cutting through at the worst possible moment, and John snarls with frustration. His forehead tilts against yours, brow creased, countenance unfurling with half-bliss, half-agitation.

Each breath stings your lungs as you attempt to compose yourself, realizing that you’re still on the job. Cerulean hues burn into yours, and you kiss him slowly, as if to tell him that it’s okay.

Blonde lashes kiss the skin beneath his eyes, sluggish, as if he’s readjusting to his surroundings. As the fog begins to clear, John huffs, tongue sweeping over his teeth.

“You okay?” He asks, cadence hoarse and pitched with a still-lingering desire. He withdraws, untethering himself from you with a strenuous grunt, moving to buckle his pants up.

“Yeah,” Through a soft whisper, your gaze falls across him, smitten when you realize the gravity of what’s happened. “We should answer Bucky and try to regroup.”

With a nod, John concedes, hands gingerly shifting toward your hips, wordless as he helps to clasp your belt back together. “You know, we could try this again, with more space.” He states, matter-of-factly.

Incredulous, you’re making sure your suit is back into place, visibly flustered as you clear your throat. “When we get back to the Watchtower, come and find me.” You reply, attempting to seem disinterested.

John’s mouth twitches into a smug grin, lifting the communicator to his mouth. “Barnes, we copy.”

Suddenly, the door to the utility closet caves in, a metal arm ripping it from the hinges. John is still in the middle of helping you with your belt, digits stilling along your waist.

“Good hiding spot.” Bucky scoffs, doing little to suppress his smirk. The both of you look like deer in the headlights, and you’re quick to step away, brusquely clearing your throat.

You’re never going to hear the end of this.

[verstappenverse]

Hi! How are you? Could i ask for a Max one shot where reader has some complications in the pregnancy like angst but with happy ending? Idk if you dont want to do topics like this sorry if Its bothers you. Love your stories. Thank you

In Every Beat

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After sudden pregnancy complications threatens everything you and Max cling to each other through the fear.

TW: Pregnancy Complications, Hurt/Comfort

2.6k words / Masterlist

It happens suddenly.

One minute you’re laughing on the sofa with Max, his hand gently resting over your rounded stomach, and the next a sharp pain slices through you so violently you can’t even breathe.

Your fingers dig into his arm, nails clutching like you’re drowning. “Max...” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He looks down and sees the terror on your face at the same moment you feel something warm and wet between your legs.

His eyes go wide. “Liebling…? What—”

You shift slightly, and that’s when he sees it. Blood.

A lot of it.

“Shit.” He’s on his feet in an instant, phone to his ear as he wraps you in his arms. “Stay with me, okay? Don’t move.”

You want to answer but everything feels blurry like your body has detached from your brain. The pain is sharp, constant, and fear claws its way up your spine with every second that passes. You think you say something, maybe his name, but it comes out wrong, slurred, or maybe not at all. Then everything tilts, the lights blur, and you’re gone for a moment.

You black out.

When you come to, the hospital is blindingly white, sterile, cold, and humming with fluorescent light that feels like it’s slicing through your skull. Everything smells like antiseptic and fear. It’s too bright, too quiet and too loud all at once.

Max hasn’t let go of your hand since the moment you arrived. Not even for a second. His grip is firm like he’s trying to anchor you both to something solid when everything around you is slipping out of control. You can feel the tension in his palm, the way his thumb keeps brushing over your knuckles as if that alone might be enough to keep you calm, or maybe to keep himself from unraveling.

When the doctor speaks calm and professional, the words don’t quite land. “There’s a risk of early labour, and we need to monitor for placental abruption.”

You hear it, you register it, but it doesn’t feel real. You’re not focused on the terminology, you’re focused on Max, on the way his jaw tightens, how he swallows hard but he hasn't said anything yet, how he keeps nodding like he’s absorbing every syllable even though his eyes are wide with panic. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, to be strong for you, but you know him too well. He’s terrified.

“Will… will the baby be okay?” you manage, your voice fragile and barely audible, as if speaking it aloud might shatter what little calm remains in the room.

The doctor gives you a look that you recognise instantly the kind trained professionals offer when they don’t have certainties to give. It’s a smile, but not the reassuring kind.

“We’re doing everything we can.”

Just like that the floor drops out from under you, there’s no ground, no gravity. Just a rush of fear so thick it settles in your throat making it hard to breathe.

You’re admitted immediately for monitoring, hooked up to machines, an IV in your arm, a fetal heart monitor strapped tight around your belly, the steady rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat echoing in the background like a ticking clock. Nurses come and go, adjusting wires and taking notes, but it all blurs together. You’re not really here. Not fully.

Max is. Max never leaves.

He cancels everything he can, media obligations, team meetings, his phone buzzes on the table, ignored, nothing matters but you. He sits by your bedside, fingers laced with yours, brushing your hair off your forehead, murmuring soft words in Dutch you’re too tired to try and translate. He looks exhausted, you think maybe more than yourself, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment the bleeding started and hasn’t exhaled since.

At one point a nurse speaks quietly to him. “You need to rest too Mr. Verstappen.”

He doesn’t even glance away from you. “I will,” he says, his voice low and resolute. “When she’s safe.”

And he means it. Every word.

The bleeding has stopped, the contractions have eased, and the monitors blink with steady rhythms that seem to reassure everyone else, but not Max. You’re both still tethered to the fear, unable to shake the quiet, gnawing panic that something could still go wrong. That the worst hasn’t passed, only paused, and underneath the fear lies something heavier.

The guilt.

It festers in the silence between check-ins and the slow hours of the night when the beeping of machines is the only sound in the room. It clings to you more tightly than the hospital blanket.

“I shouldn’t have done that stupid workout” you whisper on the third day, eyes fixed on the blank ceiling like it might offer some kind of answer, some kind of absolution. “I knew I was feeling off. I should’ve listened to my body.”

Your voice cracks with shame, so soft it’s almost a confession.

Max looks up from the chair he’s practically lived in for days, the bags under his eyes dark and heavy, his pupils dull with exhaustion. He blinks slowly, like he’s trying to make sense of what you just said. “Don’t do that.”

You keep going anyway, unable to stop yourself. “I should’ve been more careful.”

“Don’t,” he says again, firmer now, but his voice wavers. It splinters on the word, barely holding itself together.

He rises and crosses the small space between you, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed as if afraid even that might hurt you. Then he leans in, reaching for your face, his touch gentle despite the tremble in his fingers.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, locking eyes with you, like he needs you to hear it, really hear it. “This isn’t your fault.”

You try to believe him, but the tears are already slipping past your lashes, spilling silently down your cheeks. You hate this part, the crying, the breaking open in front of him. It makes you feel vulnerable in a way you can’t control, a way you resent, but Max doesn’t waver he just hold you, steady, warm, present.

“Don’t ever blame yourself schatje,” he whispers, thumb brushing away the tears as fast as they fall. “You’ve done everything right. You’ve been protecting our baby since the moment we found out.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours and for a moment the world narrows to just the two of you breath to breath, skin to skin. “If anything, I should’ve noticed something was off sooner,” he adds. “I should’ve seen it. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect you while you look after our baby.”

You shake your head weakly against his. “Max…”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve been so brave through all of this. And I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared, but we’re gonna get through this. You and me. Together.”

His voice trembles, and the words settle into your chest like a weight, heavy and warm, and full of promise.

You nod, though your heart still aches with doubt. You nod because he needs you to, because you want to believe him, because maybe if he keeps saying it you’ll start to believe it too.

The days drag.

Time becomes something elastic stretched out, slow and unbearable. The constant hum of machines, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the sterile brightness that never dims it all becomes background noise to your new reality.

Every beep of the monitor sends a jolt of fear down your spine. Every subtle dip or spike in the baby’s heart rate turns your stomach, your mind racing toward the worst-case scenario before the nurses even glance up. You live from scan to scan, heartbeat to heartbeat, afraid to blink in case something changes when you're not looking.

At night, when visiting hours technically end, Max refuses to leave. He argues with the staff until they give up, and even then he waits until the room is quiet before climbing into your narrow hospital bed. He wedges himself beside you, his arm curled protectively around your waist, careful not to disturb the wires and monitors, his breath warm against your neck as he whispers soft promises in the dark.

“I think I’ll drive slower,” he tells you one night, his voice half-muffled by your hair.

You let out a weak laugh, more air than sound. “You’d be miserable.”

“Not if I have you,” he murmurs. “Not if I have our baby. That’s all I need.”

It’s a comforting sentiment, even if you know the speed is part of him, something written into his DNA, impossible to quiet even for love. You squeeze his hand tighter, and for a moment, the fear eases, not completely, but enough to breathe.

Eventually the monitors calm, the baby's heart stays steady, the danger hasn’t fully passed, not yet, but the worst seems to be over. The doctors release you days later with a list of strict instructions and a warning to rest, completely and absolutely. No exertion. No stress. Minimal walking unless absolutely necessary.

Max transforms.

At home he becomes a man possessed, driven by a single mission: keeping you safe. He sets alarms on his phone to bring you liquids every hour, marks medication times in three separate apps, and writes your daily meals on the kitchen whiteboard. He checks your temperature, fluffs your pillows, adjusts your blanket, and panics every time you so much as shift in bed.

The first time you try to get up without calling for him, just to stretch your legs, he nearly loses his mind.

“Max, I’m pregnant not dying,” you say, exasperated, as you sit back on the bed with a wince.

He freezes at the edge of the room, shoulders tense, lips pressed into a hard line. “You almost did die,” he snaps louder than intended, and the silence that follows is immediate and sharp. You look up, surprised by the intensity in his voice, and that’s when you see it.

The fear is still there. Raw and unhealed. Flashing across his face before he can hide it again.

“Sorry I— sorry…I didn’t mean to snap… I thought I was going to lose both of you,” he says, quieter now, eyes glistening. “When you passed out, you didn’t see how much blood there was. You didn’t hear how quiet it got when the doctor walked in. I—” His voice breaks, and he looks away like he’s ashamed of it.

You reach for him instantly, holding your arms out until he gives in and crosses the room. You pull him down beside you, wrapping him in your embrace, guiding his head to your chest. His hands cling to your sides, his breathing shallow against your collarbone.

“You didn’t lose us,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair. “We’re still here, I’m here, our baby’s here.”

He nods into your skin, as if trying to make himself believe it.

“I love you,” he says, voice rough and fierce, muffled against your neck. “You and our baby, so fucking much it terrifies me.”

You hold him tighter, one hand settling over your stomach where the tiniest kick flutters beneath your palm a reminder, soft and sure, that you're still fighting.

All three of you.

When labor comes, it’s early, but not dangerously so. Thirty-five weeks. Still close enough to full term that the doctors speak calmly, reassuringly, though the tension in Max’s shoulders suggests otherwise. The last few weeks have been a delicate balance between fear and hope, and now that the moment is finally here it crashes over you both like a wave you weren’t fully ready to face.

The contractions come fast and hard, no gentle build-up, just sudden pain that knocks the air from your lungs. You just make it to the hospital before the nurses are wheeling you into a delivery room, Max’s hand clutching yours.

There’s panic in his voice, just under the surface, but he swallows it down like he knows you can’t afford to see it. Not when you’re already shaking, teeth clenched through each blinding wave of pain.

You cry through a contraction and your nails dig into Max’s hand, hard enough to leave marks. “I can’t—Max, I can’t—” The words fall from your lips in a sob, your whole body trembling.

“Yes you can,” he says quickly, voice tight, forehead damp with sweat. He looks like he’s running his own marathon beside you, eyes locked on your face like he’s willing you to stay with him. “You already survived worse, you’re stronger than this pain. You can do it, I know you can.”

Somehow, that’s enough.

Somehow through the tears and the fear and the raw, unbearable pain, you dig deep. You push. You cry.

And then…

A sound. Soft. Small. Startling.

Your baby lets out their first cry, and the room stills for just a second, as if time itself pauses to make space for that single, perfect moment.

Max breaks.

Completely and without warning.

Tears spill down his cheeks in heavy silence as he leans over you, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, again and again, like he can’t get close enough, like he’s trying to memorise every part of you all over again. “You did it,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “You did it schatje. You’re incredible.”

You can barely keep your eyes open. “I’m so tired,” you whisper, voice slurred, overwhelmed with exhaustion and relief.

He cradles your face in his palms like you’re the most fragile thing in the world, and then gently helps the nurse place your baby in your arms. They’re small so, so small, but warm and alive and squirming against your chest. You stare down at them in disbelief, your heart swelling, your body trembling with awe.

The baby’s face is scrunched, nose a little smushed, mouth puckering with every tiny breath.

“We made this,” you breathe, eyes wide, voice cracking.

Max is already beside you, arms wrapping around the two of you, his lips pressed to the crown of your head. “Yeah,” he says softly, reverently. “We really did.”

A week later, you’re finally home.

There are still hospital visits, follow-up appointments, moments of panic in the middle of the night when the baby cries too long or not at all. Your body is still healing, and the sleepless nights have taken their toll. You cry sometimes without knowing why. Max has learned to just hold you and ride out the wave with you.

One night Max finds you sitting on the living room couch dressed in an oversized hoodie, the baby curled up on your chest like they’ve always belonged there. You’re humming something soft and tuneless, your eyes half-closed, one hand rhythmically rubbing slow circles across your baby’s back.

He doesn’t speak right away just watches from the doorway, chest tightening with something that feels too big for words.

Then he crosses the room, crouching in front of you with a smile so full of love it aches.

He brushes a kiss to your temple. “You look like magic,” he murmurs, like it’s a secret.

You huff a tired laugh, resting your cheek softly against the baby’s head. “I feel like a zombie.”

“A very beautiful zombie,” he counters without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, he leans in and kisses you gently, grateful, and when he pulls back he rests a hand on your knee, his thumb moving in lazy circles.

“I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens again, but this time the tears that rise are happy ones. You close your eyes and whisper I love you because you do, because there’s no other word for what you feel, no other way to express the enormity of what you’ve built, what you’ve survived, what you’ve become together.

As the baby sighs against your chest, as Max rests his head beside yours, you sit there wrapped in warmth and the soft weight of this new life, because in every heartbeat, yours, his, your baby’s there’s the same love.

[ceramini]

loser! jake BUT readers all of a sudden nice to him and jake is confused (and turned on ofc) maybe special occasion or smthn.surprise ne queen !!

⁺𝅄 𓊆 ❀ 𓊇 just so u guys know.. this will be my last jake fic/drabble before I retire him :(( i write for all of the members and I didn’t think people would request or even like my loser!jake stuff this much, so he WILL make a retrurn on my blog, I just want to share my work for other enha members as well <33 pls understand

pair loser!jake x hot!reader ͡ ͘◡ ꫶᳝᳜᳝᳜᳝᳜৯ tags reverse cowgirl, cockwarming ✿ scene jake forgot their third anniversary, again. He’s bracing for punishment, but instead, you’re suddenly super nice to him. Like, really nice. Confused, flustered, and lowkey turned on, Jake starts to wonder: is this mercy… or a horrible horrible setup? ────── library ⊹ ࣪ click to join taglist

like + reblog appreciated <3

Jake wakes up to the smell of bacon.

Which is weird, because he’s the one who usually forgets the pan and sets off the smoke alarm, and you usually sleep in on Sundays like it’s a constitutional right.

He blinks, dazed and warm and puffy-eyed, as your voice floats into the bedroom.

“Jakey,” you call softly. “Wake up baby. I made you breakfast.”

Jake sits up slowly. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are crusty. He’s half-hard under the blanket because of a dream he already forgot, and his first thought is:

Are you possessed?

“Baby?” you peek your head in, grinning.

Jake squints. “Wait. Did I die?”

You giggle. “No, dummy.”

“Did you die?”

“No.”

“Then why are you—” he looks down at the tray you’re carrying, eyes wide, “—bringing me pancakes?”

You sit beside him on the bed and brush a kiss to his cheek. “Because I love you.”

Jake flinches like you slapped him.

“You do?” he says, eyes watery.

You roll your eyes fondly. “Obviously.”

He leans against you, still confused but clinging like a koala.

Jake is an affectionate idiot, he clings without realizing, kisses without thinking, forgets his keys in your purse because “you’re the safe place.” But today, something about you is different.

You’re not just being kind, you’re being intentional.

You kiss him before he leaves the house.

You help him find his shoes even though they’re right where he always leaves them.

You pack his lunch. Write a little note.

And when he comes home after hanging with Sunghoon, there’s candles on the table.

Candles.

Jake stops in the doorway, staring.

“…Are we summoning something?”

You turn, wearing that adorable outfit, the one he kept staring at the day you tried it on in the store, too stunned to speak, until you went “should I not get it?” and he panic-yelled “NO GET IT GET IT.”

You wore it.

For him.

Jake gulps.

“Did I do something right?” he asks. “Or did I do something wrong and this is the part before you kill me?”

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist, laying your cheek against his chest. “You did everything right.”

Jake stands frozen. His whole body is stiff, except for one very obvious part.

You notice.

Of course you do.

You giggle. “You’re so easy.”

Jake whines. “You’re being so nice to me. It’s turning me on. That feels unethical.”

Dinner is perfect.

You give him his favorite part of the steak.

You laugh at every one of his terrible jokes.

You even rub his knee under the table like you want him.

Jake’s not used to being the pretty one in the relationship. You’re hot. So hot. It makes no sense to anyone that you date a guy who once cried during an animal shelter ad and accidentally set his microwave on fire trying to make instant ramen.

And yet.

You treat him like he’s the prize.

Jake wants to cry.

And then…

You give him a gift.

Wrapped. Bow and all.

Jake tears it open, confused, and finds:

A framed photo of you two, from your beach trip where Jake got sunburned and you made fun of his farmer’s tan.

A pressed flower from the first bouquet he gave you. He thought you threw it out.

A tiny hand-written book titled: “101 Reasons Why I’m Glad You’re Mine”

Jake blinks down at the cover.

“I—I don’t—” he stammers.

And then, finally, his eyes flick to the calendar on the wall.

The date glows like a punch to the gut.

Anniversary. Three years.

Jake forgot.

You didn’t.

“Jake,” you say softly, sitting beside him on the bed. “You okay?”

He looks like you kicked his puppy.

“I’m the worst boyfriend ever.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am. You did all this. And I didn’t even get you, like— like a card. Or a rock I found outside. Or a dumb doodle or a weird TikTok link or, anything.”

You rest your hand on his.

Jake’s bottom lip wobbles. He sniffles.

“It’s okay,” you say gently. “You always forget dates. I kind of expected it.”

That only makes it worse.

“You knew I’d forget?” he says, heartbroken.

You give a small, sad smile. “It’s not about remembering. It’s about trying.”

Jake stares at you.

And then, without a word, he kneels.

He presses kisses to your thigh. Your knee. Your hip.

Your stomach.

“Let me make it up to you,” he murmurs. “Please.”

He worships you.

That’s the only word for it.

Jake moves with reverence. He kisses you like he’s trying to apologize with his mouth, long, wet kisses that leave you gasping.

When you slide his shirt off, he fumbles a little with yours.

“Can I see you?” he whispers. “Please?”

You nod.

Jake groans the second your top’s off. His hands are greedy, trembling, desperate. But still gentle.

He takes his time.

So much time.

“Turn around?” you ask softly, cheeks warm. “I wanna ride you. That way.”

Jake’s brain short-circuits.

“Reverse— um what is it— um?”

“Reverse cowgirl?.”

Jake whines, already tugging his pants off. “I don’t even know if my heart can take that.”

You straddle him, slow and teasing.

And when you sink down, his hands fly to your hips.

Then hesitate.

Then slowly, tentatively, cup your ass.

“Can I?” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You nod.

Jake lets out the dirtiest moan you’ve ever heard.

“Your ass is insane,” he babbles. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna die. This is my punishment. You’re punishing me.”

He doesn’t even thrust.

He just holds you there, buried inside, cock so deep and warm that it feels like you’re melting together.

“P—please,” he breathes. “You’re so warm— n’so pretty. Like a goddess. Like an avenging angel with the softest—oh my god—you clenched.”

You giggle.

“I’m sorry,” he moans. “I know I forgot. I know I don’t deserve this. But I love you. I love you so much I feel it in my spine.”

You lean back slightly, rocking your hips once.

Jake chokes.

“I’ll never forget again,” he gasps. “Swear to god. I’ll tattoo it. I’ll set calendar alerts. I’ll carve it into my desk.”

You bounce once.

Jake screams.

You’re both laughing by the time he flips you over and kisses you breathless, trying to say everything with his hands and his mouth and his body that he forgot to say with words.

And after, when he’s soft inside you, buried to the hilt, and you’re both tangled and warm and sticky, Jake whispers:

“Next year I’m doing the most. Be ready.”

You hum, nuzzling into his chest. “Can’t wait.”

🪷 ─── @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto (join the taglist guys..)

[alisonsfics]

the stupid one

pairing: ex-bf!bucky barnes x reader

summary: your breakup with bucky had all been his fault. he got scared and called it quits. and he regretted more than you knew. but he’d never admit that to you. at least, not while sober.

inspired this lyric ~~ “i know i’m the stupid one who ended it. now i’m the stupid one regretting it. it took me a couple drinks to admit it” (“moving along” by 5sos)

a/n: we’re ignoring the super soldiers can’t get drunk plot point just fyi

word count: 2.3k

warnings: alcohol, mentions of smut

Fuck— Bucky was drunk. When he’d walked into the bar an hour earlier, he told himself he would only have a drink or two.

And he stuck to that promise…until he got a jarring notification on his phone.

1 year ago today, look back at your memories, from his photos app. As soon as he opened it, he knew it was a mistake.

It was photos from one of his date nights with you, at a fancy Italian restaurant he picked out.

The first photo was a selfie of the two of you, Bucky pressing a kiss against your cheek. The second photo was a picture he’d taken of you showing off the specialty cocktail you’d ordered— which you’d only ordered because it came in a glow in the dark glass. When it came out and was the side of your head, Bucky couldn’t stop laughing.

Before he knew it, Bucky felt that tight feeling in his gut. The one that couldn’t help but pop up when he thought about you.

When Bucky broke up with you, it was like he cut off his air supply, and he’d been struggling to survive ever since.

He still wasn’t entirely sure why he did it. All his friends asked him, and he never had a good answer.

All he knew is that if he’d kept dating you, he probably would’ve married you. He didn’t know why that scared him so much. Probably because he’d lost everyone he ever loved. He thought if he could break up with you before he fell deeper in love with you that somehow he’d be spared the heartbreak.

He knew now that wasn’t true.

All of sudden, he’d been at the bar for hours and scrolling through pictures of you the whole time.

His fingers were shaking as he clicked your contact and pressed call.

The decision was entirely fueled by the alcohol swimming through his system and not his brain. He didn’t know what he was going to say, only that he wanted to hear your voice.

On the other side of town, you nearly jumped out of your skin when Bucky’s name popped up on your screen. It rang and rang and rang, all while you were frozen still.

Bucky was starting to think you wouldn’t answer. I mean, hell— he wouldn’t even blame you.

Then he heard a quiet “hello?”

“I uhh— oh, hi. I’m surprised you answer.” He mumbled, stunned.

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” You asked, noticing the obvious slurring in his words.

Bucky felt a tear slip down his cheek. Hearing your voice again was like magic. His heart swelled in ways it hadn’t in months. “I just really miss you, doll.” His voice broke in the middle of the sentence.

He waited for you to say something anything. He’d even let you yell at him if it meant he could hear your voice for a little longer.

“Have you been drinking?” You asked.

He stalled. “Just because I have doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. I messed up, doll. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realize.” He told you, nervously.

“Do you need a ride home? You shouldn’t drive.” You breezed over the confession.

It pained you to talk to Bucky. He’d broken your heart and never really given you a reason for the breakup. You knew he was scared of getting hurt, but he hurt you in the process.

Despite the aching in your chest from hearing his voice, you still wanted to make sure he was safe.

“You always take such good care of me. I don’t know why I threw that away. God, I’m such an idiot.” He mumbled.

You focused on taking deep breaths. The emotion in his voice tugged on your heart. It’d been so long since you’d seen that side of Bucky. The side that adored you.

“Bucky, promise me that you’ll ask someone for a ride or call a cab?” You asked, feeling your voice get caught in your throat.

“Yeah, I promise I’ll—” his voice got cut off by his phone dying.

Bucky stumbled aimlessly through the bar. All he wanted was you. He wanted to feel the way you clung to him when you slept. He wanted to taste the peach lipgloss on your lips. He wanted to hear you tell him you loved him.

The pit in his stomach only got deeper as he hopped in a cab and headed towards his empty apartment.

He tried to pretend he was heading home to you— that he’d somehow never screwed things up and you were at home waiting for him.

By the time the cab pulled up outside his door, heavy raindrops were thudding against the windows.

He chucked a few loose bills in the driver’s hand before stumbling out of the car.

The rain instantly soaked his body— a cold freezing rain. It coated every inch of his skin and clothing.

He stood there, eyes closed. The cab drove away, and he just stood. Wanting the rain to wash away this nightmare.

His shirt clung to his chest as he felt the cold seep into his bones.

He opened his eyes, slowly— and they landed on you, sitting on his doorstep.

Had he done it? Had his prayers actually been answered? Had he gone back in time?

The familiar warmth of your eyes pulled him in. He felt like he was walking in slow motion as he crossed the sidewalk towards you.

“What’re you doing here?” He yelled over the rain. You stood before him in a rain jacket with your hood up. You’d been standing in the rain waiting for him to get home.

“I wanted to make sure you got home safe.” You told him.

Relief washed over him. He felt around his pocket, searching for his house key. Noticing the look of panic on his face, you grabbed the spare key from under the doormat and unlocked the door for him.

He stumbled inside. Instinctively, you held onto his hips to steady him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He slurred, failing to instill any confidence in you.

“C’mere, Bucky.” You said, simply. You wrapped your arm around his waist and led him up the stairs.

He threw his flesh arm around your shoulders, leaning into your touch. “I love you s’much, sweets.” He mumbled into your neck. He nuzzled his nose against your neck, softly kissing your skin.

You fought every ounce of your nature that wanted to melt into his touch.

He was drunk. He wasn’t thinking straight. You reminded yourself.

“Let’s just get you up to bed.” You redirected his affection.

He wasn’t so easily distracted. His hot breath blew against your neck. Reminding you of quickies together in his car. Or even sleepy mornings in bed when you’d both been too tired to do anything. So, he’d just perfectly jut his hips against yours, both of you still completely clothed as he would groan and whine in your ear.

“Perfect, you’re jus’ perfect,” he mumbled, continuing to kiss your collarbone.

You lowered him down onto his bed. You wanted to run out the door. To never see him again. It was certainly preferable to the specific torture of having your ex-boyfriend, who you still had feelings for, drunkenly profess his feelings for you.

But, you saw him lying on his bed in soaking wet clothes from the rain. And you saw the hurt in his eyes. The same one you often saw when you looked in the mirror.

Before you could change your mind, you peeled his wet shirt off of him. Next, you took off his shoes, socks, and jeans.

He watched silently as you ventured into his closet and emerged with a pair of sweatpants and a dry shirt.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he mumbled, as you pulled the dry clothes onto his body.

After you’d finished, he leapt towards you, clinging to your frame. Your arms were pinned to your side as he hugged you. “Can you stay tonight?” He mumbled against your skin.

You wanted really wanted to. To curl into his side under the sheets and drown in the smell of his citrus cologne. To forget about the lonely nights and tears shed.

“I shouldn’t.” You said, trying to pull out of his grasp. But, he was still a super soldier and much stronger than you. “I’m a mess without ya, sweets.” He said, looking into your eyes.

Those damn eyes.

You gave in immediately. “I’ll sleep on the couch, but only to make sure you’re okay.” You resigned. He pressed a chaste kiss to your temple before whispering goodnight.

After he got into bed, you retreated downstairs to the couch. Part of you was hoping that when you woke up, it would be a dream.

You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee brewing. You sat up, stretching the sleep out of your muscles.

“Morning,” Bucky entered the room holding two cups of coffee.

“Good morning,” you mumbled, the events of last night coming flooding back to you.

He sat down beside you, this thigh brushing up against yours. He handed you one of the mugs. His fingers brushed against yours in a way that made you jump and nearly spill your coffee.

“I only remember bits of last night, but I feel like we should talk.” He said, nervously.

“I should probably go.” You tried to excuse yourself.

Bucky placed his hand on your knee. “Please, stay,” he begged softly.

“This is too much for me, Bucky. I can’t go through all this again.” You said, looking up at the ceiling trying to will away the tears.

As soon as a tear rolled down your cheek, he brushed it away with his thumb. “Please, don’t cry, doll.” He whispered. Heartbreak was written all over both your faces.

“I need to apologize for last night. I crossed a line, but I want you to know that everything I said last night was true. I meant it all. It wasn’t drunk nonsense, I swear. But I know that I shouldn’t have dumped that all on you. I’m really sorry.” He said, genuinely.

His eyes were trained on your face— watching for any reaction. Any hint of a smile or a frown.

You felt a chill run down your spine. You didn't know what to say. Of course you still loved him, but getting hurt again haunted you.

He sensed a rejection coming. He leaned his head slowly onto your shoulder. It took everything in his power to not fall apart. “I know it’s not fair, but I just need to know, doll. Have you missed me the way I miss you?” His voice creaked.

“Why should you be allowed to miss me? You called it off. Cause yeah I’ve missed you like hell, but that’s because you decided you didn’t want me in your life anymore.” You finally snapped.

“I swear on my life, that’s not why I ended things. Of course I wanted you in my life and of course I loved you. That’s not why,” he defended. As much as you didn’t want to, you believed him.

“Then why? Please just tell me because you’ve never given me a straight answer.” You begged him for the closure you’d chased for months. You couldn’t even grieve your relationship because you still didn’t know why it ended.

Bucky’s eyes turned glassy, and he bit the inside of his cheek. You could see how much these past few months had weighed on him.

He reached over— slowly, hesitantly— and interlaced his fingers with yours. “I don’t know how to be a husband— or, a dad. I barely knew how to be a good boyfriend.” He confessed.

You gently squeezed his hand. “I wasn’t asking you to do those things yet. We weren’t even at that point.” You told him.

“But I knew how much I loved you. I fell harder for you everyday. I knew if I stayed, I would end up marrying you. Which sounds like a dream, like a beautiful dream— but a really fucking scary dream too. I didn’t want to disappoint you and have you resent me. I figured it would just be easier to end it before we got to that point. It would be so much harder to lose you when there’s a ring on this finger.” He said, looking down at your hand in his.

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed, not having time to kiss you back before you pulled away. “You were never going to lose me. You said you weren’t a good boyfriend, but you were. You’re the love of my life, and you made me feel so special and seen. I know you feel all these expectations, but those aren’t mine. I just wanted you.” You promised him.

“I’m not enough for you.” He admitted, weakly. You shook your head, cupping his cheek with your hand. “You are all that I need.” You said.

He closed his eyes, a few rogue tears rolling down his cheeks. The relief was written all over his face. Forgiveness. Finally.

He felt your lips press against his cheek, kissing each one of his tears away. “To answer what you said last night, I’m a mess without you too.” You told him simply.

He smiled at you before leaning down to kiss you. There was familiarity but also a little bit of exploration. He didn’t waste a second before letting his hands roam your body. You melted into his touch like the first time.

Your bodies jumped back to old habits as you laced your fingers through his hair and he pulled you into his lap.

His lips still fit perfectly against yours. Like you both were built for each other— and no one else.

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[pbaz7]

SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 8

paige x azzi

warning: mentions blood, fighting

word count: 8.9k

a/n: hi guys 🫣 so sorry for leaving you on a cliffhanger last chapter but it needed to be done lol. i hope this chapter brings you a little comfort as much as it’ll make you sick to your stomach! i was harassed to post without minimal proof reading so please let me know if there’s any mistakes. like always feel free to leave comments, reactions or ideas 🫶🏼

—————————————————————————

Azzi laid curled in Paige’s bed, the usually warm sheets cold around her, with the smell of Paige lingering heavily in the fabric. Tears silently slipped down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow as she stared across the empty space all night.

She got up and left at the first sight of sunrise that morning after taking a long shower and putting on some of Paige’s clothes. Before leaving she grabbed Paige’s spare set of keys not wanting to leave her house unlocked.

Three days passed before Azzi had calmed her mind enough to format a few texts but they went undelivered meaning Paige’s phone was off. So Azzi tried to be patient. She told herself that Paige needed space just like she’d taken herself three days before reaching out. Told herself that maybe she was in the gym every hour of every day again, working through whatever was sure to be going on in her head. But by day six, it felt like the silence was clawing at her throat and she felt sick knowing she played a part in whatever Paige was feeling.

When Cam’s name lit up her phone on day six, Azzi swiped to answer it immediately.

“Hey,” she said, her voice completely horse after not using it for days.

“You okay?” Cam asked tentatively.

“Yeah…Have you heard from Paige?”

Cam paused. “No. I was actually calling to ask you that. I think her dumbass broke her phone again or something; none of my texts are going through and my calls are going straight to voicemail.”

Azzi’s stomach lurched when she realized Cam didn’t know anything either. “We got into a fight,” she said quietly, her eyes locking on the far corner of the room so they didn’t start glossing over again. She really didn’t have the energy to cry anymore. “A few nights ago. Almost a week.”

She could hear Cam shifting on the other end of the line. “What kind of fight?”

Azzi let out a humorless laugh. She knew she was being a little rude but God it felt like a stupid ass question. “A fight, Cam. What do you mean what kind?”

Cam was quiet for a moment and Azzi could feel the tension building through the phone in that silence.

“I just…I need details. Whatever you wanna give me so I know what’s going on with her,” Cam said her voice strung a little tight. “Paige doesn’t turn her phone off like this. Yes she get’s upset and goes MIA but I always know where she is, she always at least checks in.”

Azzi closed her eyes, wiping at the tear that dropped to her cheek harshly. “She was in her gym when I showed up late to her house. She was already…not okay. Frustrated.”

“Ok and what happened?”

“I tried to get her to come inside and we went back and forth for a little bit…I brought up the club and she got defensive so I got frustrated. It just spiraled before I could figure out what was going on in my head.”

Cam stayed silent as she listened to what happened.

Azzi’s voice cracked. “I fucking flinched, Cam.”

Cam blinked on the other end confused. “What? What do you mean?”

Azzi covered her face trying to stop the tears, she was so fucking tired of crying. “She was trying to calm things down saying she didn’t wanna fight and she reached for me, wanted to grab my face like she always does…she does it everyday Cam.” She chokes back a sob before continuing. “But I flinched before she could even touch me.”

The line was quiet so Azzi just kept going, talking about it for the first time.

“She didn’t even do anything wrong, Cam. She was just trying to stop the fight before it got bad,” Azzi whispered. “And I flinched like I thought she was going to hurt me. The way she looked after that…” Azzi let out a choked breath. “She looked so…broken. Like I destroyed her. Like she couldn’t believe I thought she could ever…” She didn’t finish the sentence as she sucked in a deep breath.

Cam exhaled slowly, her own worry starting to rise knowing how Paige was. “Fuck.”

“I swear to God I know she’d never hurt me,” Azzi said. “I swear I know. I just wasn’t thinking and everything happened so fast.”

Cam didn’t say anything for a few moments then she said, “I’m coming over.”

“Cam—”

“I’m coming Azzi. I’ll be there in twenty.”

Azzi didn’t bother to argue with her, she didn’t have the energy to be honest. She just sat on the edge of the bed, wiping her eyes and staring at her phone like she could will Paige’s name to appear on the screen.

Cam didn’t say much when she got to Azzi’s house that night. She just took off her shoes at the door, climbed in the bed behind Azzi, and wrapped her arms around her like she’d done a thousand times for Paige before. She didn’t offer any empty words that probably wouldn’t help. Just the warmth and the sound of someone else breathing that Azzi had been missing for days.

By morning, Cam was already on her phone calling people. Azzi stirred awake when she felt her shift on the bed, her eyes blinking open to find Cam’s eyebrows drawn tight and her voice low as she spoke to someone who clearly didn’t have the answers she was looking for.

When Cam turned and noticed that Azzi was awake the first thing she said was, “She’s not at the cabin or anywhere in Minnesota.” She lowered her phone before adding “And she hasn’t been back to her house either.”

Azzi sat up, her throat already tight for the day before she could brush her teeth. “Then where else can she be?”

Cam didn’t answer because she didn’t know. She stared at the screen in her hand for a while before feeling like an idiot for not thinking of this sooner. When she realized she scrolled through her contacts and tapped one name and held the phone to her ear.

It rang once. Twice and then a third time.

Azzi felt like her heart climbed higher with each one and she didn’t even know who Cam was calling.

Then the fourth ring cut off.

“Hey,” DiJonai’s voice echoed through the phone. “She’s with me. Stop worrying.”

Cam exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for days and Azzi’s head snapped toward her when she heard it.

“She’s okay?” Cam asked, already putting the phone on speaker so Azzi could hear.

There was a long pause. “No not really,” DiJonai said.

Cam frowned. “Is she telling you anything?”

“No,” Nai replied. “She won’t talk to me about whatever happened. She just showed up at my door at four in the morning looking like somebody shot her damn puppy in front of her and she’s been like that all week. Won’t eat much unless I literally force her. I don’t think she’s been sleeping either. Just…off somewhere in her head all day.”

Cam’s heart dropped hearing the state of her sister. “How in her head?”

DiJonai sighed. “I don’t know…I’ve never seen her like this honestly and you know there’s been some shit.”

Cam looked at Azzi whose face was unreadable as she looked at the phone. “Can you give her the phone?”

DiJonai sighed again before saying, “Yeah hold on I’ll try.”

A moment passed then they heard footsteps and a door opening. There were muffled voices before the clear sound of DiJonai saying, “Just stop being an asshole and let her hear that you’re alive.”

Azzi clutched the blanket tighter around her legs as her eyes locked on the phone like it might will Paige to pop up in front of her.

There was a moment of static and shuffling, then a voice barely made it through the speaker sounding cracked and hoarse. “…Hello.”

Cam exhaled sharply. “I should kill you Paige.”

Another beat of silence. Then Paige’s voice came through again dryly, “That might not be so bad right now.”

A loud thump came through the phone, followed by a muffled “Ow.” An unmistakable play by play of DiJonai smacking the hell out of her.

Cam rubbed her temple. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing, Cam,” Paige mumbled.

“You’ve got a fight in three weeks,” Cam reminded her gently, even though she was 100% sure Paige hadn’t forgotten.

“I know.”

“You ready?”

“No.”

Cam’s chest rose. “You gonna be ready?”

A pause and a fake laugh. “No.” Paige’s voice sounded empty. Completely detached from the present and it scared Cam more than anything else.

“Do we need to cancel it?” Cam asked carefully.

“I’ll be ight,” Paige stated. “If not, I’ll just get a real nice and deserved ass whooping out of it. Maybe finally find out what it’s like to get knocked out, you know.”

“That’s not funny Paige.”

“Well.”

Cam looked over at Azzi, whose eyes hadn’t moved from the phone once. Her eyes were glossy and her fingers were tight where they gripped her blanket.

Cam decided to ask what she already knew. “You talked to Azzi lately?”

There was a long pause at the question. Then Paige’s voice came back, somehow sounding more distant than it was before. “Why’d you call?”

Cam blinked, not surprised by the deflection. “Because your phone’s off and you’ve never done that before. I was worried.”

Silence again, suggesting Paige was done with the conversation. Cam didn’t wait to hear the inevitable dial tone. “Have you talked to Azzi?”

“Why are you asking me about her?”

“Why are you avoiding the question?”

Paige was too exhausted to go back and forth so she just closed her eyes. When she spoke again her voice had softened in the worst kind of way. “I fucked it up,” she said, like the words hurt her throat to say. “So I’m just…not tryna talk about it right now.”

Azzi looked down, her nails digging into her palms. Cam saw it but didn’t say anything. She just pressed Paige for a better answer “How’d you mess it up?”

There was a rustle on the other end. DiJonai must’ve moved toward her or something, but the line stayed quiet for a few seconds before Paige finally spoke.

“She was just tryin’ to talk to me that night and I was so far in my own head I couldn’t see straight. She brought up the club and…I got defensive. I thought she didn’t get why I did what I did. Like she was just trying to write it off as me being—I don’t know. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. He put his hands on her, Cam.” Her voice was shaking, despite how flat it sounded.

“And I didn’t wanna argue with her Cam. I swear I didn’t. She’s everything to me I lo—” Cam took the phone off speaker when she heard her starting to break down.

Azzi had to turn her head away as tears hit her collarbone. Cam put a hand gently on her back.

“I should’ve been calmer. I should’ve put my hands in my pocket or something. Done more to make her feel safe but I didn’t and that’s on me. All of it.”

Cam swallowed hard, her tone gentler now. “Do you want to talk to her?”

There was a long pause. Then Paige’s voice came so small it barely carried over the speaker “…She’s with you?”

Azzi squeezed her eyes shut from not being able to hear Paige’s response.

Cam looked at Azzi with a soft smile in her eyes. “She’s been calling and texting you,” she said gently into the phone.

There was hesitation on the other end. A shuffle. DiJonai’s voice carried softly, saying, “It’s ok.” Paige finally spoke, “Can you…can you give her the phone? Only if she wants it.”

Cam held it out.

Azzi took it with a trembling hand, wiping the tears that had already fallen. She held the phone up to her ear and cleared her throat lightly. She spoke first but her voice cracked around the edges. “Hey.”

On the other end, there was a long exhale. Like Paige had been holding her breath for days. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and even over the phone, the weight of her tone landed deeply in Azzi’s chest..

“You don’t need to apologize,” Azzi said quietly.

“Yes, I do,” Paige replied softly. “I never should’ve—” She stopped herself, took a long, shaky breath. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. “I miss you.”

Azzi closed her eyes, tightening her grip on the phone. “I miss you too.”

A quietness filled the space between them.

At almost the same time , Cam stepped out of Azzi’s room and DiJonai quietly exited her guest room, leaving them alone.

There was a pause in the soft static of silence before Paige’s voice came through, horsley. “Have you been eating?”

Azzi took a breath. “I’m trying.” Then after a second she added, “You?”

“I’m…cutting,” Paige said after a small hesitation.

“You don’t start cutting until two weeks before your fight.”

Paige didn’t respond.

Azzi waited with her lips pressed together. Paige tugged at the edge of the blanket wrapped around her legs, curling into herself just a little, her silence saying more than anything she could say.

Gently, Azzi asked, “Are we going to talk about it?”

Paige’s voice was soft as she said. “Of course. Just not over the phone.”

Azzi nodded even though Paige couldn’t see her. “Are you coming back soon?”

“I can’t. Not until the fight,” Paige said.

“Why?”

Paige stared at the ceiling, trying to swallow down the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to say that she hadn’t trained since that night. That every time she so much as thought about getting in the cage, all she could see was Azzi flinching. That the image of the woman she loved looking afraid of her was lodged somewhere deep in her bones, making it impossible to move.

“There’s an extra trainer down here in Dallas,” she said instead. “Thought I’d take advantage of that.”

Azzi knew Paige was lying. She could tell by her voice but she didn’t push. “You don’t feel ready?” she asked instead.

“I got a lot of catching up to do,” Paige said.

The line went quiet again, both of them teetering on the edge of something delicate and not wanting to say the wrong thing.

Then, softly, Azzi asked, “Do you think we’re going to be okay?”

Paige’s voice broke gently through the silence. “I think we’re talking…and that counts for something right?”

Without speaking, both girls slowly shifted to lay on their sides, mirroring each other across state lines. Phones cradled against their cheeks, tucked into pillows. The air between them was still tentative, still filled with a slight tension and recent pain but it wasn’t unbearable anymore after hearing each other's voices.

There were small silences, tiny hesitations as they talked, unsure of how to be anything but soft with each other right now.

Paige found herself smiling, just a little, just from hearing Azzi’s voice. Her cadence, her sighs when her girlfriend said something a little outlandish, the quiet way she said Paige’s name like it still meant something to her.

And Azzi, she felt her chest loosen for the first time in a week. Like maybe she hadn’t ruined everything. Maybe she hadn’t completely broken the woman she loved. She still had a piece of her even after that night.

They stayed like that, talking about nothing and everything, until the weight between them started to shift just enough to make breathing easier.

…

Those three weeks with Paige in Dallas and Azzi in LA were hell for both of them, respectfully.

In Dallas, Paige didn’t so much live as exist. Days passed like static, one bleeding into the next. She now slept too much and barely ate, only getting through meals when DiJonai sat in front of her like a sentry with her arms crossed, waiting for every last bite to disappear from the plate.

It wasn’t until two weeks before the fight that DiJonai had enough of Paige not training.

So she yanked Paige out of bed early that morning. She didn’t say a word as she threw a hoodie at her aggressively, and drove them to the gym in complete silence. Paige didn’t ask where they were going, she didn’t really care. She just stared out the window, her thoughts drifting everywhere but where she was.

The second they stepped inside the empty gym, DiJonai threw a pair of gloves at her. They hit her chest and dropped to the floor. She didn’t bend to pick them up, just looked at them.

“What are we doing here?” Paige asked flatly.

“You have a fight in two weeks,” DiJonai said, already starting to stretch on the mat.

“I know.”

“So you need to train.”

“I said I know.”

DiJonai turned around with her jaw clenched. “Then put the damn gloves on, idiot.”

Paige didn’t move. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t thrown a punch in three weeks.”

“I’ve been working out.”

“Jogging on the treadmill and lifting half your usual weight isn’t working out. It’s you bullshitting.”

Paige just stared at her.

“You do realize you’re risking your life, right?” DiJonai snapped, her frustration bubbling over.

Paige’s jaw clenched as she looked away. “You think I don’t know that?”

“No, I think you’re so in your head about other shit that you’re forgetting what stepping into a fight means.” DiJonai took a step closer. “This isn’t some play fight, Paige. This isn’t sparring or an exhibition. You know this shit is real. If you go in there half-assed, half-ready, half-whatever it is you’re fucking feeling you don’t come out the same.”

Silence.

DiJonai’s voice changed. “I can’t watch you do that to yourself…I won’t. And I think you knew that and that’s why you came here instead of going to Minnesota. You know I won’t coddle you like everyone else will.”

Paige’s eyes flicked to the gloves on the ground but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

DiJonai just waited. Her patience wasn’t infinite, but her care for Paige had been since they met for some reason. It was one of the reasons they got along so well.

Paige’s eyes flicked to the gloves on the ground again.

“Put them on,” DiJonai said again, quieter this time.

“I can’t,” Paige said, her voice cracking.

“Why the fuck not, Paige?”

Paige’s jaw clenched as she looked everywhere but at DiJonai. Her voice came out defeated when she spoke. “Cam told you about the club, I’m assuming.”

DiJonai gave her a small nod, her eyebrows narrowing. “Yeah…what about it?”

Paige exhaled like the weight of the night was sitting directly on her lungs. “After that night Azzi was just off. She thought I didn’t notice but I could tell it freaked her out and I just—I was so mad at myself for letting her see me like that and our argument just confirmed everything I already knew.”

DiJonai folded her arms across her chest. “Okay…but Paige, you knocked some dude out for smacking your girlfriend's ass. You did exactly what every damn testosterone-filled man would’ve done.”

“I know,” Paige mumbled, still clearly upset with herself.

“I’m not saying it was the right thing,” DiJonai added quickly, “but Azzi’s overreacting a little.”

Paige’s head snapped up at that. “She’s not,” she said simply. “She’s not overreacting. Don’t say she can’t feel how she does.”

“She is,” DiJonai insisted, calmly. “You’re acting like you blacked out and don’t remember what happened. You didn’t. You lost your cool because some idiot violated your girlfriend and you’re a natural protector. There’s a difference.”

“You weren’t there.”

“No, I wasn’t,” DiJonai agreed. “But if you had actually blacked out, like everybody keeps claiming, you wouldn’t have stopped when security got involved. You would’ve swung on them. You would’ve left him with more than a fucked up nose and a busted cheek. But you didn’t. You stopped.”

Paige shook her head. “I lost it Nai.”

“Yeah you snapped. That’s not the same as being out of control,” DiJonai pushed. “You’re scared because you think this proves something about you but it doesn’t.”

“It proves I’m not who she thinks I am,” Paige mumbled.

“No, it proves you’re human,” DiJonai said back. “One who cares clearly. You snapped because someone disrespected the person you love, not whatever story you’ve been narrating in your head.”

Paige didn’t respond, her hands just trembled slightly even thinking about putting on the gloves.

DiJonai took a small step closer so they were face to face. “She’s scared, I get that. I understand that she has the right to feel what she feels. But don’t twist that into thinking you’re not worthy of her or love or whatever dramatic ass scenarios I know you’re coming up with. You messed up, that’s it.”

Paige looked down at the mat, her voice suddenly small. “She flinched Nai.”

Paige’s eyes brimmed with tears but they didn’t fall. “When we were arguing. I raised my voice a lil bit and I ain’t like that so I was tryna stop the argument and she flinched like I was gonna…like I was gonna hit her.” Her throat bobbed hard as she choked on her own breath. “That’s not something even you can explain away. That’s not someone overreacting, she was scared of me. I’m supposed to be where she feels the safest and she’s scared of me.” As she said this a single tear dripped from her eye before she wiped it away aggressively.

“That might’ve been her reaction, yeah. But that doesn’t mean she’s scared of you Paige. It means it’s complicated and that you have to work through it with her.”

Paige didn’t answer.

“You think she’d still be calling you if she really believed you’d hurt her?” DiJonai asked gently. “You think she’d still pick up the phone for you when you text her?”

Paige sat on the mat with her head bowed. DiJonai let her sit there for a few minutes hoping that she’d will herself up. Talk herself through everything going on in her head.

But after a while DiJonai exhaled. She could see it in Paige’s eyes, in her posture. She was feeling more than just guilt, whatever it was sat bone-deep. Sitting in a place where words weren’t going to reach her.

“Alright,” DiJonai said. “If you’re convinced you can’t control yourself, let’s test it right now.”

Paige looked up at her in confusion, just in time to see DiJonai pull her own hoodie off and toss it aside.

“Get up.”

“What?”

DiJonai stepped closer. “Get. Up.”

Paige didn’t move so DiJonai yanked her up. “DiJ—”

Suddenly as soon as she was on her feet DiJonai pushed her shoulder hard enough to make her stumble back. “How far you think I can get before you snap?”

“Stop,” Paige warned.

But DiJonai didn’t. She got in Paige’s face, eyes to eye. “Do it. Show me how man you think you can get. Show me how you think you can just black out.”

“DiJonai—”

Another shove. This time it was harder on her chest.

“I’m standing right here. Disrespecting you. Pushing you. Provoking you.” She shoved again, more force behind it. “Lemme see you tweak like you think you will on the people you care about. Let out all that anger you been holding in.”

Paige’s jaw clenched as she took a tight breath. She wouldn’t look at DiJonai, she just stared past her.

“What you not mad yet?” DiJonai prodded. “You don’t wanna swing on me? You a pussy all of a sudden now?

Paige didn’t move.

DiJonai’s voice lowered. “What’s wrong? You scared imma flinch like your lil girlfriend?”

Paige’s eyes snapped to hers clearly pissed off but she still didn’t move.

DiJonai waited for a reaction. A twitch in her fingers. A slip, anything to provide Paige right.

But all Paige did was breathe. It was gritty and broken, but controlled.

A few seconds passed and then DiJonai leaned in, softer now. “You’re pissed,” DiJonai said. “You’re hurt. You’re drowning in your own head and you still didn’t touch me. You know how to control yourself Paige so please stop acting like you’re one step away from hurting the people you care about.”

Something cracked when DiJokai said that. Paige’s face crumpled before she could stop it and her shoulders folded in as the weight finally caught up to her. Her hands trembled as her breath hitched twice. Then she was crying, not just tearing up and letting one or two tears drip, but full on crying.

She stepped forward and DiJonai caught her easily. Paige leaned into her shoulder like her legs couldn’t hold her up anymore, letting out a broken, muffled sob that had been sitting in her chest for too long.

DiJonai held her there and just let her cry. “You’re ok I swear.” Paige only cried harder, her fingers gripping the back of DiJonai’s shirt .

They stood there for a while as Paige just let herself cry, sobs falling out of her here and there until she physically didn’t have anything left in her.

When Paige’s breathing started to get a little more even, DiJonai leaned back enough to look her in the eye. “Now pick up the gloves.”

Paige blinked a few times, her eyes still wet and puffy, after a second she slowly bent down to grab the gloves.

…

Back in LA, things weren’t falling apart like they were in Dallas but they weren’t quite holding together either.

Azzi hadn’t left the house in days. Cam, Rickea, and Rae had made it their personal goal to keep her distracted, throwing together movie nights, spontaneous baking sessions and a lot of tequila. They dragged out old board games, ordered her favorite takeout, and gave her space when she needed it. But no matter how many activities they lined up everyday, Azzi stayed emotionally elsewhere.

She was still eating, still showering, still going through the motions. But her heart wasn’t in it.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the way Paige looked at her right after. Like Azzi had confirmed her worst fear in a split second and in the rest of that second, all Azzi had wanted was to take it back. To reach for her. To tell her she didn’t mean to move, that it wasn’t about her. That she wasn’t scared of her, But but hadn’t been able to. And now Paige was in Dallas, and she was in LA, and there was nothing but space between them.

That night, after Rae had gone to bed, Cam and Rickea found Azzi curled up in the corner of the couch with a hood pulled over her head and her eyes distant. The TV was on but it was muted, the lights only flickering across Azzi’s face.

Rickea sat next to her and Cam brought over ice cream, putting it on the table.

“Why did I flinch?”

Cam looked at her softly. “You wanna talk about it?”

Azzi hesitated and they let the silence sit comfortably until she was ready. “I don’t know why I did it.”

Rickea sat next to her, listening.

“I grew up in a happy home,” Azzi said. “Two parents who love me. My dad doesn’t raise his voice, and my mom’s idea of discipline was a disappointed stare. So it wasn’t a reflex.”

Cam stayed quiet.

Azzi looked down at her hands as she talked herself through her tangled thoughts. “I wasn’t scared of her. I’m not scared of her.” She corrected herself. “But I think something about the way she looked, like she’d stopped feeling anything. It kind of hit me weird. Like all this energy was coming off of her, and it just—my body reacted before I could stop it.”

Rickea tilted her head. “You think it’s from something you saw before?”

Azzi shook her head. “I don’t think so. It wasn’t like a memory. It was more like...I don’t know. Shock. That night...I think I was scared of what she was feeling. Not what she’d do. I knew she wasn’t going to do anything to me.”

Azzi looked down, playing with her cuticles. “She looked at me like I confirmed every worst thing she’s ever believed about herself.”

“I should’ve said something,” Azzi added again. “But, I let her walk out thinking I didn’t feel safe with her.”

Cam’s voice was soft. “So tell her when you can. Make sure she hears that.”

Azzi’s eyes stung. “I just want her to come home.”

Rickea leaned her head against Azzi’s shoulder. “She will babe.”

It was 1:43 AM in Los Angeles. 3:43 in Dallas. That same night, technically, when DiJonai got Paige to pick up the gloves and Azzi worked through her feelings on the couch.

Paige was sitting on DiJonai’s balcony with her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them as she stared at the sky.

Back in LA, Azzi was curled on her patio couch in her backyard, with one of Paige’s hoodies keeping her warm. She hadn’t planned on texting her, but her fingers moved anyway.

A message lit up Paige’s phone.

Azzi [3:43 AM]: You up?

The response came to Azzi almost instantly.

Paige [1:43 AM]: yeah wassup mama ?

Seconds later, Paige’s phone lit up again with an incoming call and she answered on the first ring.

“Hey you,” Azzi said softly.

“Hey,” Paige echoed back, just as soft.

“What are you up to?”

Paige tilted her head back, eyes tracing the constellations. “Just...staring at the sky.”

Azzi let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” Paige asked, already smiling.

Azzi didn’t answer with words. Instead, she raised her phone and took a picture of the sky from her backyard, and sent it.

Paige pulled the phone away from her ear for a second to look. The moon was the same in both places.

She brought the phone back to her ear. “What you doing out there?”

“It’s cold in the house,” Azzi said.

“Turn the heat up.”

“I don’t want to.”

The words hung there.

They both knew what she meant. That it wasn’t really about the cold. That she wanted Paige’s body next to her to keep her warm. But neither of them said it.

After a few quiet seconds, Azzi asked, “Why are you up?”

Paige exhaled slowly. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

There was a pause, then a soft smile ghosted Paige’s lips. “You.”

“What about me?”

Another pause before Paige said quietly, “How much I miss you.”

Azzi closed her eyes, smiling a little. “I miss you too.”

A moment passed before Paige spoke again. “I went to the gym today.”

Azzi perked up. “That’s good. Did you hit?”

“Yeah.”

Azzi smiled with her eyes. “I’m proud of you.”

Paige’s voice caught a little. “Why?”

Azzi shifted in her seat, pulling the sleeves of the hoodie over her hands. “Because...you weren’t before.”

Paige stared out at the sky. “How’d you know?”

“Your voice.”

“What about it?”

“It’s lighter now. It always changes a little after you hit for real. When we were talking the other day it never changed. So I knew you weren’t letting anything out.”

Paige was quiet, her eyes stinging at Azzi noticing something as small as that. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked. “If you knew I was lying.”

“Because I would lie too, if I thought it might make you feel better.” She let that sit before asking, “That’s what you were doing, right? Trying to make me feel better?”

Paige blinked hard, nodding even though Azzi couldn’t see her. “Yeah.”

Azzi’s voice was quiet again when she spoke. “DiJonai reached out to me.”

Paige blinked, straightening up a little. “She did?”

“Yeah...asked for my number.”

Paige let out a soft laugh. “She’s annoying like that.”

Azzi smiled faintly at the familiar sound. “We talked…” she started, then trailed off. She didn’t need to finish. Paige already knew what they talked about.

“We can talk about it when I get back,” Paige said gently.

“In two weeks?” Azzi asked, the time sounding heavier when she said it out loud.

Paige nodded instinctively, then remembered Azzi couldn’t see her. “Yeah,” she said. “We can’t talk about this over the phone.”

Azzi understood so she didn’t press for anything more.

There was a lull in the conversation before Azzi shifted the energy like she always did to make Paige lighter. “You know your beautiful precious Audi is probably at the airport, getting dirty and racking up a pretty big bill.”

Paige let out a chuckle. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

Paige smiled. “Go get it for me then if you’re so worried.”

Azzi scoffed playfully. “What?”

“You know where my spare key is.”

“You want me to go get your what…two hundred and forty five thousand dollar car and just drive it?”

Paige grinned. “Mhmm.”

Azzi laughed, it was that easy, bright laugh that Paige had missed more than anything.

“Just don’t try to put any gas in it like you did the Escalade,” Paige added.

“Oh my God,” Azzi groaned, laughing louder. “How was I supposed to know it didn’t take regular?”

“You shouldn’t have been trying to pump gas in the first place princess,” Paige said softly.

Azzi smiled to herself for a second before she said. “I miss that.”

“Me too.”

Azzi stretched her legs across the outdoor couch cushion, pulling Paige’s hoodie tighter around her. “So…what else is going on in that head of yours?”

Paige exhaled slowly. “Everything. Nothing. Depends on the hour really.”

Azzi gave a soft laugh. “I see you’re still dramatic, huh?”

“Can’t help it.”

Azzi smiled. “Whatever.”

Paige let her words sit in the quiet for a beat before asking, “How’s Cam?”

“She’s good. She tried to get me to go on a hike in a cave earlier.”

Paige raised her eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Hell no.”

Paige laughed. “It’s the bugs isn’t it?”

“Yes you know I hate them and dirt…and being hot.”

They sat in silence for another stretch but this time it was the kind that felt familiar. Like Azzi just letting her girlfriend be her usual self for a second.

Eventually Azzi asked, “You nervous?”

Paige blinked. “About what?”

“The fight.”

Paige was quiet for a long moment. “No…” Then, “I don’t know. I think I’m thinking more about what I have going on than who I’m fighting.”

Azzi’s voice was soft. “Do you want me to come?”

Paige’s eyebrows knit slightly. “Do you want to come?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Paige looked up at the sky like it might give her the right words. “I just…didn’t know if you’d want to see it. After everything you know.”

Azzi’s heart twisted hearing how fragile Paige sounded. She didn’t sound like a fighter right now, more like a girl trying not to lose herself in her own thoughts.”

“Of course I’m gonna be there, pretty girl,” Azzi said gently.

Paige swallowed hard. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to though. It wouldn’t make me think less of you or anything like—”

“Baby,” Azzi interrupted softly.

Paige’s stopped rambling. “…Yeah?”

Azzi’s voice was barely a whisper. “Stop.”

Paige’s eyes fluttered closed. “Okay.”

They kept talking again about nothing, about everything. They didn’t solve anything, didn’t touch the deeper pain just yet, but the call was another thread pulling them back to each other. Azzi talked about Rae accidentally burning popcorn and setting off her smoke alarm. Paige told her about the old lady who almost knocked her over at Whole Foods trying to get the last jar of almond butter before giving it to her because her eyes reminded her of her granddaughter.

They laughed. They reminisced. They went quiet. They missed each other so loudly without saying it.

By the time a soft orange hue bled into the Dallas skyline, Azzi yawned, curled tighter in Paige’s hoodie.

Paige smiled faintly, watching the sun peek out over the horizon. “…I’ll talk to you later?”

Azzi whispered, “Of course.”

The call ended quietly and Paige just sat there for a second, holding the phone to her ear like she could still hear her.

Eventually, she walked inside.

DiJonai was already in the kitchen, pouring coffee in a tank top and sweats. “You were up all night,” she said, without looking up.

Paige blinked slowly, dragging her feet toward the hallway. “Yeah.”

DiJonai sipped. “You should get some sleep, Oscar the Grouch.”

Paige cracked a tired smile. “She told you she calls me that?”

DiJonai just hummed, not answering as she turned to grab some cream.

Paige smiled again, softer this time, before disappearing into the guest room to finally get some sleep.

The next two weeks felt like an eternity that stretched until it couldn’t anymore.

Every day, Paige trained. Her trainer had flown to Dallas and she stayed in the gym, trying to silence the chaos in her head by drowning it with sweat and repetition. It worked sort of. At least during the hours she was moving, she didn’t have to think.

When she wasn’t training, she forced herself to sleep. Heavy, dreamless sleep that made her forget everything for the rest of the day. Her eating had improved, barely, but it still wasn’t where it needed to be. She tried, but every time she ate she felt like she was going to throw up so meals were only half-finished, picked over and left cold.

She and Azzi talked a good amount of times. Nothing too deep. Just enough to keep the tether between them tight. They shared updates, teased each other lightly, and exchanged sleepy goodnights. It was effortful, but it mattered. It reminded them they were still trying.

…

The day before the fight, Paige flew to Vegas. The weigh-in was quick, her body lean under the lights. When the numbers flashed on the screen — 132 — the entire room looked surprised . Murmurs passed across the room. That was way too low for someone like her who was a natural 141.

Paige barely had time to step in her hotel room before her phone was ringing.

She answered on the second ring, barely getting out a “Wassup” before Azzi’s voice came through sharp.

“Paige 132? Are we serious?”

Paige winced. “Az, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Azzi snapped, not yelling at her but clearly upset. “You told me you were eating better.”

“I am baby,” Paige mumbled, rubbing a hand over her face. “Just…not enough, I guess.”

Azzi exhaled hard through the phone. “Paige. You don’t have anything to prove by—.”

“I’m not trying to.” Paige interrupted her gently.

“I need you to take better care of yourself. I know you’re not doing it on purpose but you’re hurting yourself, which hurts me baby.”

Paige didn’t say anything.

There was a knock on her hotel room door a second later. She opened it, still on the phone, to find DiJonai standing there with way too many food containers and colorful drinks balancing between both arms.

“I got hydration and hella carbs,” she said, stepping in the room without waiting for Paige to say anything.

Azzi’s voice came through the phone. “Is that DiJonai?”

“Yep,” Paige sighed.

“Good. Let her bully you into eating. I’m serious.”

DiJonai dropped everything onto the table like it was an intervention. “She told me the number,” she said flatly. “Now eat. I don’t care what it is, pick something and start chewing.”

Paige rolled her eyes but dropped on the couch and pulled a container toward her.

Azzi’s voice softened. “I’m not mad, okay?”

“I know.”

“I just want you to take care of yourself.”

“I know, Az.”

“Okay.”

They didn’t say bye. Paige just stayed on the phone while she started eating, Azzi’s quiet presence on the other end somehow making the food go down easier.

…

Everyone from L.A. had made the decision without saying anything out loud: none of them would go to the back to see Paige before the fight.

It wasn’t out of distance or anything like that. They just all understood what seeing Azzi before the fight might do to Paige. What it might undo. Azzi hadn’t argued about it even though the ache in her chest to be near Paige had grown to be almost unbearable. She just nodded when they suggested they just go to their seats early today, understanding more than anyone.

So, it was just DiJonai, Paige’s trainer, and her cutman in her concrete room behind the arena. The space was filled with the buzz from the fluorescent lights and anticipation that pressed through the walls and into Paige like a second skin. But instead of the calmness Paige usually carried before a fight; that eerie, focused stillness. Today, she was constantly moving.

She paced in tight circles with her jaw clenched. She cracked her neck every few minutes, rolled her shoulders and threw combinations at the air. Sometimes she’d slap the side of the travel bag hanging nearby, then step back like it offended her when it swung back with an equal opposite reaction.

DiJonai sat on one of the chairs with her legs crossed, watching her the entire time. “Paige sit still,” she said a few times. Each time with a little more insistence, a little more urgency.

But Paige didn’t listen.

Her trainer with his arms folded, finally stepped in front of her mid-pace, holding up a hand to make her stop. “You good?” he asked.

Paige nodded, but it was a twitch more than a nod. Her hands were in fists and her shoulders were tense.

He studied her for a second. The bags under her eyes weren’t from a bad night of sleep, they were from weeks of actual unrest. The sharpness in her face was no longer from her conditioning, it was depletion. The dullness that used to flicker behind her eyes before a fight now weighed heavier.

He exhaled and lowered his voice. “You got one round tonight.”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“You got one round,” he repeated. “To make something happen or I’m calling the fight.”

She stared at him, stunned at how serious he sounded.

“I’m not gonna watch you get hurt tonight because your head’s not in it. I’d pull you completely if they hadn’t already announced your card. You either go out there and handle it in one round, or I’m stopping it. You’re not walking in the cage just to bleed or whatever you got going on kid. You got me?”

Paige swallowed hard and her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest.

She heard him loud and clear.

DiJonai watched the interaction from the corner. She didn’t say anything but Paige saw the worry in her eyes when she looked at her.

She felt too much in that split second. Way more than what she was supposed to be feeling before a fight. Every ounce of pressure and pain and disgust she’d been feeling rising to the surface.

She took a deep breath and another to ground herself. Slow her racing heartbeat down as the noise of the arena filtered through the hallway walls, muffled but rising.

The lights above the cage were blinding, humming faintly in her ears as Paige stood in the winning corner, the one reserved for reigning champions. Her gloves were already tight on her hands but nothing felt real.

Across from her, in the challenging corner, her opponent bounced on the balls of her feet psyching herself up like they always did.

The announcer’s voice echoed somewhere beyond the fog in Paige’s head, drawing cheers from the crowd then the bell rang and she stepped forward.

And then everything just went blank.

It wasn’t like tunnel vision. It was more like drowning. Paige moved on instinct instead of reading her opponent. Her body was reacting without her brain processing what was happening. She didn’t remember measuring distance. Didn’t remember her footwork. Didn’t remember loading up or throwing anything. She doesn’t remember anything.

But her fists landed and they landed hard.

Each punch came suddenly but fast enough that her opponent couldn’t react: a left hook that snapped her head to the side and an immediate cross that sent blood flying, a knee to the ribs that folded the girl in half. Then the blur of movements that pinned her to the cage like a ragdoll. The crowd roared in admiration, the cage floor trembled, and Paige kept going.

She used her opponent like a motionless heavy bag and she didn’t even blink. Her corner wasn’t yelling instructions, they were stunned into silence, watching what they thought was about to be a disaster of a fight turn into something completely different.

Then an uppercut Paige threw cracked her opponent's jaw and it seemed like the sound echoed through the arena. Her eyes rolled back before her body hit the floor and she was out cold.

That’s when Paige heard the bell blaring in her ear effectively bringing her back to her body. Her chest was rising and falling fast and her lungs were begging for air she didn’t realize she needed.

The referee grabbed her wrist and lifted it into the air shouting something she couldn’t process before the crowd erupted.

But of course Paige didn’t smile. She blinked, dazed and confused, trying to place herself in the moment. Trying to figure out what just happened.

Her gaze slid to the other side of the cage where the girl was still down with medics crouched around her, speaking frantically, shining a light into her eyes.

Suddenly, Paige felt sick. Not dizzy. Not tired or exhausted. Just…sick to her stomach.

Because what the hell just happened?

She looked down at her gloves and her throat bobbed when she saw the blood smeared along the knuckles, dried and wet all at once. She checked her arms, her torso trying to figure out if it was hers, hoping somehow it was hers, then she squeezed her eyes shut because she didn’t want to know what she already knew.

Her heart pounded so loud in her throat it felt like it might tear through skin. Her mouth was desert dry, and her tongue was heavy, like she’d been chewing cotton. Each breath came tighter, hotter, like the air in the arena had turned into a sauna, a full hundred degrees and rising faster.

The cheers were still echoing as she pushed past everyone, barely aware of the cameras trying to catch her face, her reaction. She didn’t give them one, she never did but this time she felt a numb hollowness.

She walked mechanically through the back corridors, yanking her gloves off in disgust with shaky hands the second she cleared the lens of the last broadcast camera. She threw one that landed hard on the concrete floor behind her and the other one just slipped from her hand.

By the time she got to her assigned room, the adrenaline was still shooting through her nerves but she felt something else rising quicker.

She stumbled straight to the bathroom, her body dropping to her knees at the toilet before she could do it herself and she threw up.

Nothing of actual substance really came up because she hadn’t eaten much. But her body just needed to let something out before it consumed her from the inside. She stayed there until physically there was nothing for her body to let out, just white foam from the acid of her stomach burning her throat.

When it was over, she sat back on her heels, breathing hard. Her palms pressed against the cold tile until her head just fell back to rest on the wall. She stayed there for a few moments, unsure if she had the strength to get up, if she even wanted to get up but eventually she did.

She gripped the edge of the sink and pulled herself up, blinking against the harsh overhead light.

Looking in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Sweat clung to her eyebrow and jaw and her eyes were glassy and red. She looked tired. Like someone who’d somehow won something and lost something at the same time.

She rinsed her mouth, spat once, then again. She whipped a towel across her face and rolled her shoulders back to straighten her posture. She popped a piece of gum in her mouth then she stepped out of the bathroom into a room that was full of people.

Her trainer stood in the corner still talking quietly, almost excitedly with her cutman. DiJonai sat near the far wall with her arms crossed over her chest and she was watching Paige carefully the moment she stepped out of the bathroom. Rickea, Cam, and Rae were there too, but their faces blurred into the background.

Paige’s eyes moved across the room in a frantic motion, barely registering anyone until they landed on Azzi.

The moment she saw her, Paige’s chest lightened like she could finally breathe. Her feet moved on instinct, carrying her forward a few steps until she froze. Remembering the last time they’d been this close, how the night had ended and Paige still didn’t know what version of herself Azzi saw when she looked at her now.

But then Azzi opened her arms and Paige’s legs carried her the rest of the way unsteadily until she collapsed into her chest. She clung to her like her presence alone was the only thing keeping her here, her arms wrapped around her tightly and her face was buried deep in Azzi’s neck.

Azzi held her up whispering, "I'm so proud of you baby."

That broke whatever fragile hold Paige had on herself and she dry-heaved once into Azzi’s chest, the weight of her words hitting something too raw inside her. Her face stayed buried in her neck trying to muffle the quiet, shaky sounds, ashamed of how much she needed this. How much she needed her.

Everyone in the room exchanged silent glances and one by one, they slipped out the door quietly to give them space.

When it was just the two of them. Paige finally let herself feel and she felt like everything was crashing into her chest at once. Azzi held her close, with her arms steady around her frame. She whispered soft nothings in her ear: small comforts, high praises, reminders that she was here, that Paige wasn’t alone anymore. Every so often, she pressed a light kiss to her forehead gently, rubbing at Paige’s sweaty back but Paige couldn’t stay present.

She was blinking too fast, breathing too shallow. Her arms were slack on Azzi’s shoulders, and even though she hadn’t let go of Azzi, it felt like she was floating somewhere far away. Her eyes darted across the room, tightening her jaw every so often, teeth working against the gum she’d thrown in after vomiting, trying to mask the sour taste in her mouth.

Azzi noticed it all, noticed how Paige’s senses seemed to be in overdrive so she moved to ease them.

Carefully, she guided Paige to a seat, crouching slightly to ease her limp body into the chair without jarring her. Once Paige was settled safely she stood up, moving to turn off the lights plunging the room into darkness other than the light coming in from the bottom of the door. The room was already quiet, the echo of voices gone as soon as the others left. Azzi moved back over to where Paige was and gently reached for Paige’s face with one hand squeezing her cheeks a little. “Spit it out,” she said softly.

Azzi cupped her hand as Paige let the gum fall into it. Azzi threw it away before kneeling down in front of her.

“Give me your hand,” she whispered.

Paige lifted her hand and Azzi took her fingers and guided them gently to her chest, pressing her palm flat against the space over her heart. Paige’s hand was freezing cold and shaky but Azzi’s heartbeat thudded slow and steady beneath it.

Azzi placed her hand over Paige’s, holding it in place. “There,” she murmured. “Close your eyes and just be with me right here, beautiful.”

Paige’s head fell back against the wall as she fluttered her eyes closed. The rhythm she felt beneath her palm wasn’t her own, but she let it be her center. The constant beat of Azzi’s heart was the only thing that didn’t feel too loud, too much, too fast. They sat in silence like that for what felt like a long time. Then finally, Paige whispered, “I don’t know what happened.”

Azzi’s eyebrows pulled together. “What do you mean, baby?”

Paige swallowed hard, her hand still resting over Azzi’s heart. “The fight Az. I don’t remember any of it.”

Hearing that Azzi didn’t have any words to offer. Nothing she could say that would make that easier to swallow for Paige. So she didn’t try; she just moved forward, sitting up enough to pull Paige’s head to her chest, wrapping her arms around her again.

Paige let herself be held, tears slipping silently down her face. “Can we go back home?”

Azzi glanced down at her. “To LA? Tonight?”

Paige nodded, not lifting her head.

Azzi nodded too, brushing her fingers through Paige’s damp hair. “I’ll make it happen, baby.”

[suliigwp]

Hi Suli! I just read your My Woman and it was amazing! I loved it! It was really beautifully written. I devoured all three versions!

Would you be able to write an Oscar version?

If not then that's perfectly fine, no pressure :)

Have a great day!!

MY WOMAN

Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc , Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Lewis Hamilton

SULI: Hii!! Oh thank you so much for the support I saw you reposted all of them and that means so much! I'm so glad you enjoyed them! Yes, of course I'll give you an Oscar one I'm obsessed with that man - The "My woman" series has been receiving so much love and I'm so thankful for every one of you!

Also! I didn't notice but this ended up being like the same universe of this fic! That I had written earlier because mean!reader x Oscar is the only thing I'll accept- hope you enjoy!

Warnings: men.

It was the kind of silence that crept in around the edges of a conversation. The kind that stretched too long between glances. The kind that said something happened—but no one was saying what.

Y/n noticed it the second Oscar walked into her flat that night. He was on time. He kissed her cheek. He even brought her favorite drink from that coffee place two blocks down.

But his shoulders were stiff. His eyes didn’t linger the way they usually did.

She didn’t ask right away. She didn’t need to.

They had dinner like normal. He asked about her new project; she asked about his next sim session. But every answer was two degrees too distant. Measured. Careful.

And finally, when she caught him staring off toward the window instead of at her, she set her fork down and leaned back.

“Okay,” she said. “What did they say?”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“Whoever it was. What did they say about me?”

His jaw tensed.

“You’re imagining it,” he said after a pause. “It’s nothing.”

That was when she knew it wasn’t nothing.

“Oscar.”

He stood up slowly, walking to the kitchen, his back to her. “It’s not worth repeating.”

She stood too, something sharp pressing into her ribs. “Tell me.”

He didn’t move for a second. Then finally, carefully:

“One of the senior sponsors pulled me aside today. Said you were bad for my image. That being around someone ‘like you’—someone with a reputation—wasn’t smart. Said it made people nervous.”

She laughed once. Cold. “Of course they did.”

Oscar turned then, eyes unreadable. “They said you’re manipulative. That you’re only with me for the attention.”

Her lips parted slightly. She didn’t move.

“And what did you say?” she asked, voice flat.

“I didn’t say anything,” he answered softly.

A long, aching pause.

Y/n took a step back, arms folding. “Wow.”

“I didn’t say anything—” he repeated, “—because I told him to leave. Immediately after.”

She blinked.

“I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain you. I didn’t give him a list of reasons why he was wrong.”

Oscar’s voice was low now. Focused. “Because you’re not a public relations problem. You’re not some PR line I have to fix.”

He stepped closer, slowly.

“I didn’t defend you because there was nothing to defend. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She swallowed.

“And then,” he added, “I told him if he ever speaks about you again, he can go find another driver to sponsor.”

Her eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Are you insane? Do you know what that could do?”

“I do.”

“Oscar—”

“Let them be uncomfortable,” he said, firmer now. “Let them be nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my woman.”

She froze.

He never said things like that.

But he did now.

“I know what people say about you,” he continued. “I know what they think. That you’re too much. Too cold. Too clever. That you get what you want and don’t care how.”

She stared at him.

“I also know you stay up till 2 a.m. to help your friends with job applications. I know you carry three glosses if anyone needs any. I know you push people away before they can leave. But you don’t push me.”

His voice softened again.

“They can say what they want. They don’t see what I see.”

She blinked hard. Bit her lip.

He stepped forward again. Took her hands.

“You don’t need me to fight your battles,” he whispered. “But I will. Every time. Whether you want me to or not.”

For a long time, she didn’t say anything. Her throat was tight. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

And finally, quietly:

“Next time, you tell me first.”

Oscar smiled—barely, gently.

“Next time, you’ll be too busy burning them down yourself.”

[psformybss]

You Said You Loved Me

drew starkey x costar!secretgf!reader

warnings: emotional whiplash, betrayal, heartbreak, mental health themes, self-harm mention, panic attack, regret, heavy emotions

a/n: tumblr isn’t letting me answer the request like usual but here is this one requested by @kieeslove . this is one is probably one of the most heartbreaking one-shots i’ve written to be honest but i love how it ended up coming out. please please please read the warnings before reading it.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You’ve had the whole day to yourself—no call time, no script changes, no wardrobe fittings. Just a long, open stretch of silence that you’d usually welcome.

But today, it’s been anything but peaceful.

You’ve barely moved from the couch since noon, wrapped in the hoodie Drew left on the kitchen chair last night, half-watching a show you’ve seen before just to fill the space. Your phone rests in your lap, screen dim, but your mind hasn’t stopped racing for hours.

You saw it this morning.

The story.

Odessa’s.

It popped up right after breakfast, when you were still groggy, sipping coffee on the balcony. You tapped through mindlessly until you froze on a video—shaky, close-up, her voice giggling behind the camera.

Drew.

He was leaning against a trailer, smiling—no, laughing. That wide, rare kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. She flipped the camera back to herself, grinning like it was an inside joke between just the two of them.

And maybe it was.

The next slide was a photo. A candid. He had his head thrown back, laughing at something you couldn’t hear, while she stood beside him with only half her face in the frame.

But it was enough.

Enough to make your stomach twist.

Enough to make you stare too long at the caption.

“Set life with this goof 🤍”

The cast knows about you and Drew. Everyone on set does. You’ve stopped pretending around them—stopped hiding the way you slip into his trailer during breaks, how he kisses your temple when he thinks no one’s looking.

But outside of that circle, no one knows. No Instagram posts. No red carpets. Not even soft launches in the comments section.

And you understood why at first.

Keeping it private felt safer. Cleaner. Something just for you two.

Until moments like this.

Moments where he looks like someone else’s.

You scroll back through the texts—between you and Drew, between you and Odessa.

There’s nothing wrong, not really. But there’s a shift. A subtle unraveling.

He doesn’t say “I love you” before bed anymore. Doesn’t kiss your forehead when he leaves for work.

And Odessa—your best friend, the person who once felt like your other half—she’s been on set more and more. Not because she has to be. Just because.

You used to think she came to see you. To hang out between scenes, raid craft services, sit on your trailer floor and gossip about everything and nothing.

But lately, it feels like she’s there for him.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Not to read too much into the way her hand lingers on his arm when she laughs, or the way he seems more awake when she’s around.

But today, alone with your thoughts and too much time, the pit in your stomach hasn’t let up.

You pick up your phone again and scroll to your thread with Odessa.

No new messages.

She didn’t text you today.

Not after she posted those stories. Not after she spent half the afternoon on the same set your boyfriend was working on.

You’d texted her earlier—just a casual “You on set today?”—but it’s still sitting there, unanswered.

You switch to Drew’s messages.

You (9:42am): Miss you today. Hope the scene went okay.

You (12:16pm): Odessa still there?

You (3:03pm): Are you home late tonight?

All read. None replied to.

The front door opens at 1:14 a.m.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You just pull the hoodie tighter around you and pretend the tightness in your chest isn’t there.

Drew walks in with slow, tired steps, jacket slung over his arm, hair tousled from a long shoot.

You look up at him, soft but cautious. “Hey.”

He pauses at the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey. You’re up?”

“Didn’t have any scenes today,” you say, voice quieter than you mean. “Just stayed home.”

He nods, distracted. Opens the fridge. Grabs a bottle of water. Doesn’t ask about your day.

He scrolls his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Long shoot?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, cracking open the bottle. “Ran over like an hour. Just wrapped a little while ago.”

You hesitate. “Was Odessa still there?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “For a bit. She left before we wrapped.”

Another beat of silence.

You want to say more. You want to ask why she’s always there lately, or why he hasn’t said I love you in four nights straight.

But your throat closes around the words, like saying them out loud would make it worse.

Drew glances at you again. “I’m gonna crash. Early call.”

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He disappears down the hall. No kiss. No touch.

And again—no I love you.

You stare at your phone until the screen fades.

Open Odessa’s story one more time.

Watch the way he laughs like he’s weightless. The way she looks at him like she knows something you don’t.

They don’t look like they’re hiding anything.

But you feel like you’re the only one being kept in the dark.

You wake up to an empty apartment again. Drew left early for set, just like he said, but something’s different today. You didn’t have to film any scenes today either, so you stayed home, hoping maybe things would feel normal again. Maybe Drew would come back and the silence wouldn’t stretch so thin between you two.

But that’s not how it goes anymore.

You scroll through your phone, trying to shake the heaviness. You glance at your messages—nothing new from Drew, just the usual short replies.

Your eyes flick to Odessa’s name, the friend you’ve known for years—the one who always seemed like your sister, the person who knew you better than anyone. But lately, even she’s become distant.

You tap her name and open your texts.

“Can’t wait to hang out tomorrow! Dinner and drinks like old times?” you typed a few days ago. No reply. Just like the other texts since then.

The next morning, you woke to a curt text from Odessa: “Had to fly back to LA today. Sorry, last minute. Hope you understand.”

No call. Just a text.

Your stomach dropped. You’d been looking forward to that night all week, but now it was gone—just like her.

You tried not to overthink it, telling yourself she was busy.

She returned, just a few days later but didn’t tell you. You found out the worst way possible.

You were walking past the trailers on set when you saw them.

Drew and Odessa.

Laughing together.

Close.

Too close.

The easy way they leaned into each other—like you used to, all three of you—felt like a punch to the gut.

You stopped, heart hammering in your chest.

They looked up and caught your eyes. Drew smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Odessa’s grin faltered for a moment before she turned back to him.

Your throat tightened.

You blinked, trying to tell yourself you were imagining things. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe you were just overthinking.

But deep down, the pit in your stomach grew.

The distance between you and Drew had been growing too. More than growing—it had widened into a chasm you didn’t know how to cross.

Your conversations were clipped, like you were just two roommates trying to coexist rather than the couple you once were.

You found yourself wondering if maybe you were the problem.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe I’m not enough.

You replayed every conversation, every look, every silence between you two.

The way Drew would zone out when you talked about your day.

The way he spent more and more time texting someone you couldn’t see.

The way Odessa—your best friend—pulled away too, her responses short and distracted whenever you tried to ask if she was okay.

One afternoon, you caught her alone near the trailers.

“Hey, you’ve seemed… different lately. Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

She glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, but you knew better.

She was closing off, just like Drew.

You wanted to reach through the walls that were building around her, but you didn’t know how.

The days blur together, each one heavier than the last.

You watch the calendar pages turn—slow and unforgiving—but the distance between you and Drew feels like it’s growing faster by the day.

He’s quieter. More distracted. Even when he’s in the room with you, it’s like you’re separate islands sharing the same space.

It’s been over a week since he kissed you.

Not a single brush of lips, not even a quick peck in passing.

You catch yourself waiting, holding your breath for the moment it will happen. But it never does.

You try to convince yourself it’s just stress. Long shoots. Exhaustion.

But when the lights go out and the apartment is still, the silence screams louder than any excuse.

One night, you find yourself standing in the bathroom, warm water streaming over your face, blurring your vision.

You don’t want him to hear the quietness of your tears—so you let them fall only in the shower, behind the locked door.

The water carries the ache away for a little while.

Later, when Drew leaves for set—his phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, screen unlocked—you hesitate.

Curiosity gnaws at you.

You pick it up, fingers trembling.

His messages open to a thread with Odessa.

You scroll through, the words soft but sharp:

“Missed you today.”

“Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

There’s nothing explicit. No promises or declarations.

Just the kind of words that linger in the spaces between.

Your chest tightens.

You close the phone carefully and set it back down.

Staring at the ceiling, you wonder how long this has been going on.

How long you’ve been standing on the outside looking in.

You want to confront him. To demand the truth.

But the words catch in your throat.

The apartment is quiet again.

That terrible, airless quiet that makes you feel like even the walls are watching.

Your phone buzzes.

You almost don’t check. You’ve been trying to be good—trying to stop torturing yourself by scrolling through Instagram, through posts with her name tagged beside his, through photos where his eyes don’t even look like his anymore.

But the name on your screen is one you can’t ignore.

Odessa.

Your pulse jumps. You hesitate. Then you open it.

“I told Drew I’m in love with him. He feels the same. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The air leaves your lungs in one slow, numb exhale.

You reread it once. Twice. A third time, as if the words might change if you look hard enough.

They don’t.

No emoji. No nervous laughter. No gray area.

Just a quiet confession and a knife between your ribs.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even blink.

You just sit there on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, the message open on your screen, the cursor blinking like it’s daring you to respond.

You don’t.

The front door opens not long after.

You hear it before you see him—his key sliding into the lock, the door creaking open, boots hitting hardwood.

He walks in humming, like he’s had a good day.

Like the world didn’t just drop out from under you.

Then he sees you.

And the humming dies.

“Hey,” Drew says slowly, careful. His voice is soft, uncertain now. “You got her text.”

Your head turns slowly toward him. Your eyes are glassy, unreadable.

So he knows.

Of course he knows.

“She told you she was going to send it?” you ask, voice flat.

He nods once. “She said she felt guilty. She didn’t want to lie anymore.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“And you let her?”

“I didn’t let her,” he says, stepping closer. “I tried to stop her, but—”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. It sounds like something breaking.

“She said you feel the same.”

Drew hesitates. “That’s not what I—look, it’s not black and white, okay? It’s complicated—”

You stare at him. “Complicated,” you repeat, the word like acid in your mouth.

He moves toward you, crouching beside the couch, reaching for your hand.

You flinch before he can touch you.

He freezes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says quietly.

Your hands shake as you stand, your voice rising without warning. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

His eyes go wide. “I—”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back. “You don’t get to say you didn’t mean to. You chose this.”

“You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did hurt me.”

The fury rises in you like a tide—faster than you can stop it.

“I’ve been here,” you whisper. “Every single day. Loving you. Waiting for you to love me back the way you used to.”

You grab the photo from the coffee table—the one from Paris, the one where you look happiest, safest, most certain of him.

You throw it across the room with every ounce of strength you have.

It hits the wall and shatters, glass and memories scattering across the floor.

He flinches.

“You were supposed to love me,” you say, voice cracking now. “Not her. Me.”

Drew steps forward like he’s trying to fix something already broken. “I do love you—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap. “Not really. Because if you did, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He tries to hug you, arms reaching for you like he still has a right to them.

You let him.

But not out of love.

Out of exhaustion.

His chest presses to yours, and for one brief second you remember the comfort that used to live in that space.

Now it feels foreign.

He murmurs, “We can fix this. Please. I’ll cut things off with her. We can go to therapy or—”

You press your hands to his chest and push him back gently.

“No,” you say. “This isn’t something you fix.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well, you did.”

You walk to the door. Open it.

His breath catches. “You’re really kicking me out?”

You nod.

“I need space. I need you gone.”

Drew just stands there, stunned.

You look him straight in the eye.

“Come back for your things when I’m not here.”

“Please,” he says again, voice cracking. “Just let me explain—”

“You already did.”

And then you close the door.

Not hard.

Just enough to say this is final.

The click of the lock is the only sound in the apartment now.

The kind of silence that feels like grief.

Weeks pass.

The days don’t feel like days anymore.

Just hours strung together like dim beads on a thread you didn’t ask to hold.

You’re back on set.

Back in makeup chairs and wardrobe trailers. Back in long shooting days and artificial sunsets. Back in scenes where you’re supposed to smile, touch, kiss. Where you’re supposed to cry in the rain, shout until your throat is raw, crumble in someone else’s arms like your heart is breaking.

Pretend.

You move through it all like a ghost.

Quiet. Efficient. Detached.

You say your lines. You hit your marks. You laugh when the script says you’re supposed to. You kiss him when the camera rolls. You sob against his chest on cue, let your voice crack in that way the director loves. You even slap him in one scene—your eyes glassy, your voice trembling as you yell through clenched teeth.

But nothing touches you.

Not really.

You feel like someone’s removed your insides and left only the outline of you behind. Something hollowed out and left on autopilot.

Between takes, you sit by yourself.

No music in your headphones. No books cracked open. Just silence, staring at nothing, like you’re afraid to fill the space with anything real.

You used to light up on set. You used to steal the crew’s snacks, laugh between takes, tease Drew when he flubbed his lines. There was always an energy around you—light, warm, full of spark.

Now, the spark is gone.

And everyone feels it.

They don’t say anything, not directly. But you can feel the stares. The too-gentle hellos. The quiet way people check on you like they’re afraid you might shatter if they speak too loud.

Even Drew notices.

Especially Drew.

You don’t look at him unless the scene requires it.

You don’t answer when he says your name off camera.

You don’t sit near him at lunch, don’t meet his eyes when the director gives you blocking notes, don’t flinch when you’re told you’ll be filming another kiss today.

You just nod.

And do it.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

Like it doesn’t kill you every time his hands touch your waist, every time he looks at you like he remembers what it used to feel like to be loved by you.

The worst part is—he still looks at you like he’s in love.

Like he’s sorry.

But sorry doesn’t undo the wreckage.

You’ve already learned how to carry the debris.

Today, there’s a scene. You’re arguing. The kind that gets rewritten the night before for “heightened emotional stakes.” You scream at him, tears in your eyes, spit flying as you shove him in the chest. Your voice breaks in all the right places. The crew holds their breath.

"Cut."

You step back. Wipe your face. The tears vanish as fast as they came.

You turn away from him without a glance, your expression flat. Cold.

Drew just stands there, stunned. Still catching his breath from a fight that wasn’t real—at least not on paper. Still staring at you like he’s waiting for something soft to return to your face.

But your face is steel now.

Sharp angles. No trace of the vulnerability from a moment ago. Just rage simmering under the surface, quiet and controlled and utterly unreachable.

Like flipping a switch.

And that’s what terrifies him.

The way you can drop the emotion like it never existed. Like he doesn’t exist.

Between takes, you walk off set. You need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t feel like recycled heartbreak.

You step out behind the trailers, where no one’s watching.

Your hands tremble as you pull a cigarette from your jacket pocket. You haven’t smoked since college, since a messy breakup you thought nothing would ever top.

Funny.

You light it with shaking fingers, inhale, exhale, trying to find some kind of calm in the burn.

You don’t hear Rudy approach.

But you feel him.

He walks up slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes kind.

Without a word, he reaches out and gently takes the cigarette from your fingers.

You don’t fight him.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance at him, just barely. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

It’s the kind of question that should come with a dozen follow-ups. But he doesn’t push. Just asks it like he’ll believe whatever answer you give him.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie.

He knows it’s a lie.

But he lets you have it anyway.

Rudy looks at you for a long moment before dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

Then he slings an arm loosely around your shoulders.

You don’t lean into it. But you don’t pull away, either.

You just stand there.

Side by side.

Quiet.

Because some silences don’t beg to be filled.

Some are just there to be witnessed.

The moon is a sliver above the water—ghostly and thin, like it’s watching but too tired to shine.

Drew finds you sitting at the edge of the dock, legs drawn up, arms locked around your knees like if you let go, you’d come apart completely.

You haven’t moved in what feels like hours.

He stands behind you for a while, saying nothing. Just… watching.

You look so still.

Too still.

So he steps forward, wood groaning beneath his weight, careful not to scare you. Not that you react. Not even a glance. Your eyes are locked on the black water, the surface rippling quietly like it’s holding your secrets.

He settles beside you, close but not touching. The wind brushes through your hair.

For a moment, all he hears is the hush of the waves and the far-off echo of laughter from the house.

He thinks maybe you’re calm.

Then he hears it.

That faint, stuttering breath. The wet sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

He turns to look at you—and sees it.

Your shoulders trembling.

Your jaw clenched so tight it’s trembling.

The soft, broken sound clawing from your throat as your lungs fail you.

You’re crying.

But it’s not just crying.

It’s a full-body unraveling.

He shifts closer, alarm rising in his chest. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Your body hunches in tighter, shoulders shaking harder as your breath gets faster, shallower—like you’re trapped under something heavy.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Drew tries again, voice soft. “Just… follow me.”

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing your wrist to anchor you, like he used to do back when things were simpler—back when that touch meant safety.

But this time, the contact makes you flinch.

And still, his hand closes gently around your wrist—and that’s when he feels it.

His fingers still.

Then tighten—just slightly.

Because he knows what he’s touching.

Scars.

Fresh ones.

Fainter than they used to be, maybe. But new. Raw.

His entire body goes cold.

“Please…” His voice breaks, a whisper edged in panic. “Please tell me those are old.”

Your head snaps toward him.

Your eyes—red, wide, furious—are like a slap.

You rip your arm from his grip and clutch it against your chest like a secret.

“I told you I wasn’t doing that anymore,” you snap, voice cracking. “I told you I was okay.”

“I thought you were,” he says, stunned. “You promised—”

“You think I wanted to start again?” you explode. “You think I wanted to go back to that?”

Your voice is all rage and ache and grief. “Do you know what it’s like? To sit in a bathroom with a towel under you and a razor in your hand, and you’re shaking so bad you can’t tell if you want to die or just want it to stop?”

He’s silent.

Paralyzed.

“I stopped for you,” you say, trembling. “I stopped because you made me feel like I was enough.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “But then you weren’t mine anymore. You were hers. And I couldn’t breathe, Drew. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You stand up so fast he can barely react.

You stumble backward a few steps, chest heaving, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield.

“If you were just gonna fall in love with my best friend…” Your voice cracks. “Then you shouldn’t have asked me to be your fucking girlfriend.”

He rises slowly, hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“But you did!” you scream, backing away. “You knew how fragile I was. You knew. I told you everything. I told you what it felt like to want to hurt myself. I told you what it cost to survive it.”

Tears streak your face, wild and fast.

“And you still chose her.”

He tries to reach for you. “Please—just talk to me.”

You shove his chest with both hands. Hard. Then again. And again.

“You were supposed to love me.”

He doesn’t stop you. He just stands there and takes it.

“You were supposed to be different,” you cry. “I trusted you with everything. I gave you every broken piece and you just—God—Drew, you left me there.”

More footsteps. Fast ones. The house has gone silent behind you, but now someone’s running.

Rudy reaches you just as you collapse forward.

He catches you in his arms, sinking with you to the dock.

Your body shakes with silent sobs, all strength gone, all resistance dissolved.

Madelyn grabs Drew, her expression unreadable—fear and fury clashing behind her eyes.

She pulls him back, away from you, away from the collapse.

“What happened?” she hisses, voice low and sharp.

But Drew can’t answer.

He’s crying too.

Watching the way Rudy holds you like something sacred and shattered.

Your voice, small and hoarse, cuts through the stillness.

“I really loved you,” you whisper, like you’re trying to remind yourself it mattered. “I really did.”

Rudy closes his eyes, jaw tight, hugging you closer.

“And I tried,” you say, your breath hitching again. “I really tried not to hurt myself. I really did.”

The only sound left is your broken breathing and the water moving beneath the dock.

No one knows what to say.

No one knows if anything would help.

And Drew—

He kneels in the shadows, hands shaking, the words I’m sorry caught somewhere between his heart and throat, knowing they’ll never be enough.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

The room is cold. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the long table that stretches between you and the others.

You sit at one end, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the wood, knuckles blanching with pressure.

Across from you, the cast shifts uncomfortably in their seats—Jonas standing at the head of the table, his hands resting on its surface like an anchor, eyes serious and tired.

Drew sits near the middle, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the scuffs in the floor.

The silence hangs like a storm about to break, thick and unyielding.

Jonas clears his throat.

“We can’t keep filming like this,” he says, voice low but steady.

“This tension, this… distance. It’s hurting the work. And it’s hurting all of you.”

He looks around the room, then back at you.

“We all want to move forward. But that means you and Drew need to talk. You need to clear this, or at least try.”

Your throat tightens, words lodged in your chest like shards.

You stare down at the table, tracing a scratch in the grain with your finger.

Drew finally speaks, voice hesitant, raw.

“I never meant for things to get this messed up. For me to fall for Odessa.”

He looks up, meeting your eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t trying to use you, YN. I swear. You have to believe me.”

You swallow hard.

Bitter words claw at your throat, but they spill out before you can stop them.

“You promised me everything.”

Your voice breaks, trembling like a frayed wire.

“Paris. A house with a garden.”

“Kids. Marley from the pound.”

You close your eyes and press your palms to the table to stop them from shaking.

A cold certainty wraps around your words, unshakable.

The room is still.

Drew’s shoulders slump, a bitter twist in his chest.

“Do you really think I fell for her just to hurt you?”

His voice breaks like glass, fragile and jagged.

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to.

“You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He shakes his head, voice rising with desperate frustration.

“You think this is easy for me?”

The words are raw, ragged.

You lean forward, voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Easy?” you scoff. “You and Odessa? The perfect little couple who ruined me?”

Jonas steps between you with a steadying hand raised.

“Enough.”

You lift your head slowly, voice low and final.

“I can do the scenes. But Drew stays away from me.”

“Odessa stays away, too. If she ever visits, I don’t want to see her.”

The words fall like a decree, clear and unyielding.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping hard against the floor.

Your breath catches—sharp and uneven.

The door slams behind you.

Leaving behind only silence and the lingering weight of what’s broken.

Time passes in strange ways after everything breaks.

The apartment is quieter now. Not silent—just… softer. Like everyone’s learned to move around the wound without touching it.

You’ve stopped crying in the bathroom.

You still avoid him on set.

But you’re functioning again.

You wake up with the sun instead of dragging yourself out of bed at noon. You drink water. You make your bed. You sit on the balcony in the mornings with a journal in your lap and your knees curled to your chest, scribbling down thoughts you won’t say out loud.

You don’t live in the old apartment anymore.

You couldn’t. Not after everything.

The quiet was too loud there. The walls still held the shape of him—his coffee mug on the counter, his laugh echoing in the hallway, the soft imprint of a life you built and lost all at once.

So you packed it all up and left. New place. New routine. Smaller, lonelier, but yours.

No ghosts.

Just space to breathe.

Sometimes, you paint again. You drag an old easel out to the balcony and lose yourself in blues and golds and soft, wide brushstrokes. Your fingers end up stained for days.

Sometimes, you laugh.

Mostly with Rudy. He’s your shadow now. Always close. Always watching.

He knows when to joke, when to distract you, when to sit in silence and just breathe beside you.

JD brings you coffee every morning from town, no matter what. It started as a quiet gesture. Now it’s a ritual. He doesn’t say much—but you know it’s his way of reminding you you’re seen. Still wanted. Still here.

The cast has adjusted. They don’t talk about what happened. Not in front of you. Not in front of him.

You and Drew still share scenes. Still work together like professionals.

But off-camera? You orbit each other like broken planets.

Not friends.

Not enemies.

Just… nothing.

And maybe that’s worse.

Drew keeps his distance, like you asked. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try.

But he watches you when he thinks you won’t notice.

From the far side of the room, across the lawn, just past the camera setup.

Always just out of reach.

You caught him once, lingering in the doorway as you laughed too hard at something Rudy said, your head thrown back, hair messy, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

He didn’t smile.

He just stood there, quiet and still, his expression unreadable.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel anything.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Some days, you think you might hate him.

Other days, you ache just thinking his name.

But mostly—you’re just tired.

Tired of missing someone who’s still right there.

Tired of feeling haunted by a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.

And Drew—

He wonders how it got like this.

How a joke at a table, a few lingering glances, a shared hoodie and some stupid, unspoken boundaries turned into something he’d ruin with a single mistake.

How he lost the girl who loved him enough to break for him.

He watches you from afar, regret curling in his chest like smoke.

You’re still beautiful. Still brilliant. Still trying.

But now, when you smile—it’s never at him.

And he doesn’t know if it ever will be again.

[oopsiedaisydeer]

pat pat, baby

angst, fluff, back rubs & butt pats, gentle teasing, mild anxiety, some crying, mentions of guilt

word count - 1k

You’re curled up on your side, facing the wall, blanket pulled all the way to your chin. The quiet hum of the bedside lamp is the only sound in the room, but your thoughts are so loud it’s almost dizzying.

Your chest feels tight. You’ve had that awful, sinking kind of guilt in your stomach all evening, ever since you sent the “sorry, not feeling up to it tonight” text to your friends and watched the messages roll in. You should’ve gone out. Should’ve pushed through. Been fun, been present, been better. Your friends had sent sweet replies, "miss you already," “next time, promise?”, but every message felt like proof that you were disappointing them. Again.

Chris doesn’t say much when he slips into bed beside you. Just the soft rustle of cotton, the dip of the mattress, the way his body slots in behind yours like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he will a hundred more.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just lays there, warm and steady, arm sliding gently around your waist until his hand rests against your stomach.

After a moment, his voice breaks the silence, low and close to your ear. “You okay?”

You don’t answer. Not in words.

Instead, you turn over suddenly, almost clumsily, and bury your face in his chest like you can hide inside him. Your hand fists lightly in his shirt. You don’t mean to cry, but the second his arms come around you fully, the tears spill anyway. Quiet and slow, soaking into the soft fabric of the hoodie he always lets you steal.

His arms tighten around you. “Aw, baby…”

He presses a kiss to your temple, then rests his chin lightly on your head, like he’s holding everything in place. One hand starts tracing light circles on your back, the other rubbing your side, his thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt.

“It’s alright,” he whispers. “You don’t have to explain anything. I’ve got you.”

You sniff, still clinging to him. “I feel guilty.”

“I know,” he says gently, like he really does know. “But you don’t have to. Staying home doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. You were just taking care of yourself.”

You nod into his chest, even if it doesn’t feel true yet.

You turn your head just enough to nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck. “I think I just... feel bad for not being more fun.”

“Fun?” Chris repeats, gently squeezing your hip before resting his hand there. “Sweetheart, I literally turned down bowling with my brothers to take a nap with you last week. You think I care about fun?”

A laugh breaks out of you. Quiet, but real.

“Seriously,” he adds, softer this time. “I don’t care if you’re fun or exciting or anything like that. I just like when you’re here. I like you.”

He shifts slightly, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders, then lets his hand drift lower, over the curve of your back, your hip, resting there for a second before giving a soft little pat. Then another. Slow, steady, warm.

Not teasing. Not looking for more. Just something quiet and physical that said: I’m here. You’re safe.

You hiccup a quiet breath, shoulders finally loosening a little.

Chris keeps rubbing slow shapes into your back, pausing occasionally to give a light, grounding pat to your butt, like he's wordlessly soothing a child who just needs to be held.

“You always do that,” you mumble against him, voice still small. “The… the butt pat thing.”

He chuckles, low and breathy. “Do you want me to stop?”

“…No,” you whisper, softer than before. “It helps.”

“Good,” he says, kissing your forehead again. “’Cause I like your butt.”

You giggle and nestle into him further.

Another soft pat. Then a few more, slow and spaced out, like a heartbeat. You let your hand slide beneath his shirt a little, palm pressed to his skin now, and he holds you closer in return.

The rhythm is steady, but every now and then he lingers, fingers flexing just slightly like he’s memorising the feel of you.

He pulls back just slightly then, brushing the hair from your face.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, shifting to guide you gently onto your stomach. “Let me help.”

You blink at him, a little hesitant, but nod. Your arms stretch out in front of you as you settle, cheek pressed into the pillow. Chris settles beside you, then slowly drapes himself over your back, not all his weight, just enough to feel his warmth blanketing you.

His hand starts moving again... rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades, then down along your spine.

“This okay?” he asks quietly.

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Mhm. Feels nice.”

You feel him press a kiss to the back of your head, then start kneading at your lower back, thumbs working out tension you hadn’t realised was even there. And then, just like before, he sits up a bit, and his hand shifts lower.

Pat.

“That’s your reset button, right, baby?” he murmurs, patting again. “Always works.”

Then again, a little firmer this time. Pat pat.

You groan into the pillow, but it’s half-laugh, half-sigh. “Chris.”

“What?” he says, feigning innocence. “It’s therapeutic.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he says, punctuating his words with another pat, “are very cute when you’re clingy.”

You let out a sleepy whimper of protest, burying your face deeper into the pillow. “Shut up.”

“You want me to stop?”

You shake your head, your smile giving you away. His touch, his voice, the solid press of his body grounding you into the mattress, it’s all working. You feel steadier. Calmer.

Chris rests his hand there between pats, warm and heavy, and you find yourself leaning into it before you even realise. His hand taps a little firmer, a little lower, and you let out a small, muffled whine, but don’t move away.

Still tired. Still soft. But okay.

And with one last pat, he leans in murmuring with his lips pressed lightly against your cheek, “Told you. Works every time.”

a/n: been thinking about chris patting your butt to comfort you for a while now :)

dividers by @diviniyae ꨄ

[emptymanuscript]

I sincerely believe that a decent chunk of my current AAAAAAAA!!!!! is just that my hobby space(s) are too messy and unorganized and mid move to use and I haven't done anything artistic off a computer in months. ...and I don't have the spoons to move, clean, and organize because I haven't done any pure muck around art in months.

People who think people won't work if nobody HAS to work have never really experienced no work. They've maybe had the opportunity to laze around for a few weeks but that's not the same thing at all.

Really having nothing to do makes people lose their marbles. It makes people eject their marbles at hyperbolic speeds. We are not meant for that environment. It is as alien as a poisonous atmosphere fluorescing beneath the dim glow of a death-bloating red giant. People start THROWING those marbles in an attempt at just... anything.

People FIND bat-shit insano things to do if they don't have enough to do. They'll push buttons that give them electric shocks. They'll read the comments! They'll start following the links to profiles so they can hate read everything that the person who commented WRONG™, has ever written.

Seriously, do something. Anything that requires physical motion Literally just pick some vaguely interesting hobby thing up and fuck around with it just to find out.

And if you happen to observe me NOT following said advice, please throw things at me so I will at least be playing dodgeball. I hate dodgeball... all sports, really, but... AAAAAAAA!!!!!

I don’t think I can stress enough how many people on here need a hobby like 95% of what people refer to as jobless behavior is actually just hobbyless behavior. Take up watercolors or tabletop or join a hiking group or something you probably won’t feel as much of an incessant need to freak out on the internet every day

[bambisnc]

      MEETING GAMER BF IRL?! (GONE WRONG)   wherein % you realize your actions have consequences . .

            ST✮RRING───N.RK 🎮 826 && WR. kisses ˖ ✧

[ 陰 ♡ ] : hi ...... this is for instagram / blr user calabaeri cb to me pls ... ♡ briar baef's gamer bf hee made me think ab this heh >< along w/ ifeye's song irl !

                        𝖢𝘓𝗂𝖢𝖪     🖇. 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝙁𝗶𝗟𝗘 ᰈ̠ 𝖭𝘈𝖵𝗂

calling nishimura riki your boyfriend would be an overstatement.

he was more “boy you met in a discord server one day and bonded with over similar music tastes and roblox horror games.” with whom you also occasionally flirted.

it was over a quick round of one such game that he’d proposed meeting each other face to face. because like, who even cares about cyber security, really.

not like he’d given you any reason not to trust him, after all. before you knew it—you’d met at a cafe. and very subsequently agreed to go over to his place. he’d gotten a new game over the weekend, ni-ki had told you over coffee, would you like to test it out with him? you had agreed. 

so why was it that what was only supposed to be a quick gaming session has long extended into you seated over his lap, with him kissing you like a man starved? 

it was safe to say that neither of you had really been paying attention to the game from the start. ni-ki was the one who’d brought it up first. 

“you keep looking at me like that,” eyes still trained on the controller as his fingers worked with it deftly, “and i might start thinking you want something from me.”

with great haste you had torn your own gaze off his figure, hoping to wave off the implication of his words with some kind of a joke. fine, sure, maybe you were a little distracted. 

“and what if do want something?” wait, fuck, you had not meant to say that.

ni-ki’s head lowered, and for a moment you cheered internally. you’d managed to make him flustered?! you could taste the satisfaction. this was like revenge for all the times he’d tried to pull one over on you—deep voice through your headset doing the absolute most to make you lose your cool and let your in-game character die in lieu.

“you okay there, baby?” you can swear that the nickname, born after one too many sleepless nights spent talking to the other on voice chat, was only meant to be slightly patronizing in the situation. 

a pause. you could practically hear your heartbeat and hoped against hope that he couldn’t. the barely there proximity between your figures was probably not helping either. you have half a mind to get up right there and hide away in his bathroom when you almost gasp at his thigh brushing against yours.

you remember flinching slightly when, upon looking at ni-ki again, you realized his focus was completely on you. “yeah. ” glancing up through his lashes, a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “just wondering when you’ll tell me exactly what it is that you want.”

he set down his controller then, before lazily taking yours out of your hand as well. “and be quick about it—preferably before i start guessing.”

you didn’t say anything. couldn’t, would be more apt.

because ni-ki had leaned in just close enough for you to be able to see the reflection of the neon video game credits rolling out on the screen in front of you.

game over.

“hm? not gonna tell me?” 

and suddenly you find yourself regretting spending the entire day being a tease. the casual touches, the playful comments—you should’ve known better.

should’ve known that if you were going to start this game, it was only natural ni-ki would end up finishing it.

his hand brushing back a lock of hair behind your ear brings you crashing back to reality. back to the moment.

you swallow. “i thought you said you’d guess.”

that was all it had taken.

ni-ki’s lips crashed into yours before you could even process it. and god, the only half coherent thought still left in your brain was how you wanted more.

he kissed you like he had a point to prove. you could feel it in the way he smirked into the movement, like he’d known this would happen from the very beginning. 

you’re not sure if you were the one who moved first or if it was his hand that now rests deliciously heavy on your waist which had pulled you to sit perched over his lap. 

ni-ki doesn’t seem to care though. not with how he keeps diving back in with murmurs of jus’ one more. you have to push him away with a palm covering his lips, having been left in desperate need of air.

“you’re a menace.” you finally manage to complain. 

he agrees. well you assume he does from how he licks at your hand with that shit eating grin. “took you long enough to figure that out, baby.” 

and that’s the last of the talking that happens for a while as he pulls you impossibly closer, fingers once again angling your face to meet his own. 

you don’t really find it in you to complain about that, though.

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit @douqhnxtss @soona-huh @amoressb @nicholasluvbot @manariee @rinrinninnin @ddeonuswife @douqhnxtss @lovenha7 @amatabelle @i-am-not-dal @liyahhhh620 @elleetlalune @eunwonji @s0shroe @wensurr @unhakies @starniras @calabaeri @athenaisonlinee @weepingsweep ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Plums & Pancakes

Pairing: Dad!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Wife!Reader

Summary: A quiet life wasn’t something Bucky Barnes ever imagined for himself , not after everything he’d endured. But then a blur of flying fruit and a love he never saw coming changed everything.

Word Count: 2.2k ish

Warning/Tags: TOOTH ROOTING FLUFF!

literally nothing but sweet cuteness comfort and loveee oh and did i mention fluff! maybe borderline suggestive but not really?

If i missed anything let me know!

Authors Note: okay guys dad bucky is my favorite thing to write everrrr so if you love it too lmk and ill write up some more for ya! hes a cutie pie in thissss anyways see ya on the next one bbys

REQUESTS / ASKS ALWAYS OPEN! 🌷MY MASTERLIST 💖 COMMENTS REBLOGS AND LIKES are loved and encouraged!

Bucky Barnes never believed the universe would be kind to him.

Not after the fall or Hydra. Not after the years he couldn’t even remember his own name. And not after the blip.

But sometimes , every once in a while—he was reminded that maybe… just maybe… he’d been wrong.

The biggest reminder , funny enough , came in the form of flying fruit.

It had been a warm September day , the kind that hinted at fall without the full commitment. 

The annual farmer’s market in upstate New York was crowded but now overbearing. 

Bucky had been reaching for a small basket of plums—his favorite , a habit from a lifetime ago when living alone in Romania when a blur of motion smacked right into him.

And suddenly , the plums were on the ground. So were three apples, a carton of strawberries ,  an entire paper bag that had clearly been packed to the brim with freshly baked bread, soaps , and jars of something that smelled like lavender.

“ooghf–oh my god, I’m so sorry!” you’d said, immediately dropping to your knees beside the wreckage tyring to scramble and pick everything up. “I wasn’t looking , I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”

Bucky had just blinked. He didn’t think he’d ever seen someone move that fast while apologizing so much.

“I’m fine,” he’d managed, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

You looked up at him then—cheeks flushed, strands of hair stuck to your forehead from the heat, hands full of squashed plums—and laughed. A soft, kind laugh that didn’t match the chaotic scene at all.

“Guess that’s what I get for trying to carry half the stand in one go,” you said, brushing your hands on your jeans. “I try to help my dad with his stall every week. Still haven’t learned to make two trips I guess.”

He didn’t know why, but Bucky had smiled.

Maybe it was your warmth.

Maybe it was how pretty you were , big eyes filled with wonder.

Maybe it was the fact that it had been a very long time since someone looked at him like he wasn’t dangerous.

“I could, uh… buy you a coffee to make up for the plum mess?” you’d offered after he helped pick everything up.

And Bucky—James Buchanan Barnes, former assassin, hundred-year-old man with too many ghosts was too nervous to trust his voice , so he nodded.

And man did that feel like a lifetime ago.

Because now… now Bucky Barnes was married.

To you.

And the two of you had built quite a life. Settling down into a simple cottage tucked into an open field. Where you two were raising your now four-year-old daughter named Winnie , after his ma , and just recently welcomed your five-month-old son , Grant.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The sun was barely peeking above the horizon when the cries started.

Bucky stirred first. It was a reflex now—like breathing , like how he would hold his breath when he reached for a gun back in the day. 

Only now, he reached for his son instead.

Grant was fussing in the bassinet next to their bed, squirming with his tiny fists clenched tight face angry and red.

“I got him, doll,” Bucky whispered to you, voice thick with sleep as he rubbed his eyes. “You rest a little longer.”

But just as he was lifting Grant into his arms cooing to the baby, another voice rang out from the hallway.

“Mommy!”

You groaned ,  face squished into the pillow. 

“Mommyyyy, I want pancakes!” Winnie’s voice was full of energy and chipper. “With chocolate chips!”

“I’ll make ’em,” Bucky offered, already patting Grant’s back as the baby calmed in his arms. “After I change him , the little guy seems to have a present for me.” Bucky's face crinkled when he stood with the stinky babe.

You chuckled into your pillow now , stretching before rolling out of bed. “I’ll get her dressed. She’s probably already got on her princess boots and nothing else.”

It was true.

Winnie had exactly three obsessions at the moment: chocolate chip pancakes, braids, and her sparkly light-up boots that clomped across the hardwood with the grace of a baby elephant.

You managed to wrangle her into an outfit—jean overalls  and a cream flowy , long-sleeved shirt—and sat her down on the stool in the bathroom.

She chattered the entire time as you sectioned her long brown hair into three even parts. Fingers twisting with precision as you yawned, still shaking off the sleeplessness from Grant's eventful evening.

“Daddy said we’re going to the park. Can we bring snacks? I wanna feed the ducks and geese again. I bet they missed me. Do you think they did? Do ducks like pancakes? Because if they do, I’ll share.”

“You’re a generous soul and yes i think they missed you.,” you told her laughing at her innocent toddler mind. You tied off the braid with a glittery purple band and she jumped into your lap happy with the result.

Meanwhile, in the nursery Bucky had Grant tucked against his chest in a soft wrap. His giant hands moved gently, adjusting the wrap with practiced ease.

“Hey,” he called out as he stepped out of the nursery, “how do we look?”

You turned and—oh.

God help you.

Your husband stood there barefoot, in downy gray sweatpants and a blue soft t-shirt. 

Your baby was swaddled against his chest, all chubby cheeks and content, little fingers curled into Bucky’s chest.

The silver chain of his dog tags glinted just beneath the collar of his shirt.

He smiled, soft and sleepy. “Too much?”

You just blinked. “You know what you’re doing to me.”

He chuckled.

And screw it if he didn’t do the lopsided smirk that made you weak back when you first met.

“I’m just trying to get our kids to the park in one piece,” he said innocently. “If I look good doing it, that’s on you for marrying me.”

He said smiling, leaning down to your face and kissing you full of his love.

“Ugh,” Winnie groaned dramatically. “You guys are always kissing and flirting.”

Bucky ruffled her hair. “Get used to it, peanut cause every day i fall more in love with your mama.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The grocery run had been a blur of snack requests , impulse juice box purchases, and Bucky being stopped by a sweet older woman who insisted Grant looked “just like his daddy.”

 You had smiled politely while Bucky awkwardly thanked her, his face a little pink from the compliment, and then used the excuse of Grant needing to get home to escape.

But now it was time for your favorite part of the day.

The park.

A soft breeze drifted through the trees, the sun warm but not oppressive. 

Winnie ran ahead to the playground, her boots lighting up with every delighted stomp. Grant was now sound asleep against Bucky’s chest, full from his bottle he had between the store and here , his little mouth slack as he dozed in the wrap.

You settled onto the bench with a relieved sigh, one hand shading your eyes as you tracked Winnie’s every movement—up the ladder, across the bridge, back down the slide. 

Bucky dropped a kiss to your temple before walking off to toss a crumpled snack wrapper in the park bin. “Ill be right back just gonna throw this away” 

You looked down to see what he was holding and noticed the lack of his wedding band , tan lines still prominent but the metal was missing , probably forgotten after his shower you thought.

You were keeping your gaze still on Winnie as he walked away , when you heard a loud cackle.

You turned your head to the sound and saw a woman next to your husband.

Tall. Blonde. Designer sunglasses and a perfectly timed laugh.

She walked up closer to him, head tilted like she already knew how pretty she was.

You squinted. 

She was talking. And then laughing. Then her hand touched his chest.

His chest.

It wasn’t threatening, not really. But it wasn’t nothing.

You watched Bucky awkwardly smile , then nod , and finally excuse himself, walking back to you fast , his brows slightly furrowed.

“Well, that was strange,” he said as he sat beside you. “Why do people flirt like that in the middle of a public park? Like, thanks ma’am, but I’m holding my son right here.”

You smirked, turning your head toward him. “Well, women do love hot single dads.”

The look on his face was instant. 

His head snapped so fast you heard it crack.

“SINGLE??” he practically barked. It made Grant stir and whine at the disruptive sound ,  he immediately bounced gently, voice going soft again. “Sorry, buddy. You’re okay , I'm sorry.”

You shrugged, holding up his hand in front of his face. 

“Just saying. You’re out here ringless , looking like that , holding an adorable baby , how do you accept any girl not to jump on you?”

Bucky looked down at his hand like it had betrayed him. “Shit,” he muttered. “I took it off when I was washing the bottles  and didn’t put it back on. I knew I forgot something. I've felt off since we left. She probably thinks I’m trying to—God.”

You laughed, rubbing your hand along his thigh. “Relax. You didn’t do anything. And honestly? It was kind of fun watching someone else drool over you for a change .”

He gave you a pointed look.

 “Don’t say things like that when you know I’m going to spend the next hour trying to convince you you’re the only person I want to look at .”

You winked. “Convince away, Barnes…But the moment a woman's manicured claws touch either of my kids then we have a major problem and the winter soldier will be her last worry.” You said laying your head on his shoulder turning back to Winnie now picking flowers as you rubbed Grants back.

“Okay , okay easy there mama bear” He laughed through his nose.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Winnie went down first.

After a bubble bath with approximately twelve too many toys, two books, and a lullaby from both of you (because she claimed you both sang differently and she needed the duet), she finally dozed off.

Bucky had given her one last kiss on the forehead and whispered, “Sweet dreams, peanut,” before closing her door softly with a click.

Grant had been next—fed, changed, and now out cold in his crib with one arm over his head like a tiny drama king. He is his fathers son–

And now?

Now it was your turn.

You stood in front of your mirror, legs a little tired, back a little sore, but your heart full. 

You rubbed lotion on to your arms and shoulders slowly, the cool cream easing your muscles as the soft light of the bedroom cast everything in a dreamy golden hue.

Behind you, the bathroom door opened.

Bucky padded in barefoot, wearing those navy blue pajama pants you loved—low on his hips, soft from too many washes (thanks to lots of spit up) . His shirt was off, hair still damp from his shower. You caught him watching you in the mirror.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, smiling now brushing through your hair.

He didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, he walked to the bed and flopped down dramatically on his back with a groan. Like I said , father– like son.

“I’m exhausted,” he murmured, eyes closed. 

You laughed, turning around fully and crawling onto the bed beside him. 

You caressed his cheek , the pad of your thumb swiping his cheekbone and slowly moved to straddle his waist , your faces inches apart , when he suddenly held up his hand stopping your movement.

His wedding band back on and shining brightly.

“Sorry, doll face,” he drawled. “But I’m happily married.”

“Oh no. I was just about to ask for your number, too.”

He grinned, one of those rare, slow ones that started with the left side of his mouth and crept across. 

“You can have my number. But only if you kiss me first.”

You leaned in, planting a slow, warm kiss against his lips.

“Done deal,” you whispered.

He exhaled, threading his fingers through your hair as he kissed you again. Longer this time. Slower. A kiss that said thank you–

 I love you 

I love our kids

I love our life.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I still don’t believe this is real, sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “You. The kids. The quiet. All of it. It doesn’t feel like something I should’ve gotten to have.”

You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You deserve every second of this, Bucky Barnes. Every messy , swee t, sleepy , pancake-filled second.”

He tilted his head and kissed your wrist. “Even when I forget my ring and get flirted with by random women in the park?”

You rolled your eyes. “Especially then. Because I get to be the one you come home to and reminded how lucky me and the kids are to call you ours.”

And you did. Every night.

He wrapped his arms around you as you settled into bed under the plush duvet.

 His hand splayed protectively over your stomach as you both listened to the quiet of the house—the hum and crackle of the baby monitor, the faint whistle of the wind outside, the creak of the old floors as they settled.

It was all love.

Not the kind that was loud or dramatic. Not the kind shouted over chaos or with empty meaning. But the kind that was built quietly, with chocolate chips , baby wraps, and whispered lullabies.

And this?

This was the kind of love Bucky Barnes had only ever dreamed of.

-end

[cameronsbabydoll]

sexist!rafe recording another podcast talking about the best sex positions and how to get a girl in them. tells them the right way to do doggy (bc they’re gfs won’t let them bc it hurts too much (rafe makes fun of them)). asks bunny reader if she likes doggy at the end and she says not rlly bc she likes looking him in the eyes or something like that and they kinda coo in a condescending way and rafe goes like ‘well it doesn’t matter what she wants anyways’ just them being gross

sexist!rafe talking about sex positions on his podcast ᢉ𐭩

warnings: misogyny, mockery, sexual talks, toxic masculinity, rafe is a loser we all hate

the mic’s hot.

so is rafe’s ego.

he’s leaning back in his chair, one arm slung low, cig barely tucked between his fingers, black headphones hugging his ears like a crown. the neon “recording” sign glows red behind him. his co-host’s already cracking up, wiping a hand over his face like he knows where this is going.

“alright,” rafe says. “we’re talkin’ sex positions. and if you’re gonna cry about it, just click off now.”

click. the lighter flicks. he inhales like he’s warming up to something holy.

“i’ve been seeing this weak-ass narrative, like—‘my girl doesn’t like doggy. it hurts her.’”

he rolls his eyes, slouched deep into his chair now, voice thick with disdain.

“no offense, but that’s not a her problem. that’s a you problem.”

topper nods along, already laughing.

“they’re doing it all wrong. that, or their girls run the show.”

“exactly,” rafe snaps, exhaling smoke through his nose. “she says it hurts? she’s not arching. she says it’s uncomfortable? you’re too soft. she says she’d rather do missionary? congrats, bro. she thinks you’re the bitch.”

they both laugh. harsh and loud, obnoxious. locker room energy turned up to a ten.

and meanwhile, you’re curled up on the couch off-screen in rafe’s hoodie, hair up, thighs tucked under, nursing your little pink drink like you’re invisible.

but rafe sees you. always does.

“bunny,” he calls, voice suddenly sweet. eyes lazy as they track over to you.

“you like doggy?”

you blink, cheeks flushing, caught mid-sip.

“um… not really,” you admit, all soft and honest, shifting where you sit.

“i just like… i dunno. looking at you.”

there’s a beat.

then they both laugh. again. like you just said something so stupid it proved their point.

“awwwww,” topper teases. “she wants to see into your soul, bro.”

“she wants to connect,” rafe mimics in a high-pitched voice.

“bro, she’s my girlfriend, not a therapist.”

you squirm. you know the mic’s still recording. you know the camera’s still on.

and rafe leans forward with that half-smile he gets when he’s about to say something awful he thinks is funny.

“well,” he says, blowing smoke toward the mic. “it doesn’t matter what she wants anyways.”

he says it so casually it sounds like fact.

like it’s just part of his script.

“she likes what i like. she’ll take what i give her, and she’ll say thank you,” rafe continues, voice low and cocky.

“and if you’re doin’ it right? she’ll whine a little. maybe even cry. that’s when you know you’ve got her where she’s supposed to be.”

he turns, eyes cutting back to you.

“she’ll say she doesn’t like doggy. but she still lets me. ‘cause deep down, that’s what she wants — to be taken. to feel like she’s got no choice.”

you press your thighs together before you even realize it.

they both catch it.

“look at that,” topper chuckles. “she’s twitchin’, bro.”

“mhm,” rafe hums, proud.

“see? told you. she pretends she doesn’t like it. acts all sweet. but when she’s bent over with her face in the sheets? different story.”

he leans into the mic one last time.

voice slow. deliberate.

“doggy. hand on the back of her neck. pull her in. don’t ask. don’t slow down. just take.”

he clicks the mic off with a smirk.

you’re already trembling a little when he walks over.

he crouches in front of you, hands warm on your thighs. presses a kiss to your cheek.

“you made me look real good tonight, bunny.”

you don’t say anything. you can’t. not with the way your breath’s caught in your throat.

[sadiecoocoo]

Honestly for me it’s difficult to decide

The best experience would be to just shrug and move on, then it doesn’t really cause any kind of problem, but then sometimes it’s not something you can just ignore and it stays in your head forever, so maybe it’d be better to vague post about it so then maybe there could be a coherent discussion on it, but also if you just want to be validated in your opinion and don’t want to hear people arguing over it at all it’d be good to discuss with a moot in private

Overall I think the only wrong answer would be to outright say that you don’t agree to the op, because that can lead to misunderstandings and useless arguments. Especially if it’s something the op is just trying to have fun with and then ends up getting what looks like hate in their replies/reblogs

i actually need to know people's thoughts on this because at least in my experience the answer to this has drastically changed since i was on tumblr in the 2010s and its driving me fucking insane

*im talking about fandom takes specifically. not someone being horribly evil about a real-life issue or or blatantly factually incorrect. literally just harmless fandom disagreements or differing interpretations of a text/character/etc.

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader   word count: 1k whoops!! notes: i wrote it thinking of the couple from all my other jack x reader blurbs but they can all be read standalone! Also I stole some of this from ER S2 E10 bc Shep gave me Abbot vibes in that scene lol

You’ve been planning this barbecue for weeks. It finally feels like summer in the city, and you and Jack agreed it was time to start integrating your friend groups — a real "see how the worlds blend" kind of thing.

He’s already met your friends. They’re obsessed with him, obviously. And you’ve stopped by the bar a few times for post-shift drinks with his people. But this? This was something a little more planned. A little more intentional. And you have a sneaking suspicion he’s hoping to set up your friend Olivia with Shen, but that’s a whole other story.

You’re a bit stressed.

Sure, it was your idea together, but with Jack’s schedule (and his, let’s say, casual approach to logistics for all things outside of patient care) most of the planning has fallen on you. And you’ve only been dating officially for three-ish months.

He did go with you to the grocery store on his most recent day off, which only reminded you why you never grocery shop with him. Jack handles produce the same way he handles incoming traumas: focused, grim, and entirely too intense. You watch him inspect an avocado like it might code on the cart if he squeezes it wrong. He lets out a low huff every time you toss something in the cart that wasn’t on your shared list. You roll your eyes. He side-eyes your impulse-buy lemonade. It's a whole thing.

Still, the day-of, he’s been great. His townhouse is bigger than your apartment and has a small backyard that he’s clearly invested in — fire pit, outdoor furniture, and even those outdoor string lights you once offhandedly said would be cute. He’s prepped all the food and is fully committed to manning the grill all night.

That doesn’t stop you from snapping a little when, two hours before guests arrive, he decides now is the perfect time to repaint the baseboards.

“Seriously?” you say, exasperated. “That’s what you think people are going to notice?”

He blinks, caught mid-brush stroke. “They’re chipping. I already had the paint out.”

You throw your hands up, immediately regretting your tone. “Sorry. I’m just stressed. I’m worried your friends aren’t going to like mine.”

He sets the paint down, walks over, and settles his hands gently on your hips.

“Baby,” he murmurs, eyes soft. “You’ve never seen my crew at a real party. I’m worried they’re gonna make me look like a fool.”

The party’s in full swing by the time you finally get a breath. Laughter drifts from the yard. Drinks clink. Someone’s put on a playlist that’s very heavy on 2000s throwbacks. You duck into the kitchen to refill the chips when you hear footsteps behind you.

Jack leans in the doorway, smiling, “Not very good hosts if we’re both inside.” 

There’s a beat — just a little too long — before he says it, casual as anything: “I love you.”

You blink. Freeze. He grins, that cocky, endearing little smirk. “I do. I said it. I do. I think i even want you to have my babies.”

“Jack,” you say, half-laughing, “you’re drunk. And probably have heatstroke.”

“I’ve had one beer. And I’ve been wearing a hat. I mean it. Every word. I think we’d have really good ones. I think they’d look nice. I think we should spend every day together and throw parties all the time and do this.”

He’s inched closer, now practically nose to nose with you.

“Jack…” you whisper, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and giddiness, arms resting on his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t back off. If anything, he steps even closer.

“I know it’s sudden. I know it’s out of the blue,” he says, voice low but steady. “But I said it. And I don’t take it back. You don’t have to say it back. I’m just… happy. So happy. And I wanted you to know. Okay?”

The back door creaks open. “Found any more—oop. Okay, I’ll, um. Bye.” Samira spins on her heel and disappears before the door even fully closes again.

You stare at Jack, totally unaware of the interruption, still stunned. There’s this moment suspended between you, like time is trying to decide whether to speed up or stop completely.

“Say the first part again,” you whisper.

He softens instantly. “What, the ‘I love you’?”

You nod.

“I love you,” he says.

You lean in and kiss him. And he kisses you back like it’s something he’s been meaning to do his whole life. Like now that he’s started, he doesn’t plan to stop. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he murmurs between kisses, each one soft and sure and just a little breathless.

You laugh, smiling against his mouth. “I think… maybe… we should head back out.”

He rests his forehead against yours, still catching his breath. “See? That’s why I love you. I need someone responsible in my life. Need me to bring anything out?”

“Yeah,” you grin. “The chips.”

“Got it. Love you,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads for the back door, all ease and satisfaction.

You hesitate, just a second, then call after him.

“Hey… Jack.”

He turns, one hand already on the doorknob.

“I love you too.”

His grin spreads slow and wide — full, unfiltered, proud — and he winks like he just won something. 

“Yeah you do.”

The party winds down in a blur of campfire light and half-finished drinks.

Olivia and Shen are tucked in the corner, deep in conversation, completely oblivious to the fact that half the party is placing silent bets on when they’ll kiss. You’re tucked against Jack’s side on the patio couch, his arm around your shoulders, your knees pulled up and your head resting lightly against him. Your friends are chatting around you, the last embers of the fire pit glowing low.

Jack’s talking to Robby, low-voiced and relaxed, when you hear it. “Thought we were gonna have to wrap this thing up without you,” Robby teases. “Heard you were getting climbed like a tree in the kitchen.”

You tense, heat rising in your face. But Jack just squeezes your hip — gentle, grounding — and replies, cool as ever:

“What can I say? I’m in love.”